It's Wal-Mart day! Whoo hoo!

Saturday, September 26, 2009

I hate Wal-Mart, but we have discovered that the cheapest place to get Mom's nails done is the Wal-Mart in Hillsborough.

When I call her that morning, she asked me where I'd been, (I saw her last Friday), all motherly concern.
"Right here", I said, "Where've you been?"
"I'm here too", she said.
A small sweetly sad exchange. Ok, we're all here now.

While she's getting her nails done I do her shopping (diet Pepsi/diet Dr. Pepper, sugar free candy, low salt cashews, sugar-free jello/pudding, and those tiny white powered sugar donuts), and still have plenty of people watching time, since I didn't bring a book. People watching in Wal-Mart depresses me however. Is it because it's Wal-Mart...well no actually, people watching in malls also will cause a mental nose dive.

Which leads me to wonder - if people were people watching me, would they be depressed?

Most of us see don't ourselves as others do, (both good and bad). For instance, in my head, I'm around 30 and still weigh 130 lbs, then I'm SHOCKED when I see my reflection in a mirror or window (hey, who's that FAT OLD woman in front of me?! - oh wait...crap). Apparently this phenomena happens to people in Wal-Mart - a lot (this way too small yellow sparkly t-shirt with the pink camouflage pants and puce stilettos looks GREAT!).

Anyhoo, then we went to lunch at Ming Garden (something different for a change). On the way there she tells me how she picked out the nail polish all by herself (it was actually my pick, with her approval).
"I went back there all by myself and picked it out. It's pretty isn't it?"
It sure is Mom.

Mookie's Doing Great

Several weeks ago, we went to Kay's (the vet) house to visit Mookie. He came right up to Mom, twitching his little corkscrew tail, which made her SO happy - "He remembered me!" He also did his "take me for a walk!" dance to me (consists of picking up his front feet one at time, whipping his head around, and saying "wrue, wrue, wrue").

Mookie seemed quite content, even though it was noisy: there are ten dogs (three are hers, rest are fosters), several cats, an iguana, two macaws, numerous sleeping ferrets and about five to six rabbits. This woman (and her husband!) is a SAINT. Seriously.
He was fine with the other dogs. He had his belly band on and didn't seem to mind it at all.

That seemed to satisfy Mom, she hasn't mentioned Mookie since then. She didn't get emotional at all, going, during or after. But if she does want to, we can go any time.

Here's a link to Kay's "other" job.

A Day in the Life

Friday, September 18, 2009

This is what it's like having a meal with Mom:

Setting: K&W Cafeteria, where we have become regulars.
Time: Lunch

After several minutes of silence interspersed with comments about how much she likes it here, how good the potato salad is (just like hers), and offering me various items, (I usually just have a glass of tea.), the conversation goes like this:

Mom - "Did you get your...[insert some sort of vague gesture here]?"
Me - "My what?"
Mom - "You're not that smart anymore, are you?" Laughs.
"You know. Just wait, I'll tell you."
Plays with a chicken finger, making it walk around the plate because it has a funny shape.
Me - "My what? Car? Kitten? Elephant?"
Mom - Laughing.
"No. You know, your...just a minute. I'll think of it. Mmm, this is good [potato salad/banana-strawberry compote/chicken fingers], you can have some."
Me - more guessing of ridiculous things.
Mom - Laughing (this is good. Compared to last year at this time, when she and everyone else was so miserable.)
"No. You can't have one, because of when you were a baby."
Me - "Ohhhhhhh - a flu shot!" (I was allergic to eggs and chicken when I was younger and the flu culture (?) was incubated in eggs back in the day. Not sure if that's still true.)
Mom - "Yes!"
This has taken approximately 20 minutes.

After lunch, it's off to University mall; Rose's for Kleenex, then to Bath and Body Works, where she smells everything about 6 times because she can't remember she just smelled it. We walk down towards Dillards, but her back (or legs, depends on which time you ask) is hurting today, so we head off to Trader's Joe's for cashews, watermelon, and whatever else strikes her fancy while she's still mobile. She's worn out; it's been about 2 hours since I picked her up.

It Just Might Be Okay

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Went over to see Mom and take her to lunch at the terrible K&W Cafeteria, which she LOVES. Everything is horribly overcooked and over salted, but it's her party, so that's where we go.
She was sitting outside with a couple that she's friends with when I got there and even though I had to remove Mookie's crate, she was okay! This made me happy.

Told her Mookie was being fostered by the vet, Kay (God love her, she is a saint - the same vet that fostered and found a home for Mom's diabetic cat Mr. Brown), and she was totally good with it. No crying or anything. I do think it's a relief to her on some level. She did want to see him and we talked about it perhaps being hard to see him go off again, but left it open.

Then she said she wanted a kitten. I do not see that happening. Maybe an older cat. But there's the litter box to deal with. I'm thinking about taking Finn over there, he might be up for that sort of outing. Need to get a new harness, as I'm fairly sure he's "outgrown" the one I have. He is a little round weebil of a cat.

L. was out in the lobby being all cheery and friendly. Ignored her when she spoke to us as we were leaving. Oh, I know - so grown up of me. (That's my M.O. - shut down all contact.) When I left after dropping Mom off she asked how I was and I said I couldn't talk to her, I was still very upset.

A really, really crappy day

Friday, August 7, 2009

Daphne and I have been switching off taking every other Friday off, yesterday was mine. I take some Trader Joe's stuff, Pepsi, and cigarettes (why can't she forget that she smokes???!) over to Mom, so we aren't leaving Mookie in the room alone.

I ask if she remembers talking with L. about Mookie, she says no. So, for Pete's sake, I have to tell her again and tell her about Boston Rescue and that he's on the list. She starts crying.
She's worried Mookie won't remember her. Can he come visit? I'm not sure, depends on the person who adopts him and where they live. She doesn't want to go get something to eat because she's been crying. So I head over to the cafeteria to get her lunch to go.

On my way out, I stop by to see L. and update her on the progress.
She says, "Oh you misunderstood, I didn't want to be mean, I thought you'd realize I meant 48 hours." "He needs to leave today. He can't live here anymore." "I'm getting complaints from staff and residents." (The staff is complaining too?! That's new.)

Now how on God's green earth am I supposed to "pick-up" that she meant 48 hours when she didn't SAY that? Dammit - my mind reader's license just expired! Silly me.

Then she has the nerve to ask how I was doing, because she's "often more worried about the family than the residents." "You need to take care of yourself first." And then touches me on the shoulder. Do. Not. Touch. Me. Yesterday I was shell-shocked, now I'm PISSED.

I bring back lunch for Mom and let her eat before I have to tell her - surprise her - that Mookie has to leave now. I feel set-up. The fucking bad guy - AGAIN.

In the meantime, EBF calls. He must have asked if I was there, because Mom whispered really loud, "She's here now." It's so funny on some level.
When I asked if that was Tom (EBF's real name revealed!), she said, "Oh I don't know who the heck that was."
So, you in the habit of telling people you don't know on the phone that you love them? Interesting. "How's his wife doing?" I ask. "Okay I guess", she replies. Good grief.

Mom's told me several times that I don't like men (oh really?) and I wonder if he's told her that and she's repeating it. Or, because of her dementia, me not liking HIM equals not liking all men. She's right though, I DON'T like dickhead jerks who take advantage of/use women, one of whom is my mother.

Out of the blue ten minutes later, she tells me to mind my own business and that I can go now.
And then I have to say that Mookie has to come with me.

She thinks he's going to Boston Rescue and I'm going to let her think that for now. She goes back and forth between wanting to help carry stuff out (no) and crying. The staff knows that this is happening and are ready to pay special attention to her. I get everything (but the crate) out and get Mookie, who is just as excited as he can be because the word "go" was used. (Car ride - my favorite!) He doesn't even pay attention to her as we walk by. L. is telling Mom he can come visit - shut up! you don't know that! Pisses me off.

I sit in the car and cry for 20 minutes. I can't take him home. I don't want to. Call the vet, they're full up, but they recommend another place in CH. She says she's full, but is getting ready to make calls to confirm reservations. I tell her the sad story, it turns out she has two Bostons herself and she finds a spot for him at least until Monday. She'll make some calls to people she knows who foster dogs too. Poor Mookie. I go home and cry another hour.

I'm depressed about my family. Do they not call or respond to emails because they think I'm so strong that I don't need emotional support? Is it a compliment? Is it truly out of sight, out of mind? This is their mother too. What has happened to us?
My father is rolling over in his grave. He'd smack us all into the middle of next week if he were here.

Mookie has to go.

Monday, August 3, 2009

I get a call at work from the administrator over at Wynwood. She tells me Mookie needs to find a new home, getting complaints from residents and it's just not working out.

Do I want to come over when she has the talk with Mom? Not particularly. I've had this talk with Mom several times and am not anxious to repeat it. She already thinks I'm the bad guy. She says ok and she'll call back after they chat.

While waiting, I look up Boston Terrier Rescue on line and there's one in NC. I'm in the middle of typing the email to them when L. calls back.

She reports that Mom seemed resigned and agreed with her that Mookie was barking and it wasn't fair to the other residents, yada yada yada.
At NO POINT was any mention made of a time frame. I told her I was writing BT Rescue at that very moment and she asked me to keep her updated.
Again - there was no "the-dog-has-48-hours" or "you-have-until-Wednesday" discussion. She did say that once broached it's better to deal with it quickly. Sure, like pulling off a bandade, and I'm in agreement with that.

Rest of week spent emailing, phone tagging BT Rescue. Called the vet; sent Mookie's info to the shelter, just in case there's a softie on staff; and to Tailless Cat Rescue, because she knows people. Anyone I can think of.
The vet's on vacation until Monday, Aug. 10, but she wants to talk about it. She got Mr. Brown adopted; thinking a diabetic cat who hates other cats is much harder to adopt, so she's a miracle worker in my book.

The EBF returns

Saturday, August 1, 2009

After we get back from lunch, Mom takes Mookie out while I clean out the crate (he'd peed in there.). Her phone rings and I answer it.

EBF: "Hi."
Me: "Hi."

EBF: "What are you doing?"
Me: "Nothing."

EBF: "Nothing going on?"
Me: "Nope."

Slight pause as it dawns on him that I'm not who he thinks I am...

EBF: "Who is this?"
Me: "Kim. Who's this?" (knowing full well who it is)

Another slight pause...

EBF: "Bob."
Me: "Bob! Bob Dalum?" (Mom's friend/neighbor from CA)
EBF: "Yes"...then click of phone hanging up.

What a lying A-Hole.

Help is on the way?

Way, way back in May 2008, Daphne and I went to check out Carolina House, which is an assisted living place in Chapel Hill. Rooms were very small and it was expensive. But the marketing director, Geri I think, was wonderful and gave me a number for a non-profit group who helps get additional benefits from the VA.
I schlepped that paper around for months and finally called only to find out they help if you are in certain facilities and Mom wasn't in one of them. The woman I spoke to was very kind and gave me websites and form numbers I needed to apply for the benefits [for Mom] myself.
So I bravely entered the crazy mixed up minefield - I mean, world that is the government, downloaded the forms, get stuck on question 19: "What is your SSN?" (Who's SSN?! Mine? Dad's? Mom's?), get overwhelmed and put them away. There was a lot of stuff going on then. But I felt guilty because she could get up to $1000 a month in additional benefits. That would be a HUGE help. Kay made a few calls in Dec. when she was here, but the forms that person told her to use were different than the other forms the first person said to use. I was confused - and so continued to do nothing.
But - when she moved into Wynwood, she was eligible to use the free service provided by "A Place For Mom". http://www.aplaceformom.com/
Weird name, but they are awesome. They actually fill out the paperwork for you, help you gather all the supporting documents such as marriage, death certs, discharge papers and various others. Things that prove that he/she actually was a veteran and you are a surviving spouse of said veteran.
Thankfully my parents were pretty good keepers of all that stuff - except the one form (DD-214) I really needed wasn't an original (his final discharge/retirement).
All the other DD-214's were original - except that one! That needed to be ordered, had to wait for it to arrive via the USPS.
Then everything needs to be put together and shipped off to the VA, which I did on 5/28. Still waiting to hear.
To their credit, the VA has sent two letters, one saying they received the application and another one recently saying they were still doing whatever voodoo they do and to please be patient.
Fingers crossed! Pink Light!

The New Reality

January, 2009

The doctor at Hillcrest upped her anti-depressant and added an anti-psychotic medication for the "agitation". It makes a huge difference. She's actually rather pleasant to be around now [sometimes]. Although it didn't change the filter, or lack thereof, situation.

Case in point:
We have to go back to the orthopedic doctor that Kay and I took her to last month. After an hour, we get in for our 5 minutes with the actual doctor.
Making conversation he asks Mom, "Wasn't there another daughter here with you last time?"
To which she replies, "The pretty one?"
Sigh.
My fairly decent self esteem is sure getting the shit kicked out of it.

She seems to be adjusting to the new place fairly well, she's actually taking all her meds - because they administer them.
But Mookie isn't. He's still peeing (dammit!) and now has taken up barking whenever she leaves the room. He never, ever used to bark. Poor old dog.

While I'm on the subject of doctor visits, how annoying is it to wait an hour for an appointment - why even call it an appointment?! That implies a time keeping device somewhere.
I've done my part, I'm on time, usually early and still we wait for an hour! And then see the doctor - not the nurse, or x-ray tech, or the pre-doctor (they do that at Duke - send in a teaser pre-doctor doctor.) for maybe five minutes. A ten minute appointment takes three freaking hours, when you add in travel time. UGH! It is so annoying and disrespectful. It's not like I don't have other things to do with my time - like WORK (to pay for my overpriced insurance). The health care system is broken.

Free at Last!

Sunday, December 21, 2009

Mom is moved in and has Mookie again! Whoo hoo!

How blissful it is to sleep with only cats again, who take up a tiny little bit of room - at the foot of the bed.
They're polite and charming bedfellows (once they get past the "we must disembowel the evil foot!" stage).
Quite unlike Mookie, who takes over the whole bed and snores and farts to boot. It's amazing just how much room a 23 lb dog can utilize.

Kay's leaving today, but Brad keeps saying she won't make it, it snowed something like a foot yesterday and they're expecting seven inches today. She keeps telling him to quit being so damn negative.
Southwest online says it's all good, they're leaving on time.
Even though she's checked in, we wait in line to double check that the plane is leaving.
Agent says it's all good.
The monitor says it's all good, on time...on time...on time...until three seconds after her luggage disappears. At which point it starts flashing delayed...delayed...delayed.
We get back in line and still the ticket agent insists it's leaving Durham on time and the delay is in Chicago, so we say goodbye at security and I head home.

I don't make it past Terminal C when I realize I have a SORE and I mean like strep throat sore - throat. It was instantaneous, like a switch flipped on - not sore - SORE. Crap.

I haven't been home five minutes when Kay calls to say her flight's been canceled until Wednesday morning. So back to RDU (only 10-15 minutes away). Thankfully they were able to pull her luggage off and get it to her.

Kay is nice to have around when you're sick. Generally I don't want to be around anyone when I'm sick, but she's just the right amount of attention. And she doesn't try to see if I have a fever like Mom would. I hate that - personal bubble invasion! She made really good grilled ham and cheese sandwiches, chicken noodle soup, and kept me hydrated.

We played our Nintendo DS's and chilled. Didn't go visit Mom; she thinks Kay already left, plus I've had about all the Mom visits I can handle right now, so being sick is an excellent excuse.

Jim volunteers (okay, Daphne volunteered Jim, but whatever) to take Kay to the airport Wednesday morning at 4:30 AM for her 6:30 flight. THANK YOU!

Later that morning, I take out the garbage - then find I'm locked out.
Kay, in order to protect me from all the axe murderers in my neighbourhood, had locked the doorknob. (I only use the deadbolt on that door)
She assumed
A.) I'm smarter than I am
and
B.) would realize that she would lock the door.

Thankfully I had put on a housecoat and slippers just before I took the garbage out.
It could have been so much worse.

After a couple of seconds of panic and a half-hearted attempt to see the humor in the situation (which only made me cough), I remember there's a car key hidden on my car and house keys in the car.
Two laps around the car: can't find it. It's a bit brisk this Christmas Eve day and I really wasn't prepared to be outside this long, now my hands are cold and muddy. Desperate lap number three coming up.
May have to expose neighbors to my sick-smelly-greasy-haired-no-make-up-unmatched-pajama-wearing self to call someone to bring me a key if I can't find it - WAIT! there is is. Whew! Alright, there's the key collection.
Oh nooooo...none of these keys go to my house. There's one to Sandy's, Daphne's, my mom's house in FL, and the cemetery gate, also in FL. WTF.
A cunning plan is formulated: drive 1.5 miles to Sandy's, get the key she has to my house and all will be well. I pray to God I don't get pulled over.

When I take the key back over a few days later, her boyfriend Donald says "I didn't recognize you without your pajamas." It was pretty funny, but laughing makes me cough for 20 minutes and pee my pants from coughing. (that actually lasts about 4-5 weeks)

Kay makes it home with no delays Christmas Eve. I was hoping she wouldn't get sick, but she ends up with bronchitis.

Merry freaking Christmas.

Bah Humbug!

December 10, 2008

Kay is back from Oregon to help me move Mom to assisted living. We have seven days to decide on a place, go through her stuff (again!), buy new furniture, put together said new furniture, move, and get rid of the old stuff. Add to that quite a bit of rainy weather, an old dog, and visiting Mom once a day and voila! good times.

I'm not a big fan of December. I hate Christmas and all it's fake cheery BS. I will spare you the soapbox on this, but suffice it to say, I'm glad when it's over for the year. My sister on the other hand, is a huge fan of Christmas, not the religious part, but the decorating, parties, presents part. Which is honest...oh wait I said no soapbox. Sorry.
So I do my best to Christmas up the guest room with a couple of things sent to me by Susan G. (her and Jesus share the same [alleged] "birthday", so they're close :-).
Kay in turn gives me a sheep that poops jelly beans - BAA Humbug! I love it.

The doctor said decisions are difficult to negotiate for someone with vascular dementia (or any kind). So the less there are the better - exactly the opposite of what we thought was best for her. She didn't participate at Emerald Pond because it was too overwhelming, it was safer to stay in her room. They need a schedule and less choice. Think small children; sometimes two choices is one too many.

So, using that as a guide, we decide on Wynwood, the assisted living facility close to my house. She can have Mookie; it's a smaller room, but she's on the ground floor, right across from the courtyard and just down the hall from her dining room. Instead of one big overwhelming dining room, they have several small ones on each floor, with four tables for four in each. Much less intimidating. There's a small living room space on each floor as well. And even I have to confess, it's decorated really well and it smells great. Very welcoming. The sales manager is great, sweet and helpful.

The day before Mom is released from Hillcrest, we have to take her to the orthopedic doctor over at Duke to check her compression fracture. This turns out to be a HUGE time suck on our moving time. Hours out of the last day we have to put together four pieces of furniture and we still have some piddly small stuff to move over. Ben and Allison helped a lot (Ben has a pick up), but now it's just us.
After the ten minute long part of actually being with the doctor, we're making her next appointment and Mom says she's going to go sit down. She was out of sight maybe a minute; when we walk out to the waiting area (which you can see from the appointment making area) - she's not in there! Holy crap, we've lost our mother in Duke Hospital! She's using a walker for Pete's sake - how fast can she go?! (Apparently fast enough.) We dash around and recruit others to dash around for several minutes, then poof - there she is wandering out from some office - eating candy and looking very pleased with herself. Oh. my. gosh.
We take her to lunch where Mom and I get in a wrestling match over a sugar packet. Funny now. Not so much then. My ever patient sister (Saint Kay) is horrified I'm making a big deal over Mom putting sugar in her iced tea. Well okay, it was a little controlling on my part. I'm thinking of it as payback.

Then, after dropping Mom off at Hillcrest, on the way to pick up another load of things from Emerald Pond we get a phone call from Wynwood to tell us the final pricing for Mom's rent. It's even more than I expected and I can't even speak, just start crying and hand the phone to Kay. Kay and I then proceed to have a melt down, our only one actually, which is amazing considering we're both stressed beyond belief. So we have a little cool down period where I sit in the car and set up Mom's cable service and she sits in the lobby of Emerald Pond. Meanwhile, Kay's boyfriend Brad back in Oregon is dealing with a spell of gout, a very sick horse (who ends up having to be put down), and the worst snowfall in ten years.

Another Move

Friday, December 5, 2008
Mom is getting discharged from Hillcrest on December 10. Dr. Williams says it would be best for her not to go back to Emerald Pond, so I have five days (really three business days) to find an assisted living place and move Mom in. He has emailed a many paged document with all the assisted living places in Orange and Durham counties which was a huge help.

I visit one place in northern Durham that depresses me in spite of it being very clean and having a friendly staff. It's $4000 a month for what's basically a private hospital room. It's also far from my house and she can't have the dog there. I have appointments with two other facilities, both nice, but one is a bit farther away and she'll have to deal with an elevator again. Not that she can't, but in the dog walking event, it will be helpful to be on the ground floor. The pros to this place is that she can have a larger room (= keeping more stuff) and it's a bit less expensive than the other place that's in the running.

Kay volunteers to come out [again] to help me, she's coming Dec. 10. I sure am glad she is. Someone tells me we can get a medical stay of one more week before Medicare stops paying for the room - a huge reprieve.

I want to pick the best place for Mom, not what's more convenient for me, but I'm happy Kay likes the same place I like; it's close to me, her room will be on the ground floor, small dining rooms right down the hall, across the hall - a courtyard where she can take Mookie out. The cons: only one room and it's more expensive than the larger place.

The amount of money we've spent in the last six months is staggering. Moving up to NC, paying a mortgage and upkeep on a house [that will not sell] in FL, paying off all her credit cards, Tracy, her apartment here, $100 doctor visits, medical co-pays - it is overwhelming and depressing. She's about $1000 a month short. Now we need to buy different furniture because her old stuff is too big for her new place. Even more money...

Kay and I winnow down Mom's stuff one more time. We are surgical and calculating in our winnowing. If we don't recognize anyone in the photos - out it goes. Grandchildren of friends from 30 years ago - you don't go. School pictures of fifth cousins twice removed - it's the trash for you. Photos of craft projects friends have made, the birds in their yard, pictures of their roses - bye bye now. We throw away two garbage bags (the big 30 gallon ones) of photos.
Mom has DVD's and VHS tapes of the same movie - out go the VHS tapes. Out go the slippery pajamas, all the cans of pineapple that moved up here from FL (sorry Susan! All your packing out the window), the boxes of Jell-O. The bed, dresser, and night tables (all in the massive 1970's Mediterranean style) go to a friend of Ben's. Couch, lamps, bedding and other things get donated to TROSA.

We can't move in until the 16th, so Mom stays at Hillcrest one more night, which will be on her bill (more money!). We buy a day bed to serve as couch and bed, a TV stand with drawers, and a new dresser. She keeps her coffee table (has great storage), TV and knick knacks. We spend late nights putting together furniture. The TV stand is particularly disappointing, we get it put together 3/4's of the way to find there are holes not drilled and pieces missing.

Cats and Dogs

My theory: extroverts prefer dogs, because both dogs and extroverts are pack animals. (I mean that in the nicest possible way - really. Some of my best friends are extroverts.) Introverts prefer cats (we channel Greta Garbo and her "I vant to be [let] alone.").

Call me the crazy cat lady if you want, but if forced to make a choice between either dogs or cats only for the rest of my life, cats win paws down. My best friend when I was three = a Maine Coon named Fluffy. Wished on a star or blew out candles on a birthday cake = a cat.

I've tried the dog thing several times, much to the amusement of my dear friend Linda (an anomaly to my theory, being an introverted dog lover). She's always prepared to do an intervention should I get confused about my true calling.
But I've finally discovered that I only like the romance of a dog. It's rather like wanting a boyfriend/husband. It sounds good in theory, fun even - someone to go places with, hang out, be your best friend. But the reality turns out to be much more smelly, annoying, and labor intensive than you ever reckoned.

Now, because of my mother's injury and hospitalization, into the middle of my three cat household (two of which were traumatized in my aforementioned vain attempts at dog ownership), I have to insert an almost eleven year old, partially sighted, babyfied Boston Terrier.

Lillie and Oscar are horrified by this breech in their insular feline world and retreat, hissing all the way, to counter tops for the duration.

Finn is pretty sure there is fun to had with this funky new creature. Especially when he notices Mookie gets in trouble for chasing him (he is a very smart cat).

Then it's Game ON!

The Diagnosis

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Mom's been in Duke since Sunday night and now they're transferring her to a convalescent hospital for physical therapy. I have to pick three choices and turn again to my geriatric source guru, Barbara D., who recommends Hillcrest as choice #1. Hillcrest it turns out, is a locally owned convalescent hospital, the administrator is the grandson of the woman who started it in the 50's. It's an older building, but charming, clean, and fairly close by.

Everyone at Hillcrest is wonderful, from the Admissions Director, Daniel, to each of the nurses. Mom gets the best roommate, Miss Shelby, who is a hoot! (FYI, in the south, instead of calling people Mrs. [insert last name here], they add Miss to your first name. I like it, it's respectful without being formal.)
Her and Mom are the same age and both are doting dog owners. She broke her leg when she fell off a stool while changing a light bulb by herself, was healing and on crutches, then broke an arm and [the same] leg during a fire drill at a hotel. Her entire family is as sweet as they can be and make sure to include Mom in just about everything. Her grandchildren make Mom cards, and her daughter makes Mom a lovely tote basket embroidered with her initial. Mookie gets to come visit any time; he snuggles in to sleep in the bed with Mom and I can go to Whole Foods across the street.

Mom has to wear a corset type brace for her back and is using a walker, more for stability than anything else. The corset they gave her in the emergency room has never worked quite right, kept riding up her torso. The one they give her in Hillcrest seems to work better.

While she's in here I ask if a psychological evaluation can be set up for Mom. We want to know if her behavior, which has become increasing erratic, is normal for her having had strokes or if it's something else.

Earlier in the month, before she fell, Tracy called me saying Mom had cut herself. Mom told Tracy she did it on purpose, then got angry when Tracy took off the band aid and told Mom to wash it to make sure it didn't get infected. Mom put a band aid back on and then followed Tracy downstairs, very agitated, out into the lobby and was yelling at her in front of everyone.
Weird, weird, weird.

She's usually really good with Tracy and does what she says, but lately she's been telling Tracy it's none of her business when Tracy tries to get her to take her [oral] medicine. When asked, Mom says she did not say she cut herself on purpose and never told Tracy that. Obviously, I'm inclined to believe Tracy's version. I mean, she's said to me, "I'm so angry I could kill someone, maybe even you." OK then now. Time for a professional.

Doctor Williams calls me on December 4 and says that Mom has vascular dementia and that she is "no longer a candidate for living alone."

Watch That First Step!

Sunday, November 23, 2008

The day started out perfectly normal. A lovely crisp fall day.
I volunteered at the animal shelter (with the cats naturally) and left my phone in my purse in the trunk as usual.
When I finish around noon, there are five messages on my phone, three from Tracy (Mom's insulin overseer) and two from the Emerald Pond managers.

Seems Mom fell around 9:30 AM. The first thing that comes to mind is that she's had another stroke.

Already I feel guilty, but don't know what about or why - how is this possible?! I take the wrong exit and have to drive halfway across Durham to correct it.

Mom's has a compression fracture in her back and is in a lot of pain even after painkillers; slips in and out of sleep. She says she was getting up to go to the bathroom and slipped off the edge of the bed. She does have on satin pj's and her bedspread is also slippery. She doesn't know what time it happened.

I'm there for about six hours, then leave to walk and feed Mookie and change out of my cat hair covered volunteer clothes. Allison has already kindly driven across town to feed my cats. When I came back, because you can only use the emergency valet once in a 24 hour period, I park in the garage on Trent St. (remember this) because this is the garage I am familiar with.

More hours of sitting, waiting, x-rays, questions, pain. It's a good fun time. Around 11 PM, two doctors come in and ask loads more questions; she knows the month, but not the year. She's only had diabetes for a little while. She always looks at me when they ask a question, like I'm supposed to give her the answer.
It's looking like they're about to release her, (OMG! NO! WHAT?! She's in so much pain still - are they kidding me? There's no way they can release her!), when her oxygen levels start to go down; they don't like that at all. A couple more x-rays and they determine she has fluid in her lungs and order her a room. Thank. You. Jesus.

I leave around midnight, ask if they have an escort service to the parking garage and am told there's a tunnel to the garage and given directions to said tunnel. I find tunnel and garage, but not my car.
I know exactly where it is: ground floor, third row down, second car on the left.

Except it's not there. Not there, or there, or there. No matter what third row I go down.
(Note to self - do NOT buy a white sedan ever again.)

I am a bit panicky now, and start to cry, but then try to bully myself into stopping. Who is crying in a garage by herself at 12:30 AM? A victim, that's who. So stop already. Can't. OK, then get out of garage.

And, by the way, in case you haven't guessed, I was in the wrong garage. I parked on Trent St. (remember?), several blocks down from Duke, not in the garage conveniently located across from Duke.

I go back into Duke and ask a lovely security guard named Michael if there's a safe ride to the garage. There is (why didn't the guy over in Emergency know about this?). He calls Safe Ride and I go outside into the brisk November night air to wait. I walk up to a van that people are getting on and am waved off with a curt "I'm not Safe Rides lady."

20 minutes later, still no safe ride. One of the doctors that was in Mom's room is leaving, goes with me back to lovely Michael, who calls again. Another 15 minutes go by. The van that waved me off before comes round again - now he takes pity on me and even though he isn't supposed to, (he's for giving doctors a ride to their vehicles), he takes me to the Trent St. lot.
There's my white sedan, ground floor, third row down, second car on the left. I have a little celebratory relief cry in the car. It's now close to 1:30 AM and I still have to get Mookie and all his stuff.

This Sucks

July 2008 - November 2008

More of the same. Everyone frustrated, unhappy, guilty.

There's a wonderful service here called Doctors Making House Calls, who specialize in geriatric care. The doctors are all women, and they can do blood tests, etc. at your house. This is the only way I can get Mom to see a doctor now. It costs $100 a visit (for travel), since she isn't in an assisted living situation. Worth it.

My aunt comes for a few days in October. She gets Mom to take the bus, but not the Emerald Pond bus - the city bus!
I'm horrified - what if Mom decides she can do this by herself?! I have nightmarish visions of my tiny stroke brained mother lost somewhere in Durham at night.
On one trip, my aunt leaves her purse on the bus, (thankfully they find it and nothing is missing), and I have to drive down to the bus station near the airport to retrieve it. I self-righteously think to myself all the way down and back that this wouldn't have happened if they had taken the Emerald Pond bus! Of course Mom's on her best behavior the whole week.
With me, my mother acts like a spoiled child. She's happy her house hasn't sold. She refuses to acknowledge the dog is peeing in the house and needs to go out more. She insists on buying crappy food [Beneful] ("He likes it!") for him even though he's covered in hot spots from the corn (allergies). The vet has to write a note before she'll stop.

There's lots of crying (her), lots of yelling (me), lots of avoiding (more me), lots of guilt (me again). I feel like this is all I talk about. I honestly don't know how to help her. Or me.

I try to write a weekly synopsis for my siblings and rarely hear anything back from one of them. This. bugs. me. Tell me to f*** off, don't send another one because you can't deal with it, or even a simple one word response would be fine (suggestions - roger, thanks, okay, sucks, etc.). To hear nothing makes me feel alone.
We're all struggling to deal with this, but jiminy christmas, I am BY MYSELF down here! You don't have to spend excruciating hours in Wal-Mart with her, or get treated like shit every time you see/talk to her, or get hung up on, or listen to her cry - all you have to do is acknowledge a freakin' email.

An aside: from the above paragraph it's clear my "love language" is "Words of Affirmation." Second is "Quality Time" (33% and 30% respectively). Acts of Service 20%, Physical Touch 17%, Gifts 0%.

Anyway, things are not getting better here and it's been close to six months. If anything they are getting worse.

Post Garage Sale

Sunday, July 27, 2008

Whew! It's over. What didn't sell went into the 14 yard dumpster we rented, (that was a good idea). We filled it to over flowing and there's still stuff left. We don't have time to clean, that will have to be another time. We made over $2000, which sounds like a lot, but not for a week's worth of hot sweaty depressing work.

Russ and family are coming through NC to see Mom on their way back to WI. Mom doesn't show any emotions that her grandchildren are there.
As I'm putting away things that we brought back up for her, she comes in from walking the dog and gets really angry, starts channeling Gollum/Smeagol. Her precioussss..."Stop going through my stuff!" Etc., etc., etc. There's no convincing her that I am giving her more stuff - not taking it away. She slams out onto the balcony, crying and smoking.
Russ and Jill are shocked. I say this is what I get every day. Welcome to my world.

Before you think I'm the most awful person, (I've already confessed to irritability, selfishness and lack of patience), let me say that this is the most frustrating thing I've ever experienced, short of dealing with a two year old. At least a two year old will grow out of it. There's a learning curve here and brother, is it a steep one.

Going back and forth all the time - should I quit my job and move back down to FL with her and take care of her? (That was the one thing that would make me start crying when she was in hospital after the stroke - the thought of moving back to FL with her.) Are we doing the right thing? Is she going to get better? Is there something I'm not doing (probably)?

Sometimes she seems normal and I let my guard down, then wham! Stroke brain sucker punches me in the face. This thing does not play fair.
There's no logic to her thinking most of the time and yet I repeatedly get pulled down the rabbit hole trying to get her to be logical about taking the dog out more, or not spending money for food when she doesn't need to, or taking her medicine. That's my fault.
I try (yes I know - "Try not. Do... or do not. There is no try.") to shift my attitude but I've stripped the gears.

I know she's frustrated too and she can't express that - hence the tantrums (just like a two year old). She's Opposite Mom - everything she used to enjoy is over. Cards, socializing, bowling, all of that is done. She can't hold a conversation because she forgets words, so says "Oh never mind!" Good thing I'm fairly good at charades because that skill comes into play several times a day. The sign for ice cream bars is pretending to hold something to her mouth and smacking her lips. Twenty Questions is another game we play frequently. "She's my friend, she called me." OK...then I go down my mental list of her friends until we get to who called her. Sometimes this can take a few minutes. She can't really read very well anymore. Or rather, things take longer to process, so she'll start off okay then it disintegrates into nonsense words "Drive Hertz now tkfipdj blah blah blah."

On one level it's a little fascinating to see how the brain copes with this type of trauma. Is this the "real" her that's been lurking under the cover of years of southern passive-aggressiveness? (Read genteel manners for all you non southerners) The passive is gone, now there's only aggressive. The stroke affected that part of the brain that covers decision making, does that cover the thinking-before-you-speak filter?

I Hate Garage Sales

July 24, 2008

I don't like going to or having garage sales. There's something creepy and sad about them. They have a desperate feel, like selling blood. My ex-husband loved garage sales, thrift stores, and flea markets. That could be another reason why I don't.

Strangers pawing through family memories, "Will you take _ for this?" No, I will not, I will take the price that's marked on it. Why do people try to get something that's marked .25 down to .10?! Will it be worth it then? Does it satisfy the bargain hunter urge to get it for .15 less? It's a piece of crap - pay the damn quarter and be gone! Ugh. And all this "stuff" is something that at one point we just HAD to have.

The kids are really good sports about this, even though it is not very much fun for them. Shawnn takes Dakota fishing one morning and they catch a small shark - bonus points for cousin Shawnn! He takes them both shark tooth hunting too.

It's hot and humid as only Florida in late July can be. God I hate my native state in the summer.

Holy Hoarder Batman!

July 20, 2008

My brother and his family, The Boy, and myself have taken on the huge task of having a garage sale for the remainder of Mom's stuff in FL. My sister in law is a garage sale maven, and we are her minions for the next week. Mom has no idea we're doing this. They're driving down from WI, The Boy from Tallahassee and I'm coming down from NC (trip # 5 in 4 months. I swear my car could do the drive by itself). And God love her, Susan G. is game too; she is a very good long-suffering friend. She comes up with Christmas on The Back Porch - genius idea.

Frankly, I think my Mom has some hoarding issues. The tendency was kept under control being in the military and moving every three years, but after Dad retired and they bought the house, it came back like kudzu.

Most of the guest room closet is filled with yarn and fabric and when paired with what was in the garage, it comes halfway out into the living floor. There are several unfinished afghans and lots of unfinished Barbie clothes. Boxes and boxes of patterns and notions.
Russ and Jill just happened onto the Quilter's Guild meeting at Kofe Haus, and then were told about another group knitting afghans for babies or cancer patients or some such, so we were able to donate all the fabric and yarn. Nice.
Good grief the candles! Most of them are unopened. Cleaning supplies was another thing she had multiple duplicates of. How many bottles of Toilet Duck (or variations thereof) does one need for two toilets?!

My sister decided she would take the china Dad got in Japan after all, so we ship that and the glassware that went with it to OR, which cost about $1000. Everything is covered with a film of nicotine, grease and dust. Yummy! Julie, the owner of the pack and ship place was very nice and gave us a discount because we packed much of it ourselves. On one of these trips Sam went with me and called me Puma; I don't know why it was so funny to her, but we both were laughing so hard we were crying.

The Light Bright Ceramic Xmas tree war rages on between my brother and sister, because Mom sent Russ the one she told Kay she could have. Maybe they can work out joint custody. Oy. Vey.

(Does my sister look like Jodie Foster or what?!)

Actually, I think this is great. We're all getting the things we have special memories of (except see above) without the trauma of actual death. But the one thing I really want, Mom's old SLR Minolta, is no where to be found. We find the instruction booklet but no camera. I wonder what happened to it.

The Dreary Reality

July, 2008

Everything is more of the same. She is not getting better mentally, but it's only been a couple of months since the last [noticeable] stroke; perhaps I'm expecting too much too soon.
We get into an irritable confrontation just about every time we see or speak to each other. I'm resentful about being sole entertainment, transportation, schlepper of all things grocery, dog, or medical. I get hung up on at least once a phone call. She's resentful of being "in prison".
She buys groceries at Wal-Mart, when she's paying for three meals a day. She refuses to eat breakfast downstairs. She complains every day that all they have for supper is sandwiches, then buys sandwich stuff at Wal-Mart and you guessed it - has that for supper. She does not comprehend, even though it's been explained many times by many people, that she always has 3 choices for supper - and the chef told her personally (I was there) that all she had to do was ask and he would make her whatever she wanted.

She refuses to take the Emerald Pond bus anywhere. She doesn't participate in any activities. Wii bowling is awesome, (she used to be on a bowling league), but when I describe it and try to encourage her to try it, she says it "sounds stupid". She sits in her apt. smoking and watching the USA channel all freaking day.
She won't take her meds (including anti depressants) and will cry for an entire day. Those days (if she goes out), she'll wear her sunglasses even inside, a tiny female Roy Orbison.

Mookie is not getting outside enough and is peeing by the front door. She is in total denial about it. "No he doesn't.", and "You don't know him, he's not your dog.", are her two favorite responses. Or there's "Just take him then!" The smell will knock you over, I can smell it down the hallway. So now I know that her new carpet wasn't ruined totally by Mr. Brown, Mookie helped. A lot. I feel bad for the poor dog.

Why don't I feel bad for her?

She's so good at "covering" that some of her friends and family think I'm the crazy one and/or the jerk of the century. She tells people all kinds of stuff that isn't true, she's in prison (not literally), I never come see her, all the people there are horrible, etc. But when I go to pick her up sometimes, she's down there helping new residents find a dining table, laughing with Nora (yes, she's made friends).

I go back and forth between she can't help it and this is her diabolical way of driving me crazy. Often I wonder if we should get her an regular apartment. Sometimes I think we should let her go back to her house in FL and do whatever the fuck she wants to. Don't want to take your medication - fine. Have another stroke. Want to give your money to that useless piece of man crap you so sadly think loves you, well have at it sister.

She goes on and on about needing to be buried in FL. I tease her by saying it may be like Aunt Edna in "National Lampoon's Family Vacation", but she'll get there. (She does not find this the least bit humorous.) She wants to move to an independent living place in FL. When I ask who will take care of her - she can't answer.

She's pushed away all her friends and family because they didn't like EBF. They care about her and could see that he was using her. But we are all blind to his wonderfulness, "we just didn't know him."
I'm reminded of Dan T.'s grandfather's story about a jackass: One person calls you a jackass, forgetaboutit. Two people call you a jackass, look in the mirror. Three people call you a jackass - buy a saddle. Yo Mom, that dude's wearing a lot of saddles.

She gets SO angry, you cannot imagine. "I'm not happy here!" she says teeth and hands clinched, just shaking with rage. "I'm so angry I could kill someone - maybe you!" "I'm going to jump off the [2nd story] balcony." Except she couldn't leave Mookie "the love of her life" (Seriously, the love of your life is a ten year old Boston Terrier?!) Sometimes the things she says are just plain funny to me and that really pisses her off.

Many times after I leave, I sit in my car and cry.