And...
you're welcome for the ear worm. A song about Alabama by a band from Florida (not just Florida, but J'ville).
Anyway, Mom is truly home now, buried next to my father in the family cemetery.
There were no Jerry Springer moments (sorry to disappoint), I got my hug quota for the year, and the Lenox birds have been passed off to my aunt.
We went out after the viewing to eat, then to my brother's hotel for story telling. And laughing. And maybe a wee bit of drinking.
I got asked if I was my sister's mother. Hilarity ensued I assure you. And the [older] man who asked the question is still trying to take it back.
Speaking of my sister, she left today. I'm praying for tail winds, smooth connections, and great weather all the way back to Juneau.
Today, December 7, 2011 at about 10:05 AM, Mom crossed over.
She'd been trying to get over, (and I'd been encouraging her along, believe me), since Saturday.
Sunday she said "Omar" very clearly, and "Elka", a little less clearly.
I don't know anyone named Omar or Elka, except for Omar on The Wire. (And yes, he is my boyfriend.)
I said if they're here to take you, you just go ahead on Mom.
She didn't listen.
I said a lot of things on Sunday. I got mad at her. Told her she was being a stubborn Florida mule.
Then switched tactics and told her we all loved her and she was free to go. Told her she did a good job and we would be okay. Go be with Dad and Mookie and Whiskey...[inserted all the dead people and pets I could conjur up].
I went through a box of Kleenex. I cried and railed at God and told him I was going to be pissed at Him if she was in pain. (He knows me, it's okay).
I told her that she was pissing Jesus off by keeping him waiting. Someone pointed out that since she wasn't a money changer in the temple, I was probably lying on that last one.
I read Alice in Wonderland to her. We looked at pictures. I timed the breathing stoppages and the moaning intervals. I watched The Last Time I Saw Paris.
I reminisced about things. All the crappy artwork on the mantle. Keeping my Girl Scout pin and the award I won for writing in 8th grade in her jewelry box. Her goofy cookie making habits (the recipe says it makes five dozen, dammit I'm going to get at least that), having a laughing spell in the frozen food aisle at Big and Crusty Bagels in Publix. (Who would give that name to a food item?!)
She stopped talking on Monday. They increased her morphine to a bigger dose, every hour if needed.
When she slept, I could go home. That was our drill for four days.
Steffi was with me (thanks for that), this morning when it happened.
She did it on her own terms. Like she did everything else.
Yesterday evening was tough. All day I've been antsy, (along with itchy and prickly), just thinking about it.
I did go over Sunday. She had just "gone down for a nap" - it truly is aging in reverse. I sat with her for a bit and watched Gandhi while she slept. Then I took the clothes that weren't hers that someone had put BACK IN HER ROOM in the dresser that STILL ISN'T FIXED and dumped them in my backseat. Because it pissed me off. And carrying those clothes around with me in the car is going to fix that.
Heh.
Did I tell you about the dresser? I don't remember. You probably don't either. So here goes - possibly again.
When I went to get her some clothes for her return from the hospital in October, three of the four drawers had the fronts off. Two were off completely and propped up nicely on the side of the dresser. One is hanging lopsided. Those drawers opened really easy, so how in the world did the fronts got ripped off?! It's not a family heirloom, it's from Target, but still, WTH.
Housekeeping was supposed to take a look at it - last month. I can get over there with some Gorilla Glue, but dang it, I DON'T WANT TO.
So, yesterday.
I went over for supper. We're at a new table in the other dining room now. I don't like it. It's the table where people get fed. It's a sad table. No one talks.
No nonsensical conversations, no humming, no Myrtle saying, "Would it kill them to give us some dessert?!"
In between trying to interest Mom in something, I fed "Emily", the lady next to her; she doesn't speak, has beautiful porcelain skin. Sometimes she takes a spoon and TAPtap tap taptaptaptaps on the table. Or claps her hands.
What if she is one of those people who wants to eat all their beans, then all their stuffing? Sorry, no choice now. She opens her mouth for every bite.
Mom had one bite of chicken, several bites of chocolate ice cream, several of fruit cocktail. She nodded off between bites.
Her language is pretty much gone.
She makes noises. Every now and then an recognizable word breaks through. A yes or no. The occasional hey.
She's shrinking, turning in on herself, a little doodlebug.
Jesus. I thought it sucked before, but this, this...dissolving, like sugar in cold tea, is slow and fucked up.
Mom is the same - eating very little, sleeps a lot, rarely laughs anymore. I used to get her to laugh all the time. One of the few understandable things she said to me today was, "That's so weird."
I don't know what was weird, but that was clear as a bell.
A. told me Mom often doesn't sleep in her bed. She's agitated ("end of life agitation"), can't seem to get comfortable, wants to be around people, so they bring her out to the living room with her oxygen and settle her in a recliner for the night.
I took over some new clothes - cute little zip up jacket in pink, fuchsia tee-shirt and nice black sweatpants. While she slept off her two bites of turkey at the dining table, I took the opportunity to go through her closet. Got rid of clothes that weren't hers (there were quite a few), weeded out the too small stuff, hung up pants on pant hangers (!), and arranged shirts by color. (Shut up.)
A woman visiting her father brought her Landseer Newfoundland named Oreo. It was hilarious watching Avery and Oreo play - Oreo's head was bigger than the entire puppy! Someone said Avery had cattle dog in her and sure enough, she was nipping at Oreo's heels trying to herd him. That skill might come in handy, herding seniors to the dining room for instance.
Seriously though, what a great idea for a facility like CB to adopt their own dog. The administrator said they've received many emails and phone calls saying that very same thing. (now they need a cat!)
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Speaking of cats - here's a typical morning scenario:
The third one was just out of camera range. Can't a person pee in peace?!
I had turkey, cauliflower broccoli
au gratin, and chipotle cranberry sauce for dinner. The last item is kinda cheating, but I made it myself and there's very little sugar in it.
For dessert I had an obscene amount of whipped cream.
And I may have more later.
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I've been watching The Monkees on Netflix. Too funny.
But I think the best thing I read all day was this story on prison hospice.
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Mom is about the same. Her care rate went up about $1000 - but if they cut out a lot of her meds it will be about $500 instead. She often refuses to take them and it really doesn't matter if she takes her Plavix anymore.
A bill from UNC hospital came, says she owes about $1200. I'm not sure they submitted it to Tricare though.
Fiddle dee dee. Will deal with that on Monday.
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Who do these guys sound like?
This video is slightly creepy, but I like the song.
When I watch the video below I wonder what it would be like to look like this girl (oh yeah, she is a girl).
I think of power - the power of youth and sex appeal.
A few days ago, I received an email from Local Harvest. The last paragraph said:
"A few months ago someone sent me a quotation from a Native American prayer which says, "Give thanks for unknown blessings already on their way." So may we express our gratitude around our Thanksgiving tables, for those blessings already manifest, and for the capacity to sustain the hope that what is needed is on its way."
Well said.
Thanks ya'll for the known and the unknown blessings.
was going to be the BIG ONE. You know - the one where Mom dies.
CB called around 7:30 AM and said Mom had "taken a turn".
In near superhuman fashion - twenty minutes - I was dressed, make-uped, had fed the cats, scooped litter boxes and at CB.
A., (one of Mom's favorite aides, mine too), said her heart rate had gone down, she was having trouble breathing. They had called hospice and given her two morphine doses (5:30 and 7:30). She was sleeping.
I settled in, read some Frankenstein on my kick-ass phone, texted some folks (please bring coffee!) and threw away some stuff. (just getting a head start on what I'll have to do anyway - don't begrudge me small pleasures)
D. came with coffee. To kill some time, we looked through Dad's war and peace medals and other military paraphernalia, where she noticed an awesome walrus head tie tack - which now lives on my jacket.
Mom continued to sleep...well, like the dead.
Then sometime in the afternoon she woke up, was agitated. Had another dose of the big M., had her mouth wiped out with nitroglycerin swabs (encourages saliva).
We called my brother; she perked up so much after that she drank some sweet tea, ate a graham cracker, and a few tiny bites of peach yogurt. She talked, in her way.
Laughed when D. imitated Donald Duck, then called her a "shit hound".
Yes, exactly that.
She drifted back to sleep after a few hours. I met Anon CP at Whole Foods for brisket and salad.
Went home, changed clothes (it was hotter than Hades in her room), fed cats, and washed my face twice -something had irritated the crap out of it. It was bright red and felt like it was on fire. Could have been the coconut lotion I put on Mom's hands.
When I returned, Mom was sitting in the living room! talking about puppies and who knows what else.
We went back to her room and alternated between watching Up and Splendor in the Grass - quite the combo, I know. She was more talkative during Splendor. We discussed whether that was Sandy Dennis or Tuesday Weld (Sandy), how handsome Warren was, what a cad he was, how pretty Natalie was, etc. I left around 9-9:30, sat in my driveway talking to my sister. Remembered I needed darn cat food and had to go to Kroger.
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Today, after the Gals Second Annual Mutiny Anniversary Lunch, I went over. Was just in time for sing-a-long - my favorite! (I'll let you decide if I'm being sarcastic or not.)
CB has adopted a puppy, their very own live-in therapy dog - which is a great idea. Her name is Avery and she is adorable (all the more so because she's not piddling on my carpet).
I didn't stay long, I had a raging headache.
Surely brought on by the roller coaster ride of "My mother's dying - oh wait. Never mind."
I am prickly. That's what the ex-BF said about his family - they were a prickly bunch (he included himself in that description, just so you know).
That's an apt description of how I feel lately.
Yesterday the cashier at Kohl's kept my 15% discount card after swiping it, saying that it was for one time use only. She gave it back when I asked for it, but only reluctantly.
I wanted to call a manager and have the poor girl flogged or something else Nathaniel Hawthorne-y. Because she was wrong.
Instead, as I signed the credit card receipt, I muttered "that's BS" under my breath. Passive-aggressive is my middle name ya'll.
Today at the pharmacy in Kroger my eye rolling and heavy sighing was JUST BARELY contained when I was chided - yes, chided - for not picking up an order, then a big deal was made about them having to ring up two avocados and take a coupon.
All the while someone was standing INSIDE MY PERSONAL BUBBLE (granted I have large sphere). It took TWO "looks" for her to step back. RESPECT THE BUBBLE!
Especially the prickly ones.
Then I come home to zero Netflix movies because the mail person at our building is a doofus and for some reason is not picking up the outgoing mail. Erg.
So yeah. Prickly.
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I am addicted to La Croix sparkling water, mainly the grapefruit (pamplemousse in French) and the lime. When I saw the coconut flavor in Target, I thought - okay, sure, I'll try it.
Oh friends. As it turns out, I do not like drinking what suntan lotion smells like.
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My nephew called me last night, to check on his Nana. Awww. Sorry the report is so crappy.
I took over some size eleven (that's MY size!) slippers last night - hoping they might fit when the edema is bad. She had some TED hose on and was wearing her normal slippers. She fell asleep in the dining room so I took my leave.
But not before Miss Myrtle almost made me cry by asking me what she could do that was the right thing. She just wanted to do the right thing so she didn't have to be in there. Sigh.
The hospice social worker called today and said she was sleeping (still?) and her feet were elevated. She asked me how I was doing. Of course I said fine.
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Speaking of shoes (well awhile back we were) - how cute are these:
Pretty f*&^ing cute right? That's what I thought too, so I ordered them. They look like just the cure for pricklyitus.
That's the word the doctor used yesterday when describing Mom's health.
She is not eating much, but still up and around.
Yesterday evening I went over during supper.
"Hello darlin'", said She Who Scrapes Her Robe With Her Butter Knife While Humming, (see The Supper Club).
Myrtle came to the table late, having been to the eye doctor. Her daughter sat for a few minutes; she's pretty stressed out by it all. Still in the I Can't Believe This Is Happening stage.
Really it's more like the I Can't Believe This Is Happening.
Been there, done that sister.
Mom was in a great mood, having a laughing spell every five minutes. Talkative and fairly understandable. She ate most of her carrot raisin salad and a couple of bites of chocolate ice cream. Lips clinched shut at pork chop and baked potato (even with cheese and bacon!).
Tonight was a different story. She sat slumped in a wheelchair, mostly incoherent, ate all of three bites of pie. We lingered in the middle of the dining room for a half hour afterward.
Just sitting, holding hands.
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I missed the end of a promotional period for a dental credit card the end of October and they added the $600 worth of deferred interest to my bill.
OMG does not even begin to cover it. The kicked-in-the-solar-plexus-I-can't-breathe-and-I'm-going-to-throw-up feeling as the realization of the missed deadline sunk in.
I called them tonight sitting in front of CB and played the [very real] "mother was in hospital and now in hospice" card. They told me that if I paid the previous balance in full by midnight tonight - they would waive the finance charges.
I cried with gratitude.
Well that's what Mom said the other night.
The hospice social worker had called to say that Mom had a headache while she was there and they gave her some morphine...(maybe that's why I was purdy!), and it just seemed like I should stop by.
Her verbal skills are deteriorating fast. Really fast. "Hey" is still clear as a bell though. We sat in the dining room and she folded a Kleenex over and over. That was pretty much it for about an hour.
CB called last night to say that Mom was sitting on the floor in her room. (they have to tell you everything)
No injuries, everything was fine; they bundled her back into bed.
Walked, talked, and saw "Puss N' Boots" with a couple of the Gals (there is a small select group of us who like animation).
There was a chicken in the theatre...a chicken purse that is! It's Anon CP's. Dear me, that is a good fun time.
Cluck!
Settling in for the movie - hence the blurriness.
CP could be a bit broody (ahahaha) because she is getting real chickens (not purse ones) that will live in one of these adorable houses from Omlet (UK of course). They have cute beehives and houses for bunnies and hamsters too. Beekeeping kinda fascinates and scares me at the same time. Hmmm.
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I read somewhere that if you want to be productive - don't take off your shoes when you get home.
That is the first thing I do. The second thing is feed the cats. (Because there is no peace otherwise) Third thing is put on my pajamas.
Today when I got home, I did not take my shoes off. The pantry got cleaned out and organized. (Maybe there's something to that)
I discovered there were at least twenty glass jars that were holding stuff I don't want around now - dangerous carby things like pasta and croutons.
All this must go.
Except the cat.
Eleven jars! need a good home. Made in France. Every single one of them. (they don't come home unless they're from Italy or France)
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I just finished watching Sons of Anarchy Season Three, which was mostly set in Belfast, Northern Ireland. There was a lot of talk about Orangemen, Provos, The Army, the UVF, and a song about the "big fellah" (Michael Collins) I wondered if most people got all that.
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And finally, some music. This is my favorite version of Amazing Grace as sungby Tim Eriksen.The part at the end - sounds just like Mongolian throat singing.
Thursday evening I met the hospice volunteer at CB, who can only come on weeknights or weekends - because she has a full time job.
If you're thinking I had some guilt when she told me this - you are correct.
But seriously, it has to be easier when it isn't your parent shaking, drooling, and saying "hey!" every five seconds. A veritable walk in the f&*#ing park.
Anyway, the girl we'll call Erin was lovely. Mom seemed to like her, called her darling.
Erin asked what Mom liked to do. I was thinking she was pretty much looking at it [Mom sitting on the couch holding my hand]. She can't read anymore, but might enjoy being read to; not sure she tracks TV. There's no conversation to speak of. Unless you count "hey!".
Bought this at Whole Foods (not just for brisket anymore!) and brought it over:
It attaches to baby's crib and plays four different sounds, (heartbeat, rain, ocean, and whale song), to help sleep. Mom used to have a bunch of those type of CD's and I thought it might be soothing.
She asked if it was dead. (Eyes closed?)
When the ocean sound was played for her she said, "Weather." (thought it was rain?)
She seemed restless, wanted to walk, then sit down, then walk. Her legs were swollen and hard as a rock. The tremor in her right hand is still there. She kept saying she was cold, but her hands were warm. I wonder if the shaking from the tremor makes her think she's cold.
During one of our little walkabouts, a tall gentleman was sitting in the dining room, (see The Supper Club), with his legs stretched out into the hallway. Mom said "I'm old!" as we came upon him. This is apparently elder code for "Hey, I'm walking here!", since he pulled his legs in.
Road sign in Newcastle, Northern Ireland
Mom said "Grandma" when we stopped by the finch cage in the entryway. I asked her if she was seeing dead people (because I'm a smart ass), she said no.
Granny did, in the last year. She wanted us to get dogs out of the room that weren't there and sometimes all sorts of dead folks - mothers, brothers - were hanging out with us.
She also thought she was married to her doctor and my mother had had twins with someone other than my [dead] father.
Oh, and she had peach cobbler with President Bush right over there.
I called the hospice nurse about Mom's legs and she sent this email:
Saw ______ today and spoke to Dr M. about the edema in her legs. There is definitely a fluid shift, but she also has an issue with hypostatic hypotension, which is when she stands up her b/p drops, then slowly resumes to normal. But because of this we hesitate to increase her Lasix as this can increase the drop in her b/p.
We can however shift the fluid back into her system by utilizing edema wraps. We will wrap her legs with kerlix (to assure they stay dry) and cover the kerlix with a layer of coban a self adhesive product similar to ace bandages except they mold to the pts legs and do not slip.
These will be changed 2 x week and as needed by hospice staff and the expense is incurred by hospice.
When the edema resolves we can try changing to TED hose but if they are not effective we will continue with the edema wrap indefinitely. The edema is related to her heart failure and may be an ongoing issue at this point.
Technically in the South the last meal of the day is called supper. It used to consist of leftovers from dinner - the big midday meal that gave you energy to plow the rest of the back forty. (wonder if Queenie the mule got a big dinner too?) Eating the leftovers at supper meant you started from scratch for breakfast the next day.
Anyway, last night I went over to CB for supper.
"Hey", Mom said when she saw me. Then she said it again. And again. And some more.
Apparently Iggy has been replaced.
Let's meet the rest of our table companions shall we?
To Mom's left is "Myrtle". Myrtle might have been quite the astute business woman in her day - nothing gets past her.
After she ate every single scrap of food on her plate and did the same to her dessert she said, "Let me ask you something. That sweet potato was good, but how much did I pay for it? Would it hurt them to give us some dessert? I would pay more for that. I don't mind paying for it."
She picked up a sliver of green bean that had fallen on the tablecloth, held it out on the tip of her finger to a passerby and asked, "Do you know what this is? Is this all they give us? Who's running this place?! Would it kill them to give us some dessert!?"
Continuing around the table to Myrtle's left is The Hummer. But let's give her a better name. Say, Dorothy.
Her Native American name would be She Who Scrapes Her Robe With Her Butter Knife While Humming. Dorothy is genial and loves to clean up. She takes the used coffee creamer containers and rinses them out in her water glass. She also collects the empty Sweet N' Low packets. If it looks like it needs it, she will scrape the tablecloth with the butter knife. When she speaks she has a lovely Southern accent.
To Dorothy's left is "Jean". Jean likes my mother and blows her kisses. She likes to hold my hand sometimes. She's pretty low key and doesn't say much.
Finally, there's "Barbara", the den mother of this table. She's always decked out in her finery, rings on her fingers, plastic bead necklace, a brooch penned jauntily on her holiday sweatshirt. She has coffee with dessert, with cream and two packets of "sugar" - the empties of which Dorothy promptly collects.
Dorothy was humming, Mom was saying "hey", and Myrtle was asking about the price of dessert when a man at another table shouted "Shut-up!" Barbara looked over at me and said, "Can you believe this bunch?"
Mom was cold and one hand shook, making me think it was a tremor, not cold. She had taken a bite of her sweet potato and maybe two of her chicken. I tried to get her to eat another bite of the potato, but her lips clamped shut. I could hear her saying "I don't like that."
The staff was withholding dessert until she ate more. WTF. If that's all she wants to eat, fine. Give the woman her stupid Ensure and pound cake. Grrrr.
After supper we went into the living room. The woman who is always saying help me, oh God somebody help me was in rare form last night. Mom had a coughing attack and the woman told her to shut up. Mom said "Oh you shut up."
Heh.
You tell her Mom.
All the commotion seemed to be getting on Mom's nerves (or maybe that was my nerves), so we walked over to the Activity Room. Our pal Myrtle was there, examining scraps of material.
"Do you think I can take these? Should I pay for them? These are for the bathroom (a dog and cat print). This one seems cheap (an angel print) and tacky."
Then the "help me" woman (shall we call her Rhonda?) was wheeled in.
We spotted Mom's walker in the corner, identified with a luggage tag of a Boston Terrier. (Mookie!)
"Fix it up."
I took that to mean open it up so she could use it. She went back into the living room with Jean, and I headed home to feed supper to those darn cats.
Here's an update on Mom's condition. She is walking much better, really didn't need the walker. There was a wheelchair and oxygen in her room.
But there's the tremor and some drooling. I called hospice to see if either of those was due to new medications or old medications stopping.
Her mental decline is worse. Trauma (hospital visits, being sick) will do that.
Sigh.
Soooooo...
Mom came home from UNC hospital Wednesday night; hospital bed was in place at CB.
She is very weak, but being in bed for five days will knock the wind out of anyone's sails I'm thinking. Then there's the pneumonia and her heart only pumping at 15% of its capacity. Last night she could barely walk two or three steps without having to rest.
(Let me interject that I want to drink a lot of wine. Right now. And eat much cake. But I'm not.)
This morning I signed her care over to hospice. We want for her never to go back to the hospital, for her to be comfortable with no invasive radical treatment efforts.
Don't break out the sack cloth and ashes though - she's not there yet. Plus this woman comes from a long line of death bed vigil bouncer backers.
They ordered oxygen, that will make her more comfortable. (I had asthma as a child and there is barely anything worse than struggling to breathe.)
Hospice pays for most of her meds, any equipment (oxygen, wheelchairs, hospital beds, etc.), and supplies (Depends), she needs. They bathe her and wash her hair. Her CNA makes body lotion for all her patients. (That just about killed me with kindness.) They will come as often as they need - the sicker she is, the more often they come. We're starting off with three days a week.
Last night I sat next to her as she ate her pie. Watched the woman across the table scrape her robe with her butter knife as she hummed constantly.
I don't think anything has hit me yet. I'm a fall-apart-later kinda gal. I think.
"Hope In The Air"
There is a man that I know,
seventeen years, he never spoke.
Guessed he had nothing to say,
he opened his mouth on Judgement Day.
I listened with all of my might,
but was scared by the look in his eyes.
Like he'd already lost the fight,
and there was no hope ever in sight.
No hope in the air,
no hope in the water,
not even for me,
your last serving daughter.
Why fear death, be scared of living,
our hearts are small and ever thinning.
There is no hope ever of winning,
oh, why fear death, be scared of living.
I have seen men provoked,
and I have seen lives revoked,
and I looked at my life and choked.
From there no more ever I spoke.
I can't give up that quick.
My life is a candle and a wick.
You can put it out but you can't break it down,
in the end we are waiting to be lit.
There's hope in the air,
there's hope in the water,
but sadly not me,
your last serving daughter.
A friend is a friend forever,
and a good one will never leave, never.
But you've have never been south of what blows off your mouth,
you will never understand, ever.
You speak minds handed down to you,
by the lies handed down by your truth,
and your angels will dance at your will,
will mask your scrambling youth.
I forgave you your short comings,
and ignored your childish behaviour.
Laid a kiss on your head,
and before I left said, "stay away from fleeting failure".
There's hope in the air,
there's hope in the water,
but sadly not me,
your last serving daughter.
Pick up your rope Lord, sling it to me,
if we are to battle I must not be weak.
And give us your strength world, and your food and your water,
oh, I am your saviour, your last serving daughter.
There's hope in the air,
there's hope in the water,
but sadly not me,
your last serving daughter.
There's hope in the air,
there's hope in the water,
But no hope for me,
your last serving daughter.
Back on Oct. 4 I wrote that this was the time of year Mom takes a down turn.
Saturday night CB called around 10:30 pm leaving a message to call them. When I reached them (the phone was on the kitchen table and I was here), they said she had some trouble breathing; they called the doctor and then the EMT's, then me.
As I put makeup BACK on (proof positive of my Southerness; I will put makeup on to take out the garbage.) and contacts back in, I was reminded of Andrea's recent post To The ER.
Thankfully I had taken a lovely long nap that afternoon. And I had my wall charger in my purse.
Reader's Digest version: we were in the ER for a relatively short time - a mere five hours from dropping off car at emergency room valet (I love that), until getting back in it again to drive home. They admitted her with pneumonia and fluid in her lungs because her heart is not working at capacity.
Because we do not want to do any sort of invasive treatment hospice is getting involved.
That's all I have time for now.
St. Pete
Shannon Wright
Two young horses dragging to St Pete
Worn out tired, right here
And the night falls on this oceans' white hour
‘Cause you won’t be coming home to me
And you said it sad and so playfully
I wish God would make things clear
‘Cause there’s no fight left in me
Relentlessly the sun is igniting
While all these concrete boxes sit empty
On these defeated Floridian streets
I know you won’t be coming home to me
Two young horses dragging to St Pete
Worn out, tired
Worn out, tired
There’s no fight left in me
(the YouTube link cuts off before the end of the song, but it was the only one I could find)
when my mother tends to experience a trauma that precipitates a drop down to the next plateau of dementedness.
In preparation for the possibility of another 14 hr ER visit, I:
Purchased another wall charger for my phone and tucked it in my purse.
Downloaded free classic books (which I have not read): Moby Dick, Frankenstein, The Wind in The Willows, and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court.
Transferred my music to the wonder phone.
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One of the down sides of people getting my blog via email, is that when they reply to me only I get to see the lovely (or funny) things they say.
Here's some of the things said (that made me cry) regarding A Fallow Period:
- Also let's talk about not beating yourself up about your mom. And we will help take care of you :)
- Above all, do not punish yourself for those thoughts. You want a release for both of you. When you least expect it, a Guardian will come along to take care of you. Above all, just know you are loved.
- It's ok Its been a long hard time for you. She would not want to stay like this. Don't beat youself up. Stay strong. We love you.
- I always think of you as brave strong and creative.
Thanks everyone. These feel like hugs - which I like if they're from people I love. :)
I'm sad about my mother. Sad that there is less and less of her every time I go. Sad about me and my cowardly ways.
Can I confess that I hope for the big one for her? I really do.
Last year when I was working for The realtor Dude, one of his colleagues, a very funny woman whose father was in a similar situation to Mom's, said all she wanted for Christmas was for her father to die. He waited until New Year's.
It sounds so crass, but, boy, I totally get it.
And then I worry about who's going to take care of me.
So anyway, I took the Windows phone back and paid for an Android - which I LOVE.
8 mega pixel camera (I think that's more than my "real" camera), an e-book reader - which remembers where I left off - shut up. And - I have reception in my office.
My next door neighbor's a nice girl. We share the garbage can and split the bill.
Her father has a brain tumor.
He's my age.
I can't stop thinking about it.
She told me yesterday that his scans don't look good, but they're getting to spend lots of time together.
In a weird way something like this is a blessing - because we have a chance to be with them, kinda wrap things up a bit. Something you don't get when they die suddenly.
After work I wandered around Kohl's because there were not one, but two coupons - 20% off and $30 in Kohl's cash - burning a hole in my pocket. I'm not walking outta there without using them.
I avoided the Petite section since it makes me sad.
Feck off sad.
And it did, for a while.
After Kohl's I went to see Mom.
She was sitting outside with two other women, enjoying the not sweltering almost fall weather, having a conversation. Conversation is a relative term I guess, but they were all on the same page and enjoying it. Mom pulled up her pants leg and the others did the same. Then they compared whiteness.
We left their fine company and went off to her room to try on the new clothes I procured last week. On the way I discerned something was rotten in Denmark. Oh la.
And then...I had to do the thing I said I NEVER WANTED TO DO AGAIN (hello?! Is anyone listening?) and change my mother's Pull-ups. We both felt better when that was over.
She tried on two pairs of pants and two shirts, which is like an Olympic event for her. The third pair of pants - we're saying they fit because the other two did.
Say cheese came out something like sprayed knees.
That ship has sailed = he's healed?
Okay, you are going to think I am SO mean, but she reminds me of a troll doll in this picture. (I LOVED my troll dolls - so there.) But even more way cuter. See?
She wanted to leave the room and walk about in her new finery. We sat for a few minutes in the living room without the TV (no one is ever in there), holding hands.
"Light of God, light of God," she said out of the blue.
"I'm going..." (to sneeze I think)
"The ladle thing. How'd he look?"
"I don't know. I was done one one one."
Then it was time for her shower and my release back into the real world.
I was heading like a horse towards the barn for Only Burger when I realized the cats were out of kitty crack, which necessitated a drive in the opposite direction to Phydeaux. Burger King is right next door. I am now regretting my dinner choice.
According to Wikipedia: A ninja or shinobi was a covert agent or mercenary of feudal Japan specializing in unorthodox arts of war. The functions of the ninja included espionage, sabotage, infiltration, and assassination, as well as open combat in certain situations.[1]
There I was in Kohl's with my 15% off coupon, slinking around in the Petite section, (obviously not for me). when the ninja snuck out from behind a stack of Croft and Barrow shirts and kicked the shit out of me.
I mean, one minute I was fine and the next - I was tearing up over a Cathy Daniels sweater - because it was something she would have worn before. Now it's elastic waist pants (zippers and buttons are too hard) and over your head shirts.
Anon CP the sun worshiper is not happy about this. I however, am ecstatic! Something for everyone, as she says.
It would seem to go against my many generational Florida nativeness that I prefer cooler weather, except that I was born in the fall (in NORTHERN Florida) and when I was about three months old, we, (my mother and I, my father had been there since July the previous year), moved to Sitka, Alaska. Alaska was still a territory. (Statehood happened on January 3, 1959.)
This is the house we lived in:
We arrived on one of these:
Float plane
Someone told my mother small babies do not get air sick, so she didn't take a change of clothes for me. Turns out that person was wrong.
She missed her connecting plane in Chicago, (she may have been trying to make me presentable), but a kind porter helped her get on the next flight. I cannot imagine her flying from Florida to Alaska by herself with a three month old baby. The only other time she'd been out of the state was to go to Tennessee.
My father was on the CGC (Coast Guard Cutter) Sorrel, which meant he was out to sea often. My mother was so bored, (okay, that's my take), she ironed dishtowels, bed linens, and...my diapers.
Anyway, that's why I like colder weather better. It's what I knew first.
My anam cara's mother said burnt toast made for a better singing voice. That one might be Norwegian. :)
She also reminded me of the clean underwear one (in case you're in an accident - as if that's the only good reason).
Anon CP had why buy cow/ free milk.
How could I have forgotten either of those!?
If dinner was late, my mom always reassured us by telling us rich people ate late.
When the sun shone while it was raining - the devil was beating his wife. I cannot tell you how many hours I pondered over this saying. (If the devil was in hell, what was his wife doing in heaven? What was HE doing in heaven beating her? What the heck was God doing - watching TV in the other room?!)
If her nose itched - someone was coming with a hole in their britches. If her palm itched - money was coming.
If you walked around one side of an object and she walked around the other, (and she went out of her way to make sure that didn't happen), you both had to say something that went together - like ham and eggs, bread and butter. I don't know what that one was about, one of my grandfather's probably.
Did boys get all these homilies or is this a girls only club?
In reference to the 5.9 earthquake on Tuesday, this is going around:
My Kentucky friend said a 5.9 just stirs their coffee in California. (Being from Cantuckee, he's an honest Southern gentleman and told me he stole that.)
