Bring on 2010

2009 was a truly nasty year, and I am thrilled to see it end.  Why?  Like the poet, 'let me count the ways":

Mom spent three months in hospital and rehab.

She's lost some ground mentally and physically.

I had many teeth extracted; broke a toe; hit my head against the upstairs wall; slipped on the ice, and messed up a tendon in my left arm; and got 'a flu like virus'.  All this, while taking care of the aged parent.

a close, and young relative had a substance abuse problem, which caused much heartbreak.

On the other hand, I have vowed to lose weight and write more, but I must get to the bank and supermarket, or there will be no tasty salmon in yogurt sauce tonight.

'Let's Go Get Stoned"

It seems that urinary tract infections as well as antibiotics, can trigger temporary dementia in senior patients.  The Aged Parent has got a nasty UTI, and has been in rare form since Sunday.  On that day, she refused to get out of bed, despite the best efforts of myself and Ginny ( my sister) to get her up.  At one point, Mom said " I just can't put the pieces together" and we gave up at that point, figuring if she was that confused, she might risk falling during the bed to wheelchair transfer.

So, I had to change Mom's adult diaper, which made her quite hostile.  After I got her to lay down on the bed, she glared at me, and said in an angry voice ' you just love this. don't you?"  and I said no, I did not really care for it at all.  She then said 'it gives you power over me".  I never really thought of what power I accrued while changing a soiled or wet adult diaper.  Am I supposed to feel like Catherine The Great or Elizabeth I of England?    No, Mom is a control freak who is losing control of her world, and isn't too pleased about it.

Some of her hallucinations have been pretty funny, because she won't be told they are mistaken.  Sunday night, she asked Ginny why she had a piece of bread on top of her head.  Ginny tried explaining it was the top of her ponytail, but Mom wouldn't be told, so I hid my laughter behind the pages of 'Being George" ( an oral biography of George Plimpton).

Yesterday, after I got back from my doctor's appointment, Mom asked "did Michael call?".  I said "Michael?"  thinking she meant my ex brother in law.  She looked at me pitingly and said "Michael Crawford.  He's supposed to come by the house and teach me to ride a Vespa scooter".  I just like the image of Michael Crawford ( phantom of the opera) and Mom on a Vespa, like Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck in 'Roman Holiday.".

'It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year"

Things got a little rough this morning:  Mom had a very messy bowel movement, and the clean up got rather complicated.  Lots of wipes, body cleaner, paper towels, and I just gritted my teeth, figuring her cleanliness was far more important.  So,  the job was done, but I could tell how ashamed Mom was.  Nobody enjoys being cleaned up:  far better to do the job yourself.  I am still undwinding from the ordeal--shutting my eyes to the mess and the smell.

If only she'd start using the commode.  Much better for the both of us.  Mom could wipe her own bottom, which would probably give her a sense of empowerment.  She might even be nicer to me, since I should have less power over her.  Mom does have the physical ability to walk and cleanse herself, but choose both the wheelchair, and having her adult diaper changed by me.

Odd thing about it was that Grandma, who lived here for 5 years or so before her death, was far more independent.  Grandma's hip was worn down from osteoarthritis, and she was supposed to have hip replacement surgery, but the doctor discovered she needed a pacemaker, which put an end to the hip replacement.  Mom bought Grandma a wheelchair, but Grandma refused to use it, and shuffled around the house with her walker.  The family cat, Snoopy, used to like sitting in the wheelchair, and being taken for a ride, with her tail sticking out between the back and seat panel.  

Well, I wish Mom had more of Grandma's spunk.  I wish I had it, too.

Soon It Will Be Christmas Day

This hasn't been such a wonderful year.  Being hospitalized for two months must have been awful for Mom.  I can't begin to imagine what it was like for her.  No wonder she retreated into a state of 'hospital psychosis"  At 83, the reality that you are not home, but in a hospital, where nobody really loves, or cares about you, must be insupportable.  No wonder Mom insisted she was living in Helen Gorra's basement, or the airport, or a hotel, or Southhampton, etc.  Can 'hospital psychosis' be a defense mechanism?

In 2010, I want to achieve more productivity:   Thank God that the visiting nurse agreed to give Mom a 9 week extension on a home health attendant.  This gives me nine weeks:  just over two months, to get my plans in order.  I wish to exercise both body and mind:  lose at least 40 pounds; join a support group; write steadily; pass the bar exam and find a part time job in a local law firm.

If I am happier with myself, I will become more patient with Mom.  In my defense, I have to say she can be rather selfish, but that is because I have allowed it.  There is a way to break the cycle of codependency that began almost 52 years ago.  It is time to make far more of my life, and time for her to do the same.

Early New Years' Resolutions

To write each and every day.  To present an objective look at Mom's life, as well as my life.  I need to be more patient with her.  No, it isn't easy for me when she gets very demanding.  Our encounter last week demonstrates the whole relationship.

Mom began calling me at 630am.  I was in the middle of a 'flu like virus' and my fasting blood sugar ( when I dragged myself out of bed) was low --43.  While laying in bed, I had a real dizzy spell.  So, I am lying in bed, and I hear Mom moving about.  When I got up, I was thrilled to see she had manage to get up and change her own adult diaper.  Naively, I am pleased thinking she'd really turned the corner and must be so happy.

Not so fast, caregiver.  I go to greet Aged Parent whose first words are "I'm angry at you.  I had to change my own Depends".  I said 'well, I'm not feeling well--had a dizzy spell, and I think my blood glucose is low".  Said HM " that's no excuse".  I saw red, and just got so angry, saying things like 'you aren't the only person around here with health issues.  You treat me like a servant.  If it happens to you, it's a medical problem, but if it happens to me, it's an excuse for slacking off".  So, we did our usual cold Irish American anger for a while and eventually, Mom apologized.

That, on top of having a flu-like virus, while Mom had bronchitis.  This hasn't been a fun year, and I am glad it's almost over.

La Vie en Rose

I have not blogged in a while, because I've been very busy looking after the Aged Parent.  Thanksgiving was really the holiday from hell.  Mom fell in the afternoon, while attempting to transfer from the wheelchair to the toilet.  She struck her knee against the doorframe, so I figured we'd better take her to the emergency room for an x ray.  Luckily, we'd ordered dinner from a local deli/caterer, so all that had to be done was heat and serve.

But wait; there's more.  I did not take a housekey because I was rushing to get into the ambulance with Mom.  Later, my Sister did not take her key because she forgot, then figured I had one.  No.  So, when my BIL brought me back home to eat some dinner, we had to break into the house.  He managed to break his glasses while breaking a storm window and I popped the screen off the front window, but sprained my ankle while sliding off the stoop.

Anyhow, Mom was OK--a possible hairline fracture, but nothing too serious.  The Tylenol with  codiene made her quite difficult.  She thought we only had three shopping days until Christmas; woke me at 4Am because she was bored, or believed it was time to get Ginny up for work ( not at 4am) forgot how to transfer from wheelchair to bed, so spent the weekend sleeping in her beige lounger chair.

It was not much fun.  Due to the stress of caregiving, and Thanksgiving, I've gained 5 pounds.  The goal is to eat sensibly, exercise, and lose the weight before Christmas.

In The Wee Small Hours of the Morning

I would like to understand why Mom wakes me up at 4am, wanting to know the time.  First of all, she has a perfectly good wristwatch, which is never taken off.  It has large letters, so if she took the time to look, she would know the correct time.  No, she calls me until I wake out of a sound sleep, thinking she's having a medical emergency, only to hear my favorite question " Peggy, do you know what time it is?".

After I finish writing, I am going to walk the dog to the hardware store, and purchase a small digital wall clock.  Queen Elizabeth will be able to turn her head at night, and see the 'correct time' ( another phrase wich has stuck in my foggy brain)  As I type, I wonder what would happen if I answered her by saying "No, I do not know the time". 

Mom isn't really looking for the time: it's not as though she is preparing a horoscope, or a navigational chart.  She is awake, bored and wants company.  That's understandable, but by waking me, all she gets is a very cranky diabetic, who is struggling to keep her temper.  At least I do keep my temper, and manage to give her the time, remove my eyeglasses ( which were put on in a bleary haze) and go back to sleep.

So, I do try to respect her:  she's my Mom, I love her, although some of her habits are driving me a little batty.

All The Livelong Day

I guess life is what you make of it.  Penny knows how to enjoy herself.  She finds water bottles and chews on them because it is fun.  Dogs know how to get the most out of life, and I really ought to follow their example.  ( although I'm not going to roll in stinky things like my Sweet Little Penny Girl.

More nonsense with the home health aide.  She never showed this morning, so I phoned the agency about 10am.  It turns out the aide was bitten by a bed bug, had to go to the emergency room, took prescribed medication and overslept.  Mom did not believe a word of it; but I think it is just weird enough to be true.  One of those 'only in NY' stories.

I am writing when I should be making my low fat pumpkin cheesecake.  It's hard to get too excited about Thanksgiving.  First of all, there is a hospital bed in the dining room.  Secondly, we won't have full attendance at the dinner--Cathy and her husband, Eric, are going to Boston to be with Sarah ( my niece) because she has to work Thanksgiving Day.  My other Sister, Mary Pat, is having trouble with her teenage son.

I hear angry squirrel chatter--they sound like very tiny hawks-- and think they are fighting over the new den in our attic.  Oh well.

It's My Life

Yes, I am the plush Beagle in the middle:  ears flopping, while I lay on my back stare at the ceiling and wonder how life got so complicated.  Why haven't I exercised, or updated my blog.  Because I am on the verge of caregiver burnout, that's why.

Mom still has her Lucy Ricardo side:  she's always had a knack for getting in trouble when she uses machines, or tries to fix them.  She told one story about when she was a young Mother.  We girls were in bed, and Dad was asleep on the living room sofa.  Mom went into the basement to do some laundry, and decided it would be wonderful to get on her hands and knees to clean the lint out of the dryer.

Unfortunately, she reached too far into the tube, and her arm get stuck.  She yelled for help, which was slow in arriving.  In the meantime, she conjured up visions of our resident water bugs crawling all over her helpless, prone body.  Dad finally woke up, but could not get her arm out.  He got our next door neighbor, who suggested they apply baby oil to Mom's arm, and the two men finally extricated Mom's arm.  ( it wasn't injured)

Monday morning, about 630 am, Mom woke me by calling for help.  She decided to get out of bed by herself, but had managed to work the hospital bed remote so it trapped her between the elevated head and foot.  She looked like the filling in a mattress sandwich.  I worked the remote, vowing to put it out of her reach every night, and put things back in their proper place.

I am tired of changing adult diapers.

Am I Regan or Goneril?

because I feel like an ungrateful daughter.  I am tired of changing my Mom's adult diaper.  Since I never married and had my own child, changing diapers is a novelty.  Yes, I have learned to do it well, and even take pride in my expertise.  That does not change the fact that I am tired of seeing Mom's excrement three or four times a day.

OK, I know she had to change my diaper for two plus years--more like three, but Mom lost her sense of smell as a little girl.  That's beside the point:  I am doing for Mom what she had to do for me.  I'm not such a meglomaniac that I think my diapers smelled like May's lilac bushes or the first roses of June. 

It is what it is, or as they used to sing "que sera sera".

The Age of Anxiety

Yesterday was rough.  Mom had another fall Tuesday night, and when the visiting nurse examined her yesterday, she said the knee was swollen, even taking osteoarthritis into account.  I phoned her doctor, who sent his PA on a housecall.  She gave Mom a choice between going to the ER, having an x ray there or having a portable xray done at the house.  Mom chose the latter, because the former would have meant getting home by Ambulette if she was not admitted to the hospital. 

Anyhow, Xray man or woman is coming in the 'early afternoon' which I hope doesn't turn into 'the cool cool cool of the evening'. The wait will probably be like waiting for any repair or delivery, only the outcome of this visit determines whether or not Mom needs further medical treatment for her swollen knee.  She might have a hairline fracture, but I'm hoping it won't be too bad, because she is able to put weight on her knee. 

And that leads me to the main topic:  her anxiety.  It is so strong, that she will not raise her rear out of the wheelchair when she is able to do so. the scene is always the same:  I count to three, take her under the arm, ask her to lift and she just sits there and says " I can't".   Let's be rational:  if I had two falls while transferring from a wheelchair to a chair, I'd be nervous, too.  Perhaps her eyesight is a factor, too.  On the other hand, she woke me three times the other night ( does that make me like the Apostles in the Garden, sleeping while Jesus suffers?)  because she was 'lonely'.  Mom is getting plenty of attention while refusing to move, and I do think it's a major part of her dynamic. 

Oh well.  I better dry my hair, walk the dog, and pick up a half gallon of milk.  Should be fun this afternoon-hope the xray tech isn't phobic about dogs.

Saving All My Love for You

Yes, and Mom gave that song a new and less than delightful ( for me) context.  Today, I finally thought I was going to get a day off.  The regular Health Aide had to attend a housing court hearing, and the substitute didn't arrive until 1130am.  It gave me three hours to get a test done at Quest diagnostics and then go shopping.  I figured that even if  the lab was crowded, I would be spared having to change an adult diaper. ( Mom had needed a change as I was leaving and I told the aide)

Guess What?  Mom, unlike Blanche DuBois, did not depend on the kindness of strangers.  She told the aide that she wanted me to change the diaper when I got home ( it was wet and soiled).  So, I arrive home, just in the nick of time, and find out that I had to change Mom.  After the aide left, I told Mom she was being a little inconsiderate of me, and it wasn't the first time a stranger had to change her. 

Oddly enough, I kept my frazzled temper, and changed her, which was no easy task. After she was all cleaned up, I went upstairs to give myself a 'time out'.  I returned after an hour break to find out HM needed to be changed again.  She was a bit sheepish about it, and I said ( and meant) that it wasn't a problem: I could understand why she didn't like being handled by a total stranger.

Mom, like most Autocrats, can be sublimely unaware of her subjects' physical and emotional needs.  The other night, she woke me every two hours, beginning at 1AM to ask 'what time is it"?  I gave her the time, with a rather grumpy 'go back to sleep".  The following morning she explained that she was couldn't sleep and felt lonely.  I don't suppose getting her a Chia Pet or a Snuggle Puppy would help.

Que sera sera

We Have Nothing to Fear...

and Mom is so afraid of falling she won't get out of a wheelchair.  I know she can do it because she did it in the nursing home.  Yes, the accident last night didn't help, but it did not create the problem.  There is a part of Mom that is too scared to move her butt out of the wheelchair.  It's driving me crazy, and I do not know why she id doing this.  It can't be doing her any good.  What can she gain from being so passive?

At least I am not falling apart like the last time.  As a matter of fact, I want to try some risky behavior:  have her move from her wheelchair to the bed, so I can change her adult diaper.  If she gets scared , it is back to the bed, but I don't know what else to do.

It's almost as though she wants to stay in the nursing home.

Dial M for Murder

Another fantastic day in the wonderful world of caregiving.  Mom had convinced herself that her left knee was too sore to support weight.  She remained in her wheelchair all afternoon, despite being in a wet, soggy adult diaper.  I tried to get her to flop on to the hospital bed:  nothing doing, so we went back to the good old upholstered chair.  She did her seated exercises, while I gave myself a 'time out' on the PC.  Afterward, I nearly got her transferrred when she began screeching that her knee locked; so I said 'flop in the upholstered chair.  She did, but face first, while I raised enough of the chair to break her fall, leaving her able to slide on the floor.

I called 911 because Mom had been a bit disoriented today:  said Augustana was in Fairfield, CT (it's in Brooklyn, NY) and that there were mice running from the floor to her spine.  She also hollered at me after falling that she had sprained her hip--EMT told her that was physically impossible. 

This fear of hers is lifelong and debilitating.  Mom has got this tremendous fear of falling.  Perhaps it's linked to the fact that my maternal Grandma died at 83, from post surgical complications after falling and breaking her hip.  Mom is 83.  Fear is like drug addiction:  the frightened person would rather give into the urge than try to remain calm.  I wonder how I can, or if I can help her.

When the Saints Go Marching In

Today is All Saints' Day, and I am learning how to deal with my limits as a caregiver.  I'm a little too anxious about Mom, especially when it involves her moving from one chair to another.  She kept on telling me this weekend that she did not need to be lifted ( the aides at Rehab looked as though they were giving her a wedgie) but given a push.  Sure enough, this morning, I tried to lift, Mom got crabby, and rightfully so ( altho' I said 'oh be quiet, you old crab") and she got from chair to wheelchair without further confrontations.  My other Sister, Cathy, said 'you and Mom fight like an old married couple' and that about sums it up.    What can I say:  I have to be more patient with Queen Elizabeth.

Mom has always been quite a character.  This morning, as we were watching the NYC Marathon broadcast, Mom began doing her rap song about Ginny's tabby cat, Muffy:  "here comes Muffy with the Mark of Mary/she's kind of fat and kind of scarey" etc etc.  Muffy was a very bad tempered brown/grey and white tabby who disliked almost everybody but Ginny.  Her nicknames were 'Pretty Muffy" "Bubba Sue" "Muffalda DiMango ( after a local political leader) and was so tall and muscular that Mom once called Muffy a 'female impersonator'.  Not every member of 'The Greatest Generation' makes up a rap song about a cat. 

I love the way Mom has always screamed at bugs or creatures:  usually 'Jesus Mary and Joseph".  This from a woman whose ancestry was 3/4 Irish and 1/4 English and said she never knew her Father's family was Irish except for the fact that her Paternal Grandparents had brouges.  They never talked about Ireland, or their families.  Mom is very Irish American and very very Catholic, even though she's a Liberal Democrat: the only one in Bay Ridge.

More tomorrow:  the subject of this blog needs a change.

Night Must Fall

Mom is doing much better, but she does have certain fixed notions, which make caregiving a little more complicated.  For example, she hates the Hydraulic lift and will not use it.  Her physical therapist tried to coax her into it Thursday afternoon, and Mom turned to me and said 'you try it first" ( I said they had used one on me the first time I was in the hospital with diabetic ketoacidosis.)  So, I sat down, and Man Chan (the PT) put the seat under my butt, clipped it to the chains on each side, raised me from the wheelchair, and moved the lift to a regular chair, where he sat me down.  I felt like a cross between the Girl on the Red Velvet Swing and fat Henry VIII being lifted onto his horse.

Despite all this, Mom still will not use the lift.  And now she has turned against the hospital bed, even after I moved heaven and earth to get the bed transferred from the bedroom to the dining room.  I want to get her into the proper bed tonight, because sitting in that wretched chair, and sleeping in it  (it's a thickly upholstered Recliner chair) is not good for her backside, or her lungs.  Mom must be the most stubborn woman in the world.

To be honest, Mom reminds me of our Beagle, Penny.  Penny gets spooked by mechanical objects ( hospital beds/hydraulic lifts) and refuses to have anything to do with them--just like her Grandma.  Penny, when scared, cannot be reasoned with, and neither can Mom.  Both of them are fascinated with their excretory functions, which I can understand in a Beagle, but not in a woman who has her Masters' from Teachers College.

What topped yesterday for me was the movie 'Night Must Fall" on TCM.  Mom really has mastered the Dame May Whitty role, of the autocratic old Lady in her wheelchair.  Alas, May had  a very stylish old wheelchair with no arms and a rattan seat--kind of like FDR's.  Mom has a chrome and vinyl job--too modern and it does not suit her Aristocratic persona.

Trick and Treat

Mpm is doing well, with several relapses along the way.  As much as I would like to see her make steady improvement each day, I must accept that it will be a slow process.  The curve has a few downward turns, but she is making progress.

Her doctor changed her medication, eliminating Wellbutrin and Gabapentin (Neurontin).  They seemed to be making her confused and more depressed than normal.  I could tell Mom was in one of her 'Eugene O'Neill moods, by her pose.  She will sit in her wheelchair, or loungechair (upholstered) hand on chin, looking like Rodin's 'Thinker".  All that time, she stares at either the floor or her feet.  That's when I know 'this is going to be a tough day.

Anyhow, the change in prescriptions has done a world of good.  I don't see too many O'Neill moods, and she is doing her exercises.  I am learning to be more patient, and give myself a time out when Mom gets 'oh I will never get out of this chair' ish.  Yes, I know it's tough on her, but Mom has always had a flare for the dramatic, and tends to dramatize these scenes.

The Half of it Dearie Blues

This  morning  I thought life was going fairly well,.  a different health aide came and we got mom out of the upholsterted chair.  That's been the extent of our progress.  Now, Mom refuses to move from the wheelchair to the other chair so I can change her soiled diaper.  We are going to wait for the men to move the hospital bed, then change her when she gets on the bed.

I guess it is what you'd call either a 'forlorn hope' or the "Hail Mary pass".  Given Mom's current mood, I don't know if she's going to move from the wheelchair to the bed.  As a matter of fact, she seems to be determined to remain motionless--not to move at all.  It's the ultimate in passive aggressiveness:  she retains power by claiming she can't get out of her wheelchair.

First, she said her knees don't lock, or her ankles don't work.  Her legs do move quite nicely when she uses them to scoot her wheelchair from one room to another.  As the visiting nurse observed:  "if you can move your legs, they can support your weight".  But, like the old protest song, she shall not be moved. 

Something's Gotta Give

Yes, Mom has become the Immovable Object.  It was so bad today that her physical therapist left after one failed attempt at getting her from the chair:  I was holding and lifting on the other side of Mom's body.  She just got so terrified at the thought of standing on her legs.  What makes this so irrational is that she could do it in the nursing home:  I even saw her walking and standing during physical rehab. 

Oh, all sorts of thoughts go through my mind.  Some of them are compassionate--she's never been in rehab for this long ( almost three months);  the space is different at home, and there are no experienced health aides to get her moving.  It might even be some residual dementia--making her hold on to her fear.

Having said all that, I do have homicidal thoughts about my dear old Mother.  She spent a good portion of her life being negative and anxious, and has transmitted this anxiety to all four of her daughters.  One reason I had such a poor body image was the memory of the first time she bathed me at home--ran out of the bathroom crying when she saw the chest scar.  Mom has been such a negative person--and prone to depression.  Having ancestors from the west of Ireland adds a nice dose of depression to her DNA--one of her childhood memories is looking at her Dad and saying "Look Mommy: Daddy's smiling".  ( an unusual event in the Regan family.

So, enough.  I am going to use the techniques that got her out of the wheelchair this weekend, and will plant her in the bed tonight.  Tomorrow, the men from the medical equipment company are coming to move the hospital bed from the back of the house to the dining room.  Perhaps, if we tip them extra, they can carry the regular bed to the bedroom.

If anybody is reading this, say a prayer for Mom and her caregivers/daughters:  Ginny and me.

We Shall Pass This Way But Once

Mom came home last Wed. and I have been far too busy to update the blog.  Things went fairly well until this morning, when Mom altered our usual routine.  Instead of waiting for me to change and clean her when she was in the bed, she got into the wheelchair by herself and all movement ended.  It took all morning, until about 1230pm before we got HM out of the wheelchair and back into the reclining chair, so she could be washed, changed and dressed.  That also includes a wet/dry dressing change, too.  Someday, I might make a very good nursing aide.

And the nonsense from the home health care provider was beyond belief.  The RN, who came Thursday, did not ask for a home health aide, because he was 'only covering team 35'.  The Physical Therapist tried to get a health aide assignment, was unable to do so.  When I phoned this morning, I was told that the 'case is not yet in our files' and I, as well as the supervisor, would have to phone the first RN.  I asked 'isn't a phone call from you sufficient"?  implying that it was her job, not mine, only to be told 'that's the way we do it".  

So, Mom, who can move her legs, and put weight on them, who used a walker at the Rehab center, refused to do so at home.  She said she was afraid/confused/knew she could not do it.  It's rather maddening, because I saw her walking at the rehab center, and I know her legs can bear weight.  If you ask me, and the nurse, who was an Angel, agreed, it is more mental than physical.  God help me and God help her.

Mom said I deserve a treat, so I'm going to find some nice costume jewelry on sale.

Grace and Favor

For some reason, Mom takes out her rehab frustrations on me.  Ginny, Cathy and Mary Pat get a pass, although in MP's case, she lives and works in Dutchess County, NY, so it's probably a case of absence makes the Elizabethan Heart grow fonder.  Anyhow, my dear Mother was quite a brat yesterday, but let me set the scene.

Mom had a new aide in the morning.  She and the aide had a bit of a tiff over getting Mom dressed.  In this case, I can sympathize with the aide, because Mom can be quite maddening to dress.  I have, many times, picked out a perfectly good outfit, only to be told "I'm not wearing that".  Either the colors are wrong, or there is a small spot.  My instince tells me Mom was her usual unhelpful self.

So, when I arrive after lunch , Mom is tired from three hours of rehab, and still sulking about the aide.  The first thing she whispers to me is "would you please change my diaper?  It's clean, but it's not clean".  So, I told her 'No.  I could do this at home, but not at the rehab center.  Do you want me to take you to the main room?'  Mom said , whispering again because her new roomate is a Minister, 'you are such a little bitch".  Then, HM takes the footrests on her wheelchair, raising them to a 180 degree angle, so I can't get her wheelchair past her roomate's walker, and wheelchair.

Knowing I was licked, I went and got the head nurse, who said that since Mom's diaper was soiled ( she confessed to him) she had to be changed in the room.  So, the aide came, changed and cleaned Her Majesty, then I took her out to the garden where her mood improved by watching the sparrows eat her unsalted saltines.

Mary, Mary Quite Contrary

Only 7 blog posts in October:  I can do better than that.  So, this is going to be short and to the point.  Mom is doing much better, mentally and physically.  She is far more lucid than when she was admitted,  which is both a good thing and a bad thing.  The good thing is that she no longer sees mice flying around on mauve carpet, or dollar bills ( 5 dollar bills) hanging from the ceiling tiles.  The bad thing is HM Queen Elizabeth is bored to tears by her occupational therapy, and tries to hide in her room to escape it.  When the transport aides find her in the room and take her to OT, she accuses them of spying on her.

Being a bit foolish, I tried explaining that the aides were not spying, just doing her job, only to get the Look from Mom.  The look is an expression that combines the divine right of kings with Irish Catholic guilt.  I call the mood that goes with the look 'Queen Lear is in da house".  Mom is full Queen Elizabeth Tudor mode, and reasoning with her is a total waste of time.

Finally, Mom has solved the problem of remembering the names of patients and aides by calling all the women "Mary".  This gets very confusing at times.  Yesterday, she told me "Little Mary got sick and went to the hospital' but when I went out in the hallway to take a cellphone call, I saw "Little Mary' wheeling herself to her room.  When I got back to the room, I said to Mom " I just saw Mary, Cathy's neighbor, in the hall.  I thought you said she was in the hospital" and Mom replied " Not that Mary: the one with the German accent".  ( whose first name is Margaret, but I'm not going there)

God Sent Us Our Elizabeth

Yes, Mom is 1/4 English:  her maternal Grandmother, Mary Elizabeth Riley, was born in Kent, and emigrated to New York when she was a child.  There are a few telltale signs that Mom is of English descent.  She loves overcooked vegetables; prefers to drink tea; and adores red meat, preferably roast beef.  It's not the greatest diet in the world for somebody who has congestive heart failure, and she won't like the chicken, fish, and pork diet, with lots of veggies and fresh fruit, but that's the way it goes.

Yesterday, I tripped in the upstairs hall and smacked my head against the corner of the wall.  You might call it a Fashion Crisis, because I tripped over a leopard print headband that I had just dropped on the floor.  Even though Ginny thought I was overreacting, I went to the ER, because with the chronic HepC, my platelet count can drop, so I decided to be prudent.  Anyhow, the CATscan was normal, but the family reaction was not.

According to Cathy, who I phoned from the ER, Mom was very miffed that I failed to visit yesterday.  She did not care that the doctor had given me codine--Tylenol 3, and I hadn't been so stoned in years.  Mom then told Cathy " I suppose I have to go across the street and visit her".  I just laughed.  Mom is living in a Bettyocentric universe, where she is the Sun, and her Daughters are planets who orbit around her, because if they don't, they will wobble off into space and be hit by an asteroid.

So, I'm going to put on makeup, walk Penny, then head down to Augustana to visit my Ever Loving Mammy

Like a Lark Who is Learning to Pray

Mom wanted to be a big band singer, like Martha Tilton or Peggy Lee.  She told us when we were young that she asked her Father for permission to become a singer, but he said 'No.  Only 'loose women' go into show business.  ( Since John ( our Grandfather) worked for Howard Cullman who backed many Broadway musicals in Broadway's Golden Age, I wonder what he knew about 'loose women'?).  Anyhow, Mom went to Teachers' College, Columbia Univ. after graduating from College of New Rochelle, but sang whenever she could.

On long car trips, Mom would sing because 'I can't stand the silence'.  So, I learned the lyrics to such songs as 'Cigareets, and Whusky and Wild Wild Women"; "  The Wild Goose Song"; " Climb Ev'ry Mountain; The New Ashmolean; and most of the Johnny Mercer song catalog; 'Artificial Flowers' ( I wonder if my life would have been different if she'd sung 'Mack The Knife"?  Perhaps I might have been less shy/ more daring?  Probably not.

She still sings, and it is just as crazy making.  In the hospital this Summer, one day, Mom sang all the verses to 'I'll Take Manhattan" just because my Brother in Law, who was visiting, mentioned he'd just come from Manhattan.  Mom sang at a forte level, to the point where her roomate and visitors were peeking around the curtain to see what on earth was happening.  Why did it make me crazy?  Because she was using singing as an attention getting device:  either Ginny or I would be watching TV, reading a magazine or book, and Mom burst into song to distract us.  That's why I never brought into her excuse " I sing because I'm happy.  Don't you want me to be happy?"  Yes, I wanted her to be happy and quiet, if such a thing were possible. 

There were times/I'm sure you knew...come to think of it, "My Way" was the only Sinatra song she ever sang on car trips, and that's my whole point.  I wanted to sing, but could not, because Mom had center stage, and it never occurred to her to share the spotlight.  So many times, I've had a song, tune, motet, etc, playing in my head, only to have it drownded out by her singing or humming.

At this point in her life, I am going to remain silent, and let her sing when she comes home.  I don't think it would be kind or fair to confront her with old grudges.  I'll join a choir in the new year, and find my own voice.

Good Day Sunshine

It was a pretty good day, except that Mom was a bit out of sorts when I arrived at the nursing home.  I think she was miffed because I was 'late' even though I had explained to her that there is a good deal of housework to do, and I can't spend all my time visiting her.  And her Pys. therapist was back from vacation, and gave Mom quite a workout, and it's tough on an 83 year old body.

Not that I enjoy it when she's crabby.  My Sister, Cathy, is right:  Mom and I are like an old married couple; we can bicker over the slightest detail, which would seem unimportant to an outsider.  These days, the quarrles are more along the lines of execretory functions--either asking if Mom has to go to the bathroom or needs to be changed because she's gone.  If the former, I have to take her to the main room, where an Aide will help her to the bathroom, and if the latter, I have to get a clean adult diaper, a clean pair of pants, and then take her to the main room, etc.

After Cathy made that observation, I have watched how the nurses and aides handle Mom when she gets in her Gloriana mood.  Sometimes, it's wisest just to take action:  explain what you are doing ( I'm taking you to the main room_ and do it.  She is not going to be swayed by my puny intellect , or bow to the force of my reasoning.  No, they don't call them 'The Greatest Generation" for nothing.

A few years ago, when I was researching the family tree, I came across some information about Mom's ancestral village.  Mom was born Elizabeth Regan, and her Grandfather, John C. Regan/O'Reagan, came from the town of Roscommon in Ireland.  In the late 18th Century, Roscommon had a Lady Hangman, known as " The Lady Betty".  I wonder if she was a Regan/O'Reagan--the BBC interview did not give Lady Betty's surname.

And there may be a link to a gangster on my Maternal Grandmother's branch of the family tree.  Mom's maternal Grandmother was Mary Elizabeth Diamond, who married Andrew Riley.  My Grandma was the oldest child, and only daughter--she had four younger brothers,  actually 5, because she never told the family about her brother Charles Walter Riley.  I found him on ancestry.com, through the 1920 census.  Mom never knew he existed.

But to get back on point, one branch of the family, descendants of Harry Riley, the youngest brother, said Legs Diamond, a bootlegger/mobster of the 1920's, was a cousin of Grandma Riley's.  I just love the idea that my Mom and Grandma, two Irish American Ladies, were related to a Jimmy Cagney type character. 

Perhaps My Lady Betty gets her stubborness from The Diamonds.

It's a Brand New Day

Yesterday was fantastic.  I got a very badly needed  break, thanks to my Sister, Cathy.  I was very frustrated after Mom's conduct Friday, and overreacted because I was tired.  God is trying to teach me patience and compassion, but I am not the brightest student in the class.  This might sound disrespectful, but Mom is like a poorly behaved pet:  she acts out because I create the energy that permits her to do it.  Clearly, our relationship must evolve from co-dependency to a mutual understanding.  Not easy to do when one party is a frustrated 83 year old woman who is sick of being in rehab and wants to go home.

Better talk with the social worker tomorrow, and find out how they handle difficult patients.  Mom is not the first person to rebel against their rules and regulations.  There must be a way to create a healthy environment for both patient and caregiver.  I just have to keep an open mind, which is easy to do because my mind is often blank. 

What I find frustrating is when Mom's tired, she gets very self centered and never stops to think that my health isn't perfect, and the stress she creates does not help.  At those moments, I wonder who she is:  was she always like this and I never saw it, or can this be a product of illness, age and frustration?  Will the real Betty Michaels please stand up?

Today, we are bringing Penny down to see Mom.  This should give Mom a needed shot in the arm.  If both Mom and Penny behave themselves, it will be a very good day.  Personally, I believe they will both be on their best conduct.  Just hope we can obey all the rules and regulations.

When I'm Feeling Sad...

Yesterday was not a great deal of fun, because Mom went on the warpath.  It was not her fault:  the transportation aide took her to the wrong therapy department and Mom sat and fumed for over half an hour before a therapist said 'what are you doing here?  you've already had physical therapy."  Mother, being a Lady of the old school, took her tone as rude, so refused to do any further therapy, even after the therapist saw me in the hall and asked me to come and talk to her. 

They should not put so much faith in me:  when Mom gets angry, Jesus Christ and his Mother could not coax her into doing exercises.  She is the most stubborn person in the world, and she gets it from her Mother, my Maternal Grandma, who was half English and half Irish, but so stubborn she would not admit to being Irish ( "I'm really more English than Irish, because my Mother was English and women inherit everything from their Mothers".  Well, Britons ne'er shall be slaves.

Mom announced that she was never going to therapy again; she was going home.  I spent the better part of the morning fretting about that, only to be told by Cathy that Mom went to PT without any fuss. It's very weird when Mom gets her passive aggressive act going.  Her only power lies in not doing what therapists , aides and daughters want her to do.  It's rather like Ghandi, or a Sixties sit in ( without the marijuana; just a tank of oxygen.

Moral of the story is I spend far too much time worrying about her.  Speaking of worry, I just heard our resident squirrel over my head.  I've seen him/her on the second story window sill in the late afternoon then heard those little footsteps on the plaster, not the metal of the gutter.  Ginny insists he is in the gutters, but I do think I hear those dancing little feet.

Status Quo

How are things after close to two months of uproar?  As Ginny said this morning: " I wonder which Betty we will see today".  Mom's mood is like the New England weather: if you don't like it, wait a few minutes and it will change.  Yesterday, Mom began in a very stubborn mood: she did not want to go to the activity; she did not have to go to the bathroom; she was not having her haircut; she did not care if I brought her a hard boiled egg the next day, because ' one egg is the same as the other".  There's a Zen koan in there, perhaps 'what is the sound of one egg boiling?".

So, I tried to listen to her, not correct her, and even explain things when she mentioned 'you tend to tune me out at times and change the subject".  I said that I did tune her out if she began talking about something off topic, and I should be more careful in future converstations.  It's very hard to state the flat out truth, which is I changed the subject when she was going on about suing babies, acquaintences who visit houses of ill repute, mice who take Mom for a ride to Amagansett on a flying mauve carpet.  Oh, well.

After therapy the other day, I realized that some of my relationship with Mom is co-dependent, but it is part of the caregiver/patient dynamic.  But, I must take time to care for myself, give myself a live outside of nursing home visits.  That's why I am keeping doctors' appointments, writing this blog, and looking to do something on the weekend--gardening, birdwatching, shopping.  Yes, the caregiver wants to have it all. 

Cogito; Ergo; Sum

This photograph of Penny perfectly expresses my view of the world:  the furniture is tilted, and I am going to hide while the graham cracker in my mouth becomes soggy.  Life does seem somewhat chaotic while Mom is undergoing extended physical therapy at the Rehabilitation Center.  My daily routine is do get up, put in my teeth, do a fingerstick, take a shot of Lantus, decide on breakfast, and calculate the correct dose of Humalog.  Then, I get dressed and walk the dog( Penny, the Love of My Life).  Finally, I do housework before leaving for the Rehab Center.

Not especially thrilling, is it?  But this is the reality, and I try to manage as best I can.  In all fairness, I'm beginning to enjoy housework:  the sense of making some order out of a chaotic universe.  Housework is predictable; my beloved Mother is not.  One day, Mom can be fine mentally, but the next day she is asking Ginny to phone the lawyer because she wants to sue a baby.  Ginny told her that it would cost too much money, so she dropped that idea. 

Actually, the real problem is Mom wants to come home, but I do not think she is physically ready yet.  She can only stand with the help of two people, and then for a short period of time.  Part of it is her weight, and the other is the severe osteoarthritis in her knees.  Then, some of it is psychological:  Mom's so afraid of falling that she will sit down rather than attempt to remain standing.  I must phone her doctor today, and request that the antidepressant be changed to Lexapro as soon as possible.

Gotta check the email, fix the vacumn and walk Penny.

The Battle Cry of Freedom

Mom has had it up to here with the health aides at her Rehab Center and wants to come home.  Yesterday morning, after a sleepless night, a very bossy aide would not let her stay in bed, helped her to dress and took her to the dining room.  On a rehab floor, the patients do not get breakfast in bed unless they are sick.  It went from bad to worse in the dining room.  After breakfast, Mom ( a Steve McQueen in a wheelchair) wanted to go to her room.  Another aide scolded her, saying 'you are not allowed to go to your room; get back to the table".  Mom moved the wheelchair, and the same aide said ' now you are blocking the way". 

When I arrived, I was greeted with an aria worthy of Floria Tosca--I have a Masters Degree; How dare these ignorant people talk to me this way; you give an ignorant person a bit of authority and they run wild, etc. 

Not to get too objective, but I can see both sides of the story.  The Dining Room is not a tranquil place during meals.  Dementia Patients tend to complain at the top of their lungs:  the food is terrible; the person next to them is terrible; the aides are terrible.  It is worse than a lunchroom filled with Kindergarten students, because a dementia patient cannot be threatened or cajoled into better behavior.  My theory is the aides transfer their frustration to the patients who will respond to their scolding, so Mom was, in a sense, paying the price for other peoples' misconduct.

On the other hand, I have seen Mom get very confused when she is overtired.  She does not follow directions very well, and often does the opposite of what she is told.  I can imagine her deciding to take another route to exit the room, instead of going back to the table, or moving her wheelchair in a very weird direction.  She's 83:  I do wish that aide had cut her some slack, but it is hard to be patient with a room full of elderly juvenile delinquents. 

My visit is going to be short, because I have to see my Endocrinologist this afternoon.  It is all a part of my strategy of being a non co-dependent caregiver.

His Eye is on The Sparrow

I am not sure where the text will be, but I am making a point.  God does provide for Mom, and for our family but I am not always able to see or understand His ways.  OK, Mom is doing very well with her physical therapy, and is able to raise herself out of bed without much support:  it's a world away from her condition when she entered rehab.  If it weren't for her lingering physical ailments, she could come home within a week.  The cellulitis isn't healing that quickly, and the pneumonia seems to be making a comeback.  At least Mom seems to be cheerful:  a bit loopy, but not at all depressed. 

I do like this format better than the original one.  Sarah called her Mom's cellphone while we were visiting, and she got to speak to her Grandma.  It was a bit of a suprise, since Grandma was in rare form:  first thing she said to Sarah was " Don't listen to your Mother when she tells you I'm crazy".  Before the phone call, Mom had been telling Cathy ( Sarah's Mom; my 'baby sister") that the two women across the hall were in love with Cathy, but refused to say a word to Mom.  Mom didn't take into account that the two ladies are Russian immigrants and do not speak English very well.  She then said to Cathy " I don't know why they are friends of yours since they are so short and dumpy".  I said " Perhaps it's like the Princesses who surrounded themselves with ugly maids of honor so they would look more beautiful". 

The Nurse at the station desk was laughing when Cathy and I arrived, telling us all the things Mom was saying, such as ' you can take me down the hall to my room" ( she was in her bed at the time)  and 'my two daughters are standing in the hall, but they won't come in and speak to me" ( since it was 5AM, we were both asleep--it was two of the aides talking)  Oy

Happy Days Are Here Again

Yes, Happy Days are here again.  Mom came out of her funk this morning.  I was almost at my wits' end about her:  she said that she wanted to die; was being stubborn with the physical therapist ( who asked me to come in and coax Mom into standing up) That was yesterday, and I said to Cheryl the physiotherapist, that 'if she's anything like yesterday, don't hold your breath".  Sure enough, Mom said it was stupid to stand up: they treated her like a child; she wanted to go home, etc.  I told her as gently as possible when we went upstairs that she was deep in self pity,and if she did not snap out of it, it could have a bad effect on her health

Anyhow, God worked a miracle, and Mom was a thousand percent better.  Maybe Aliens came in the night and replaced Crabby Betty with Positive Betty.  Seriously, it was her religious faith, and I am glad that God gave her the grace to see things clearly.

It's Deja Vu All Over Again

Yeah, Mom was not at her best today.  She seemed very tired, unable to focus, and at first, I thought it had a medical cause.  But her vital signs were good, and the nurse thought Mom was just over tired and in a bad mood.  That's like saying the Titantic hit a small chunk of ice and sank. 

I hate it when she's angry at me.  Yes, I know this isn't her at her best.  Mom is 83, confused from a month of going from the hospital to the rehab center and back to the hospital.  All the same, it hurts very much when she snaps 'leave me alone' or 'why don't you leave me in peace' when all I am trying to do is explain that she cannot sit around with only a bra on/ she has to let me put on a shirt. 

Mom has always been a bit of a control freak, and does not like being subjected to the rules and regulations of a rehab center/nursing home.  She's tired of people who tell her what she can't do:  can't go to her room; can't get into bed.  I've noticed the tone of the facility tends to be 'don't'  as is 'you can't do that' can't go there; you're not allowed to bring glass to the patients.  ( I dropped Mom's makeup mirror the floor, and from the reaction of the nurse/maintenance worker you would have thought I just flew an airplane into the Empire State Building)

Oh well, tomorrow is bound to be better.  I need to read a good book, drink plenty of fluids and get to bed early.  What pleased me is finding out how well she is doing in her physical therapy.  In a little over a week, Mom has gone from taking two or three steps with a walker to 50 or 60 steps.

I Saw the Tomb of King Tut

Pretty good day, today.  After lunch, I was able to take Mom out to the garden, and I fed the pigeons, while we both sat in the shade and  talked.  Unfortunately, Mom got annoyed by a Mother and Daughter talking at the next table.  They were discussing the mother's stent, and in the middle of it, Mom whispered to me " I hate people who endlessly discuss their physical ailments".  That's much more like the Betty I know and love.

It must have been exhausting because Mom got pretty confused when we went inside.  She started in about sleeping in Helen Gorra's basement/ that the old biddies in the room with her wouldn't tell her where she was/ that she owed millions of dollars to the government, etc.  At one point, I asked her where she was and she replied 'Afghanistan".

Do other daughters/children of elderly patients ever feel that your mind is beginning to slip, and you will be joining your Aged Parent in LaLa Land?  There are moments when I am tired and feel just as confused as Mom.  Once in a while, I wonder 'what if hers is the correct view of reality and I am the demented one?

Almost Like Being in Love

Yes, and what a rare mood I am in.  It was hell on toast at the nursing home.  First of all, none of the medical staff show any interest in reading Mom's chart.  She is supposed to be on oxygen: the doctor wrote an order for it, but this gets construed as 'oh, we only give her oxygen when she asks for it".  What they do not understand is Mom lacks the ability to judge her own needs.  Her hospital psychosis is still rolling along, and she believes if you ask the staff for help, they peg you as a troublemaker and send you to the ER as punishment.

Point number two:  this institution seems to be run more for the interest of the staff than the welfare of the patients or their families.  Today, the staff took over the patient Activity room to throw a baby shower for a staff member.  As a result, the patients were all crowded into one dining room, and it was a scramble for visitors to get chairs.  Furthermore, I could not take Mom online because the Internet was in Party Central. 

To add insult to injury, the staff lost the clothing we left behind when Mom was sent to the ER Saturday morning.  We'd made the switch once before, and her clothes were stored safely.  Not this time:  Mom has lost two velour track suits.  I am going to ask the basement staff to take another look tomorrow.

But my day ended on a beautiful note.  I took a black car home to Bay Ridge, and the driver was fantastic.  I knew he'd be great because he was wearing a Mets' hat and 1969 World Champion jacket.  When I got into the car, he was playing Elvis Presley, the Elvis Sirius station.  First, it played Elvis's recording of 'Bridge Over Troubled Water" which was pretty good, although E's voice had coarsened with age.  The next song was even better" Viva Las Vegas".  Driver and I rode along Ridge Boulevard, singing along with Elvis.  Life doesn't get a whole lot better than that.  I only wish Mom was there.  She would have loved it.

Hospital Psychosis

I am starting to understand that it effects hospital staff and the patient's family, too.  For example, I had this encounter with the security guard at the ER entrance:

PM:  I'm here to see Elizabeth Michaels
Guard:  ( after looking at computer screen) She isn't here; probably checked in under an assumed name.
PM:  what name did she use?"
Guard :  Elizabeth Mickalez )

Yesterday, I spoke to Mom's nurse ( who is Arab) at the nursing station.  The nurse looked at Mom's chart and gave me a reply in Arabic.  She must have caught the puzzled look on my face, because she laughed and said "Oh, I'm sorry.  It's just that I was just speaking to a patient and I forgot".   I replied "Good, because I thought my blood glucose had dropped 40 or 50 points".  ( severe hypoglycemia really scrambles my brain.

The other day, I was so tired, I applied brown eyeshadow to one eyelid, and gray to the other.

If Mom's bloodwork, etc are stable, the doctors may order her moved back to the Rehab unit.  Should be another long, and fun filled day.  Mom did look and sound much better yesterday, and I am all for the move if her condition is stable.  My hunch is the doctors are trying to discharge her too quickly to avoid pressure from the insurance companies, and because it is more cost effective to free up a hospital bed.

Groucho Was Right

I'm referring to the production number in "Horsefeathers".  Yes, whatever it is, I'm against it.  Saturday morning, Mom's breathing worsened, and she has been readmitted to the hospital.  The doctor has put her on IV steroids in addition to antibiotics, and I dread what this could do to her hospital psychosis.  Can anything be worse than her calling the Nurse and Transport aide 'a pair of g d idiots"?  Or her 'house of ill repute fixation, or the telling me she'd been forcibly raped because the ER nurse ( Tuesday's visit) put in a Foley Catheter. 

It's got to be a living nightmare for Mom and it isn't a great deal better for her daughters.  I fret that she's going to lose the will to live.  Then , I think it's selfish:  Mom is 83, had a very good life, and if she wants to leave this world, I can't really blame her.  It would be selfish to stop her, but grief is a very selfish emotion.  I guess my anxiety boils down to what am I going to do with the rest of my life?  Who will look after me when I get sick?  This isn't hypocondria, because I am an insulin dependent diabetic with chronic Hepatitis C. 

I just want Mom to be able to get out of a chair, get into her wheelchair, and use the walker to get around the house.  Will ask the doctor today if she can order bedside physical therapy.  In the past, when the Dr. has given Mom steroids for a severe respiratory infecton, the steroids lessen the effects of her arthritis.  She might do better at PT if it were given bedside.

The Importance of Being Ernest

After a tough day with Mom, I went home, and watched this movie on TMC Free On Demand.  What a perfect play Wilde wrote.  Each word was expertly chosen, and the acting from Michael Redgrave, Edith Evans, Dorothy Tutin,  Joan Greenwood and company--perfection.


I can empathize with some of Mom's anger.  It's rough being hospitalized, unable to bathe yourself, being confused' not knowing where you are.  I went through a similar ordeal 4 years ago, and if it was hard at 47, it must be unbearable at 83.  She's depressed .

All that being said, I can't say I cared for being the target of her anger.  It was easy for the nurse and aide to ignore her:  she isn't their Mother, and I am sure patients say the most outrageous things to them.  Mom called them a 'pair of goddamn idiots' and when I laughed, she snarled 'you're no better than they are.  Why do  you enjoy hurting me?".  Yeah, Queen Lear was in the house.

It's hospital psychosis, and I hope it ebbs as she adjusts to her new surroundings in the short term rehab facility.  The food is better, and the aides will be getting her dressed and taking her to physical and occupational therapy every day.  I hope the endorphins might cure her bad mood.

Baubles, Bangles and Beads

Mom did well today, and at least the doctor explained what has been causing some of her unusual behavior.  She pulled out her Foley catheter during her last hospitalization--the week of Aug. 13th, and developed a septic bladder infection.  In Seniors, sepsis can really cause strange conduct:  Mom is fixated on houses of ill repute; the fact that I am working with another woman at the local high school, but have not told my Mother what the project involved ( I told her that it was a matter of National Security, and I could not discuss it until she obtained a security clearance). 

Anyhow, today, Mom was her old self for a while:  alert, and able to discuss things rationally, but it faded as she became tired ( after 4 hours sitting up in a chair).  Then the games began.  First, her roomate asked me to help her and Mom, because they were being held hostage.  I said I would make a few phone calls:  I learned the hard way that hospitalized seniors do not want to be brought back to your reality:  they prefer their own.

Then, Mom whispered complaints about her roomate, saying she was quite senile.  My dear Mom then spoiled her image of being the mentally sound occupant  by singing a Gershwin tune in the style of 'Jingle Dogs".   Loudly.   I asked her to quiet down, because her roomie had fallen asleep.  Mom quieted, waited a few moments, then decided to meow like a cat.  I asked "why are you meowing?" and she cheerfully replied "why not?"    I didn't have a good answer, so I let her win that round.

Tomorrow, if her test results are good:  the urine culture, and the leg wound continues to heal, Mom can return to the Rehab Center.  If all goes well, she might be home in 10 days.

A House is not a Home

Mom has always been such a proper, even prudish, lady.  Years ago, she adopted a stray kitten; an orange and white tabby, named Madison, although we already had a male tuxedo cat, Todd.  Nature took its' course and Madison went into heat, doing her dance of forbidden love in Todd's face.  Todd, being a male cat ( neutered, thank God) mated with Madison many, many times--usually on top of the nearest table.  This gave Mom fits, and when Madison yakked up a hairball one day, Mom announced "it's morning sickness--she's pregnant'.  I explained that Todd no longer had the equipment to impregnate a female cat, to which Mom replied ' what if they grew back?" in a tone that wasn't interrogative, more of a 'I've run rings around you logically".

Imagine my suprise when this very prudish soul began talking about whorehouses.  Tuesday night, in the ER, she told my sister, Ginny, that there was a whorehouse on 82nd Street.  Ginny asked her where it was, but Elizabeth refused to tell her.  Yesterday, Mom told me the whorehouse was in Southampton, and Cathy's neighbor ( who is on her co-op board as well as the board of the hospital) was a frequent customer.  I do not know if Mom thinks she is the Madame or just one of the working girls.

After two weeks of dealing with Mom's hospital psychosis, I have learned that evasion is the best approach.  Do not try to bring her back to reality: she doesn't want to be there, and given her surroundings, I can't say that I blame her.  It seems better to let her discuss things ( even houses of ill repute) .  Who ever thought that my Mom would be giving her own production of ' The Whorehouse Monologues"

A Day That Will Live in Infamy

Mom has been readmitted to the hospital, with pneumonia.  I don't think it is a life threatening case, because she was quite belligerent in the emergency room--alert does not seem the right word to describe it, since Mom was a little bit out of the loop.  For starters, she told me that the ER nurse and aides had forcibly raped her.  Not true:  they had changed her soiled adult diaper and cleaned her, which was probably akin to rape in her mind.  She was, and is, a proud and prudish lady.  Having been bathed and changed by aides, I know it can be distressing.

Ginny seems to handle her better than I do.  Her advice is don't argue, or try to bring her back to reality.  Just listen, and ask questions, such as ' where is the whorehouse on 82nd Street?" or 'what color is the mouse on the mauve carpet".  I'm afraid I've been startled, and laughed at some of her more flamboyant remarks.  Never again.

Off to the bank in about an hour, then down to the hospital.  I will not permit these young residents to talk down to me or brush off my concerns.  I'm really annoyed at the attending physician at the rehab center, who brushed away my questions about Mom's labored, loud breathing with 'she has COPD; of course her breathing is rapid".  Damn it Lady, I am just as educated as you are, and I live with your patient.  Being a patient myself, I give a good medical history, and you are going to listen to me whether you like it or not.

As for the table of residents yesterday at lunch, I wanted to throw shoes at them.  They were talking shop about how much money they made, and yet, they hated their jobs.  Why didn't a rich, elderly patient ever leave them money in their will?  Probably because you treated them like a piece of meat, and their family as though they were mentally diseased or defective.  Don't sit there and whine about how much you hate patients when a patient's relative could be at the next table.  Just grow up. 

Whatever It Is, I'm Against It.

Mom's having a few mood swings today.  This morning, when I arrived, she told me that she hated her physical therapists.  After Physical Therapy, which went very well, she was in a very good mood:  alert, happy and said she liked physical therapy.  I guess Mom got tired, because the good mood had vanished by 2pm.  She told me her shoes were too tight:  I ordered another pair.  Then she got restless, and asked 'what color are my pants?"  I said why and she replied "I guess I do not have to change until I get home".  I made the mistake of asking 'do you need to be changed?" Mom gave me a look that can only be described as two parts Jack Benny with  a dash ofKing Lear, intoning " you break my heart when you ask  me that question"

This morning, I explained why she needed physical therapy and Mom told me " I never thought I would be out Hail Mary-ed by a daughter of mine".  More later, I think HRH is going to her room

Queen Elizabeth

Like all human beings, Mom is a combination of strengths and weeknesses.  She's bright, very funny, and when she is home, and healthy, very sharp.  As I wrote earlier, she's a combination of Princess Grace and Gracie Allen.  Born in 1926, to upper middle class parents, Sarah and John Regan, Elizabeth Virginia Evelyn Regan ( she chose 'Evelyn" as her Confirmation name so her initials would spell 'Ever", Mom was a bright student who graduated high school a year early, spent a semester at Marywood Seminary, then attended the College of New Rochelle( 1947) and Teacher's College, Columbia University (1951).

So, Mom is a blend of great Lady and Brooklyn Irish.  She tells the story of going to Manhattan  by subway with her high school girl friends to see a big band. As Mom told the story:  " We were going over the Manhattan Bridge when I felt a man's hand where it shouldn't be.  I grabbed the hand and said to the man "Does this belong to you?!" and he stammered 'yes' so I said ' then keep it to hell where it does belong".

At other times, she has thrown a screaming fit when our Cat, Todd, caught a cicada, and dropped it at her feet, uttering the cry "Jesus Mary and Joseph"  a pious invocation used when strange creatures invade her personal space.  She called on the Holy Family when a Gekko Lizard crawled on her arm during our vacation in St. Maarten. 

The year before his death,  Mom would not let Dad ( Bob Michaels--they married in 1953, and had 4 Daughters--Mary Pat, Ginny, Peggy and Cathy) grow any more tomatoes because there was a disgusting bug on the plant.  Mom described it as having markings on its' back like eyes.  The strange thing was, a month after his death in July 1979, one lone tomato plant grew in the garden.  I wondered if it wasn't a cosmic " Nyah nyah" from Bob to Betty.

More later--the Patient, who is being bathed, and sent to physical therapy is probably finished with her bath.

Ora Pro Nobis

Today, Mom had her first physical therapy session, and did not like it at all.  She complained that she wanted to stop, but the therapist told her 'yes, after you finish your exercises and occupational therapy'.  Part of the problem is physical:  Mom let herself get very out of shape, and lost all mobility during the two hospitalizations.  Learning to use her leg muscles, and arms riddled with bruises from IV lines must be very painful.

But, there is another component:  'The word 'must' is not to be used to Princes".  Mom  is not used to having people tell her what to do.  Ginny and I nagged her to do her exercises, and she ignored us.  Now, at the Rehab Center, Mom has no choice:  she must do her exercises.  She is a very strong willed Lady and does not enjoy taking orders.  She called the two women PT's " obnoxious cheerleaders".

I do wish Mom was not so depressed and confused.  Part of it has to be the medication, and I want to make contact with her Dr. tomorrow, asking if she's being overmedicated.  I think the Keppra, for her 'episode' Thursday is adding to her depression, and I do not know if she really needs it.  This is the same hospital that sent her home with a prescription for Plavix when both her cardiologist and internist had both said it was not necessary.

And don't get me going on the "HIPPA" regulations, which I think should be called 'HIPPO' because they make consultation with other doctors a slow, lumbering process.  Last week, I told all the Doctors on Mom's case that her Neurologist was in the hospital and we wanted him to examine her.  It never happened because I did not ask the doctor who was covering for Dr. X, her admitting physician.    Surely, it can't be the intent of the HIPPA legislators that communcation between doctors should be more difficult than getting an interview with JD Salinger.

Bad Day

Mom had her first physical therapy session, and didn't like it.  I left shortly after the first session, and my sisters, who visited afterward, reported that she was depressed:  said she had no home and wanted to die.  Part of the problem is her anxiety, which brought back all the mayhem of her homecoming.

She's a nervous person--always has been.  What I found frustrating is Mom gets started rising from the bed/chair, gets to the point where I think 'she's going to make it' then sits back down with a thump.  It is maddening to watch her quit, and at least the therapists know she needs extra coaching.  After they left, Mom said they ( the two therapists) were like two annoying cheerleaders.

I will write more later, but I only got three hours of sleep, so I am taking a nap before my visit.  If I'm lucky, I can finish this post on the rec. room computer.

Homeward Bound

Mom has been transferred to the rehab facility across the street from the hospital, and she isn't too happy about it.  She keeps on asking why I can't take her home.  I explained that she had been bedridden for two weeks, and needed rehab to regain her mobility.  She said 'why didn't anybody make it clearer?" and I said 'they probably thought you were too sleepy to take it all in last night.  You did start new medication, and got a little confused ( she asked me when our plane would be boarding passengers, and not to leave for Ireland without her).

However, she does have a point about Doctors, especially the team of doctors who approved her assignment to rehab.  Yesterday, when they gave the clearance, and spoke to Mom and me, I asked about her seizure medication, and shouldn't it be monitored more closely, since she'd only been on it 24 hours.  I was informed she didn't have a seizure, during her Morning EEG, so it wasn't a seizure or stroke.  Then I asked, don't you want to find out what it is?  and was dismissed with the assurance that her regular Dr. 9 who is on vacation) could ask the Neurologist to examine her at the Rehab Center.  ( Thanks to HIPPA, the protocol of getting a doctor assigned to a hospitalized patient is more elaborate than the protocol at Versailles during the reign of Louis XVI

More later.

Good Vibrations

Spoke with the Doctor this morning ( young enough to be my daughter, but very bright and capable)  She told me that she is treating Mom for seizure disorder with a mild anti seizure medication; that Mom will be going for a MRI this morning, and they are going to monitor her condition over the weekend.  If all goes well, she can start her short term rehab next week.  Her episode was neither a stroke nor Alzheimers.

So, I am about to blow dry my hair, take Penny for a good walk, then head down to the hospital.  I will add more later.

Stranger in Paradise

Today was really memorable.  The hospital thought Mom could be sent to a skilled nursing facility for short term rehab.  I came with a duffel bag and packed all her belongings.  The nursing facility is an adjunct of the hospital, so Mom would have all her doctors.

And I got three hours sleep, because I was so worried about Mom.  I knew she wasn't happy at going to the nursing home, and was depressed about losing her mobility.  I excused her rude conduct yesterday as an expression of her unhappiness.

Wrongo Bucko.  Just as the nurse was prepping her for the transfer, Mom became non responsive.  The staff coded her for a stroke, and I had to borrow the desk phone at the nursing station because my cell phone went dead.  Anyhow, after bloodwork, a CATscan and a EEG, it was determined that Mom had a small seizure, and is on a mild anti seizure medication.  She had been falling asleep in the middle of a sentence, and the Neurologist thinks that's part of the seizure activity. 

Looks like the rehab will be put on hold for a couple days.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Today was not a good day for either the Aged Parent or the Middle Aged Child. Mom was in a good deal of pain from her arthritis, and did not eat much. When she doesn't eat, it seems to increase her 'hospital psychosis'. I had posted three photos of Penny on the wall across from her bed. Mom asked, at one point, why I had posted a photo of Joan Rivers in between two photos of the dog. At another point, she was moaning and seemed to be in a good deal of pain. I asked her to tell me what was wrong, to which Aged P. replied "no, I do not want to'. So, I began to laugh, and was rebuked.

At that point, I was happy to leave for the official eviction of Mom's second floor tenant. The Building Manager couldn't make it, so I filled in, meeting the locksmith and City Marshal, signing the official papers, and asking the locksmith for advice. It just seemed absurd, being dragged away from Mom's bedside to deal with this nonsense. Between the home health care aides, who were directing me on how to help my Bedridden Mother, and filling in for the Building Manager, it struck me that I am doing other peoples' jobs and not earning a penny. It's time to go back to work.

Oh, Look at me Now

Mom is still making cryptic remarks when she is tired. Last night, she told my Sister, Ginny: 'that's a piece of snow off your roof". That describes how I feel this morning. I have to go walk Penny, then visit Mom for breakfast and lunch, because she isn't eating. Then I get to attend an eviction as Mom's representative. ( She owns a commerical property in Brooklyn)

If the tenant wasn't such a sleazebag, I'd feel apprehensive about evicting a woman with small children. This Mother, however, was no Donna Reed. Former Tenant's idea of good parenting was to smoke her pot in the hallway, so the kids wouldn't be harmed by second hand smoke. Mom had to begin eviction proceedings, and Tenant was excused the last three months' rent if she left by September 1. She did so, but as a final gesture of good will, refused to return the keys.

Like I really want to do this when Mom is hospitalized and a careless staff is going to send her home without any physical therapy if I do not make a fuss. I am getting fed up with doing the work that can and should be done by other people. Today, I'm the buliding manager, who can't take time off to attend the eviction. Last week, I was a full time home health care aide, as well as an administrator--letting staff know that Mom had been hospitalized. That is the agency's job, not mine. If I am doing their work, I want their salary, too.

OK--gotta slap on makeup and walk the Beagle. I will post about Mom's condition when I get back from the hospital

The Aged Parent.

I once described my Mom, Elizabeth Regan Michaels, as a cross between Princess Grace and Gracie Allen. Like Her Serene Highness, Mom is a lady: polite, articulate and very intelligent. She does have a very silly side, and can be quite irrational, just like Gracie Allen.

Once she's in the hospital, Mom becomes all Gracie. Part of it is called 'hospital psychosis' and commonly affects senior citizens--Mom's 83. She's been seeing things invisible to me, and her other three daughters. There was a mouse on a mauve carpet. She and the mouse were going to take a carpet ride to Mom's house in Amagansett. Out of the blue, she asked me for a piece of cheese. I replied 'you are in a cardiac unit, so cheese is not on the menu'. Mom said ' I just want a good piece of French cheese to cover my feet'. At this point, I was so tired, that I replied "Brie or Camembert?"

Then I wondered. What if Mom is correct? There are mice who fly around on mauve carpets, and she and the mouse have flown to Amagansett. Suppose hers' is the real world.\

Bedpans and Broomsticks

The last ten days have been eventful. The hospital admitted Mom on August 17 and released her 4 days later. I should have said 'discharged ' her, because the release was very poorly handled. Nobody gave Mom physical therapy, or questioned her ability to get out of bed after five days of being totally bedridden. End Result: Mom lost her limited mobility. She had been able to use a wheelchair and walker, change herself , bathe and dress without aid, but after her release, she was totally helpless.

My Sister, Ginny and I managed to roll her from side to side, pull out her adult diaper, and clean her as best we could, but Mom weighs over 2oo pounds so it was tough. I'm her primary caregiver, and the week of the 24th, I was working with Home Health Care Aides to change, bathe and dress her. The Visiting Nurse was upset that Mom was not totally clean, but ordered a hoist lift, and a bath bench. neither of which were used.

Tuesday, the 25th was my low point. I became convinced that I was going to be charged with elder abuse because neither Mom nor our house were spotlessly clean. I sobbed, moaned, and felt totally sorry for myself. In a way, it was the best thing to do: I got all the fear and self pity out of my system, and was able to handle Mom and her professional caregivers more effectively.

This story is so complicated, and I am so tired that I will write another small chapter tomorrow. Mom is recovering from the bronchitis, her BP is good, and she undergoes a surgical debrasion tomorrow afternoon. My Sisters and I are going to demand that Mom get physical therapy as soon as it is medically feasible.

Adventures in Caregiving

This is my first post.  I'm taking a break from looking after my Mom, who is 83 and in failing health.  Me, I'm the 3rd of 4 girls and her full time caregiver because I got sick ten years ago, and have been both unable and unwilling to work.

I want to share the ups and downs of a Baby Boomer. who is caring for one of the Greatest Generation.   Mom is a special lady, and I think more people should know about her, and how she handles Coronary artery disease, ulcerative colitis, COPD, osteoarthritis, and a history of TIA's with style, grace and a bit of loopiness.