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.