Boxing Day

And how the Aged Parent and I would love to box each others' ears. Mom said ' for 26 years, I fixed dinner and nobody ever had a problem with it, but your sister and I can't agree about anything". Never mind the fact I spent hours on my feet preparing and cooking Christmas Dinner, then washed all the dishes from the family feast. No, I am a bad daughter because I kept the meals low in salt, and did not fix gravy.

If I were a better Christian, I'd try to see it from her point of view. She's stuck in a wheelchair--by her own choice, but that is for another post called 'Lack of Exercise". Mom spent a good part of the year either in hospital or rehab. She knows her body is not in good shape, and at 84, she's fairly sharp, but does get confused when she is tired.

OK--but why is she being such a grouch today. We had such a good time yesterday. It's not all that suprising because Mom spent the better part of Christmas being annoyed at her Grandaughter, who stopped by for a short visit, then went down to Delaware with her boyfriend. All in all, we had a very good time, and I thought Mom was comfortable with the world and her family.

Wrong wrong wrong. She's is a pilly mood. I suggested she change her adult diaper, and she told me 'you said the pants were clean and I could wear them:. I pointed out that was several hours ago, and did she want a change now? The Aged Parent has no sense of smell--she lost it in childhood, so she is blissifully unaware of the strong odors that waft from a soiled or wet Depends.

It's just the negativity and moodiness that make me annoyed

Our Elizabeth

I wish I could create a vivid, living picture of my Mom. She is a cross between Princess Grace and Gracie Allen. The Serene Highness, who may lose her cool, and say something completely outrageous. I love Mom's tales of newlywed life with my Dad. Their first apartment was on Fourth Avenue, a block from Dad's store. It was a railroad flat, with plenty of large roaches. The floors were wooden, with a pattern carpet in the living room. Mom always waited for the roaches to crawl on the carpet, then she would squash them with one of his or her college text books. It was Dad's job to dispose of the corpses.

A few years later, when we lived on 91st Street, Mom had one of her misadventures. She had put us 4 girls to bed, then went down to the basement to do laundry, while Dad fell asleep on the living room sofa. I guess the drier was running a bit slow, so Mom got the idea of laying on the basement floor, and taking the drier pipe off, so she could remove extra lint. Naturally, her arm became stuck in the pipe, and there Mom was, calling for help, while fretting that one of the water bugs would come a crawling. ( There were two in our cellar, and my Dad named them 'Felix' and "Francine"). Anyhow, Dad finally heard her cries, came down but couldn't get her arm out--so he called our next door neighbor, Mr. Navarro, who suggested they squirt Mom's arm with baby oil--which made it supple enough to move.

When we were teenagers, we took a winter break vacation down in St. Maarten. It was 1973, and the island was still fairly undeveloped. At the motel, unit, Mom had the bright idea of putting her evening dress, a black and white shift dress, on the deck railing, to air it. So, she begins to get dressed, and realized that she was not alone--a gekko lizard had crawled into the dress and perched on her arm. Meanwhile, my younger Sister, Cathy, and I, had dressed, and came into the room to get soda. Mom screams out "Jesus, Mary and Joseph; it's on me, get it off' while we girls are doubled over, helplessly laughing. My Dad shot us a look, and then bit the side of his mouth so he wouldn't laugh--just repeated in a soothing tone 'it's all right". As he caught the lizard and headed to the outdoor deck, Mom called out 'Don't hurt it, Bob. Just get rid of it".

Mom was, and is amazing, and I love her very much.

Resolutions

Oh, God I am a terrible person, but Mom's singing drives me nuts. It is as though she has to dominate her setting by song. I wonder if the Von Trapp family really enjoyed singing, or did Maria force it upon them? Interesting idea, controlling your offspring with grace notes, three quarter time or the dotted punctum.

Why do I hate the singing? Mom has a good voice--she wanted to be a professional singer, but obeyed her father who told her only loose women went into show business. It's hard for me to understand that concept: does that mean the seemingly virginal Doris Day was a hoochie Momma? No, I think my Irish American grandfather had a very stereotyped view of women, and forced his view upon Mom. As an obedient daughter, she went to graduate school and became a speech teacher, married, and raised 4 daughters.

On long car trips, Mom always sang because " I don't like the silence". As I got older, this annoyed me because I enjoyed the silence. When you lived with two older sisters, and one younger, silence was a rare event, and I treasured it. But, the silence of my thoughts would be shattered by a song: 'The Wild Goose Song" ( sung with Yiddish accent, no less, or as Prince Charles would say 'thank you very much) or "Climb Ev'ry Mountain".

If I wasn't thinking, or fantasizing, I was playing my own songs in my head--and they often got drowned out by Mom's. Like many daughters, I felt she was invading my inner dreams, and 'killing them softly with her song'. Mom has no idea of how I really felt--a case of 'do I ever get to sing my song"? She's always defended herself by saying " I sing because I'm happy. don't you want me to be happy?". My silent rebuttal would be 'how can you achieve happiness by driving the rest of the family insane?"

Anyhow, the first resolution is to use the Season of Advent as a time to find my own voice.

Thank You

For not letting me lose my temper, even though Mom was being very difficult today. She had a good positive check up yeterday, as well as a great PT session. If I had that type of a day, say one with weight loss and a good Hg1AC, I'd be floating on air. Instead, Mom tried to go on a salt rampage for lunch. I wonder what provoked it?

First, I tried to take a nap, because I woke up twice during the night with low blood sugar. Then, I became aware that somebody was out in the kitchen, dropping metal cans on the floor, with a loud 'clunk'. When I went out to the kitchen ( my bed is in the living room), Mom had just emptied a can of beef gravy into a saucepan, and was trying to open a can of tomato paste. I opened the paste for her, then saw her holding a can of onion soup.

Being diplomatic, I asked 'what is the sodium count' and she replied '120 per serving and 2.5 servings in a can. That seemed unusually low for a can of condensed soup, so I read the label of a second can on the counter. It had 900 milligrams of sodium per 1/2 cup serving--quite a difference for an 84 year old woman who has congestive heart failure.

Instead of yelling, which was my first instinct, I said 'why are you doing this? It's pretty self destructive, and seems a bit unfair to Ginny and me, who are working hard to keep you healthy." Her first excuse was that we did plenty of things that she did not want us to do, and the second was that she was not going to follow a long list of diet rules. I replied 'the difference is that eating a great deal of salt is going to put you in the hospital'.

It's more the timing--just when she's on the verge of success, she wants to pull the plug. oh well,

Orchester Palais de danse - 1912: Turkey Trott (Ragtime)

Yes, this sums up my attitude to the holiday. First of all, I am thankful that the Aged Parent did not hurt herself when she rolled out of bed Monday Morning. She was wrapped in two polar fleece blankets which cushioned the blow. It was a shock to look at the floor and see her sitting up. Anyhow, I guessed she would not agree to a trip to the ER, so we compromised--I was able to call a 'lift up unit". For those of you who don't live in the NYC area, a lift up unit is a NYPD patrol car. The two officers took Mom by the arms, and lifted her back to her chair.

Much of Yesterday and today has been taken up with Thanksgiving preparations. I'm not looking forward to the Holiday, because I'm a bit neurotic about my Sisters. Part of it could be a lingering poor self image. Why should they respect me when I do not fully respect myself? Part of it is reacting against the media Holiday frenzy. I feel that Holiday cheer is being stuffed down my throat. I am being intubated with the Normal Rockwell Thanksgiving, when I'd much rather spend the day looking after Mom and cooking a nice dinner. Well, Ginny and I will cook a nice Thanksgiving meal, and enjoy it as best as possible.

I meant to write more, but I am too damn tired.

" Arise, Go Forth and Conquer"

The other title for this post should be 'Something's Gotta Give" but this morning Mom is definitely the immovable object.  Her arthritis, in the knees, is very bad--she should have had a knee replacement years ago, but due to her cardiac/respiratory issues, the surgery could not be done.  Add her anxiety to her physical problems and Mom makes herself totally unable to get out of her wheelchair.  It is frustrating for both of us.

There is a cynical little voice inside my head that says Mom is playing a mind game.  As long as she cannot move, she has her aide as well as her daughters, standing around her.  Ginny and I will not go out to run errands or walk the dogs.  Mom has us right where she wants us.  I do wish she could find a more positive way of engaging our attention.  This should be a goal of mine.

BTW, I do not want anything to do with Thanksgiving, but Mom ordered a turkey from the butcher, so it looks as though we are stuck with the holiday feast.  Christmas has a spiritual dimension, but Thanksgiving seems more about consumption and 'Black Friday'.

Donald Duck as a Nazi - Der Fuehrer's Face

This is one of Aged Parent's favorite songs--she sang it at the hospital two weeks ago. I'm glad the roomate was out of the room at the time: heaven only knows what she would have made of it.

Anyhow, Aged Parent had a bad day yesterday. She was tired, depressed, and convinced herself that it was impossible to lift herself from the wheelchair. At first, we thought she was nervous, because my Sister, Cathy had stopped by with the dog groomer. Not true--there was no liftoff after the visitors departed. Parent got herself whipped up into a negative frenzy, and was truly the immovable object.

After several hours of pleading, prayer, Ginny and I managed to move the Aged P from the wheelchair to the bed. She needed a good bed bath, but more importantly, she needed a clean adult diaper and a good long nap. Today was somewhat better, but I don't know how she'll be tomorrow.

I am making mushroom stuffing to go with the roast chicken. If the stuffing is a hit, I will make it for Thanksgiving.

Shouting The Battle Cry of Freedom

I like writing in the large font, because any and all typos will jump out at me.  And yes, to refer to the title, caring for the Aged Parent has been quite a struggle.  She has been afraid of falling, and did have a few months of dizziness, which led her to refuse to exercise.  So, Aged Parent is quite out of shape, even after a week of physical therapy.

My Parent will not move her bootie off the chair/bed/ when it is time to lift.  What I find maddening is she gets things right, and decides when she is close to getting up, that she's going to fall.  So, she sits back down.  When I was in high school, we had an elderly Beagle, Freckles, who struggled to get up the stairs.  There were many times when Freckles would get half way up the stairs, get stuck, and solve the problem by turning around, and going to the bottom of the stairs.  That's how Mom approaches her transfers.

Thanks to my therapist, I am able to keep my temper, realize what is happening, and make Aged parent move forward.  It is a battle, though, and I have a fine case of combat fatigue.  I want to eat pastries until I explode, but use diet and exercise to keep my cool.  Que sera, sera.  Momma said there'd be days like this.

"All The Livelong Day"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9LBKVXyrHcw&NR=1

Thanks to the Aged Parent, I felt like this cat.  When Mom met with the hospital social worker Friday morning, she told her the following:

1.  that Mother knew she was in Vermont;
2.  that she had been in the rehab center since March;
3   that she wanted to go home.

The social worker knew that neither she nor Aged Parent were in Vermont ( they were in Brooklyn, NY) but accepted the second item without checking with the rehab center.  So, the ambulette driver thought he was taking Mom to a rehab facility, and the Visiting Nurse service never opened her case because they'd been told the patient was not going home.

Mom arrived home Friday night.  This morning, I called the agency to find out why her case had not started.  Agency said patient had been sent to rehab, and I told them, 'no, Elizabeth Michaels is at her home".  After phoning the hospital social worker, I managed to untangle this mess, and get her case activated.

It was like being in Alice's Wonderland, where all the absurdities are accepted as truths, and truths become absurdities.  My guess is Mom sounded fully competent when the social worker interviewed her, so she did not question anything Mother told her.  As a professional caseworker, how can you not double check the record of a 84 year old patient, who in the past two weeks, has gone from her home, to the hospital, to a rehab unit, then was sent back to the hospital.?

Oh, don piano

Happily Ever After

Mom came home from the hospital Friday night, and I have been far too busy to keep up with the blog.  I don't have any readers, but if I did, I would apologize to them.  Instead, I should apologize to myself, for neglecting my writing.  Blogging is an essential part of my plan to become a published writer, and I cannot consider myself a writer unless I write on a regular basis.  

Poor Mom was in such terrible shape Tuesday afternoon.  For the first hour or so after her admission to the ER, I thought she was dying.  Her face was swollen, she groaned in pain, and her blood pressure went to 260/140.  Once the attending physician figured out that Mom was having an allergic reaction to Norvasc, as well as pneumonia, and the proper medications were given, Mom started to improve.  It was truly a miracle that she did not have a stroke with such high blood pressure.

My Sisters and I made the decision that Mom would come home, and have her physical therapy at home.  First of all, we would have better control over her diet--when the rehab center is serving the patients chicken pot pie, or mac and cheese, I doubt these are low sodium items.  Secondly, I felt Mom's rehab room was cold.  Last Monday, I checked the controls, and found that her roomate had been blasting the air conditioning.  Granted, the roomie did have Alzheimers, but I can't believe that not one aide or nurse observed the cold temperature in that room.  Maybe they thought it was a haunted room, hence the cold spot.

However, I'd forgotten how much work goes into looking after Mom.  I'm only writing a few paragraphs, because I have to go help her get dressed, and give her all her medications.  Oh, I will greet Visiting Nurse Service with open arms, a red carpet, and I may dance before the home aide, strewing her path with rose petals ( as long as she doesn't steal my digital camera like one of her predecessors did).

Monday

Yesterday, I did something so absent minded that it left me in shock.  Since Mom has gone into the hospital and short term rehab, I've incinerated two teakettles.  Yesterday, at the rehab center, I got off on the wrong floor.  What made me certain I was on the right floor was one of Mom's friends, Paul, was in the rec room.  So, I hand two bags of Halloween candy to a puzzled looking aide, said it was from Elizabeth in Room 415, and went to go find Mom in her room.  When I get a look at the room signs, it dawned on me that I had just given candy to the wrong floor, but it would be unspeakably rude to snatch it back, and say 'oopsy daisy, this isn't for you".

Oh well, it was still a good deed,.

Mom was pretty confused yesterday, which I put down to her fatigue.  She had PT both Saturday and Sunday because it was her first weekend at rehab.  I described it to an aide Friday as being similar to a Sorority initiation, or hazing.  Although I don't think the Cashmere and Pearl set ever made initiates drink until they became violently ill.  It was Mom's usual stuff: she's either in a plane , or in Helen Gorra's basement, where the women are very rude, and do not answer her when she calls her daughter's names.

Anyway, Mom has always loved fatty foods, which has added to her health problems.  Yesterday, out of the blue, she said " I want a real breakfast", so I asked 'what would you like?"  and she replied 'tofu".  I blurted out 'tofu'?  in the same tone that Lady Bracknell said 'a handbag?" .  Mom said 'it's the healthy thing in cartons that your Sister makes".  Oh, eggbeaters"  sez I.

Well, I have to do the dishes, then go visit Mom.

I Never Sang For My Mother

Oh, but she has sung for all of us.  One of the tragedies of Mom's life is that she chose the career to please her Parents.  Mom had, and has a good singing voice--it was clear, and strong when she was young, and Mom wanted to be a big band singer.  She read all the Jazz magazines published in the 1930's-40's and listened to all the bands on the radio, usually while doing her homework.  

Unfortunately, my Grandfather worked for an executive, Howard Cullman, who produced many Broadway musicals of the 1940's and '50's.  Mr. Cullman was described as 'Broadway's Number One Angel" but I guess his conduct was less than angelic because Grandpa forbade my Mom to pursue a career in show business--only 'loose women' went into show business.  So,  Mom, being a good daughter, went to the College of New Rochelle, and then got her Masters from Teacher's College, Columbia University.  She taught in the public schools until she married my Dad, Bob Michaels, in 1953.

And she has sung whenever she got the chance.  On long car rides--when we children had lapsed into a stupor after 'don't stare at me' or 'she's sitting on my side of the car'.  I knew every single Johnny Mercer song--that Lady of One Thousand Songs had nothing on my Mom.  What's worse is when she hums--it's more like a grunt, and provides a downbeat by slapping on her thighs.  

Oddly enough, I began to read "Legends' by James Kirkwood and recognized many of Mom's character traits in Mary Martin.  The ladylike demeanor--the inability to admit to any genuine emotion, especially a strong one.  They both have a talent of getting their own way by a sweet, refined air that will brook no opposition.  Weatherford, Texas was not emotionally distant from Bay Ridge, Brooklyn ( Mom's birthplace--Miss Martin was from Texas).  

My theory is women whose mothers were raised in the 19th century learned at home and school to get their way without being openly assertive.  They used other methods--charm, emotional blackmail, singing, manipulation--all the traditional female wiles.  I did come of age during the 70's, when the Feminist movement was in full swing, so I've found it difficult to relate to Mom's passive aggressiveness.    If you can teach an old dog new tricks, this old bitch is going to be more patient and understanding with Mom.  

S'Wonderful

It was not a good day at Augustana.  The alternate title for this post should be 'Bad Day at Black Rock".  Mom is having a colonoscopy tomorrow, at 1pm, so she is on a liquid diet today.  The solution, named 'golightly' ( perhaps invented by a crazed Truman Capote fan) tastes terrible, and Mom became tired of drinking it.  Not that I blame her--I've drunk it, and it's nasty stuff.

But, Mom was not taking this stuff without a fight, and I bore the brunt of it.  When you are a 'great lady' like Mom, you are as sweet as pie when the RN gives you directions.  Only your daughter can tell that you have no intention whatsoever of following those  directions.  The 'Jack Benny' look on your face demonstrates that you shall not be moved.  After all ' the word 'must' is not to be used to princes.".  

I know it's horrible stuff, but three hours of her bad attitude drove me a little nutty.  I wanted to come home, order a pizza, and wash it down with a bottle of good Bordeaux Blanc, with a pint of Hagen Daaz for dessert.  Since I am an insulin dependent diabetic, with chronic Hepatitis C, all those items are off the menu.  So, I ate a small package of Vanilla wafers.

Poor Ginny--she'll come home in an hour or two, just as frazzled.  I shall make some healthy take out, from Circles Cafe.  

'Everything Old is New Again"

Mom is back at Augustana Rehab, after 12 days in the hospital.  It began one morning, when she got up from her wheelchair, to transfer to her bed for a sponge bath, became dizzy, but fortunately fell onto the bed.  I first phoned her doctor's office, and he told us to go to the emergency room.  The tests ruled out a major stroke or heart attack.  Further blood work showed she had a thyroid disorder, which caused the dizziness  and light headedness.  A few days later, her knees got very swollen, and painful.  Somehow, this condition is probably connected to her Ulcerative Colitis, which can do all kinds of wonderful things to connective tissue and joints.

For some strange reason, I am handling this stress far better than I did last Summer.  Part of me was so exhausted with Mom's emotional demands.  The bedpan, bathing and personal care did not bother me as much as her refusal to do her exercises once the physical therapist stopped making house calls.  Both Ginny and I would cajole, beg, scold, but Mom was steadfast in her refusal to get out of the wheelchair. It was a negative of 'Sunrise at Campobello"  perhaps "Sunset at Bay Ridge' would be a more accurate title.

Now that we ( my Sister and I -- I'm not using the royal 'we' like Queen Margaret of Scotland) understand that Mom had dizziness and pain from her knees, we are both more realistic in our expectations.  If the rehab can get her further than transferring from wheelchair to bed, God bless them, every one.  ( It is two months until Christmas ). 

More tomorrow.

I Have Returned

I haven't updated the blog for a very long time, because Mom went into the hospital at the end of March and did not come home until the end of May.  It's taken me two months to get some kind of balance in our lives.  There are three things that helped get me back on track:  reading; praying; and following a low fat, low sodium diet--lost 8 pounds since May. 

There were two books about parent/child relationships that gave me insight into my Mom.  The first, "Outcasts From Eden"  is about Louisa May Alcott, and her father, Bronson Alcott.  Bronson Alcott was the Mr. Micawber of the Transcendentalist movement--hatching grandiose schemes for daily living, but always having his schemes explode.  Part of what drove Louisa May Alcott as a writer was the need to earn money to support the family. 

But, as usual, I digress.  The point was, as a young adult, Louisa had very little respect for her Father.  As she aged, she began to realize that he may not be a breadwinner, but did have courage, and idealism.  She came to appreciate his good qualities and not obsess over his weaknesses. 

I've gotten to that point with Aged Parent.  Mom can be very self centered--her early morning 'what time is it?"  calls are  annoying as hell, especially at 630AM.  There are mornings when she needs help getting out of bed, but those can be followed by more mornings when she gets herself out of bed and into the wheelchair without any help. 

So, I am developing a protective exoskeleton, and learning to be patient.  Think of all the times she had to take me to doctors, put up with my childhood neuroses.  the least I can do is do all the legwork to get her to the surgeon's office for a badly needed checkup.  The leg with the shunt in it gets quite swollen, and never looks normal.  I want to know if this is normal, or does the shunt need to be replaced?  Can a low sodium diet, and moderate exercise help her conditon.

Tune in tomorrow, folks

Back to Work

Reading Michael Palin's Diary ( The Hollywood Years) has left me with a sense of guilt.  Why am I not writing on a daily basis?  I can come up with a long list of excuses:  Mom demands a great deal of attention, and tends to sulk when I go on the computer.  Sometimes, I am too tired after doing chores for her.  All the same, the real reason is I am afraid to write.

So, how is my Aged Parent?  She is doing much better, because she found the right physical therapist.  A knew how to get past her anxiety, and make her move.  He did not buy into her nervousness, but would patiently explain that fear made her muscles tense, and the tension would cause her falls.  At the beginning of his nine week session, he said that 'yes, your knees are in bad shape, but the real problem is in your head". Mom opened up and began to work seriously.  She can use a walker, but Ginny and I are unable to get her to do so on a daily basis.  

Perhaps with this record snowfall, we might be able to take Mom once around the first floor.  It's a tough call, because Gloriana has lost none of her Anglo Irish stubborness.  She has made passive agressiveness into an art form.  If PA were an Olympic sport, Mom would take the Gold medal.

Groundhog Day

Mom did not sleep well last night.  She was, and is, anxious about wh. or not she ought to get a knee brace.  The 'what time is it, Peggy?"  calls began at 330am, and continued on an hourly basis until 7am, when I finally realized "nessun dorma" and got up.  At one point during the calls, I replied a little sarcastically that it was 'still dark, and I can't see the time without my glasses" to which Queen Lear replied 'you are so cruel to me".  Mom gets very melodramatic when she is sleep deprived:  a cross between Mildred Pierce and an early Christian Martyr".

Not that I am a morning person either, especially when my blood glucose is low ( this morning, it was 52)  I guess the message is try to be courteous  despite the time or health issues.  It can't be much fun being 83, stuck in bed, and confused on top of it, only to be answered by a cranky daughter.

  Speaking of children, it's no wonder that old age is often described as 'second childhood".  This morning, that thought made its' way through my curdled brain, and I realized 'if I change her Depends, and get her comfortable, perhaps she might go back to sleep."  I got her a clean adult diaper, wipes, and changed the wet depends.  Sure enough, Mom's mood improved dramatically, and I was no longer labelled as 'a thankless child".  After washing, cleaning and changing, I put a couple of warm blankets on Mom, and she fell asleep.

It's funny, how age makes a person regress, and the child becomes the parent figure.  Neither of us is comfortable with the role reversal, but I find it gets easier.

Dance of the Caregiver

This dance is a cross between the Lambada, the Beer Barrel Polka and the Electric Slide.  It means I have to constantly change my approach to Mom.  She tends to change the rules, but does so without telling me.  So, I have to keep alert, and figure out what she really, really wants.  These mental gymnastics are far more exhausting than an hour of weight training.

Today, I had the morning planned.  I would change Mom's adult diaper in the bed, give her a sponge bath and get her dressed.  Wrong.  Mom opened the dance by getting into her wheelchair, before her Depends had been changed.  I saw this and asked 'what are you doing?". and she replied " I am going to get on the commode".  Why she did not just tell me " I need help to get on the commode' is beyond me.  Anyhow, I went and fixed a cup of tea.  After a 10 minute lapse, I said " what do you want to do?"  and she said " I don't know.  You are supposed to tell me, or nothing gets done".  I remarked 'you always get mad when I tell you what to do" only to be told " I don't do anything unless somebody is in charge".

So, I saw my opportunity, and got her onto the commode, cleaned her, and the commode.  Then she took a sponge bath, and got dressed.  I just love the idea that I am the boss.  Mom is a total control freak, and has fought me every step of the way, when I attempt to get her to do something she doesn't want to do.  Suddenly, when it suits her, I am the power and the glory.  Tomorrow, I will be the bad daughter who bullies her.

Mrs. Euclid

Why 'Euclid'?.  I remember one snippet of his formula from high school geometry: " a straight line is the shortest distance between two points".  Mom has always had a very unique form of logical reasoning, and it is not the least bit linear.  She can take up the most irrational position, and defend it brilliantly.  There have been times when I told her 'the wrong family member went to law school; it should have been you, not me".


Let's take the early morning wake up call.  By early morning, I mean the time of day described   by Sinatra as 'The Wee Small Hours of the Morning".  Mom will begin, by calling "Ginny" ( which is my Sister's name) at 4AM.  Or she'll call her Sister, Lucille.  ( Aunt Lucille died almost 20 years ago).  I sleep in the living room, and Mom is in the dining room , so of course I wake up immediately and ask 'what is it, Mom?".  9 times out of 10, she wants to know the time.


So, I've been asking her since November 'why are you calling other people at 4Am.  She replied " I'm afraid to call you, because you'll get angry at me, so I call your Sister instead.  Oh, it's ok--I can go back to sleep because you are either calling a person who sleeps like the dead (Ginny) or one who sleeps with the dead ( Aunt Lucille).


Or, the other excuse was 'you answered me, so you were already wide awake".  I tried to explain that I have trained myself to wake up when she calls, but I can tell by the expression on her face that Mom isn't buying it..  A close family friend once tried to convince Mom that she was a leader, but Mom said "no, I could never take charge of people."  He replied without missing a beat " You are a follower who won't be led".


I must take Penny for a long walk and clean the kitchen

The Tao of Elizabeth

I've had some very unusual chats with Mom today.  Part of the problem is we are both sleep deprived, because Mom awoke about 6am, insisting that I phone her doctor, because her left leg was swollen. ( it's the leg with the open sore and cellulitis). Knocking the sleep out of my brain, I took a look, then at Mom's direction, took her temperature.  It was 96.8: normal for her. 

Figuring that the ER at the local hospital was still overcrowded, I decided to play for time.  I propped her left leg on a pillow, and said 'if your swelling hasn't gone down in two hours, we will go to the ER.  ".  Anyhow, the swelling ) line where her sock was, went down, so no ER.

Later that morning, Mom started talking about her latest obsession, the lady in the ER who was pretending to be my cousin, Jeanne.  She said ' I looked at her, and knew something wasn't right about her.  She had two left feet".  I asked 'was this a dream or did it really happen"?  Mom gave me a withering glare and said 'don't you think I know the difference?".  I said 'yes, but if you don't tell your daughters that it's a dream, they might think you are loopy". 

In the afternoon, I went to the kitchen to make tea for Mom.  She calls out from the dining room " I can see you, and you are sitting on top of the breakfront, with a small goatee.  No, I think you look like a werewolf or a bear"  I said 'that Birthday gift had better be good.  How can you see me if I'm in the kitchen?".  When I walked into the dining room, I realized that Mom was talking about my portrait: half of my face is in shadow, and it does look a bit like a five o clock shadow.  Yes, the portrait is next to the breakfront.

What have I learned today?  That robots impersonating people have an extra left foot, and some of Mom's more far out remarks aren't so far out if you look at the context.  Well, the three footed robot is a bit odd, isn't it?

That's my Mommy

January has been a busy month.  Somehow, Mom scratched her leg, about New Year's Eve, and it began to get red.  I even phoned the doctor that night, but she blew me off, because I had seen her a few days ago, and discussed how Mom was a bit loopy with the urinary tract infection.  'Why are you bothering me this time of night over a UTI?"  until I explained it wasn't so much the UTI as the redness on the leg..  Yeah, I was not to thrilled to be dissed by my own attending physician.

Anyhow, the leg got redder by the day, looking quite bad on the 9th, so we took Mom to the ER the next morning. It looked like a war zone.  All the chronically ill seniors who did not 'want to be a burden" to their families during the holidays, came down to the ER.  Every inch of space was taken up with gurneys.  Mom was lucky enough to get a cubicle, with another older woman as a roommate .  Both ladies were in their early 80's with cellulitis in the left leg, and both got very demented when the antibiotic IV's were started.

Mom and I had some interesting conversations.

Mom:  there's something funny about that woman's leg.
Me:  (stupidly) yes, she has cellulitis, like you.
Mom:  no her arms and legs do not look quite normal.  She is a robot.

I laughed so loudly that people walking by looked in, to see what was happening.   Mom also decided that the hospital was being run by Bernard Kerik , who was Guliani's Police Commissioner.  Somehow, the robotic old lady had been put in the witness protection program.

My conclusion:  Mom watched too much Law and Order, and we won't let her watch the Twilight Zone marathon next  New Year's Eve.