Birthday Celebration

Today is Mom’s birthday, her 75^th. She has been in a relatively good mood my last few visits, so I was hoping to make today a special one for her. I picked up a steak burger, fries, and a Coke and took them to her at lunch. I also brought a large chocolate chip cookie to share with the other residents.

Mom was lying in her bed when I arrived. I could hardly rouse her, so I left her room and ate my steak burger while it was still warm. I tried to entice her with food several more times before I learned that she had not gone to bed until 4:30 am. She has a condition called sun-downing. Dementia patients often mix up their days and nights. Not wanting to aggravate her, I decided to come back later with the cookie. Just as I was about to leave, she showed up in the common room and took the steak burger. She ate the whole thing plus the fries I had left her. Then she sat down at someone else’s plate and ate all the lasagna and vegetables. Then she asked for more lasagna.

I cut and distributed the cookie without much fanfare. I wanted to sing “Happy Birthday” and make some sort of a fuss over her, but I could not get her attention. She was oblivious.

One resident made me smile. Jerry, a former school principal, is known for his booming and authoritative voice. He can be intimidating but most of the time he’s like a big teddy bear. I was instructed to give him a small piece since he is borderline diabetic. He quickly ate his small piece of cookie and asked for another. When the nurse told me it was okay, I gave him another small piece. “Is this all I get?” he asked.

“Jerry, you know you have to watch your sugar,” I told him.

“I won’t get much sugar out of that,” he briskly informed me.

I laughed but was also sad. He just said so much more than Mom could ever communicate. I tried to engage Mom in a puzzle, but she wasn’t interested today. She wandered around the room, found her “Happy Birthday” banner on the floor and shoved it in a cabinet. I had to wonder if on some level she knew what she was doing.

Take a Trip

            On a recent visit with Mom, she was sat with me for a few minutes as she drank the strawberry smoothie I brought her. We were flipping through a magazine when without a word she got up from the table and went back to her room. While she was gone, Kay, the activities director, walked over to tell me that JR had visited Mom that morning. JR was the driver at the senior apartment complex Mom lived at previously. Mom loved JR. He had a way of keeping the seniors laughing with his tall stories and outrageous lies.

            Kay said that Mom smiled when she saw him. When JR asked her if she remembered what she used to make for him, Mom said, “Cookies.” I was pleased, although somewhat shocked, that she remembered. I also felt a little jealous. She doesn’t remember anything about me. It was heartwarming to know that JR took the time to see her.

            I walked back to Mom’s room and asked her about JR’s visit. She had no recollection of it. I should have known that would be the case. Mom was busy arranging things on her bed. Three lumpy pillowcases lay on the wrinkled comforter. I peeked inside to see boxes of jigsaw puzzles and small photo albums. I asked Mom what they were for. “I’m going to Virginia,” she said.

            “Ah,” I said. “You are packing.” I gave her a hug and said, “Have a good trip.”

Aromas of Fall

            I had the privilege of walking through a William Sonoma store today. Once inside my senses were immediately assaulted by the aroma of a pumpkin spice cake that had just come out of the oven. It was intoxicating. I picked up the package of pumpkin spice cake mix from the overloaded table. For $11.95 I could bring that very smell to my own kitchen. I put the package back. I would use my mother’s recipe and bake my bread from scratch.

            Mom was famous within our family for many of her baked goods. Her pumpkin bread was one of those. It always made an appearance this time of year. She would save coffee cans and other tin cans and bake the bread “in the round.” She made so many loaves and gave all but a few of them away. She loved to share her gifts from her kitchen.

            In her later years I became the recipient of Mom’s baked goods as fewer people were around. She gave me so much bread, and cookies, and cake. I was slightly annoyed that she didn’t understand that my smaller family could not possibly eat so many baked goods, but I took them anyway. I should have known that one day the baked goods would abruptly stop. 

One day she decided she was done with baking. It didn’t matter how many times I asked, she could not give me a good answer why she stopped. I knew why, but I wanted her to confide in me. I wanted her to tell me what was going on (or not going on) in her mind. I had always thought we were close, but we never reached the point where she could tell me her fears about her disease. Or maybe she just didn’t believe it could be happening. I sure didn’t.

My Mother's Absence

At times I mourn the loss of my mother, but truthfully, often I don’t think about her. Both of those conditions are strange because my mother is very much with us. She is on that journey with Alzheimer’s (presumably) which takes her to places I do not understand and turns her into someone I do not know.
I try to be there for her, but I know that I fall extremely short of her needs. When the time came that she could no longer live on her own, I found a homey, caring place not too far from my home. I agonized over whether I could bring her into my home. I did not think I could care for her the way she needed, so I found a “memory care assisted-living home” that could. The weekend that Mom spent with me before she moved erased any doubts that I could have been a full-time caretaker. Forty-eight hours under my roof was exhausting. Having her with me was somewhat like having a toddler except that logic made no sense to her. Instructions were forgotten as soon as they were given.

I visit Mom as often as I can, which comes out to about twice a week. I stay as long as she allows, which is about 20 minutes per visit. That frequency and duration are woefully inadequate. When I see her I talk about the things we used to do together and the things she used to like to do. She remembers none of these things. Occasionally she remembers my name or will tentatively ask me what it is. When I reply, “Celeste, your daughter,” she smiles and says, “I thought so.” Yet when I speak to her about my father, her husband of 49 years, she does not remember him. She claims that she never got married and never had any children. Dad has been gone for five years, and she has no memory of caring for him during his illness the last few years of his life.

I struggle with the idea of visiting more often. I am her only relative in town and rarely does anyone else visit her. If I don’t visit, no one does. Truthfully, twice a week is about all I can handle. Visiting her is not a logistical problem. She’s not that far away, and I’m not that busy. Well, I am that busy, but that’s not a good excuse. It’s more that the experience is always so draining. I try to show her that I care. I hug her. I rub her back. I try to converse with her. She speaks, but she can’t carry on a conversation. She contributes nothing.
I ask if she needs anything. She is incapable of answering. She always says no, but there are a lot of things she needs right now. She just can’t articulate what they are. So I check her supplies of personal needs as best I can without her input. I bring her things, but she never understands what they are.

The only thing that Mom talks about is “going to Virginia.” She grew up there but left 53 years ago. Sometimes what she says is unintelligible. She forms sounds but not words which are mixed with actual words. About the only thing I can piece together is that she wants to go to Virginia to see her Mom and Dad. They know her there, and they are still there, according to her malfunctioning mind. She does not pester me to take her but often asks if the bus to Virginia is here yet.

At age 74, Mom is in pretty good physical health. She takes a blood pressure medication, but that’s it. Her only physical issue these days has been an on-going weight loss that baffles us all. She eats well, actually she eats a lot, but now she is close to being dangerously thin.

So I do what I can and I leave. It feels cowardly and like the bare minimum. I suppose I am practicing some sort of self-preservation. I can’t save Mom from this disease. I can save myself from the depths of despair. Somehow that just doesn’t seem right for someone who gave so much to others.

Sharing the Pain

How do we know how deep we are to feel for others? I know some people going through difficult times. In each case there is little I can do to actually help. I can be supportive and encouraging but beyond that, I can’t do much to actually improve their situations.

A dear friend is suffering. In the past few months she has endured a family tragedy, health concerns for her and her husband, heart-broken parents who are themselves in fragile health, and much uncertainty in regard to her job. I want so much to make things better for her but always feel I come up short.

Last week I tried to help another family. This past June two students from m son’s high school and their fathers were killed in a small plane crash. The high school has been trying to help the families by providing meals. Since my transportation issues have been resolved, I finally signed up to provide a meal. Calling in advance to confirm delivery, I spoke to the Mom. Our conversation left a hole in my heart.

She expressed how wonderful the high school has been and how helpful the meals are. When she lost her husband she went back to work for the first time since she had children. I asked their ages. “Three girls,” she said. “Ages 11, 13 and 14. Not only do I have to be Mom and Dad but I have to deal with all these hormones as well. It’s nice not to have to worry about what’s for dinner.”

She asked if my son knew her son. I had to admit that he did not. “My son is a junior. He works so hard,” I said. “But he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.”

“It’s a great school,” she said. “But we never got that far.”

Feeling my composure slipping away, I politely but quickly ended the conversation. She wanted to talk. The one thing I could do was listen, but I didn’t want her pain to creep any further into my world. I feel terrible about that. I could have told her that my son wears an elastic band etched with her son’s name. I could have offered other assistance. It may not have helped, but I didn’t offer.

The next afternoon when I placed my meal into the coolers on her driveway, I couldn’t help but notice what a lovely home she has. I wondered who mowed her grass. Who did all those other chores that are usually the domain of men? It was a glorious spring day and I couldn’t help but think of how easy it would be to be joyful if there weren’t so much sadness.

I am haunted by our brief encounter. I know that I can’t help by being sad for her or my friend. I just pray that they can see the beauty and momentarily lose their pain in the magnificence around them.

Stepping Out

A few days ago I ran the half marathon in St. Louis. By itself that’s not a particularly noteworthy accomplishment. Thousands of people run. Many are older than me and many are quite a bit faster. Still, this was my first race and I feel a tremendous sense of accomplishment.

I was not prepared for how I would feel when the race was over. The emotion welled up and almost spilled out of me. The exhaustion, the exhilaration, the runner’s high—I’m not really sure what it was. I was also not prepared for the surge of competition I felt the last two miles. I was passing people like crazy—I wanted to finish and finish ahead of those in my immediate sight.

The whole experience was positive. The weather was fabulous—a glorious spring day with blue skies and light breezes. Tulips greeted us at almost every turn. St. Louis never looked so good.

It was thrilling to run by Busch Stadium, the Brewery, the Soulard area, St. Louis University, the pawn shops, and the homeless shelters. I ran by the building where my husband and I used to work (and where we met). I noticed that our former employer no longer occupied the building and realized that all the companies I have ever worked for no longer exist.

The crowd of runners and the spectators were inspiring and encouraging. The many volunteers who provided water and Gatorade were wonderful, although it was difficult for me to toss my drink cups on the street with all the others. I did it, but it just felt wrong. Many spectators held encouraging signs. Two of my favorites: “Your calves look sexy,” and, “If it were easy I would be doing it.”

My favorite part of the race occurred around mile six. My loving and supportive husband was there to snap my picture. And then he said,” I have a favor to ask.” It sounded like he wanted me to pick up his dry cleaning or perform some other domestic task, but he only wanted me to call him when I was close to the finish so that he could take another picture. For some reason I found it hilarious that he wanted to ask a favor while I was running.

Speaking of calling, my daughter sent me a text message two hours into the race to ask how it was. Since I had about four more miles to go at that point I returned her message telling her so. I had managed to run for nine miles without using my cell phone. If I do this again I’m not sure what my time goal will be. but I am certainly going to try to avoid texting and running.

While it was never a goal of mine to run a half marathon, I’m glad I did. I only signed up at the suggestion of a friend. I didn’t know how to say no. Peer pressure (and the fear of appearing old) is a powerful motivator. Once I signed up I had fierce regrets. I didn’t think that I could do it. I had all the standard excuses: I didn’t have time to train, I had too many responsibilities, my knees were too bad, etc. Somehow I did manage to train enough and, with the help of some additional strength training, my knees held up.

During the race I kept hearing echoes of advice that I would give to my children. “You can do it,” and “Take a risk. Try something different.” I realized that at some point I had stopped doing that. I had settled into a life of comfortable, no-fail options. It sounds trite, but I felt so alive to have stepped out of my world and into the world of a runner.

I learned a few other things as well. The strength training has helped my knees by strengthening the other muscles in my legs. In fact my knees feel better than they have in years. I also dropped a full pants size. Those two benefits alone could make this whole endeavor worthwhile.

The other benefit was all the attention. People were truly impressed that I did this and went out of their way to say so. My in-laws called. I received numerous messages from friends and other relatives. My aunt called after the race to see how I did. She is 65 and had to stop running two years ago—she told me how much she misses it. That alone makes me want to do it again. Just because I can.

What To Do?

I’m upset with myself because I got upset with my mother. An employee of her retirement community asked her to make cookies for the bake sale on March 9^th. I noticed the reminder note on her pantry door: March 9^th, Bake Sale, Make Cookies. When I stopped in on Saturday she was mixing up her cookie dough. “Mom,” I said. “The bake sale isn’t until next week. Why are you making cookies now?”

“I’m just mixing the dough,” she said. “I’m going to put it in the refrigerator.”

When I called her yesterday she was taking the last of the cookies out of the oven. “Mom, the bake sale isn’t until the 9^th. That’s next week. Why are you baking the cookies now?”

“I just want to get them done,” she said. “I’ll put them in the freezer.”

When I called this morning she was aggravated that she couldn’t find anyone who knew where she was supposed to take the cookies for the sale. “Mom, the bake sale is on the 9^th. That’s next week.”

“Isn’t today the 9^th?”

“No, Mom. I told you yesterday and on Saturday that the bake sale was next week. Look at your newspaper. It’s the second. Look at your calendar.”

“Well, I’ll just put them back in the freezer.”

I know that I didn’t keep the irritation out of my voice, and that bothers me. It really doesn’t make any difference if she makes cookies every day. In fact she makes them at least once a week. She gives them away to the activities coordinators and drivers. I think that they re-gift them to patients in health care. I wonder how many people in health care (or skilled nursing) can actually eat them.

Besides making cookies and knitting slippers, she really doesn’t have anything to do. Since August she has knitted 80 pairs of slippers. A relative asked if she could help make slippers as gifts for patients in a dialysis unit. That request was a blessing. It gave her existence a purpose. Today she is working on the eightieth pair.

The slippers have been knitted. The cookies have been baked. She isn’t capable of coming up with a new activity on her own. I need to find her something else to do.