One thing I've learned from repetition: Live each day and let tomorrow take care of itself because yesterday is done and tomorrow never comes. It's always today. And there are a lot of reasons to be aware of our surroundings: the people who populate our lives, the things that truly are important to us rather than the things we've been THINKING are important to us and those things that bring peace, joy and tranquility to us.
Mom said, "I don't know why I'm still here." I know she didn't mean to make any of us feel guilty. And I was the only one who was there, so my brothers aren't aware of any guilt trips. I don't get up to Mom and Dad's house as often as I should/could/would. Is it because my youngest brother said, "You can't put your life on hold for Mom and Dad"? Well, maybe I can't but someone has to be there for them. Who else is going to do what needs done?
"We still need you, Mom," I said. But she was probably thinking, "Then why aren't any of you around so I can feel needed?"
"God isn't done with you here, yet," I added. "When He's ready..."
When I hugged her before I left her house, she said, "I love you, honey. I wouldn't trade you for anything."
"I know," I said. "You tell me that all the time. It's so good to be loved."
And I vow I'll get up to see them more, but life intervenes and I'm feeling like I'm scattered all over the place. At my age I'm feeling like I need to be focused on my writing because it's now or never. In 20 years I could be the next version of the woman in front of me...the woman I have loved, admired and respected every day of my life.
The next day (yesterday) I had to take her to a doctor appointment. She held onto the corner of the house where the steps lead from the porch to the sidewalk. She's changed from the confident woman she used to be. As much as I've been looking to simplify my life, the simplicity that is pooling around her was not what I had in mind. She made her way to the car, and I was stricken by the thought that she is becoming frail. The time was when she would scurry to my car and we'd take off for shopping excursions or work on quilts together or take a trip together.
When we walked up the ramp to the doctor's appointment she said, "I'm getting so frail." So, she realizes that. I felt a tug at my heart. Inside the exam room while we waited for Dr. Getzinger she said, "I want another dog but they won't let me have one."
We've talked about that time and time again. "I don't think you can take care of a dog."
"I took care of Josh. He was no trouble."
"You got Josh before the Alzheimer's, Mom. There's a lot of work to taking care of and training a puppy. I just don't think it's a good idea. You have trouble taking care of yourself."
"I can take care of a dog."
Ten minutes ago she was talking about how frail she's getting.
Dad's having trouble with his COPD. He told her the way things are going, she won't have to worry about him much longer. She still knows that Dad is the only reason she is still living at home, the home she's lived in for 50 years. She knows if he dies first, she will have to come and live with me. Dad is working so hard to keep himself going so they can both live out their lives independently.
I remember a couple of years ago when I went to Florida with Maureen. There was a story in the newspaper there of a firecall. Of the firefighters who needed to speak with a counselor when they watched the elderly couple inside that vehicle burn up because the driver had locked the car, set it on fire and refused to unlock the doors.
It sounded to me like the man had driven his wife to the beach so they could watch the tide. Maybe it was their favorite place, someplace that they had shared many times. Maybe the lost look in her eyes was the Alzheimer's at full-blown pitch. Maybe he worried what would happen to her if he died first and he just couldn't handle that thought.
We all need to live just for today. Because today is all that we really have. And every today after this one.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Spring...and thoughts turn to...
Joyce sent me an e-mail: "I saw this and thought of you." "This" was the submission guidelines for the Cup of Comfort anthology about Alzheimer's. I decided on the spot that I need to write about it, especially when I began to write my response to her. Yes. I have to submit, even if it isn't accepted. I'm not sure what it pays, but a lot of folks will probably buy that anthology because there is so much AD.
Late March saw a wonderful couple of weeks of nice, warm weather. I am sure I'm not the only one who knew it was too early to expect that weather to stay. And, it didn't. But yesterday the thermometer rose to the low 70s again after three weeks or so of wind and snow and rain. And the same forecast of warm weather holds through the entire weekend and into the the new week. I'll take it!!!
My home office is a small room just off of the master bedroom. There is a window behind my desk that allows the light to wash this room. I can see the broad expanse that is the sky. It's blue and cloudless this morning. And the sun, rising in the east, is casting it's welcome warmth and brightness against the homes and garages and gardens. It's a feel good kind of day. One of those days when I feel carefree and energetic...and hope that I shouldn't be looking over my shoulder for another shoe to drop. Seems like a day that I should get Mom outdoors for a walk, and putter around in the flower beds.
Late March saw a wonderful couple of weeks of nice, warm weather. I am sure I'm not the only one who knew it was too early to expect that weather to stay. And, it didn't. But yesterday the thermometer rose to the low 70s again after three weeks or so of wind and snow and rain. And the same forecast of warm weather holds through the entire weekend and into the the new week. I'll take it!!!
My home office is a small room just off of the master bedroom. There is a window behind my desk that allows the light to wash this room. I can see the broad expanse that is the sky. It's blue and cloudless this morning. And the sun, rising in the east, is casting it's welcome warmth and brightness against the homes and garages and gardens. It's a feel good kind of day. One of those days when I feel carefree and energetic...and hope that I shouldn't be looking over my shoulder for another shoe to drop. Seems like a day that I should get Mom outdoors for a walk, and putter around in the flower beds.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
I love you, Honey
Every time I hug my mom she says, "I love you, Honey. I wouldn't trade you for anything."
Sometimes I wonder what is going through her mind when I walk out the door to return to my home. Her diagnosis was five years ago. But she remembers things that I didn't expect her to remember at this stage of the game. I attribute that to the medication she takes, Namenda. It may not work for everyone, but it has slowed down the progression of the AD.
Guilt manages to overtake me at moments like this when I know I was busy taking care of things at my house, writing that article I had to get finished for my employer, the article for my senior living web site, and the general daily tasks that a wife and mother has to do. I still feel like I should be popping in daily to make sure everything is OK.
"You can't be here all the time," Dad says. "You have your own life to live."
My youngest brother says, "You can't put your life on hold to take care of Mom and Dad." But if I don't, who will take care of things? Who will make sure that the medications are dispensed properly? Who will see that they are OK, getting their bills paid on time, that they eat nutritionally sound meals?
I've determined that I should just take one day at a time. Sometimes one minute at a time. That I should just do what I can each day and forgive myself for my shortcomings. If I'm doing the best that I can, the best I know how, what more is there?
I love you, Mom. I wouldn't trade you, either. You've always been there when I needed you. How can I do anything less for you?
Sometimes I wonder what is going through her mind when I walk out the door to return to my home. Her diagnosis was five years ago. But she remembers things that I didn't expect her to remember at this stage of the game. I attribute that to the medication she takes, Namenda. It may not work for everyone, but it has slowed down the progression of the AD.
Guilt manages to overtake me at moments like this when I know I was busy taking care of things at my house, writing that article I had to get finished for my employer, the article for my senior living web site, and the general daily tasks that a wife and mother has to do. I still feel like I should be popping in daily to make sure everything is OK.
"You can't be here all the time," Dad says. "You have your own life to live."
My youngest brother says, "You can't put your life on hold to take care of Mom and Dad." But if I don't, who will take care of things? Who will make sure that the medications are dispensed properly? Who will see that they are OK, getting their bills paid on time, that they eat nutritionally sound meals?
I've determined that I should just take one day at a time. Sometimes one minute at a time. That I should just do what I can each day and forgive myself for my shortcomings. If I'm doing the best that I can, the best I know how, what more is there?
I love you, Mom. I wouldn't trade you, either. You've always been there when I needed you. How can I do anything less for you?
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
When the day looks gray
Yesterday the world was filled with color and thermometers soared to 80 degrees. Hearts were light and all was well with the world. Today...where did all of the color go?
That is a metaphor. I recall the wonderful, warm memories of my youth and motherhood...and daughterhood...womanhood. I look from this special place to my mother and the direction my life is still taking. I look from this special place to my daughters and the direction each of their lives is taking. I've decided to just live for each day. Have some long-range goals and hold onto the dreams, but just take one day at a time. I want to live each day to the fullest, just like the song...Live Like You Were Dyin'.
Mom cried when I visited her early this week. She hates what is happening to her. She remembers her doctor saying to her, "You used to have such a good brain." She has fixated on that statement and it haunts her. And I think, as smart as her doctor is, sometimes he says stupid things that would be better left unspoken.
She still crochets. I told her long ago, as long as she is crocheting I don't have to worry about her. Dad has often complained about the hours she spends crocheting. And I've told him countless times to let her do it. If it helps to keep her brain alive, it is a good thing. A year ago she was still crocheting complicated advanced patterns. She makes attempts now, but spends hours tearing out and crocheting again to complete the projects. Now she is working on a design of her own made with the simple granny square.
What I know is that she and Dad are not going to be able to live alone for much longer. I think it's time for DH and I to consider moving in with them so they can stay in their home. Dad is trying valiantly to handle everything, but he isn't getting any younger, either. He needs some help.
A couple of friends keep telling me I shouldn't have to take care of my parents. I don't understand. My parents struggled through difficult financial times to take care of us. My mother lost sleep at night when we were sick. My parents have always been there for me when I needed them. Do I have a lesser obligation than they did? How many times did Mom say, "Let me help you now because the day will come when I'll need you to help me"? And don't I want my children to have the same compassion for me? Then I owe compassion to these two special people who brought me into this world, have loved me unselfishly for so long.
It's a gray day in Northeast Ohio. If the sunshine doesn't return on its own, I may have to get out my paint and brushes and put color back into the world around me.
There's a metaphor in that statement, too.
That is a metaphor. I recall the wonderful, warm memories of my youth and motherhood...and daughterhood...womanhood. I look from this special place to my mother and the direction my life is still taking. I look from this special place to my daughters and the direction each of their lives is taking. I've decided to just live for each day. Have some long-range goals and hold onto the dreams, but just take one day at a time. I want to live each day to the fullest, just like the song...Live Like You Were Dyin'.
Mom cried when I visited her early this week. She hates what is happening to her. She remembers her doctor saying to her, "You used to have such a good brain." She has fixated on that statement and it haunts her. And I think, as smart as her doctor is, sometimes he says stupid things that would be better left unspoken.
She still crochets. I told her long ago, as long as she is crocheting I don't have to worry about her. Dad has often complained about the hours she spends crocheting. And I've told him countless times to let her do it. If it helps to keep her brain alive, it is a good thing. A year ago she was still crocheting complicated advanced patterns. She makes attempts now, but spends hours tearing out and crocheting again to complete the projects. Now she is working on a design of her own made with the simple granny square.
What I know is that she and Dad are not going to be able to live alone for much longer. I think it's time for DH and I to consider moving in with them so they can stay in their home. Dad is trying valiantly to handle everything, but he isn't getting any younger, either. He needs some help.
A couple of friends keep telling me I shouldn't have to take care of my parents. I don't understand. My parents struggled through difficult financial times to take care of us. My mother lost sleep at night when we were sick. My parents have always been there for me when I needed them. Do I have a lesser obligation than they did? How many times did Mom say, "Let me help you now because the day will come when I'll need you to help me"? And don't I want my children to have the same compassion for me? Then I owe compassion to these two special people who brought me into this world, have loved me unselfishly for so long.
It's a gray day in Northeast Ohio. If the sunshine doesn't return on its own, I may have to get out my paint and brushes and put color back into the world around me.
There's a metaphor in that statement, too.
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