It can always get worse

Last night I was "toileting" Mom, a nice way of saying that I now help her stand up off the toilet and wipe her. It was a funny feeling, like she used to do that for me, and now I do the same for her. It has been a difficult few weeks since Mom was in severe pain a week ago and had a reaction to her pain meds and then developed a bladder infection. She was actually weakened and confused enough that for the first time ever, her nurse suggested that I call my brother and sister and put them on "alert". However, once the pain med patch was removed and her antibiotics started working on the infection, she once again made a rebound.

It is strange that for most of my adult life I have complained and whined about the difficulty of being me and living my life. At each junction in the last 10 years I became more and more aware of how ridiculous my complaints were. If God truly has a sense of humor, heaven must be lol-ing and rofl-ing at this time!

Two years ago (or it will be 2 years at the end of October) I went to a caregiver support group, I think I only got there once. Each time I tried to go again, Mom had some issue that by the time it was addressed, I was too late. I remember how I felt depressed and trapped THEN. How little did I know.

The sad part is that I am sure my Mom is not pleased with having her daughter dress her, help her from a chair back into a wheelchair to go to the bathroom, where I pull her pants down and then wipe her. I finish off with special cream because she is so bony and her skin so delicate that just sitting causes her skin to be irritated and frequently to break open. It is harder for her than for me I realize. It is hard for both of us. Yet every time we hit one of the really bad patches, I am scared to death of losing her.

The coziness of caregiving.

This morning I got up and wanted to begin working on some new jewelry in preparation for a fall pre-holiday sale. All summer long I have unable to get into any kind of a creative mode. I can put something together but there is no magic in it. I start to work on something and find I have displaced tools, findings or stones. It is so frustrating. I loved being lost in the creative flow,it hasn't happened in awhile.

I remember discussing this with my Aunt a number of months ago. She is primary caregiver for her husband and at the time we spoke was having some trouble getting into her writers mode. She is an accomplished poet. So this morning, I thought I would see how she is doing. My Aunt is probably one of the, if not the most, beloved people in my life, from the time I first met her. I believe I was 5,maybe 6.

She said that "yes, she had been writing a lot" She finds coziness in the routine of care giving a loved one. A peace in the hours that her husband sleeps and she can write.

It makes me think of the days here. There is a definite repetitiveness of the days, but I never thought of them as comforting, so maybe I need to revisit that. I guess I can accept that my alone time is before Mom wakes and just be in it, instead of worrying if I have enough time to............ and I know that while certain programs are on, I have freedom. I sit with Mom and either nap or read while she dozes through the afternoon. Maybe I need to rethink things and get into coziness instead of concern? As always, thanks Aunt Bonnie for your positive outlook and loving attitude.

Turn about IS fair play....mwah ha ha

Something interesting occurred to me recently, but I just have not had time to write lately.(more on this another time.) Some of these thoughts floated in while we were getting ready for our San Antonio trip. As you may remember, Mom decided she couldn't stay with the caregiver. The woman makes her crazy,or so she said...and I had this huge flashback (not drug related) of my grandfather, her father, and his caregiver. His caregiver was nothing like Mom's. Mom's is healthy, trim, well groomed and just plain fun. My grandfather just did not want his caregiver at all and Mom just had him suck it up. Mom knew she needed that time to herself.

Another memory: the little photo of the Hummel figure that I posted:Mom lived with her parents when my father died. She cared for her Mom and then cared for her Dad, who was not infirmed, but needed to be driven,cooked for.She shopped, cleaned and so on. When Mom met her 2nd husband, Grandpa and Mom broke up housekeeping. Grandpa moved to assisted living (which he complained mightily about) and Mom moved in with her own husband. Grandpa's caregiver suggested that THEY get married and stay in his house. Grandpa had thought Mom and her husband would live in the house with him.

My Grandfather had purchased a Hummel collection for our Grandmother. They were fairly expensive and she had a large number of them, as he would purchase one each time a new one came out. One day, after the house had been sold, Mom came home and all the Hummels were gone. A neighbor said she liked them and Grandpa sold her the collection and the special shelves for $350.00. My Mom was furious. He had never asked her if she or anyone else in the family wanted them.She was shocked and angry.

Flash forward to years ahead when my brother and I were helping Mom and Dad move out of their home. They were moving into assisted living and Mom was not happy about that. After hours of packing, my brother and I decided to take a break and go out for a bite to eat. While we were out for a little more than an hour, an antiques dealer came in. We knew he was supposed to come, but we had thought we would be there. Imagine our surprise to come home and find Dad's grandfather clock (actually given to him by his grandfather), some antique shelves,knick knacks, and an oil painting that had belonged to my grandmother. These pieces had been verbally promised to Dad's daughter and my sister, although there were other family members that would also have liked them. Just like the Hummels......they were gone!