Merry Christmas!

esus Christ is born!

I hope you all had a Merry Christmas! We enjoyed celebrating the birth of our Lord and Savior with many family members. A few too many, it seemed, at some times. But there wasn't one I would have chosen not to have there, and there was one who couldn't make it that I wish would have been here, too. So, I guess all the anxiety was worth it. ;)

My daughter was one of the visitors. Her last day, she wanted to go to a bookstore that she thought was in the mall in Big Town. I couldn't remember a bookstore in the mall, and it's not a very big mall.

"It's by the staircase," she said.

The staircase? Curious. I couldn't remember a staircase in our little mall. She must have been thinking of one in Big City or Another Big City or where she goes to college. There's no staircase in the mall in Big Town.

Then I remembered.

"Do you mean the four steps leading to a slightly lower elevation in the mall?"

Sure enough, there is a bookstore in the mall in Big Town. Right next to the (tiny) staircase.

Doorbells

've mentioned before that Mom is a hoarder.

When I moved back in last spring, the front door (which we rarely use) was completely blocked with boxes of stuff. Papers from two years ago, unmatched socks by the bag, boxes and bags from previously started and unfinished sorting attempts, and an empty video cabinet--while all the DVDs and VHS tapes are scattered around the room.

Once, the screen door locked as Mom and I were going outside to look at something, and we couldn't get back in. Dad was sleeping in the back, and my husband was sleeping in the basement. I went around to the front door and tried to open it. Push. Push. Push. Not enough movement to even get my head through the door.

I had my cell phone, so I tried calling my husband. He didn't answer. So, I called the house phone. Dad didn't answer. I rang the doorbell. Still no knight came to our rescue.

Finally, I pushed hard enough I could get my head through the door, and I hollered, "Dad!!!" He answered, and I told him we needed help. And at the same time, my husband came up the stairs. Finally, we were back in!

So, a few months later, I spent a lot of time emptying that corner, along with the rest of the room. Wow, did that feel nice! Being able to walk through the room and into the hallway rather than walking around through the kitchen. Not having boxes tumble down when their precarious position was perturbed.

Shortly after that, Mom wanted to move furniture around. I'm not sure why, but she decided she wanted the table moved from the dining area side of the kitchen into the back half of the living room. It's no further from the stove to the table, and I figured it would, if nothing else, keep Dad's oxygen hose from tripping us while we're cooking. So, I strapped on my weight belt and got cracking.

As we were trying to figure out where to place all the furniture, I mentioned that since we never use the front door, maybe we could put a piece of furniture in front of it.

"Heavens no! We use that door sometimes," Mom replied, indignantly.

I didn't mention the years the door was blocked before I cleared it out a few weeks prior.

"Oh really? When?" I asked, innocently.

"Well, sometimes people come up to that door and ring the doorbell."

"Huh. I don't know why they would, when the sidewalk comes up to the back door."

"Well, one time the {former, long-retired} newspaper editor's daughter and her boyfriend ran off the road, and they came up to our house to get help. She rang that doorbell."

"She did," Dad interjected. "And I pulled their car out with the old Chevy truck, and she always was real nice to me after that."

I did some mental processing of that information. The year the Chevy truck was traded for the Ford truck flashed through my mind. Then I processed the name of the woman who rang the bell.

She graduated when I was six.

And that was the last time the front doorbell was rung. Well, until I tried to get in when I was locked out the back door.

UTIs

om was acting very strangely this morning.

She had an appointment for fasting blood work this morning. Mom's blood sugar going low affects her significantly, and sooner than it does most people. If her blood sugar is in the 70s, she's getting shaky. So, the idea of not being able to eat until after a 9:00 appointment had her freaked out from the moment she woke up (if she slept at all, that is, as nervous as she was).

She took her blood sugar right after she got up at 7:00, and it was 99. To her, that's spiraling down out of control! When I came upstairs at 7:40, she was worried because she thought we were supposed to be there before 8:00. No Mom, your appointment is at 9:00, and they called yesterday and asked you to come in at 8:45. I suggested she sit down and rest if she thought her sugar was going low. She did for a couple of minutes, and then she checked her blood sugar again. 155. Her liver must have thrown some sugar, she said. I told her again to sit down. Instead, she searched for her blood pressure cuff to see if that was the problem. 107/51. Superb.

Finally, I said we could just as well leave and wait there as well as at home. Maybe they'd get us in early. Then, during the 25 minute drive, I tried to engage her in conversation, but she wouldn't talk much. She had an odd look on her face, somewhere between determination and confusion, if that makes any sense. She looked at the clock and said, "We aren't going to have time for breakfast before my appointment." I gently reminded her that she needed to be fasting for this appointment, and we'd have breakfast afterwards. Thank God for my meds.

Finally, a thought occurred to me.

"Mom, we usually eat breakfast at 8:30. It's 8:35 right now, so on a normal day, you would just be eating right now. You're going to be OK."

I dropped her off at the door and told her to register while I parked. When I got inside, she was standing there and told me every one was busy. Two of the three receptionists were sitting with no one in front of them. I got her registered, and gestured to the waiting room. But Mom bypassed the waiting room and headed right down the hallway toward the patient rooms in the back!

"Mom, we have to wait here."

"No, I have to go have my blood drawn so I can eat breakfast," she insisted, like a petulant 3-year-old.

I convinced her to sit down, and listened to her whine about not getting to eat. I offered to go check with the receptionist to see if she was supposed to go to the lab first. Of course, the answer was no.

Not too much later, she was called back. I told the nurse in private that I thought Mom was acting a little strange and that we should have her checked for a UTI. They were kind enough to oblige, and sure enough, she had one.

This isn't the first time this has happened. The first time, I was surprised that it would have that kind of effect. But one of the women at my church works in a nursing home, and she told me that yes, when patients start acting (more) confused (than usual), the first thing they check is for a urinary tract infection. Apparently, when they have an infection, the toxins that should be flushed out by urination back up in the system and get into the blood, causing all kinds of havoc.

So, Mom got some antibiotics. We'll see how it goes.

Depression and Anxiety

have a history of depression and anxiety.

Caregiving is very stressful. I knew that it would be, but I didn't know that it would be. What I mean is I knew logically that it would be difficult, but I didn't realize the depths the difficulty would take me.

I yell at my husband. I yell at my mother. I push off my son and only half-listen when he talks to me. I don't talk to friends. I complain all the time. I'm so easily frustrated by everything that there is little joy left in life.

And I cry. A lot.

One Sunday, I cried because I missed my turn, which resulted in a fight with my husband--he wasn't upset I missed the turn; I was upset because he said that he thought I'd missed it, but didn't say anything. I couldn't get it together. Every time I thought I might stop, I couldn't. I finally asked my husband if I could go sit in the hallway, where I woudn't be a distraction to the pastor or the congregation. Not to mention embarrassed.

So, it's been several weeks since I realized I should get some help. Last week, I finally called. It's a hard call to make, on many levels, not the least of which are pride and because we don't have insurance and everything costs so much. Fortunately, my dad's doctor was willing to start me on the medications I took a few years ago, without an appointment, and I'll go in to see him in a couple of weeks to make sure it's going well.

The medicine seems to be helping. I hope other caregivers will take help when they need it. Pride can be a very bad thing sometimes.

Clandestine Chicken Chucking

om doesn't like to waste anything. If there's a little coffee in the pot in the morning, she pours it into cups to heat in the microwave and makes another pot to finish out three cups for breakfast. If you'd seen me in our last place, you would be surprised it bothers me--I used to make a pot of coffee, and being the only one in the house that drank it, would heat it in the microwave for up to 3 days! But I think it bothers me now because she just can't stand the idea of throwing anything away (not to mention that she yells at me when I throw stuff away).

Once in awhile, I mess up with menus and end up buying more food than I have time to make, and then forget to put it in the freezer, and it gets wasted. Well, once, there was some nasty, rotting chicken in the fridge that I was going to throw away. But when I wasn't looking, Mom started cooking it. I'm not kidding. I asked her what she was doing, gagging from the stench as I spoke.

She was cooking it to give to the cats. *sigh*

She did that one other time, too, and that time, there were people in the basement working on the remodeling! When I realized what was going on, I took it outside and put it in the cats' bowl. I hoped they were smart enough not to burn themselves on it.

Today, my husband commented that there was, once again, some bad chicken in the fridge. He said he would take it out to the dumpster, but I told him Mom would probably want to cook it for the cats if she saw it. So, he decided he'll do it tonight, after she's gone to bed.

Nothing like clandestine chicken chucking. *grin*

Cats

ad and Mom live on a farm. For many years, my dad's farming activities included storage of bags of seed corn, wheat, soy beans, etc. Bags of seed are a great feeding ground for mice and rats--Dad, of course, didn't want to provide such a feast! So, ever since I can remember, we've had farm cats.

Once, when I was a child, I remember there were 60 of them out there! Right now, there are about 25. We were able to catch two of the kittens that were born this year at just the right time that they will still let us hold them. The rest scatter like roaches when the house door opens. It's hilarious seeing big cats run away from us while these two itty bitty ones run across the yard to get to us!

When we moved here, we were homeschooling our son, and then there was summer. So for several months, he was able to take care of the job of feeding the cats. He had a big joke with Grandpa, who would ask him each morning if he'd fed the "chickens" yet. At some point in the joke, Grandpa started asking him if he'd remembered to bring in the eggs. Then, my son quipped that there were only brown ones. Eww. But they had fun with their little ritual, and the cats got fed every day.

Then, in September, he started back in public school. Mom said she would feed the cats. She needs some exercise every day, and it's a good way for her to get it. I was happy with that solution.

Then, winter struck. And the first storm was an ice storm. Mom's balance isn't good on a regular day, so there's no way she can go out and feed the cats when it's icy. Last year, Dad fed them in the winter. This year, he's on oxygen.

So, guess who gets to feed the cats? You guessed it. I've gotten another Eldersitting Bonus Task.

Everything's Here

his has been a rough morning for Mom. She was working on breakfast, and kept wandering from the dining room to the kitchen, but not remembering why she went to the other room. I told her that as long as she still remembers who I am, she's doing all right. We had a good laugh about that.

Then, she filled dad's glass of juice a little too full, so when she put in the ground flax and sesame seeds, it was really full, and for some reason, she thought she should bring it to the table right away. Not sure why.

I had been in the basement getting stuff she needed (she isn't supposed to do stairs anymore), and came up just in time to see her stirring the overfull glass in mid-air!

"You might want to set that down," I told her, and we laughed.

When we got everything on the table, she stood looking at her place at the table, wondering what was missing.

"Everything's here, Mom."

"I don't think I am," she said. "At least my mind isn't."

*sigh* What do you say to that? I'm sorry, Momma. I love you.

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The Things You Learn

hen Eldersitting your parents, you sometimes learn some interesting things.

My parents' relationship has not been very good in recent years. They are of the generation that wouldn't consider divorce, otherwise I sometimes wonder if they'd still be together. When I moved up here, I was disturbed to find out Mom wanted me to be her confidante and counselor. I wouldn't have thought I'd mind, but the things she was telling me! One day, she told me that Dad never even wanted to have children. That was the worst. Honestly, I could have gone the rest of my life without hearing that one.

She told me that when I was up prepping their house for us to move in, but I hadn't yet packed at home. I called my husband, crying, and told him what she'd said, and that I wasn't sure if I could do this. He reassured me that it would be OK, that even if Dad hadn't wanted to have children, he obviously loved us once he had us.

After that, I told Mom that I couldn't be her counselor and confidante. After all, I'm living with Dad, too, and I don't want reasons to not love him. She's been pretty good about remembering not to complain to me about him.

When I was a little kid, I loved the song, "Funny Face" by Donna Fargo. I would listen to it over and over on the 8-track player, at the age of 4 pushing the button repeatedly to skip the other songs on the tape. Dad started calling me "Funny Face". I never took it as an insult, even when I grew older, because of the next line in the song, "Funny face... I love you."

I love you too, Dad.

Going to Church

ow that I'm (almost) my sister's guardian, I'm making changes with her visits home. For instance, she can't be here for long periods of time (i.e., more than 30 minutes!) unless I am. That means each time she comes home for the weekend, she comes to church with us on Sunday. Twice.

At first, Sis was so opposed to going to church with us that she refused to come home for weekends when she was told she'd have to go. But then, at Uncle's funeral a few weeks ago, my husband got to spend a couple of hours with her, just the two of them, and he told her all about the Gospel. When she found out that's what our church is about, she suddenly was happy to go.

We were raised in an ELCA Lutheran Church; now, we go to a Reformed Church. Many Reformed churches come from a Dutch background, while the Lutheran heritage is more German and Norwegian, so the hymns Sis and I grew up on are different than the ones we're singing now. The first service this week, I noticed Sis quietly tried to sing along with the hymns, but they were all unfamiliar, and she can't read music. (Her I.Q. is 42--I'm pleased as punch she can read words!) Then, the last hymn was one she knew: O Come, O Come Emmanuel. And she let the whole congregation know she knew it! What a joyful noise to the Lord that was! It was beautiful! She hugged me after the service and told me she loves our church.

Mornings are the toughest time of day for Dad. His head generally hurts worst upon waking, or sometimes it is what wakes him. So, they haven't gone to church with us in the morning. But this week was the second time they came with us to the evening service. I think they had an idea that our religion was a cult or something, because they really avoided going with us for a long time. Mom finds it strange that my husband doesn't like crosses or pictures and statues of Jesus; he finds it strange that she seems to think the Second Commandment doesn't apply. But, they know now that our church is a good one, and this week, I think they were truly blessed by the service.

I know I was. There is nothing like hearing the Law and Gospel preached by a man of God. Amazing!

Low-Sodium Cooking

ad had a new problem a few weeks ago: his feet and ankles were swollen like elephant legs. He went to the doctor, got a 2-week supply of a diuretic, and was told to lower his salt intake and not to eat ham or canned soup.

What had I been serving for lunch every day the previous two weeks? Canned soup and lunch meat sandwiches. Oops.

What did I cook almost every evening meal with? Either canned cream of mushroom soup, dry onion soup mix, or chicken or beef broth/bouillon. I was appalled when I looked at the sodium count on those items! I've been killing Dad!!

So, I went to the store, determined to find some ingredients that I could cook with that wouldn't be horribly high in sodium. Low-sodium cream of mushroom soup: still too much sodium. Low-sodium dry onion soup mix: yeah, um, that one doesn't exist, at least not in the grocery stores in Big Town.

That meant it was time to find new recipes. Google, here I come!

So many recipes call for the canned and boxed items I'd been using that the first step was to find substitutes for those. And I found a wonderful site that has been very helpful in teaching me how to make homemade cream soup, chicken stock, and beef stock, for which I can monitor and control the amount of sodium that goes in. The site is Home Ec 101: Real skill for real people with real lives (what you wish your mama taught you).

From this site, I've learned to make:

• Bechamel sauce--a creamy white sauce that is made from butter, flour, and cream/half and half/milk. You can vary the recipe by adding chicken stock, vegetable stock, or fish stock and adding things like mushrooms to mimic cream of mushroom, cream of celery, cream of shrimp, or cream of chicken soup. I've learned that if you're careful with the re-heating process (heat it on low on the stove from frozen), it doesn't separate, and so it can be made in large batches and frozen.
• Chicken stock--chicken stock takes a lot of cooking time, but not a lot of effort, to make, so I made large batches of it and freeze it in 1 or 2 cup portions.
• Chicken soup--her homemade soup is delicious, and once you've made the chicken stock, very easy and quick to prepare.
• Dumplings--my husband loves chicken and dumplings. He prefers the firmer, almost pasta-like dumplings, and I always made the fluffy, biscuit-like dumplings. I found on the Home Ec 101 site that adding egg is what changes the consistency.

So now, I will be able to post some things about cooking from scratch.

Oh, and Dad's feet and ankles are back to normal! Yay!

Revelation

his week, I've had a revelation for relieving my stress taking care of my parents. I've been playing with them.


Not making fun of them or anything like that. But playing cards. They were big card players in their day, and when I was young, they'd go to someone's house at least a couple times a month to play cards. For many years, Dad hasn't wanted to go places. He's been depressed, but they couldn't find the right combination of meds to help him. Mom doesn't drive, so when Dad stopped going places... her social life almost completely cut off.

I never got into playing cards much as an adult, but my daughter is visiting from college this week, and she loves to play cards with her friends at the dorms. So, she's been teaching me and my son games over the past year, and this visit was no exception. And Mom, in turn, taught her how to play their favorite card game, Whist. (My son had previously learned when my brother was visiting a couple of weeks ago.)

Mom was fascinated watching us play cards Sunday afternoon. She didn't even take a nap! She didn't want to play the games we were playing, but she didn't want to miss out on watching us. So, I suggested we play Whist and let her in on the fun. We've played every day since, and I have been a lot less stressed out this week! My husband has learned to play, too, and let me tell you, he and my dad make a formidable partnership!

I used to work upstairs with Mom and Dad, cooking, cleaning, taking them to appointments, paying bills, and whatever else needed to be done. After our evening meal (is it dinner or supper?), I would immediately go downstairs, to "get away". But I'm finding staying up there for an hour is good for us all.

Sit, Ubu, Sit

ne of the things I don't understand about my mom is that she doesn't like to sit down. Take mealtime, for instance. I do all the cooking; Mom and my son set the table. And when it's time to eat, she won't sit down until I do. She walks from the table to the kitchen, looking for something to do, and finding nothing, she walks back to the table. Repeat til I sit down (at which time, she realizes she didn't fill her water glass, so we wait).

My husband often studies during the night while the rest of us are sleeping, so he has fewer distractions. I get up to help with breakfast every morning, but he rarely sees that ritual. One morning, he did, and he asked if she always does that.

Yes, I nodded. Makes me want to tell her, "Sit, Ubu, sit. Good dog."

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Adventures in Eldersitting--Overnight Travel, Part 2

o, if you read Part 1, you know how things are going. We went 2 hours from home for a funeral, with the plan to stay overnight--and I forgot Mom and Dad's meds. My Husband, the doll that he is, drove all the way home to get them. While he was gone, my cousin ferried us all to her house. When we got there, I asked my son and my cousin's husband to bring in Dad's oxygen machine, because Dad had used all the oxygen in his two portable tanks.

Big mistake.

When Hubby and I loaded the machine into the van, we hoisted it in without removing the tubing that connects the main machine to the secondary machine that fills tanks. When the guys removed it from the SUV at my cousin's house, the tubing got bumped just right, so that the fitting that connected the tubing to the machine broke.

None of the kings horses and none of the kings men (nor any amount of super glue or gorilla glue) could put Humpty together again.

The main oxygen machine still worked, but required that Dad be sitting within 40 feet or so of a plug-in. The cemetery was right behind the church, but not that close. So, now what?

My cousin and I called some friends of theirs who own a welding shop. They thought they might be able to help, so we went over. Unfortunately, the oxygen tanks used in welding don't have the same type of fittings that medical oxygen tanks do; nor did they have any means to fill a tank.

So, I called the hospital in that town. Yes, they had an oxygen tank we could borrow, but they suggested I call his home medical supplier, because Medicare only allows one company to bill for oxygen supplies. When I called the supplier, I was told they couldn't do that, and we'd have to pay for it ourselves. But, we could go to their sister company an hour away to get a replacement part.

We left a little early for the funeral so we could stop at the hospital to get the tank. We paid a $25 rental fee, and left a $100 deposit to ensure we'd bring it back. We all cried through the funeral and the interment. Then, after we ate with the family, I said goodbye to my Husband again as he drove the hour to the sister home medical supply company. They lent him a tank to get Dad home, we returned the rented tank to the hospital, and all was well.

Interestingly, the hospital sent back Mom and Dad's $25 check. That was pretty sweet of them.

Repetition

t's funny listening to Mom and Dad talk to each other sometimes. Neither of them can hear very well. Dad's voice has changed so much that the gruffness makes it hard to understand. And Mom always thinks she's talking louder than she actually is.

One day, I heard them discussing a magazine.

Mom: Do you want this?

Dad: No, but the grandson (speaking of my son) might.

Mom: What did you say?

Dad: The grandson might.

Mom (looking around quizzically): I still can't understand what you're saying.

So, I step in to try and help.

Me: He said "The grandson might."

Mom: I can't understand you either.

Me (after trying a couple more times, then gesturing to myself): My son... He might like it.

Mom: Oh, yes, OK.


Then this morning, they were talking about going out to eat at a restaurant that gives Veterans a free meal on Veteran's Day. My husband and I aren't going to be home that day, so I suggested Dad might want to take Mom out for a meal. I asked if they were planning to take my son with them for dinner or go at lunch time while he's in school. First, Dad corrected me, saying that he'd be eating dinner while my son is in school, but they could take him along for supper (welcome to Rural America). Then Mom joked and said, "We'll take him with us for supper and make him watch us eat."

Dad didn't hear her. So, I got to watch the exchange again.

Finally Dad heard what she said. Then, he quipped, "That's when he'd grow a long arm." He knows my son well. :)

Happy Veteran's Day, and to all who have served or are serving our country, many, many thanks!

Adventures in Eldersitting--Overnight Travel, Part 1

o, we went to Uncle's funeral. This is the first time we've gone anywhere overnight. Dad really wanted to drive two hours up on Thursday for the visitation (3-8 p.m.), drive two hours back, and then get up Friday morning and drive two hours again and get there in time for the family service at 10 a.m.

I have said it before, and I don't mind admitting it again--I am so not Superwoman.

Dad didn't want to stay overnight because he is on oxygen full time, and between his two portable tanks, he can get about 8 hours of oxygen. We assured him that we could load his oxygen machine into the van and that it would be much better to stay up there overnight.

Ya know, if I'd listened to him, I would have been tired, but I would have avoided two other "adventures" that I could have done without.

First--I have never packed for Mom and Dad before. That was quite an experience in its own right. Get the Depends pads for Mom. Don't forget denture cleaner for Dad. (Dad has full dentures, but only wears the top plate, so the bottom one needed to be left at home in its bowl of water. As I've been cleaning, I keep running across yet another blue plastic denture bowl Dad got from a hospital stay. There were a ton of them, and I've been recycling them rather than allowing them to continue to be collected. Do you suppose I could find an extra one when it was time to go?)

Anyway, next is medications. We were planning to stay at a hotel, and the last thing I wanted was to have their meds packed in a suitcase at the hotel and need some of them while we were at a restaurant. So, I put them in Mom's purse. But, she had just switched to a smaller bag, and objected to having them in there. I put them in my purse.

Mom wanted to take a bag of letters with her, in case she had time to work on them. No, I'm not talking about letters she wanted to write to family or friends. I'm talking about Publisher's Clearing House letters.

As I was walking out the door, I was so concerned that I not forget any of their stuff that I managed to leave without my own purse! Yes, the very same purse that I'd put their meds in!

We didn't have Mom and Dad's meds, but I did have those PCH entries. (She never once looked at them while we were gone.)

When I realized we didn't have the meds, I called the pharmacy. The tech I talked to figured it was pretty important they not miss their meds for a day. I told my husband that I was going to drive back home and get them. He said, "No you're not. I am going to go get them." What a doll. :)

With a 4+ hour trip ahead of him, Hubby couldn't make it back before we'd have to leave the funeral home, so we discussed going to a hotel and getting rooms, and finding someone to bring us there after the visitation was done. When my cousin heard that, she insisted we could stay at their house. Alan thought about stopping there to drop off our stuff on the med run, but my cousin said we could just transfer everything into her SUV, and she'd get us there.

That was a mistake. But, you'll read more about that in Part 2.

The Sovereignty of God

(I started writing this before Uncle's funeral.)

I've been struggling.

Mom and I have been fighting.

I moved here to take care of things for her and Dad. I did not move here to watch her keep working herself to death. I came here to encourage her to take care of her health, resting regularly according to the doctor's orders, and not doing dangerous things like cutting with sharp knives (she has no feeling in her left hand/arm/side/leg) or bending over to pick things up from the floor (her balance has never recovered since the stroke). She was even talking the other day about wanting to iron!  Mom! You can't do that!

But it seems the more I try to get her to do what's good for her, the more she fights me. We're both stubborn. We're both argumentative. We're both hard-headed. Where'd ya think I got it from?

A woman at my church works in the Alzheimer's unit at a nursing home, so I wrote her an email on Saturday when we were at our worst. "How do you get a stroke patient to stop working and take care of herself? I came here to help extend her life, not watch her work herself to death."

Her answer: You don't.

But, she did have some good ideas. She suggested saying things like, "Mom, do you want to come have a cup of tea with me?" and sit down with her. "Mom, can you look at something with me?" and sit down with her. In other words, don't tell her she needs to rest, but that I need her for something.

She also reminded me that nothing I can do, nothing Mom can do, can add an hour to her life. She will live as long as God wants her to. No more and no less.

It's amazing how freeing it is to bask in the light of God's sovereignty.

And now, I intend to enjoy the last weeks/months/years I have with my parents.

Been Awhile!

Well, after pummulting the blog with post after post for over a week, I realize today it's been two weeks since I last posted! One of my dad's brothers passed away, so we went to the funeral about 2 hours from home and spent the night. That was an adventure! The staying overnight part. The funeral part was sad. It's strange, though, how it's mostly only at funerals that I get to see my relatives, outside of my immediate family. Being with everyone made the sad occasion of Uncle's death a little more bearable.

I'll post stories about the trip as I get back into blogging.

Now I Understand... Well, Some of It, Anyway...

Yesterday, Mom and I were fighting a lot, and I couldn't figure out why. I hoped that things would be better this morning, but it was quite clear at breakfast that they were not.

On our way to church, my husband had a revelation: Mom was mad at me because (in her mind), I had prevented my sister from coming home for the weekend. Let me explain.

I'm going to be my sister's guardian as soon as the paperwork and court hearing are done. I've already taken on the role of making sure she follows rules at home, and part of that includes her not being here without myself or my husband supervising. So, I already told Mom that on Sunday's when she's visiting for the weekend, we will take Sis with us to church. She agreed that was a good idea.

Over the years, Sis has idolized a number of pro sports players. (Yes, this line of commenting is relevant to the story, Your Honor.) Last week, I heard that one of her idols was returning to play for her team again. So, in keeping with my thought that she won't mind not coming home so often if we keep in touch with her between visits, I called to tell her about it.

Unfortunately, I didn't know when I called that she'd gotten in trouble for verbally and physically fighting with one of her housemates that evening. When I called, she was on edge and thought I was calling to holler at her.

So much for chit chatting about sports idols.

She wanted to talk to Mom and asked her if she could come home for the weekend. My first thought was, "No." But then I realized I will be busy the next 3 weekends, so I relented, on the condition that she go to church with me on Sunday.

I still don't know why, but she didn't want to. She didn't even want to come for Friday night and Saturday. When I talked to her staff, they were as confused as I was. Sis always says yes when people ask her to do something, and she goes to church whenever the staff takes the group. I don't understand it.

But, apparently, Mom's blaming it on me and taking it out on me.

Gotta love those Eldersitting Bonus Tasks.

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Dad's Pain

Dad has a lot of pain. And I'm not talking about myself.

He has had chronic headaches, for decades. He's got irritable bowel syndrome and lymphocytic colitis, so he has a lot of belly pain. He has acid reflux, so he often has chest pain that is hard to distinguish from heart problems (he had a heart attack and bypass surgery in the 90's). And it seems he's developed arthritis in his upper back and sternum.

One of the doctors that treated him for his chronic headaches gave him prescriptions for morphine. Stupid doctor. Reminds me of the joke, "What do you call the person who graduates last in the class in medical school? Doctor!"

Dad became addicted to the morphine, his personality changed, he started threatening Mom, talked about killing himself, and isolated himself (and because of his suicide threats, isolated Mom, because she wouldn't go anywhere without him). We did a family intervention, put him through drug rehab, and hoped for the best. He has a new doctor, one who knows about the morphine problem and who won't give it to him again!

Well, a few weeks ago, Dad's belly pain got so bad, he couldn't eat dinner or breakfast the next day. So, we took him to the ER.

While I was in the restroom, the doctor gave Dad morphine.

Ever since then, Dad has had one pain after another. It moves from place to place and escalates. And he keeps asking for more morphine. We keep refusing to give it to him. From what I understand, once the brain has experienced an addictive drug like morphine, it can "create" the trigger that used to get it. So, Dad's brain had a taste of morphine, and now it wants more. I don't know how long it will take for the desire to go away. It's been more than a month already.

Mom and I had a fight today. A big one.

She doesn't want to stop working. I want her to take care of herself. I want her to live a lot longer. She thinks to live is to work.

I don't know what the answer is.

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Humility

I like to be right as much as the next person. OK, actually, I have a horrible need to always be right. I'm hoping that living with Mom and her failing memory will teach me some humility.

Mom gave me a huge load of flannel shirts to wash a few weeks ago. I washed them and dried them... and found them a few days later when they got in the way of putting in another load! Of course, I didn't have time to do anything with them right then, so I put them in a basket. Then, in the course of the cleanout/remodeling, the basket got moved a few times. And hidden under other stuff. And then moved again. You get the idea.

Yesterday, I ran across it again and figured it was time to deal with it. (Clearly, ignoring it wasn't getting the flannel to fulfill its destiny of being packed in boxes for Goodwill on its own.)

So, I ran them through the dryer on the touchup cycle, draped them over my arm one by one, and brought the pile up to Mom.

"I washed these shirts for you a few weeks ago, Mom," I told her. "You said you wanted them washed, and then you'd sort out which ones you want to keep and which you want to donate. Can you go through them?"

"I will after awhile," was her reply. In hindsight, our exchange had "misunderstanding" written all over it.

I left to take Dad to an appointment. When I got back, all the shirts were in the dirty laundry pile. *sigh*

She said she thought I said the shirts had to be washed, not sorted for donation. I started to say something, that I'd clearly told her what needed to be done, but I decided against it. To tell her that would point out a deficiency that I know she feels awful about, and she can't fix. So, instead, I told her that I was sorry I hadn't been clear enough. And that I would try to do better next time.

I hope and pray that through this, I can learn to think before I speak and consider whether its important to be in the right. I'm sure I will find it often is not.

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Money

My husband is in grad school, so for the past two years, I have been the sole provider for our family's financial needs. When we came up to take care of my parents, it seemed like things would be good: we'd get free room and board, I could get a part time job, and if we ran out of money, Mom and Dad agreed to back us up financially. Sounded like a pretty good deal, all the way around.

Unfortunately, I haven't had time to look for that part time job, nor would I have time to work it if I had it.

In the past 6 weeks, there have been 4 days, Monday-Friday, that I didn't have to take one or both of them to an appointment. At first, it seemed to be just a convenience to them to have me drive. Now, it's of the utmost importance that I go with them because they and the doctors need to use my memory (such as it is).

So, every once in awhile, I've asked them for some money. Do you know how hard it is, as an adult, to ask your parents for money? Maybe it wouldn't be hard for some people, but it is extremely difficult for me. Once, I waited too long to ask, and we overdrew our checking account! To an extent, I feel like I should be here taking care of them for nothing. They are, after all, my parents (honor thy father and thy mother includes caring for them in their old age), and they provided for me as I was growing up, and helped me a lot when I was a young adult, too. But the fact of the matter is, if I had a job, I wouldn't be able to be here, and they would be paying a whole lot of money for assisted living. Not to mention they wouldn't be able to stay in the home they know and love.

This morning, I had a talk with them, and we agreed to an amount. It's a far cry from what they would be paying to go to Assisted Living, but is enough for us, along with room and board and some work-from-home things I do, for us to get by. My husband and I have both accepted the fact that God will not allow us to be rich, because we have too much pride and too little humility to use it properly.

And maybe God will teach us some humility in the process.

The sweetest part of it was when they asked how much I wanted to be paid, and I said I didn't know and asked what they thought I was worth, Dad smiled and said, "Far more than we can afford to pay you."

Cupboards and Drawers

One thing I've noticed is different about Mom is she never closes cupboard doors. Some days, it feels like that scene in The Sixth Sense--I go get some clothes out of the laundry room, and when I come back into the kitchen, every cupboard door and half the drawers are open! I've mentioned it to her many times, but to no avail.

The other morning, I was paying some of their bills. From the table, I could reach back and open the drawer where the stamps and 17 million address labels are kept. I opened it and left it open for the 20 seconds it took to put them on the envelopes.

And she came up behind me and shut the drawer!

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Not in Her Nature

Mom doesn't like to sit while she works. All my life, I've watched her stand while cooking, stand while folding clothes, stand while going through the mail. She probably wished she'd been born a man so she could stand in the bathroom!

Since she had her stroke (and went through physical therapy to relearn how to walk and do other everyday tasks), Mom has been instructed that for every hour she stands, she is supposed to sit for an hour with her feet up. That doesn't always go so well. Several times, I have tried to get her to stop working and sit down. We've had shouting matches over it--she seems to think that if I'm working, she should be working.

When I moved home, the first thing I did was clean out the basement so my husband and son and I would have our own "space". That was an ordeal in itself because Mom has hoarding tendencies, on top of the fact that she and Dad haven't been able to take care of the place properly for at least 10 or 15 years. Every room in the house, both upstairs and down in the basement, was full to the gills.

The first morning at breakfast, I asked Mom if she could come downstairs and sit while I sorted through the stuff. Dad said, "No, she can't." He's usually very quiet in the mornings because his head hurts so much, so I was surprised by his comment. I looked at him and saw a glimmer in his eyes like I used to see when he was telling a joke. He continued by saying, "She can't. It's not in her nature to sit down while she works."

How true, Dad. How true.

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Teaching an Old Dog New Tricks

I did my part. I got the entrance to the living room cleared out. Now, I just have to teach him to go that way every time.

Wish me luck.

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A Little Success

One of the things that is irritating here is Dad's oxygen. It seems like there should be a better way than having the machine sitting in the middle of the house and having hose stretched throughout the rooms. Not to mention that the hose is constantly getting caught on the corner of the fridge or on Stuff in this full-to-the-gills house. "Watch out for Dad's hose!"

The way the house is set up, you can walk in a circle through the kitchen into the living room and back into the kitchen. In the middle are the stairs to the basement. At each junction of the two rooms is a hallway; one leads to the mud room, the other to the bedrooms and bathroom. The oxygen machine sits in that junction.

Well, the past few days, I have been working hard on cleaning out the living room, and I finally got to the Stuff blocking the opening from the hallway to the living room! Yay!

This morning after breakfast, he was getting up to go sit in his recliner, and I posed a question:

"So, Dad. I cleaned out the living room. How would you feel about going into the living from the other end so your hose doesn't lay across the kitchen floor?"

I was prepared for him to say no. Seriously. He doesn't do any more walking than he has to. His recliner is a straight shot from the dining room table. Going the other way would require him to walk at least 18-20 feet farther.

He surprised me by saying yes!

It's little moments of reason like this that really make my day.

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Too Many Supplements

So, I mentioned Mom's... umm... penchant for taking supplements.

When I first moved home, I watched her struggle with them every morning. (She had a stroke in January, and ordinary tasks have become increasingly difficult for her.) She'd pick up a bottle, look at it, look at the cups she was putting them in to determine which one it was supposed to go in, and then she'd open the bottle, forget which one she had, look at the label, look back at the cups, and on and on, until finally she got one out and dropped it in a cup. This process would go on, often for 60-90 minutes or longer. When I finally couldn't take it anymore, I suggested that I do them for her, and use pill boxes to put out a week's supply at a time.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

We sat down with my computer, and she pulled box after box of pills out of the cupboard. It was like a Volkswagen filled with clowns! An hour and a half later, I had a spreadsheet with a list of over 50 different pills, with six columns to differentiate when and by whom they should be taken! And really, her system was actually even more complicated than that, but I insisted that we "simplify" it. One of the biggest problems was finding pill boxes that would hold everything--the ones I found were called Triple XL! Even then, it sometimes felt like the cartoon character sitting on the overfull suitcase to get it shut.

I realized that this couldn't possibly be good for them. I mean, there were days she couldn't finish eating her breakfast, because her stomach was too full of pills and the water she had to drink to get them down! Between that many supplements and all the prescription medications they take, the number of possible bad interactions was monumental. I tried to research it online, but it just wasn't something I could accomplish on my own.

It was time to involve professionals.

I started with our chiropractor. He agreed that they were taking too many supplements, and recommended finding out if the same ingredient was in more than one of the supplements and could be eliminated. So, back to my spreadsheet. I added rows and typed each ingredient/dose in a new column, copying and pasting the supplement name in each new row so that I could identify which supplement each ingredient was from. That took awhile! (I finally realized I could find most of the ingredient lists online and copy and paste. Wish I'd thought of that sooner.) Then, I was able to alphabetize the ingredients and find out which supplements overlapped.

Of course, when I brought that [9-page] report to the chiropractor, he joined me in my state of overwhelmedness. He suggested that I check with her regular doctor, and if that didn't work, he knows a doctor who specializes in homeopathy, and would have referred us to him.

When we talked to Mom's regular doctor, she too was overwhelmed, and she too referred us on. This time, it was to a PharmD--a doctor of pharmacy.

The PharmD was wonderful! She was knowledgeable, thorough, compassionate, firm, and got that list of 50-some supplements down to a more manageable 26! She looked at all the overlap of ingredients and cut out a bunch. She cut out items that had a sufficient amount in their multi-vitamin. She took out a bunch of "hoax" pills, things that have no studies proving that they do what their sellers claim. And she took out a bunch of pills Mom was taking for energy and weight loss. Those pills were bad for her heart, and could be what caused at least her second stroke (which happened in July), if not the first one.

So now, I still do all their pills, but I no longer have to sit on the suitcase to get it shut.

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Stress Relief

I am not a spokesperson for the company I am about to name, but their product is an incredibly effective natural stress reliever. It's actually called Natural Stress Relief, made by Life Extension.

Ever since I moved in, my mom and I have been battling over the number of supplements she and Dad take. (There were over 50 of them a day!! But that's a topic for a different blog entry.) However, during a particularly stressful week at the end of a time my husband had been gone for 17 days visiting family in another state, I started taking the Natural Stress Relief. Over the next few days, I noticed I wasn't as grumpy or anxious--but I attributed it to his coming home, not the pills.

I finished a 30-day supply of the pills and thought, "I don't need those anymore." But soon, I was feeling overwhelmed and yelling at people again.

We got some more of the stuff. I don't know how it works, but it works. It seems better for all involved for me to continue using it.

Early Morning Walk

I've been wanting to do some walking, but never seem to find the time. My son has been walking a lot, lately, so I asked him how early I'd have to get up for him to be able to walk with me before school. Only 45 minutes earlier than I usually get up.

Last night, I planned to go to bed a little early, in preparation for walking, but it was later than usual when I actually went to bed. I decided against setting an alarm for the earlier time.

I woke up almost exactly at the time my son mentioned.

We went for a walk. Not very long, about 10 minutes--I want to work up to it so I don't get sore right away and give up--but walk, we did. It's very peaceful walking on the roads outside Rural Town. I'm sure my body appreciated the activity, and I'm hopeful that some brain chemicals will be at work throughout the day.

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The Guardian

One job I've inherited that I wasn't expecting when we moved here is guardianship of my younger sister. She is mentally retarded, and as such, has been a ward of the state since her 21st birthday. Our parents have been her guardians, but now, they can't handle the task anymore, and have passed the role to me. This'll be interesting.

My sister lives in a group home in Big Town. Her favorite TV show is Cops (this will be important later). For the past several months, she has been in love with a guy who lives in another group home near hers. When I first heard they had gone on a date, I was excited and thought maybe she'd be able to get married. That's always been her dream! But, not only are the guy's guardians not open to the idea of him getting married, but apparently, he is some kind of a "Casanova," having been seeing several women at the same time. He told my sister once that he'd broken up with all the others, and that she was his only girlfriend. But, they have group dances, and my sister caught him kissing another woman at one of them. :(

So, I've seen her twice in the last couple of weeks, and each time, I've comforted her while she cried, listened to her tell me how much she loves him, and tried to help her understand that... well, he's a pig.

I think I made a breakthrough yesterday. We were walking through the grocery store, and she said, "He's a bad boy. He's gonna go to jail!"

It's a shame, honey, but they don't put boys in jail for breaking girls' hearts. Not even on Cops. But at least, I think she finally understands.

The Trouble with Hearing Trouble

Mom and Dad are both hard of hearing. It makes things interesting around here.

I think Dad can hear better than Mom, in spite of being completely deaf in one ear. But he gets so absorbed in whatever book he's reading or show he's watching (with the volume too loud for Mom's taste, of course), he doesn't hear because he's not paying attention.

I've learned with him that I have to get his attention before I start talking to him, and have been trying (unsuccessfully) to get Mom to do that consistently, too.

Mom, on the other hand, can't hear very well, even with her hearing aids, but thinks every word that's spoken is directed at her. My husband and I will be talking in a different room, and she'll holler back, "What? Did you say something? If you're talking to me, I can't hear you!"

Maybe we'll have to start prefacing private conversations with, "We're not talking to you, Mom!"

I Detest PCH

I absolutely, unequivocally detest PCH (Publisher's Clearing House). My Mom has been sucked in by their schemes and seems to really believe that she is going to win one of their dubious prizes--but, of course not if she doesn't order at least three items from their packets of pure evil, even though the literature clearly states that no purchase is necessary to win.

I've started managing their bills for them and realized that she's spending hundreds of dollars a month on this junk. I also found a link online where I could stop them from sending future packets. My husband and I talked about it--if I turned it off, she probably wouldn't notice. She doesn't remember things very well anymore, and my motivation for doing it would be to protect her, not to hurt her. My sister agreed that it would be a good idea.

Then, I had a dream.

I dreamed that PCH sent her a letter asking why she had decided to stop receiving their mailings. In my dream, she was so upset, hurt, and angry that I woke up saddened. I realized I couldn't stop it, not in that way.

So, I decided to talk to Dad about it. He shrugged and said he sees it as a hobby for her. No help there.

Yesterday, she was in a foul mood. I thought I knew what it was about, but it turned out she was freaking out because she couldn't find the papers for three PCH entries (I've told her before not to open more than one at a time, but she forgets).When I found them for her, the change in her demeanor was remarkable. It was so dramatic that I decided at her age, she can do this if she wants. Maybe if I am more reasonable (read: less combatively argumentative) about it, I can help her reduce the amount of money she's spending uselessly, the number of items coming into her already-packed-to-the-gills house, and her delusional thinking that she's actually going to win that $100,000.

Maybe.

I can hope, anyway.

Adjusting to Life in Rural Town

We live on a farm a few miles outside of Rural Town. A short jaunt brings us to Big Town. A looooong jaunt brings us to Big City.

My dear husband grew up in Another Big City. He is not accustomed to life in Rural Town. This became quite clear on a recent solo trip to he made to Rural Town. After telling a clerk the reason for his visit, he was told that he would need to talk to the proprietor, who was not in. Satisfied with that, Hubby turned to leave, but was halted by the following exchange:

Clerk: So, how's your father-in-law? (This caught Hubby off guard in itself, because he didn't know the woman from Eve, but she didn't even say the relationship, she said Dad's name.)

Hubby: Umm... Did you know he's in the hospital?

Clerk: Yeah, my husband heard it come over the [Rural Town Emergency Medical Services] pager.

Hubby: Oh, well he seems to be doing better, and should be able to come home tomorrow.

Clerk: Good, glad to hear it. Are you living in Rural Town?

Hubby: Umm... No, we are living out on the farm with them.

Clerk: Oh, that's great. And you have one child going to school here?

Hubby: Umm... Yes.

Clerk: I saw you at the school open house the other day. And at the Bar and Grill last Friday night. (Yes, Rural Town not only has a Cafe, it also has a Bar and Grill.)

Hubby: Oh, I see.

To me, having grown up in Rural Town, an non-momentous conversation. To him? I'm sure he felt like Big Brother was watching him, very, very closely.

I'm sure he'll get used to it. :)

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Can You Hear Me Now? Good!

"Mom, where are your hearing aids?" I ask with exasperation on a too-frequent basis.

"They're in their box."

Or...

"They must be in the pocket of the pants I wore yesterday."

Or...

"They're in the bathroom." (Sitting in a shallow dish on the edge of the sink for which the drain plug is broken.)

Or... and worst of all...

"I don't know."

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The Live-In Housekeeper

I was thinking about something a few weeks ago. I remembered how, for many years, I joked that my goal in life was to make enough money to be able to hire a live-in housekeeper. I realized something a bit shocking that day.

I am the live-in housekeeper.

God really does have a sense of humor!

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Shoes

I've raised three children. Two are on their own, and the youngest is in high school. I remember when they were little and I put their shoes on, I would always blow in their socks to warm them up before I put them on their feet, especially in the winter.

It's been many years since I've had to put someone else's shoes on, but now I find myself being called upon to do just that every time Dad leaves the house because he can no longer bend over to put them on himself.

I wonder what he would think if I blew in his socks? It's getting chilly enough, he would probably enjoy it. But, I'm going to do it with clean socks, not the pair he's been wearing for the past several days!

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Secure Your Own Mask Before Assisting Others

Many people warned me.

If you're going to take care of someone else, make sure you take care of yourself first. It's sort of like when a flight attendant tells you about the oxygen masks on the plane: secure your own mask first before helping others - even children.

Did I listen? Not in the beginning.

You see, I have a tendency to think of myself as Superwoman. I can do it all... and then some. I probably would have been dumb enough to think that I could get my child's mask on before my own if we were on a depressurizing airplane. I heard on a TV show recently that it only takes 20 seconds to lose consciousness. Seriously... 20 seconds.

My parents rely on me every day. I make their meals, do their laundry, take them to appointments, do all the shopping. It seems like there is always something more that needs to be done. And like a good Superwoman, I try to do it all.

After a lot of trial and a while bunch of errors, I've learned that two weeks is the longest I can go without a break (though it's far better if I get some time away once or twice a week). If I don't, it's not a pretty sight.

In other words, I've learned the hard way to make sure I secure my own mask before assisting others - even the elderly.

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Adventures in Eldersitting

For the past 4 months, I've been living with and caring for my elderly parents. Today, I realized, "Why am I not blogging about this experience??"

Seems like this will be a bit of stress relief. I will blog anonymously, to protect my parents' dignity, so I can say anything I want. It will probably save friendships because I will no longer wear out my friends with my diatribes about what happened this week. Not to mention saving my marriage. Plus, my husband says there is an app on our phones that I can use to publish blog posts from anywhere. Maybe that means I will no longer be irritated when I have to wait at doctor appointments!

I'm looking forward to this. And I hope that if others find themselves in a similar situation, they will be able to glean some useful information from my ramblings.

This is gonna be great!

The Elder Sitter