A Near-Death Experience

sually, Mom is up before I am in the mornings. Generally, she wakes up at 7:00. I get up at 7:30, to make sure my son gets off to school and to start or help with breakfast. This morning, I was surprised, at first, to find that she wasn't up. Then, I was terrified.

Did she die in her sleep?

My son and I commented to each other that it was strange she wasn't up. We walked down the hall and peeked into their bedroom. They were both completely still. I decided I should wait until after Son got on the bus before I checked further. He left at 7:55; I decided to wait until 8:00 to check.

Yes, I was scared to look. Wouldn't you be?

Thoughts ran through my fear-ridden mind. What happened yesterday? Did we fight? Was it a good last day, if it was her last day? Looking back, I realized it was. We didn't fight. She got to see my younger Sister. We played some games together. It was a good day.

At 7:58, I heard her close the bathroom door. What relief! She is still alive!

I talked to my husband about it later in the morning. He made two important points:

1. Whom would it be bad for if her last day on earth wasn't good?
   
   Me, of course. She will be in heaven.
2. She could live for 10 or more years, yet. If I try to make sure every day is a good one, it will drive me nuts!
   
   Sure. But I'm not meaning I need to make every day good; I just need to make sure I'm doing whatever I can to not make her days bad.

Death. It's a reality I know I need to face, but one that I am not looking foward to.

What Did She Say??

e had Sister over today, and then took her to church again. We sang another of her favorite hymns--How Great Thou Art--and she was so excited!

She gave Husband quite a scare on the way home when she introduced him to a new phrase, "Holy buckets!" (New to him, anyway. Turns out my family is just quite old fashioned when it comes to our expressions because the definition of "Holy Buckets" given on Wikipedia is from a 1960 slang dictionary.)

Anyway, back to Sister. Yeah.

She has Down Syndrome, and one of the ways that is manifested is in an overly large tongue, which is what makes her speech difficult to understand. Since I grew up with her and was the closest in age to her, I can almost always understand her. I forget that other people can't. Particularly bothersome is the fact that some of her letter sounds seem to come out as other letter sounds. For example, she her L's almost always come out sounding like N's, and sometimes her B's come out sounding like F's.

And that's all I'm going to say.

Holy Buckets!

Eldersitter's Prayer

ord God, Heavenly Father, so far today, I'm doing pretty well. I haven't been short with my mom, yelled at my husband, or ignored my son, not even once. But pretty soon, I'm going to get out of bed, and after that, I'm gonna need a lot more of your help!

Rural Town Rectification

ural Town is my hometown. I didn't really like growing up here, largely because I didn't like how everyone was always in everyone's business. For teenagers, who often don't want people to know what they're doing, a small town is not a fun place to be. For parents, it's wonderful. "It takes a village to raise a child" really rings true in a small town, where people tend to watch out for other people's children. It didn't happen often, but there were enough times that I got in trouble because one of my parents' friends saw me misbehaving and called them to make me happy to move to a Big City.

Now I'm back, as a parent and with nothing to hide, and I love Rural Town. Of course, being a parent in Rural Town has forced me (or should I say allowed me?) to become involved in Rural Town Rectification. I got my first opportunity this week.

Son had forgotten his gloves and needed them for an outdoor gym class. So, I drove in to bring them to him. The roads haven't been great because of the snow, and there is one spot about a half mile from Rural Town where houses on both sides of the road keep the wind from clearing things out. I always slow down when I get there. About that time, I saw in the rear view mirror that a pickup was right on my tail. The road wasn't too bad on my side of the road, so I sped up to 60 mph. The pickup whipped around me into the snow packed lane and got back into the correct lane just in time to slow down for the 4-way stop on the edge of town. There was another car in front of him, so by the time he got to turn, I was at the stop sign myself. I couldn't believe someone would do something so dangerous! And what did it gain him? Nothing!

I followed him as he fishtailed around a corner and then pulled in and parked at the school. I drove in right behind him, parked at the curb by the front door and waited for him to get out so I could see who he was. He seemed to take forever to get out of the truck! I didn't recognize him, so I went inside. After I gave Son's gloves to one of the women in the school office, the driver finally walked by. I asked them his name, but didn't recognize him or his parents (after 20 years of living Elsewhere, I no longer know everyone). I told the ladies what had happened, and one of them asked, "Do you want to talk to him? I'll call him up to the office!"

"Yes," I found myself nodding in agreement.

I waited outside the office for him to return, planning what I would say. The most important thing, I figured, was to make sure I didn't yell like some crazy person.

When he got there, I told him I was the person he'd passed half a mile out of town. I told him what he'd done was reckless and irresponsible. I told him that he gained nothing by passing me so close to town, since I pulled into the parking lot right behind him. I told him that road is dangerous, and that a high school student once hit a school bus on it, killing himself and injuring several other students. And I asked how old he is--17--and told him that he's old enough to know better. (Maybe a compliment will help the idea of responsibility to sink in better.)

To his credit, he was respectful, and didn't offer a load of excuses. Just that he was running late. I wish I'd thought at the time of the way he sauntered so slowly from the truck to the school building. If he'd just run across the lot, he'd have made up more time than he did in his dangerous passing maneuver!

I ran into the lady from the school office last night. She told me that the young man asked her who I was. She told him, but also let him know he was lucky I chose to talk to him myself rather than call the police.

We don't need to bother the police with a matter like this. We have Rural Town Rectification.

Breakfast

our things make up Mom and Dad's (and now my) breakfast each morning: coffee; cereal (for Dad and me) or oatmeal (for Mom); juice with ground flax and sesame seeds (just Mom and Dad--I don't know how they can drink that stuff!); and a poached egg. When I make breakfast alone, I start the coffee pot, get the egg poacher ready and turn on the burner, bring 2 bowls and 3 spoons and forks to the table, and set out the cereals and milks (regular, lactose-free, and creamer). By this time, the water in the poacher is boiling, so I crack three eggs and set the timer for 7 minutes. While the eggs are cooking, I pour 2 glasses of juice and add freshly ground flax and sesame seeds. Then, it's time to mix Mom's oatmeal with craisins and water and put it in the microwave for 99 seconds. (When Mom cooks it, she puts it in for 1 minute 40 seconds, but I found that 99 seconds is only 1 second less, and is twice as fast to program on the keypad. Efficiency.)

Over the years, I have learned to be a pretty good cook (do not laugh, Mr. Eldersitter!), and I waited tables for a couple of years, so I've become quite capable when it comes to making and serving food. But my parents remember the girl who could scarcely cook without burning the food and who wasn't exactly the picture of efficiency when "working". Add to that the fact that Mom's 80-year-old body has really slowed down, and it's no wonder that she can't believe how quick I am at fullfilling my kitchen duties.

When I first arrived, she told me the eggs cook for six minutes. So, I dutifully cooked them for six minutes--and gave most of my gooey mass to the dog, because the yolk was too runny for me to eat. I then changed the cook time to seven minutes, with perfect results.

When Mom started cooking breakfast again, I observed her making eggs. She would crack an egg... pause... break it into the cup... pause... carefully wipe out one half of the eggshell with her finger (after all, to not do so would be wasteful)... pause... carefully wipe out the other half of the eggshell with her finger... pause... take two slow steps to the wastebasket to throw away the eggshell... pause... take two slow steps to the stove... pause... pick up the cup with the egg in it... pause... pour the egg into the poacher... pause... wipe out the cup with her finger... pause... and repeat two more times. Then, set the timer for six minutes.

By the time the eggs were all in the poacher, the first one was half cooked! Of course, after six minutes of cooking time, the last one was not cooked enough at all! And somehow, I always seemed to end up getting the last one.

Now that I'm cooking breakfast again, I adeptly crack the eggs, get them in the poacher, and set the timer for seven minutes. One morning, Mom commented that she didn't understand how when I cook the eggs for seven minutes, they turn out perfectly, but when she cooks them for seven minutes, they are too hard.

I didn't have the heart to tell her. I just shrugged and hugged her.

More On Dad's Pain

ver the past few weeks, Dad has been doing a lot better, both emotionally and physically. Actually, more emotionally than physically, but doing better emotionally seems to be helping him at least want to improve his physical situation. Of course, he's gone to doctor after doctor over the years, seeking relief from his pain, but he was only interested in what they could do for him, but he would never do things they suggested he could do for himself.

For example, the physical therapist wanted him to do some exercises. Even when reminded, he wouldn't do them very often. He always sleeps on his right side, with his right arm under his head. The doctors think that his lack of variation in sleeping positions caused the soft tissues in the right side of his neck to shorten, and those in the left side of his neck to lengthen, which causes pain in a particular muscle that attaches above his left eye--exactly where his pain is. He can't lie on his back or stomach for very long at a time because of breathing issues, and he wouldn't try sleeping on his left side because he's completely deaf in his right ear and didn't like not being able to hear anything while he's in bed.

In October, I talked to his doctor about how every time we make plans to do something, Dad would end up sick, and asked him if he thought it could be caused by anxiety. Dad said, "But I wanted to go." The doctor said that didn't matter. Even good stresses can cause anxiety. He prescribed Buspirone, a medication that would boost the effects of the Cymbalta antidepressant he was already taking, help with anxiety, and even help relieve his belly pain.

Only a couple of weeks later, the belly pain was gone. His mood improved. He not only told jokes, but started laughing while telling them, to the point his face turned red. For years, he didn't want to talk to anyone on the phone. If he answered my calls, he quickly asked if I wanted to talk to Mom. Now, suddenly, he was calling people just to see how things were going with their farms and families. For years, he practically ignored Mom. Now, he calles her sweetheart, hugs her every chance he gets, talks to her, watches TV shows she wants to watch, and generally seems more interested in her. I've got my dad back!

It took a little longer, but in the last week, he's started sleeping on his left side! With the help of his doctors, I think we'll make some progress on his headaches.

Balance

alance has been one of Mom's biggest physical issues since her stroke. When she had the first stroke, she couldn't walk for a few days, and it took a lot of physical therapy to get her back on her feet. She's had at least one, and possibly more strokes since then. Her left side is almost completely numb. It is difficult for her to walk, difficult for her to get out of a chair, difficult for her to carry things in her left hand. She says that she can hold stuff in her left hand, but only if she really concentrates on keeping her fingers in a death grip on the item. When she does that, she can't concentrate as well on her walking.

Have I ever mentioned Mom has a fierce independence and a stubborn streak that rivals the entire 20-Mule Borax Team?

So, she insists on walking, insists on getting out of her chair without assistance, insists on carrying two cups of coffee at a time.

I'm learning that it's not entirely a bad thing. The neurologist told us that she needs to exercise the parts of her brain that were injured by the stroke, and that anything she can do for herself, I should let her do. And I've been getting a lot better at standing back and letting her do things. She's back to putting out the (greatly reduced number of) supplements each morning. I've been asking her to help with things when I'm making dinner or supper (that's lunch and dinner, for those of you who don't know Rural Town-speak). For a couple of weeks, I even let her make breakfast by herself.

Then, she fell.

It was Christmas Eve. We had five extra people in the house for the holiday, and with five extra people comes five extra people's stuff. So, the piles in the house grew larger than usual. Mom was walking from the living room into the kitchen when she stubbed her toe on something and toppled to the floor. She caught herself with her left arm.

My son and I picked her up from the floor and got her settled in her recliner. I brought an ice pack and checked to make sure she could move her fingers and wrist. I called my sister, an EMT, to ask her opinion. And then, finally, gave in to Mom's insistence that she didn't need to go to the hospital.

The next morning, I couldn't believe the bruises Mom had! Her wedding rings had come off the night before because of the swelling, and her whole hand was a big bruise from where they had hit something on the way down. A crescent bruise on in inside of her elbow suggested she'd landed on a 2-litre soda bottle cap. And almost her entire forearm was bruised.

She still insisted that she didn't need to go to the doctor. She's still in physical therapy, and the therapist has been helping with the wrist, now, too. She also says Mom's balance is worse than it was when she started seeing her in September, and that is probably what made her fall.

Mom has been resting more, and sitting with Dad watching TV or shows on DVD (we recently bought them a season of Little House on the Prairie and I Love Lucy). Dad has been more talkative lately (which I will get into in another post), and that helps Mom to not minding resting. When she complained that she should be helping, Dad encouraged her, saying, "You've worked hard for 80 years. Now, you get to retire."

I hate to say her getting hurt was a good thing, but it has helped her to rest and not work all the time. I wouldn't have wished the pain on her, but at least it has come with some positive consequences.

I got another Bonus Task out of the deal--Mom used to wash all the dishes. It was good physical therapy for her, and it sure helped me a lot. But rather than taking this Bonus Task on myself, I delegated it. My son is now in charge of dishes.

Enjoyable Eldersitting Bonus Tasks

s I've said a few times, there is a lot more to Eldersitting than I expected. Each time something new comes up, I call it an "Eldersitting Bonus Task". Usually, that is not indicative of an enjoyable thing, but today's was rather pleasant: I cut Mom's fingernails and shaped them with an emory board.

She has always had beautiful nails that grow thick and strong and long. I, on the other hand, have always been a nail biter. Over the years, she's complained that her nails have gotten so hard, she can't clip them anymore. Instead, she would bite one side and peel the nail off, and then take off the rough edges with an emory board.

Today, she was talking about needing to trim her nails. She is still nursing an injured wrist (hmm... did I write about that before? I don't think so... next post!), so I offered to help her wtih her nails. I clipped them and found out that her diminishing strength was the problem, not their thickness or hardness.

We had a nice time talking while I did her nails. It's the best our interaction has been in a long time. I will cherish this memory forever--and hope to continue making more like it, with both Mom and Dad.

Happy New Year!