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