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.