No Clean Underwear--Again???

nderwear.

None clean.

Again.

Yes, in today's Eldersitting blog post, I'm airing Mom and Dad's dirty laundry.

Dad had a heart attack in November. They put in a stent the next day, and he's recovered quite well for an 83 year old with COPD! Since then, he's had cardiac rehab three days a week. In Big Town. About 18 miles away. And he hasn't driven in the intervening months. So, I drive him there. Did I mention it's three days a week?

So, three days a week driving to cardiac rehab. Another one or two for physical therapy or various other appointments. Plus, I've been sick a couple of times, myself. (Unfortunately, I think the mild winter, which I've thoroughly enjoyed otherwise, has something to do with it.) Between all these things, I have fallen behind on housework. Very far behind!

One of the things I'm farthest behind on is laundry. It's actually one of my favorite jobs to put off in the first place, so having no time is a great excuse to not get it done. I finally got Dad to let me know when he takes the second to last pair of underwear from his drawer. In the meantime, I had to buy some extras for him. At first, I never had to worry about Mom running out--she had more pairs than Dad, and since I had to wash his, I washed hers, too, and she didn't run out. But, now that I've bought him more underwear... you guessed it, now Mom sometimes runs out. And she's not yet trained to let me know when that happens!

Today, I bought her a package of underwear. Ten pairs. That oughta last awhile.

Of course, by then Dad will have forgotten to let me know when he's nearly out, so I'll have to buy him some more. And then Mom will forget to let me know when she's nearly out, so I'll have to buy her some more. And so on. And so on. And so on.

I can see it now: we have a large capacity HE washing machine that holds four times as many clothes as the old washer did. And there's going to come a time when I fill it to capacity with nothing but underwear.

It's Time For Bed, Young Lady!

ou've probably heard it said that taking care of your parents is a lot like taking care of children. Of course you've heard it said--I say it all the time!

Tonight, I had to send Mom to bed.

They brought one of the barn kittens into the house after getting him neutered and declawed. Kitten is sweet. He loves to sit on laps, climb on shoulders, and I think he's really good for Mom and Dad. Mom actually sits down a lot more now than she did before!

But, at nighttime, he's not good for Mom. She walks around pushing chairs under the table to keep him from getting up there. (If he wanted to get up there, he would just jump.) She doesn't remember that he's a nocturnal creature. (He's not likely to go to sleep at night.) And she doesn't want to go to bed until he's settled. (Why? I just don't get it!)

She's like a kid asking for the proverbial glass of water to avoid going to bed!

Tonight, I could hear her still moving things around almost an hour after I'd dressed her for bed. I went upstairs and, like she was a little girl instead of my mother, told her in no uncertain terms that she needed to go to bed!

She wasn't happy about it, but she went.

Goodnight, Momma. I love you!

Turning Into My Parents

Wow! It's been a long time since I posted!

I've picked up some hobbies in the past few months. I had tried others--they didn't stick, but boy, have these two! In June, I began researching my family tree. Dad likes to quip that since I started, I've only found one pirate and two horse thieves. ha ha

Then, the beginning of August, I rediscovered knitting. Ahh... knitting. My new comment on life in general is, "I have yarn; I'm happy!" (We won't go into the idolotry contained in that statement at the moment. I'm working on it.)

Anyway, there have been a lot of projects keeping me busy the past few months, but today, my Husband commented that he misses my posts. Aww... it's nice to be missed!

I discovered today that he and I are turning into my parents. I suppose after living here for 18 months, it's bound to happen. lol

All summer, Mom and Dad enjoyed watching Their Favorite Baseball Team. One would say, "Go First Name" and the other would say, "Get a hit, Last Name". It was so cute to see them!

We've been watching the World Series together. My Husband grew up in the city of one of the teams, so we're rooting hard for them! And here we go, saying, "Go First Name" and "Get a hit, Last Name."

Just like Mom and Dad. :)

Mom and Dad's team didn't do very well this year, so my Husband was ribbing Dad at dinner the other night, asking him to root for the opposing team so his hometown team will win. They've been having a lot of fun with that one!

Hoping not to be so long between posts again!

The Eldersitter

The Results of Mom's Testing

fter several months of waiting for appointments, driving miles to get to them, and talking with doctors, we have finally found out the truth: there is nothing that we can do about Mom's memory problems. She doesn't have Alzheimer's, but the confusion that she's experiencing cannot be cured and will not go away.

We went to a neurologist in November and found out that the memory problems were not caused by her strokes. He sent us for neuropsychological testing. That testing happened in March. A week later, we found out there is absolutely nothing wrong with Mom'smemory Her memory is actually extraordinarily high for a person her age. Then, we went back to th neurologist , who really didn't tell us anything more than the neuropsychology guy did.  The only thing he did say was that Mom needs continual supervision.

And that's what we're here for. :)

Recycled Teenagers

very once in awhile, Mom can be quite stubborn and bull headed.  (OK, every once in awhile? Who am I trying to kid? I just liked this "E" drop cap and had to find an opening word that started with "E"!)

We go to church twice on Sunday's. A couple of weeks ago, we came home from the afternoon service to an irate Dad. "Your mother fell again," he said as we walked through the door. "She fell cleaning up the mess you should have cleaned up."

I had been sick for 5 days. Saturday was the first day I was feeling better, but I still didn't want to spend much time upstairs, for fear of getting Mom or Dad sick. I had noticed there was something on the floor that needed to be cleaned up, but just didn't have the gumption to do it.

Mom knows she isn't supposed to lean over because her balance isn't good and she is prone to fall. But for some reason, she decided she just had to clean that mess up, at that time.

You guessed it. She fell.

She didn't get hurt badly, but she couldn't get up by herself. She asked Dad to bring a chair close to her so she could pull herself up. Instead, my 80+ year old Dad lifted her up from the floor and put her on a chair, straining his back.

I have a troubling tendency to blame myself for things that are other peoples' responsibility. It causes me a lot of anxiety and is one of the things I've been trying to change about myself. The mess she had insisted on cleaning up had happened while I was sick, and it sat there. Why couldn't she have asked Husband or Son to clean it up while I was out of commission? And why couldn't it have waited one more hour for us to get home? I was upset about the way Dad had blamed me for her fall, and I walked away and went downstairs. I didn't realize he had hurt himself. If I'd known, I would have understood that was the reason he was putting the blame on me, and I would have acted differently.

The next morning, he wanted to go to the chiropractor, so I called in. When the receptionist asked what he needed to be seen for, I didn't want to gripe about them harshly, yet I didn't want to make excuses for them and take the blame myself, so I decided to reference an old joke of Dad's. When he was about 60, he liked to tell people he was a Recycled Teenager. So, I told her that I live with a couple of Recycled Teenagers who like to be rebellious sometimes.

I think Dad appreciated my use of his joke.

Long Time No Post!

ikes! Has it been that long since I last posted?!?

Sorry, folks. Things have been crazy busy. I was sick for the better part of a week (stomach flu or food poisoning, not sure which). Then, about a week later, Husband and Son were sick with the stomach flu. Fortunately, we were able to isolate ourselves from the Elders, and neither of them got sick. I can't imagine how awful it would have been for them if they'd had the violent vomiting and overall achiness that we had.

Since my last post, there was an issue with the recycled teenagers. I'll post about that next time. That incident led to Dad having a backache, so he's had chiropractor appointments 2-3 times a week. Add that to Mom's physical therapy once or twice a week and the other appointments Dad has for his chronic pain and abdominal issues, and I spend a lot of time driving them to appointments--almost every week day, plus one Saturday Dad had to go to urgent care for bronchitis.

One good thing that has kept me from blogging is that I've been doing a much better time taking care of myself. Remember, sustaining the sitter's sanity is one of the most important aspects of eldersitting. I found a show I like to watch on Netflix. I went to the cosmetology school for a haircut and found out their prices are so reasonable, even I can afford to treat myself once a week. The depression/anxiety medication has kicked in, and I can once again concentrate to read a book. And, I'm writing a book myself (a training book for the computer classes I teach).

Additionally, Husband and I are meeting with our pastor for counseling. This is a very stressful situation we're living in, and while I have no regrets, we need to do some work on maintaining our relationship to ensure we don't eventually rue the day we moved here.

So, I've been busy. But, I miss posting, too, and I'm going make an effort to do a lot more of it!

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.

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.

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!

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.

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*

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!

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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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.

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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