There is, as it turns out, someone for whom I am "essaying situations"...
...which is exactly what I did today with the new extemporaneous essay immediately below this post.
    This person checks in from a central U.S. university, was an enthusiastic visitor the day the first essay went up. This person wasn't the only person who visited so regularly one could use the term "hungrily", during the first week or so after this site's debut. The other one dropped out, was with a generic ISP, not even named by region.
    The person I'm noticing, though having cut back visits to once a day in my mid-afternoon, in a curious way inspires me to think in "essay style" and get something else out before I lose this person's audience, and interest. One of the reasons this person's visits easily became my muse is that, as far as I can tell, this person, so far, has visited only one page of my spill of pages onto the web. On this I may be wrong, I haven't checked every single page on every single site, but, this person is visiting few enough to keep me focused on this particular method, this extemporaneous essay method, of expressing the insights I receive as I continue with my mother. I was, in fact, a touch disappointed to notice, today after I published the essay below, that this person's visit had already occurred and my essay wouldn't be read at this central U.S. university until tomorrow evening, probably, or perhaps even later, considering that it will be a weekend.
    It's funny, I don't care if the interest is in the subject matter, from a critical perspective (either positive or negative), I don't care if there is some remote, bot-type research reason for the visit. I just thought I'd mention that these visits have become my muse for this section of my web effort on behalf of my mother's and my journey together.
    I like muses and relate well with them. Thank you, mysterious muse.
- posted by Gail Rae @ 17:43  0 comments   email...this post

 
Feeling the Burn, Savoring the Spice
    I think my mother may have experienced an episode of work-out drunkenness, today.
    While I was running my one outside-the-house errand and pleasurably contemplating my mother's exercise session and the almost immediate effect it had on her I realized that she must have gotten a little drunk on endorphins.
    Here's why I think this may have happened. I think it was an endorphin surge that led her to suddenly decide that today was the day for her to recommence getting the mail, something she always used to do whether or not she could do anything else.
    After thumbing through the mail she dashed it on her dinner stand next to her rocking chair disappointedly.
    "What's the matter?" I asked.
    "Wasn't what I was expecting," she harrumphed.
    That's odd, I didn't realize she was expecting something. "What do you mean?"
    "None of it's interesting."
    I laughed. "Oh, I get it. You're looking for personal letters! Well, considering that you haven't written any for a long time and you're one of the few letter writers in the family, alive or dead, maybe it's time. Now, can you see some sense in getting some stamping stuff and making some cards for note writing?"
    "Was that why [MCS] wanted me to do that?"
    "Yes. She thought you'd be more prone to write if you made the cards yourself."
    "Hmmm...good idea. I'll have to consider that."
    So, I'll keep it on her mind.
    Then, she decided she was hungry pre-standard-lunch-time and I suggested and made for her popcorn and V-8 juice. When I scolded her for not drinking her V-8 juice she glared at me and said, "I've drunk all I need."
    "Oh, ho, ho, Mrs. Hudson! I see! Well, then, if that's true, let me see your legs!"
    She turned coy. "I charge for that, you know."
    "O.K. Here's my admission. One empty glass of V-8 juice, courtesy of yours truly. I'll show you mine, you show me yours."
    She smiled an acknowledgement to the challenge, picked up her glass and swilled her juice. Afterward she said, "You know, I like V-8 juice."
    I know.
    Finally, as she was getting ready for her nap, aside from her usual surprised expression of concern over having to wear three pairs of paper underwear when she lays down, she decided that, today, it wasn't necessary. Period. End of discussion.
    This time, knowing we were approaching a sensitive area of personal dignity, I changed my response tone. I pleaded with her. I told her that she may be right, maybe today they aren't necessary, but do they bother her sleep?
    "Goodness, no!" Ludicrous suggestion.
    Well then, I begged, would she do this for me? If, indeed, it plays out that her bladder has decided to stay awake when she sleeps (she mentioned, here, that she liked the way I put that), then we'll stop with the guardian underwear, thank the gods, they're not cheap and not tax deductible. "But, let's just wait and see, okay? So I know I don't have to do two loads of wash today? Please, for me?"
    She granted me my wish.
    So, it seems, endorphins work the same way in the Ancient as they do in the rest of us. Except that, the less you have to lose, the less likely you are to exercise caution under The Influence of Endorph.
    Good. This is the woman who encouraged me to steal a county sign to which I'd taken a fancy in a remote location in Utah years ago, even insisted on accompanying me and helping me stow it. This is the woman who, when I lived in Pinetop and wanted very much to respect the area, had her heart set on collecting cattails, which was illegal, in a marsh not far from my cabin. I apprised her of the illegality...this is the woman who told me she'd go without me, then, so I went, reluctantly, and we had the best time goofing on each other about spotting Forest Marshals and got some wonderful specimens. She cocks her eyebrows and grins in the face of danger, the same way she was cocking her head and grinning at me, today. Most people would not suspect this of her but, upon hearing it, would probably believe it. She's always kept a low profile. For all practical purposes, she has bowed her back, over the years of her life, with her modest presentation. But, if you lean over a bit and look her in the eye after an exercise session, well, you begin to wonder if her back hasn't bowed because of her incessant turning aside to conjure out of view of curious eyes.
    Endorphins become her, especially in her Ancient years.
- posted by Gail Rae @ 17:27  1 comments   email...this post

 
"Just because you're old..."
"...doesn't give you the right to be inconsiderate of others, Mother, Mrs. Hudson [when I add the 'Mrs. Hudson' part it is usually delivered in comic sneer]. I eat cottage cheese, too, you know. And mustard. Remember the mustard we had to throw away last week because you decided to eat it out of the jar with a spoon?"
    "It didn't hurt my blood sugar."
    That's true. I suspect it may have helped it. That evening her blood sugar was normal. We don't buy many condiments with sugar in them and this mustard was stone ground, with fiber. And mustard oil, well, we all know its cathartic effects. "Point taken. Now, take my point, Mom. I have confidence in you. You can remember that this refrigerator is a shared refrigerator, that, aside from you, I eat out of it, our friends and relatives eat out of it. I know, on everyone's behalf, you are capable of remembering, and caring about something you drilled into us from the time we were able to open the refrigerator and cupboards independently, 'Don't eat out of the carton!'"
    Not yet contrite but getting there. "I know, I know."
    "See? This isn't new information. I live here, too, Mom, and, occasionally, others eat here. Just because you're old...", here it comes, "doesn't give you the right to assume that the household revolves around you."
    Still squirming, "I suppose not."
    A friend of mine asked me, maybe four years ago, if my mother was being unusually and unfairly selfish as she perceived her mother in her last years, living with her and her husband. I was shocked at the implication, sure that my mother would never exhibit this kind of self-absorption. I still can't say that she absolutely has, as she is not always inner-bound.
    Sometimes, thogh, I can see that she's just not thinking. It occurs to me that it isn't dementia, it's laziness, because it involves long term memory of habits and a social attunement she has not lost. As well, I am very honest with my mother, what would sometimes be considered, I'm sure my neighbors would agree (I don't have an indoor voice) roughly honest with her. I monitor her before action, and sometimes I've been wrong. I acknowledge when I have erred and apologize. Lots of times, though, I've been right and the correction has kicked in.
    I think that, for as long as possible, it is important for Ancient Ones to be prodded to remember that they exist as part of a household that revolves around everyone in the household. Social awareness is imperative in the at-home caregiving situation. It is also, I sense, therapeutic. Beyond this, I think that the household comes to revolve around the Ancient One in order to keep her feeling safe. My mother continues to feel safe, within our home and within my care.
    My mother is still of competence in the area of social awareness, enough so that I can expect certain behaviors of her and scold her when her public courtesy slips. In fact, in the wild, so to speak, her manners are impeccable and, while they don't put mine to shame, they remind me immediately to keep my head up and be aware of others. She is never inordinately selfish in public. She, as well, possesses a critical stare when I cross certain boundaries of public etiquette, which I've been known to do.
    Still, I can see where I must remain flexible in this area. With the feeling of safety, my mother is more able to relax in her Ancienthood and occasionally becomes a little queenish. Which, of course, encourages further queenishness. She makes a very cute queen, though, irresistible.
    In ways which I am about to explore and which may not be as connected as I think they are, this is as good a place as any to insert the story of the strange woman at the grocery. This story illustrates, well, hmmm...I guess we'll see.
    After a long walkering at Costco in which I'd tried not to walker-coach my mother, her back was "giving [her] fits" and we still needed to make a short stop at the grocery. I promised her, if she'd walkered just inside the store with me and endured some drill sergeant coaching, I'd let her sit out the visit and "pick her up" after I'd purchased the few items. She agreed.
    The parking lot, as usual, was not busy. As well, this store is known for courteous traffic; lots of senior citizens visit. We began walkering toward the storefront, me keeping vocal time with her in a marching cadence, encouraging her to "step up to the plate, back straight, shoulders back, eyes forward," all the way to the bench just inside the entrance. As she approached the bench I took her through the pivot turn sequence in which she pulls her walker toward her in order to manage it well as she sits down so it doesn't slip out from underneath her.
    As she was seating herself to the tune of my full voiced, drill sergeant encouragement, I noticed a woman, probably in her early 30's, turned toward us, glaring at me. I understood immediately what she was attempting to communicate. Once my mother was settled and I was facing the social intruder as I selected a cart, I stared back at her and told her, "It's a very hard skill to learn."
    Her expression sharpened.
    As I turned into the store I thought, well, she's never taken care of an Ancient One.
    As I continued through the store, I became angry that she should presume to know anything about the limits of behavior between caregiver to an Ancient One and care recipient. On my way from one end of the store to the other I noticed she was still sitting up front, glaring at me every time I passed her. I rerouted myself. "Do you take care of an Ancient One?" I asked. Whoa, I thought, that's the first time I've used that phrase in public.
    She quickly oriented herself to the terminology. "No. I am a mother. I have a mother."
    "Have you ever required intense care?"
    She looked at me, affronted, remaining silent.
    "Have you ever needed physical therapy?!?"
    She recovered her glare.
    I didn't care. "Until you've done either, think before you judge."
    Before my next pass she'd left her staging area. I wasn't sure I'd been completely fair with her but I understood where she was coming from and I understood that she needed to be corrected.
    Sometimes, people need to be coached. At others, people need to be scolded. This applies to everyone, Ancient Ones included.
    If you let them, I think, family roles can become flexible and versatile, allowing correction when possible and safety when necessary. In order to allow this, I believe it is imperative to think of Ancient Ones as members of a family with obligations to the unit as long as they give indications that this level of involvement can be realistically expected.

    Once again, last night, it was a jar of raspberry jam. By the time I entered the kitchen she'd put the jar in the refrigerator, where it's never kept. There were also signs by the toaster that she'd used the jam on toasted, buttered bread.
    I quizzed her. "Did you eat out of the jar?"
    She looked sugar dazed, a dead give-away. "Which jar?"
    "The jelly jar. Did you eat out of the jar?"
    She mocked offense. "No. I ate it on toast."
    I zipped out the glucose monitor and set her up to be tested. "Okay. I believe you. You made a mess at the toaster."
    "I don't believe I've used that toaster, before."
    "You did when we first moved here but it's on its last legs, now. It's a little touchy."
    "It almost burned my toast."
    "Well, be careful. Thanks for not eating out of the jelly jar, Mom. I'm usually the only one who eats jelly, now."
    "Yes. I've noticed. I've been meaning to ask you about that."
    I explained that I'm trying to control her blood sugar through diet. "Do you feel deprived?!?"
    "Oh, goodness no!"
    "And you've put on weight, some of it muscle weight, I think. That's good. But, you know, thanks for using utensils."
    "I licked the spoon. The jelly spoon."
    "I'm sure you did. Before or..." no, I decided, I didn't want to know.
    "What germs could I have that you don't have?!?"
    Point taken. Silently. "Don't eat out of the carton, Okay?!?"
    "I didn't. And I won't."
    "Neither will I..."...just because I'm not so old.
- posted by Gail Rae @ 09:56  1 comments   email...this post