She has old bones. And they hurt. Wrist, elbow, shoulder neck. Hip, knee, ankle, toe. They all hurt.
I give her two Tylenol, and she sleeps. I hear her whimper. “Please,” she whispers. She’s never been able to tell me “Please what?”
Her old bones hurt. Teeth. Fingers. Time makes old bones. Her bones have had too much time.
My bones are starting to hurt too.
Four days with my daughter and family put me in another reality, one suffused with conversation, laughter, play, sunshine, and time — things I don’t have here, where the insistent needs of a 92 year old woman hold just about every moment hostage.
I was able to sit in the dappled shade and finish the mystery novel I started to read last month. I was able to relax enough to ease the spasms I’ve been getting in my back from an out-of-place rib. I sat on the floor and with my grandson and his various construction, rescue, and police vehicles. I slept like the dead.
I never got to post a new piece on the education issue. That will have to wait until next week. As for now, I’m struggling with re-entry.
Meanwhile, if you’re hungry for something more important to read, go over to No Utopia to this post about what conservative and writer Andrew Bacevich had to say to Bill Moyers during a PBS interview.
Bacevich’s responses include this:
Well, I think the clearest statement of what I value is found in the preamble to the Constitution. There is nothing in the preamble to the Constitution which defines the purpose of the United States of America as remaking the world in our image, which I view as a fool’s errand. There is nothing in the preamble of the Constitution that ever imagined that we would embark upon an effort, as President Bush has defined it, to transform the Greater Middle East. This region of the world that incorporates something in order of 1.4 billion people.
I believe that the framers of the Constitution were primarily concerned with focusing on the way we live here, the way we order our affairs. To try to ensure that as individuals, we can have an opportunity to pursue our, perhaps, differing definitions of freedom, but also so that, as a community, we could live together in some kind of harmony. And that future generations would also be able to share in those same opportunities.
The big problem, it seems to me, with the current crisis in American foreign policy, is that unless we do change our ways, the likelihood that our children, our grandchildren, the next generation is going to enjoy the opportunities that we’ve had, is very slight, because we’re squandering our power. We are squandering our wealth. In many respects, to the extent that we persist in our imperial delusions, we’re also going to squander our freedom because imperial policies, which end up enhancing the authority of the imperial president, also end up providing imperial presidents with an opportunity to compromise freedom even here at home. And we’ve seen that since 9/11.
Sometimes these days I think the only way I have stopped myself from strangling my brother and/or my mother is by picking up a crochet hook or a pair of knitting needles and going at it with a new hank of yarn.
I realized recently that I am a “process” craftsperson rather than a “product” one. I have at leave five projects started that I’ve set aside because I got to points in the patterns that required a lot of attention to detail. So I’ve started a lightweight crocheted afghan for when I move in with my daughter and family. It’s the same stitch over and over again — striped using two related yarns. There is something about the rhythm of the hand movements that’s mesmerizing, mentally relaxing. I can sit in the middle of a raging familial storm and block it out with the repeating stitch mantra. It’s certainly better for my health than drinking.
Oh, I have finished projects — like this and this and this and this.
But that was all before I moved my mother and me in with my brother. That was before my mother needed 24/7 care. Then I had the mental energy to focus on the details of form.
Now I just need something to do with my hands, something to intrude between my world and my brain. Something that I can easily put down if I have to.
So, it’s
Yarn over hook.
Insert hook in the next stitch to be worked.
Yarn over hook.
Pull yarn through stitch.
Yarn over hook.
Pull yarn through all 3 loops on hook ……….
Today I let the dishes go and did some blog-jumping through Goodblogs. And I eventually found this:
CAREGIVERS BILL OF RIGHTS
I have the right:
To take care of myself. This is not an act of selfishness. It will enable me to take better care of my loved one.
I have the right:
To seek help from others even though my loved one may object. I recognize the limits of my own endurance and strength.
I have the right:
To maintain facets of my own life that do not include the person I care for, just as I would if he or she were healthy. I know that I do everything that I reasonably can for this person, and I have the right to do some things for myself.
I have the right:
To get angry, be depressed and express other difficult emotions occasionally.
I have the right:
To reject any attempt by my loved one (either conscious or unconscious) to manipulate me through guilt, anger or depression.
I have the right:
To receive consideration, affection, forgiveness and acceptance from my loved one for as long as I offer these qualities in return.
I have the right:
To take pride in what I am accomplishing and to applaud the courage it sometimes takes to meet the needs of my loved one.
I have the right:
To protect my individuality and my right to make a life for myself that will sustain me when my loved one no longer needs my full-time help.
I have the right:
To expect and demand that as new strides are made in finding resources to aid physically and mentally impaired persons in our country, similar strides will be made toward aiding and supporting caregivers.
What’s interesting, is that different websites quoting the above attribute it to different authors:
I don’t care who wrote it first. It’s damn right on.
That’s the question she asked as she finally sat up in bed somewhere close to noon today. Usually she asks “Where am I?” Obviously, her dementia has gotten worse.
I tell her her name, in Polish, in English, her maiden name, her married name. By then she’s onto her other worry — “Can I go home now?”
It’s night now. I was with her most of the day, since my brother had a dentist appointment. When I’m with her, I try to respond with care to every question, every mood, every demand. After all, her world must be truly terrifying. And I’m her anchor.
Except she’s my anchor as well. I can’t move beyond her peripheral vision, or she panics. She is downstairs now with my brother, banging her cane on the floor and calling for me. My contact at the Alzheimer’s Association local chapter tells me that it’s not unusual for dementia patients to latch on to the most trusted caregiver and constantly shadow them. That’s what she’s doing, and it’s making me crazy.
I am holed up in my room, television blasting so that I don’t have to hear her distress. I am eating cherries and chocolate chip cookies. My stomach is in knots.
Meds only seem to make her worse in other ways. She needs 24 hour care, and it’s become too much for two people. But my brother wants her with him.
And I want to get away from this whole situation, even though she pleads with me: “Take me with you.”
It’s beautiful here on the mountain. But it’s also a prison, especially for her.
“Where are the streets?” she asks. “Where are the families?” she wonders as she looks out the window at the lush trees and patches of blue sky.
It’s hard to take her anywhere because she needs a toilet nearby. And her mood can go from placid to panic in a heartbeat.
She has lived too long. I hope that I am not still alive at 92. Or if I am, I still have my mind and my sense of humor.
Meanwhile, I’m sorting through all the stuff I brought with me to this place and downsizing. And packing.
One of the distinguishing characteristics of the Halloween witch is that bump on her nose. Well, not only do I have one; I have three. I guess that makes me officially a witch.
The dermatologist says they are “fibromas,” which are benign kinds of tumors. Mine are under the skin, and so they are not really noticeable. I can have them “sliced off” (the doctor’s words), but insurances don’t pay for that because that’s considered a cosmetic procedure. He says it’s not a big deal to take them off, or out, or whatever they do to remove them. (But he’ll have to cut the skin, so how is that not a big deal??)
When I first got them (one ages ago, one six months ago, and one last month) I thought that they were sebaceous cysts, and so I put hot compresses on them and they eventually diminished in size, but they never went away.
At the moment, they don’t bother me, but I know they’re there. I can feel them.
I can’t worry about them now, however. In two days I’m leaving to head out to Massachusetts for my grandson’s sixth birthday, and I’m going to stay over at least three nights.
So it will be just my brother and mother. The hospice nurse suggested a change in my mother’s medication, so we’re going to try that. Her extreme anxiety is overwhelming her. And us too. I guess it’s her dementia getting worse. Between that and her increasing aches and pains, it makes it almost impossible to interact meaningfully with her. It’s like trying to take care of a sick toddler.
I often wish I really were a witch so I could get on my broom and fly away.
Actually, as much as the weeds around here need whacking, they’re not getting it. They are pretty much out of control. Weeds: plants considered undesirable, unattractive, or troublesome, especially one growing where it is not wanted,
It’s not just the weeds around here that are out of my control. I am still living under the tyranny of my mother’s growing dementia and dependence combined with my brother’s demoralizing rules and realities.
Not much freedom for me here, on this Independence Day.
Maybe I should go out and buy my own little weed whacker, vent my frustrations on that army of undesirables that are intruding over every path from the door to the world. Whack! Whack! Take that, you creepy things.
I did murder a whole bunch of Japanese Beetles today as they attempted an orgy on my tomato plant. Whack! Whack!
One can only hold in anger and frustration for so long. Yes, I think I need to go out and whack those weeds, clear a path, clear my head. I know that those weed whackers are pretty loud, loud enough to muffle the yelling I need to get out of my system.
Someday I will be able to celebrate a real personal Independence Day. Until then, I need to go out and get a weed whacker.
On Independence Day back in 2002 I blogged that there should be a “Interdependence Day,” and a commenter sent me to this page, where there is a Global Declaration of Interdependence, as follows:.