Mail call

Mom's favorite game

On my visit yesterday we went through her mail. It's a ritual she likes, even if it's all just junk. "This is from President Obama," I'll say. "He wants your money. Can I throw it out?" Getting mail makes her feel connected. The president and Michelle actually sent her his state of the union address, of which I read her selected portions. "That's right, isn't it," she said, of one ringing phrase. Still, I threw it out.

So I went to take her to church today and found her in bed, sound asleep, in her church clothes. I decided to wait it out. She slept for a full hour, missing church, while I listened to an audiobook and did my exercise steps, back and forth. Easy duty. When she woke, we went to the Bistro for brunch, where Julie joined us.

Then back to her room. But, having napped, she wasn't tired, of course, so we tried the penalty box, but nobody there, and finally made our way to the dining room, where everybody was eating lunch, and of course she'd eaten. "I don't want to be here," she said, which is a way of saying she didn't want me to leave. But her favorite people were there, so I wheeled her to the table, got her a cup of coffee, and kindly, firmly, said I'd be back in a few days.

A week or so ago, before her anxiety meds were increased, there would have been a scene. Thank god for modern medicine.

*

Just as an update, we have confirmed with the top nurse that the frightening aide will not deal with Mom any more. And we finally understand that the private aide service is not really licensed to provide any more than companion care (a provision that they were very vague about when we started). This means, for example, that the aide can't take her out of her chair and get her in the pool, or on an exercise bike, or anything, really. Isn't even supposed to take her to the bathroom. This accounts for the private aide's, um, limited selection of more or less sedate activities when she's with Mom. So we're going to change the aide service.

I was worried that Mom would be upset, but Mom was amenable when I brought it up. And even in the aide's notes, she reports that Mom has said recently that she "wanted to rest alone." So maybe Mom is sick of her.

Ready for anything

A kind of horror

For Wauwatosa Now

When I arrive in the dining room for a visit lately, Mom looks at me like I'm a stranger, of no account. Tonight we sat and ate in almost complete silence. I would say she was tired, but that doesn't quite describe it. Maybe "resigned" is a better word. Her eyes look like she's been through something, and Monday night, or maybe it was Tuesday night, she had been.

She's complained before about a third-shift aide. "She hates me," Mom said. It's hard to get the story straight, but Mom said this time, in the middle of the night, she'd torn the blankets off Mom's bed after Mom had called, and was rough with her as she went to the bathroom, and then, when Mom couldn't go after all, that was more frustrating to the aide. (Sister K would know this story better.)

Somehow Mom made her way to the hall -- with her walker, she said, although it's hard to imagine her going very far without a fall -- and a nurse saw her there and -- I don't know. Got mad at Mom? Got mad at the aide?

At dinner, then, tonight, we told this story to one of the best, most-friendly aides. And she knew right away who it was -- MM. "I think she thinks it's the best way to get things done," the friendly aide said.  She said MM had worked there a long time. So I left Mom in the lounge for a minute and talked with the nurse in charge. She already knew of the problem, and I said I didn't want MM dealing with Mom ever again. She said, "No, she shouldn't have to deal with that" -- Mom shouldn't have to live in fear of this woman. She said she'd tell the night nurse, too.

So we shall see.

I pop in when I do, and have no idea what she's been through, and she can't tell me clearly, and it's a kind of horror. We wandered around a bit, and finally I wanted to go, but didn't want to leave her, but felt inadequate to help, and she just said, "You go now. Say hi to Julie."

So I went. It's so strange for her to ask me to leave.

Guest post

Wauwatosa

Mom has calmed. Her doctor increased -- doubled, I think -- her anti-anxiety medicine, and it has worked. She's more cogent through the day, tracks better, doesn't completely freak out when I say I'm going to go. We'll see how long it sticks.

Here's a guest post from Sister K of NYC, who's here this weekend:

Hi All,

Came down at 8:30 this morning and Mom was having a shower. I met her at breakfast and she looked great, was in good form and even told a few stories. Bev, Grace and I reviewed their NYC stories that I've now heard enough times to recite in my sleep, but it was lovely and heartwarming. Grace said at 95 she still does not feel old, and remarkably she doesn't look it either. After breakfast, Mom and I read X'mas cards for awhile, then played tennis in the PT room. On our way back up we ran into Dar who treated us to coffee in the bistro before lunch. Dar said they were kicked out of the PT room last time they went down there to play tennis because it's too crowded on weekdays. I'm going to buy Mom her own set of rackets and balloon so they can do it elsewhere. She loves it and has great hand-eye coordination. Now she's sleeping. I'll have dinner with J&J tonight (yay and thanks!!).

More later --

K

Over the lake
(sister k photo)

Free money!

Just one of the libraries. 

I would have to say Mom has entered a new phase of stability (knock on wood). No pleadings, lately, no outbursts. Tonight, when I said I had to leave, she thanked me kindly for coming. I was moved. It is better when I visit in the evening, because the time ahead of her is short and usually filled with a shower and changing and the blessedness of bed.

She's not always all there. She said tonight, "Are we going to the high school? I wanna go and find Nels." When I can work up the gumption to say, "Nels died," she takes it as a matter of fact.

We read mail and her old letters. One Easter, when the girls "looked adorable" in sailor outfits, dresses, and hats, all of it sewed by her mother,  she reported, "Jon got some pants." These were no doubt Sears or Kresge pants. I exist in the letters like furniture, to be moved here and there -- but then she had two girls 11 months apart, and then another three years later, so she was pretty busy, and, of course, those girls were cuties.

She did report, in one little league game, I struck out twice. And in another, I hit a triple and scored. I was surprised to find that she had even noticed these things. Probably my mood, either up or down, made them memorable.

When I brought her out to the penalty box tonight, as I got ready to go, one of the nurses said, "I'll never forget the time Mary was passing out money. Twenty dollar bills, ten dollar bills. I said, 'Mary you can't do that.' And she said, 'You can't tell me what I can do with my money.' "

So the nurse collected all the money she had given out. This explains the envelope containing $130 I was given by a social worker a few weeks ago.

No more money for momma.

I was pretty excited about this picture when I took it, but, meh.

Not about Mom

This is why it's great to be a reporter. 

The good, the bad and the ugly

Gen. Erastus B. Wolcott, in Lake Park

Well, I tried to load a video of the annual Jan. 1 old-folk's pingpong tournament. Maybe the file was too big. I am such a dunce.

I visited Wednesday, Friday, Saturday and today, Sunday. Ez and Julie have made additional visits. Her calls have continued, and it was, to be sure, a slow period at the place.

When I came yesterday I said, "I'm just gonna stay an hour, Mom."

"How come you'll only stay an hour?"

It was, though, not a bad hour. For lack of better entertainment, I found her bundle of old letters -- letters she'd written -- and read a few to her. Some are more than 60 years old, from her days at college, and they are long, searching, and evocative. She talks about Nels -- how he said he was not particularly social, didn't really seek out people to talk to, and this gave her pause, made her doubt whether he was the right guy. "I absolutely love people," she said.

There's another letter -- maybe the same one? -- where she talks about her goals for college. She chose a major she thought she could do -- music -- not because it was of any utility, which she saw, in herself, as a failing, that a major should be somehow more useful. And, in college, she was clearly "looking to meet a man" and start a family, and he would, obviously, support her, since she felt, not just that she didn't have skills, but that's how she wanted it.

This was probably pretty typical then. And that was true for some women even when I was at college, 25 years later.

Anyway, she got her wish. And here we still are, living out the longterm consequences. I'm still "my son Jon."

I'm impressed with the energy she poured into mothering. There was a day in the mid-1960s when she dolled up her daughters and went with her friend Elsie, six or seven kids between them, to watch President Lyndon Johnson arrive in a helicopter at UM to give a commencement address. She was just sure he was going to come over and kiss one of her girls.  Of course he just waved from a distance and went inside, and yet she didn't seem disappointed. Dressing them up, taking her "lambs" on a little outing -- sufficient pay-off.

*

We went to chapel, then lunch in the Bistro with Jack, Anne and Bev. We have started to gather our own little group of acolytes. Then back up, where Mom wanted to lie down. I read some more letters, and said I would be leaving.

She tried to sit up, her eyes wild.  "I don't like it, Jon. What will I do? What's going to happen? I won't know how to get home here tonight." She said we had to have a plan.

"I'll be back in a couple of days, Mom."

"Jon, a couple of hours is about all I can take."

I said goodbye and left, then lingered outside the door, worried that she'd try to get up. When it was quiet, I peeked back in, and there she was, propped up in bed, her crazy bug-eyes peering straight at me. I went back in, pulled her out of bed, put her in her chair. "I really don't like this mom, when you beg and plead and cry when I say I'm going to leave." She mewed not quite apologetically. I took her to the dining room, where some of her friends were sitting. I wheeled her to the table, put on the parking brakes, and left.



1954