Those damn faucet handles

for sale

A blah morning with Mom. I found her asleep at the breakfast table with the newspaper in her lap. She was freshly dressed and her hair was wet from washing, and I woke her and we went down to chapel. Between us we had no energy, Mom hanging bent over in the wheelchair, though she summoned enough umph to mouth along with the liturgy and hymns she knew. When the service ended, I asked her if she wanted to go to brunch or just go back to the room, and she said brunch.

"I need to try to come alive," she said.

Julie had taken her to the pool yesterday and it was regenerating and exhausting, and I wondered if she was still tired from it. Julie tried to hold her hand as they walked through the water, and Mom pulled free and said, "I can do it." The walking problem disappears when there's water to hold her up.

Julie said when she arrived, Mom asked, "Where's your husband?" Did she know my name or not? And when they were done, Mom asked, "Should I drive myself home?"

She's got a new aide, now -- Maria, who comes every weekday morning. As far as I can tell, she's taken her to the gym, and gets her up and into an exerbike, although it's hard to confirm that. They do the tennis game, at the very least, and read devotions. Mom still mourns the loss of Debbie, but this is a better, more active arrangement, I think.

So we had a little crew of women come this week and evaluate and tag all the stuff we want to sell. They'll put it on eBay or some other sites and as it starts to go, this move push will start to feel more real. We want to downsize and go downtown, to a condo or apartment, where we don't have to do any upkeep, where we can walk to get groceries or get to church, and the space is manageable.  We've looked at lot of places, but nothing is firm and we're several months away -- painting, etc., left to do.

Earlier in this whole move idea, it felt too much for me, with Mom, work, and the things I really want to do, like bike and write. I didn't want to lose my garage (bike-repair space), my writing office, my habits, but Julie, wanting to shed possessions and all the worry that accompanies them, has pushed it along. If we get the right place, it'll work out. Even I will appreciate not having to continually tighten the faucet handles.

The past, the present, the future

Rx for life
(2004)

Above, one of the more valuable things we've found as we clean out the house -- definitely in the "keep" pile.

Took Mom to chapel today. We had a guest preacher, a nice-looking young man with an accent -- hispanic? His theme was, "If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go with others." I liked it, but felt that, for me, if I want to go my own pace -- slow -- I go alone. If I go with others, I can't keep up. But I can't find a metaphor in that.

Mom sat slumped sideways during the entire service, clutching her left leg. This is the leg with the rod in it, and maybe also the leg with the mended knee after her fall in AA, a few years ago. I think it reacts to the weather. But what do I know -- maybe it's radio signals. After church, we went to the Bistro, but she didn't want to stay and eat, so we went back up to her wing and got some ibuprofen from the nurse. Mom faded fast, wanted to lay down, so I got her into bed. She seemed shrunken, just a helpless little thing. Julie came and said she'd watch her for a while, so I left.

One of the sisters said recently, "It's a difficult situation." Yeah, it is. "Situation" doesn't quite capture it.

So, not one to brag on myself, let me brag on my kid once. Young dauntless Ezra, after getting rejected from every MFA writing program he applied to after college, was accepted by the Stanford graduate school last week. He'll study English lit. This is maybe a testament to intelligence, but more so, as I've seen first hand, to discipline and work work work.

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We're taking bids on the following:

The obligation

The Menomonee

Yesterday's panicked call was a momentary phantasm -- forgotten, I think, as soon as she hung up the phone. I wonder sometimes if these calls are calculated -- invented threats that might get me there pronto.

Anyway, at 3, when I did arrive, she was sitting in bed, calmly sorting her papers. We walked, I read to her, and I left her at dinner, and it was fine. Then, today, church. She seemed zonked out, but we made it through, and then to the Bistro for brunch. Sat with our friends, J and B, who talked of the eight years they lived in an ashram in California. Interesting. Mom said nothing, and I am long since past trying to involve her or feeling, somehow, crazily, bad that I'm having a good time that has nothing to do with her, in her environment. I tell myself that she enjoys listening, but I can't prove it.

I won't miss this when it's over -- if, in fact, I survive her. I'll miss J and B, and Mom, somehow, I'm sure. But today, I just don't feel it.

The 'keep' pile

The 'keep' pile

Mom, just now on the phone:

"Hi Jon. This is Mom. It's like a prison here. They say we can't come out of our rooms unless we tell them where we want to go. I want you to come over and tell them, like you did before. Come as soon as you can."

"Is there an aide there, Mom?"

"No. She just dialed the phone and left."

It's 10:50 a.m. I'm still in my pajamas. I said I'd be over at 3.

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We are trying to move, thus the sorting, above. Mania punctuated by bouts of paralyzing depression.

See Sister L's great new blog at http://www.habitsofanartist.com.