Status Report

I am in Southern California to sort through all of my mother and sister's belongings and ultimately sell the house and condo.

I don't enjoy sifting through all of their personal belongings.

It's a horrible thing to throw away or donate items that they once cherished.

Memories. Memories. Memories.

I am utterly wordless.

Mid-Production Photo

The Foo Dog continues to evolve. Husband is pretty much done carving and will start to paint tomorrow. It is absolutely amazing to me that my husband can carve foam into something so intriguing and beautiful.

Husband has been exceedingly gentle and caring this week. He holds me in his arms as I sob, assuring me that mom is in a better place. Most often he cries with me, because he loved her too. They were a comedy team...bantering comments back and forth...and (as always) I was the odd man out or the one they picked on. It was all good natured and it bonded them together.

Husband went into the room to see mom right after she passed away. He tells me that she was beautiful and peaceful. He has the eye of an artist and of a loving son-in-law...and I trust him in this.

I wasn't there when it happened. I was in my car, racing down the freeway to mom's apartment, hoping to arrive in time and wondering What the Hell Happened.

My walk through the lobby and down the hallway was surreal...time stopped and I was walking in slow-motion.

The receptionist greeted me with a warm, sad smile. The housekeeper upstairs wouldn't look at me in the eye. A group of seniors were in the activity room singing, and it felt flat and joyless. Mom's door was locked...which never happened.

I knocked on the door erratically, willing my brain to catch-up to that point in time. It seemed to be lagging behind, refusing to accept events as they unfolded. The door was answered by the Home Manager, a wonderful woman who my mother adored. She stepped outside and shut the door behind her. She spoke in a hushed tone.

"I'm sorry, Jill. Your mother is gone."

"Gone?"

"She passed in her sleep just a few minutes ago."

While the Home Manager explained what transpired, I snapped. Turned on my heel and walked straight to the exit. I wanted to howl.

I've since learned that mom's passing was peaceful and painless. Her caretaker held her hand and stroked her forehead and told her that God would protect her...that she had nothing to fear. Mom looked at her straight in the eye and smiled. Then, without a word, she closed her eyes.

And she was gone.

In Memoriam, 1930 - 2005

One word frees us
Of all the weight and pain in life,
That word is Love
~ by Socrates ~


I will love you forever, JoMama.
Rest in Peace and know that you are missed.

Life Remains...Bittersweet

Remember the old Amoco commercials with the car engine that rev's up to the "Red Line...Red Line...Red Line!"...and then sputters to a complete stop? That is the vision that kept going through my mind yesterday as I sprawled in bed with the flu.

Somehow, I got through the week filled with meetings with hospice personnel for mom...her discharge from the hospital...the complete room set-up with electronic hospital bed that was delivered 10 minutes prior to her arrival...interviewing the 24-hour caretakers...surviving the withdrawal of the selected caretaker the night before she was to start...finding another caretaker who could provide the criminal background and TB test paperwork and start THAT DAY...helping mom feel comfortable with the new level of support including the visiting chaplain...and starting to notify other family members of mom's grave condition.

Once everything was set-up for mom, I sputtered on my own. Completely collapsed. My skin hurt, my teeth ached, my stomach was veritable roller coaster in motion, and my head throbbed incessantly. Finally, after more than 6 months, I felt utter relief at no longer being the sole caretaker and responsible party for mom's health. I had no idea how heavy the load was from the worry. The hospice care is really a bad news/good news scenario. The bad news is obvious because of mom's prognosis. The good news is that they now take care of everything. Her pain. Her health. Her meds. Her wounds and their dressings. Her baths and hygiene.

Oy vey. I am so grateful for their help...mixed with a whole lot of sadness, a heap of relief, and a newfound void of guilt.

The "Before" Photo

The "Production" Photo

Husband is carving two Foo Dogs out of foam for a customer. Our garage looks like a winter wonderland and all of the cats are covered in foam sprinkles. He spent 14 hours working on this one yesterday without a break. He's consumed with his passion and focus - and forgot to eat until 8pm last night. Me? I was sick in bed with the flu and barely heard the chainsaw running all day long.

Mom is down to 80 pounds. Her arms and wrists are deep purple, the brusing continues all the way up her arms. She cries all day long, begging us to "let her go" or to "take me out of this place so I can go where someone will kill me." Hospice care begins tomorrow. I am heartbroken.

I love you, JoMama. I have prayed for Ann and Aunti Hazel and Grandma and Aunti Luralyn to be by your side...so you're not afraid or alone. There is so much that I wish I could do for you...but making it happen is much like trying to get the rain stop. It's so very beyond me...despite my intentions, my efforts, and my prayers. I will always love you and cherish the time we spent together, especially over the last year. Please, please rest peacefully today. We'll have you back in your home on Monday with 24 hour care...someone who will be by your side at all times.

Mary, the Discharge Planner, called today to gently guide me toward Hospice. To help mom be comfortable over the next 2 months.

Husband and I met with a real estate guy tonight to talk about the market conditions and how much he thought the house might bring if it was sold. He talked about his marketing efforts and pursuit of buyers. He discussed his lower-than-average commission rate. And he showed us comps of other homes that have sold recently.

We ended up signing the papers to work with him, although the contract includes a clause that allows us to refuse any offer without penalty of owing him or anyone a commission.

We're not even sure if we are going to move. Husband and I sat in the living room and stared at each other after the meeting. We were both filled with fear.

Fear of leaving the known. Fear of facing the unknown. Fear of making a mistake. Fear of not taking action when we should.

We love this house and have put our hearts and souls into decorating it. But it's small with only 1.5 bathrooms. And adding on would cost more money than we have. Moving to a bigger home in the Bay Area is not an option...the prices have outpaced us.

Denver isn't cheap, but it is cheaper. Theoretically, this move makes sense. I won't have to work as hard and we'll be able to adopt our babies. The house will be big enough for all four of us, and they won't have to go into day care.

Soon, we'll decide whether or not to pull the trigger...to pack up our half dozen cats...and traipse across half the continent to live in the snow. In pursuit of a better lifestyle and more time to enjoy the things that matter the most in life.

S-c-a-r-y.

E-x-h-i-l-e-r-a-t-i-n-g.

C-o-n-f-u-s-i-n-g.

Yes...All of the Above.

Dementia, Part II

Jill is standing over the hospital bed, gazing at Mom who appears to be asleep. Mom opens her eyes and stares blankly at Jill.

Jill: Good morning!

Mom: I'm mad at you.

Jill: Still?

Mom: I hate you...

Jill: That's not a very nice thing to say.

Mom: I know it's not nice, but it's how I feel.

Jill (sounding slightly miffed): I know you're not in your right mind right now Mom, so you rest. I'm leaving because I don't care to hear this from you.

Mom: Go.

Jill mumbles to herself as she departs: (Act like a grown-up. She doesn't know what she's saying. Be the grown-up.)

Jill in the car: For the love of Mary, THIS SUCKS! $#@%&!!

Encephalopathy

en·ceph·a·lop·a·thy
Pronunciation: in-"sef-eh-'läp-eh-thE

A disease of the brain involving alterations of brain structure. The hallmark of encephalopathy is an altered mental state. Common neurological symptoms are: Progressive loss of memory and cognitive ability, subtle personality changes, inability to concentrate, lethargy, and progressive loss of consciousness. Other neurological symptoms include involuntary twitching of a muscle or group of muscles, rapid, involuntary eye movement, tremor, muscle atrophy and weakness, dementia, seizures, and loss of ability to swallow or speak.


Mom: Please get me out of here. Please Jill. Please. I can't take it anymore.

Jill: Mom, you're in the hospital. They're taking care of you and when you're strong enough to go home you will.

Mom: Please. Please, Jill. Please take me home.

Jill shakes her head.

Mom: I've thought about suicide. I'm going to kill myself. I can't stay in this hellhole. They don't feed me. They don't wash their hands. They don't help me. They don't know I'm here.

Jill: Mom, you're not thinking clearly. You are OK. You're being taken care of...please don't talk that way. They'll put you in a sanitarium if you keep it up. You ate two eggs for breakfast. Do you remember?

Mom: I'm going to call your father and pay him any amount of money that he wants to get me out of here. I know you did this to me. I'll never forget that you put me in here. Please, take me home. Please get me out of here. I'll run away. I'm leaving. I'm not staying.

Jill: Mom, they've got restraints on you because you can't walk. You fell down last week and broke your sternum. Please, please relax. We love you and want you to get better. You just need to relax. You're OK. Say it with me now, You're OK. C'mon, you can say it...so I can hear you.

Mom: I'm not OK. My group is waiting for me. I need to catch the bus. I need to leave with my tour group.

Jill sighs deeply: The tour bus will wait for you mom, it's OK.

My Final Answer

Mom confided in me tonight that she plans to run away.

I'm not sure she knows exactly where she would go or even how she would get out of the hospital without being noticed...though I have no doubt that if she did, she would eventually find her way back to my house. Sort of like those stories about people who leave their dogs behind when they move...only to discover it in their new backyard one month later. Those dogs travel through snowstorms and over parched asphalt to find their owners, their family, the ones they love. They know exactly where they need to be.

Even though mom has her own apartment with her furniture, pictures, artwork and down pillow...she considers our place to be her home. Truth be told, she never really settled in at the assisted care facility, despite all of our best efforts.

Several months ago, mom pleaded with me to stay here forever. To never step foot outside of this house again. To eventually die in the bed in my second bedroom.

I replied, "No."

I don't know if this is a normal or reasonable request of a parent to ask a daughter. I just know that I would never recover from the experience.

When Ann passed away in her sleep almost 3 months ago, Denise thought it would help her to see Ann one last time. She made it to the bedroom doorway and saw Ann's legs and feet...and then turned around and ran out of the condo. Denise never fully explained what she saw. All she could tell me was, "When a person dies, the blood settles." She's had nightmares ever since.

So my answer to my mom's request remains, "No."

Truly, I do have my limits.

Husband and I took a drive into San Francisco this afternoon to view the Siam exhibit at the Asian Art Museum. As we bounced our way down 9th Street...taking 42 minutes to travel only one mile...we commented about how there is very little that we will truly miss when we move.

There was an erratic street person screaming obsenities at the cars trapped in bumper to bumper traffic. The ever-so-quaint Stud bar that is painted bright purple and red with a disco ball atop the roof. The $4.00 per 20 minutes parking garage with the $24.00 total price cap. And the urine puddles on the stairs ouside the garage. That was my favorite part.

Twenty years ago I was estatic to live near the city. It felt vibrant. It was the largest city that I had ever seen at that point. I remember looking at the skyline and thinking about the hundreds, no thousands of opportunities inside each of those office windows. And I wanted a piece of it.

Now, I just want peace. Green grass, blue skies, families out and about. I'm tired of the panhandlers, the drug addicts, the people who spit on the car if you cross over the line into the crosswalk at the stoplight. I'll miss the museums, but I won't miss the quagmire that we have to navigate through to get to them.

Sigh. Maybe I'm just getting old?

Eighty-One point Nine

I can't seem to keep this number from haunting my thoughts. "It's too low," I keep thinking. "How did this happen?"

81.9 pounds is how much my mom weighed last night when the hospital hoisted her up from her bed in a canvas sheath that was attached to a scale. My husband commented quietly to me how she looked like a little chicken wing wrapped in paper- no meat, only bones. Mom's broken-down liver has given her a yellowish tinge except on her legs, which sport blackish-purple bruises from the slightest, little bump against the couch or from socks that are too tight. I swear, one could look at her cross-eyed and she'd bruise.

The hospital doctor called today to tell us that he has discovered the problem. Mom's liver has been dumping excess toxins into her system, causing extreme dementia...which has resulted in her refusal to eat. He's going to try some new meds, so we can rebuild her cognition and help her gain some weight. It's hard to believe that a 5'4" woman can weigh so little.

LXXXI.IX

As far back as I can remember, my mom used to make me promise that I would take care of her when she grew old. She never asked my other sisters, it was always me. They used to tease me about it, stating that it was fate and non-negotiable. When I bought my first townhome at the age of 30, they inquired if it had enough room for mom when she moved in. Their taunts would send me into fits. I couldn't imagine how it would ever come to pass. And now the time is here and it's hard now to imagine not having done this, despite the toll it has taken on me and my marriage.

Ochenta y uno nombre nueve

Mom never worked when we were kids. I'm not really sure why, since dad never held a steady job. When I left for college she began to work in a baby store for $5.00 an hour. Mom hoarded every paycheck in a checking account with just her name. Dad didn't have access to it. She was bound and determined to have some money to cover her heath care needs. Dad didn't save for retirement, he never earned a pension. He exists solely on Social Security. The small amount of savings that they have is due to mom, and I'm spending it liberally so she is completely taken care of. So she's not lonely or alone when she needs help.

Dammit, it's impossible to beat this thing.

It's 3:19pm and mom is being transported back to the hospital. She's having a hard time breathing, and she doesn't have the strength to pick up a fork.

I'm at a loss for an acceptable cuss word to accurately reflect my feelings on this.


%$&*#@#@%&$!!

Pinch Me...I'm in Love!

Long haired chihuahua's.
(You are one, Lucky Dog!)

Ouch

Three months ago, my sister was alive and my mother was well. And I was breathing a sigh of relief that we had all made it through a very difficult year.

I was hopeful and confident that the new year would be better, easier, Less Belligerent to my family. I had my parents safely ensconced in an assisted living facility where all of their needs were met. They each made new friends. Attendants made their beds and cleaned their laundry. Mom was eating more and gaining weight and dad was eating better and losing weight. I figured it was a matter of time before one of them passed, given their age and health status. But it was OK, because that is the expected cycle of life.

The news of my sister's death knocked the breath out of me. It sent me into a ten minute, sobbing state of despair that was a virtual, mental blackout. Her death was unexpected. Premature by anyone's standards. Unfair. Unprovoked. And Ill-timed.

My mother's devastation over the news sent her spiraling out of control. Her depression led to edema, which developed into a blood infection, which led to hospitalization, which caused her to lose more weight and become weak to the point of being feeble, which led to her inability to lift her head, walk, or even use the toilet by herself. Mom now speaks in a whisper, and her mouth has taken on a gaunt appearance around her teeth. Much like the pictures you see on tv when someone is starving. Her arms and hands shake continuously. Her words don't make much sense.

"As a well-spent day brings happy sleep, so life well used brings happy death." Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519)

I didn't realize it then, but I've come to understand that my sister was prepared for death. She was full of life, forgiving, generous and resolved about the Here-After. She was fearless and at peace.

My mother, on the other hand, is not ready. She lives in regret, uncertain of what death brings, afraid of being buried in the ground, afraid to spend eternity by herself. She struggles every day to live.

I have tried to set-up her circumstances so that she experiences happiness and peace...which alluded her for her entire life. I have chased this down incessantly, almost to the point of losing myself.

My therapist told me this week, "You can't undue a lifetime of mental illness and unhappiness."

I want to know, "Why not?"

She replied, "Your decision to fight her losing battle over taking care of yourself is classic co-dependency."

"Ouch," I replied....twice.