Excursions

Sometimes, she surprises me. Today, for example. After a sluggish morning, both of us still in the recuperative stages of bronchitis, I asked if she was up to sitting in the car and watching as Sam and I walked around the soccer fields at a local park. She ‘lowed as how that would work, and together, we gathered up her knitting, pouffers (our term for albuterol inhalers), cigarettes, binoculars, and coffee, and with one last trip to the restroom, we were on our way.

Since I’ve been in Salem, part of my usual morning schedule has been to head out with Sam (a female beagle-mutt that lives and loves with abandon; I want to be like her when I grow up), to find a place where 1) there’s no cigarette smoke, and 2) she can run, explore, sniff, chase, and react joyfully when I ask if there are squirrels nearby. Although I don’t know where the term came from, I have humorously begun referring to it as our morning constitutional. We have been to Minto Brown, where blackberries were discovered, picked, and transported home to be rendered into a delicious pie; Silver Falls, where she has, against all logic (and knowledge of beagles) ventured into the very cold water in an attempt to cross to the other side; Wallace Marine Park, where I’m reminded of ‘The Sound of Music’ when she comes running down the little slope and across the grass of the soccer fields, and the Willamette River Greenway, which allows us a most transcendent ramble through old woods and new growth, to the cliffs over the river, and a peacefulness that harkens to me from the other side. And just yesterday, Sam was so unnerved by her startling of a snake that she refused to join me for a little wade in the water.

Off we all went, to sit (Mom) and to wander (me) and to find out what had been there throughout the night and morning (Sam). After a walk around a couple of fields, Sam and I got back into the car, and I asked Mom if she was up to a bit more of a drive, to see the Greenway entrance that Sam and I had found, and to continue on for a bit more, if she was up for it. Indeed she was, so north we headed.

While we were turning around in the parking lot of the Greenway, Mom said that she’d like to come back when she felt better and do part of the walk with us. My first reaction, and yes, I said this, was, “I don’t think you’re ever going to feel good enough to do this,” but she insisted. I reiterated to her how beautiful I had found it to be, let her know that there was a bench part way through the walk that looked out over the river, and reassured her that if she couldn’t make it back to the car, I’d just put her on my back, piggy-back style, and carry her the rest of the way. She laughed at that.

We agreed to continue on our northward journey. It was pleasing for me, to be able to transport my Mom to someplace other than the chairs in which she sits, and to hear her appreciation of the beauty of the Willamette Valley strewn before and around her. She remarked about the changing colors, the lifting of the fog, the flatness of the farmland and the various stages of harvesting that she saw. I asked her to be on the lookout for a uniquely western site, that of a bird-of-prey’s nest built atop a modified telephone/electric pole. With the first one, we were both amazed with it’s size, how high the walls of the nest were built from the base of the platform. Although we made a couple of u-turns and driveway stops, we didn’t see any life in or around the nest, and I wondered out loud if she knew the nesting and/or migration seasons for eagles in the area. I know that at one point in her life, she would have been able to tell me, but she’s visited that knowledge so infrequently that it’s gone away from her now. We passed a couple of more, both times slowing down to see if there was anything to see, but all were empty of visible life.

At a small park wayside, knowing that the 50’ walk would render her breathless, I ignored the handicapped parking area and drove my Mom up to the door of the restroom. And when she was done, I showed her how Sam (and I, to some extent) had managed for her to get some exercise on our cross-country drive. I let her out, and slowly drove around the park. Sam would stop when she encountered a smell worth investigating, otherwise, she was running behind and off to one side of the car; I kept track of her in my rearview mirror, and showed Mom how we’d done that.

We came home by way of the Wheatland Ferry, which was the last of what was pleasant about our drive. The rest of the trip was through suburb and town, and I think both of us, already weary with our outing, were done in by the assault of color-light-glass-noise-traffic-cars of civilization. We arrived home to rest, lunch on leftovers, and quietly watch the latest Charlie Rose interview.

For both of us, for differing reasons, these trips have turned into something more than just a drive in the country. Conversations uninterrupted by television or phone go on until complete, ideas that are sprouting as seeds become fodder for sharing, and rememberings are thrown back and forth with pleasure in the company, and care that one’s memories aren’t made out to be mistaken or wrong. For all of these reasons, I look forward to more of this with my Mom.

Discomfort v. Pain

My Mom has acute bronchitis, and coincidentally, me too. She has been feeling pretty crummy in the mornings, which is not really new, but this "crummy-ness" has been full of discomfort for her. Over the weekend, she repeatedly wanted to know if we were going to the emergency room, because she didn't want to go there and sit and wait, but she knew she wanted to get checked. Finally, on Wednesday morning, she asked me to call the doctor to see if we could get her in for an appointment. "Why'd you wait until Wednesday," you ask?

I've learned this thing about my Mom and doctors. If I am impressed enough with her discomfort/pain to get her to the doctor's office, by the time we get there, she'll be her "fair to midland" self, which is exactly what she'll tell the doctor, and we'll be back where we started, with painful, labored (and be-labored) morning risings, without any form of additional help, other than the previously prescribed variety of inhalers and meds.

So I wait until she's ready to go, or tells me to call, and when we go, then I know that she is really feeling bad enough to be there.

I have this hypothesis. Mom's a daughter and niece of doctors, and unless you're dying, you don't really deserve to be being seen by a professional such as them. One particularly hard morning, we talked about the difference between "pain" and "discomfort." On a daily basis, she experiences a great deal of discomfort, mainly related to breathing, which she does (thankfully) all day and night long. Pain, on the other hand, is foreign to her. To get an idea about her relationship to pain versus discomfort, I asked her about childbirth. Even though Mom is experiencing a loss of short term memory, her long term is intact, so she remembers those episodes. And she used the word "discomfort" to describe that too. Okay, so I haven't actually birthed a child, but everything I've heard about it says (unless you're out of it) that it's painful. Yes, women go back and do it again and again, but that's because there's something about a child being placed on in your arms that makes it all worthwhile (again, so I hear). But Mom can't even use the word "pain" when it comes to the birthing of not one but six children.

So breathing, when she's got emphysema, COPD, and (in this case) acute bronchitis? Just discomfort. It makes me aware of the fact that while on this journey with Mom, I will probably venture with her into a world of pain. I hope I'm able to provide the comfort that comes not in the shape of a pill, but in the warmth of a soothing back rub or a hand to be held when drifting off to sleep.

Getting Out of the Judgment Chair

I have epiphanies about my Mom regarding her life, the way she lives, and the judgments I have regarding all that. What I want to do here on this blog is write down and share those discoveries that I'm making while on the journey.  

I've just moved back to the home that my Mom and Dad bought in the late 1960s; Dad died in 2004, he is sorely missed, and now Mom is on the decline, brought about by 65 years of smoking, and being 80.75 years old.  

I (Kate, middle child, just turned 47, dyke, Christian, democrat, overweight (any other descriptors needed?)), drove across this most beautiful country from North Carolina, to help take care of Mom, until her death.  

I’m sitting here with my mom in the tv/sitting area of her house, where I have just moved in, to help take care of her for the last part of her days. So here we sit, early October, watching a Tampa Bay/Boston baseball game; she’s had her dinner, wine, evening drugs (and cigarettes) and the judgement, pessimism, negativity which I have come to associate with my Mom is beginning to show up. Also, my niece, who’s been sort of taking care of her for the past 3 months, is leaving soon, and although she’s been a help to Mom, I think she (Mom) is looking forward to the freedom when she (niece) is not here. Also, my Mom smokes, she’s 80 (and a half) years old and has smoked since she was 14 years old. No cancer, but serious emphysema, major disruption to any sense of normal breathing, having to use a minimum of 3 different inhalers, total loss of short term memory, and an insecure sense of what she can do and what she’s capable of doing, and all the wobbles therein for those of us living with her.

So, drum-roll please: it’s okay for my Mom to make negative comments. I have this reaction to my Mom (and probably others!), when she spouts out negative comments, just (seemingly) for the heck of it. Does she do it to create a reaction? Does she do it because she wants to disagree? Does she do it because she didn't have the voice during other times in her life to have an opinion of her own? I don't know why she does it, but here's what I've gotten to: It doesn’t mean anything, about them, or about the subjects on which they’re commenting. For example: we’re sitting here watching the first game between the Tampa Bay Rays and the Boston Red Sox. The BoSox pitcher, Matsuzaka, has a no-hitter going into the 7th inning, which is impressive. Almost enough for me to root for the no-hitter to stay intact, even though I want Tampa to win the series.

And Mom says, “Someone’s going to hit the ball.” Just that, without any emphasis or foregone knowledge. So just reading that, in the here and now, it doesn’t seem like much. But knowing Mom, it’s par for the course. There’s always going to be some less-than-positive outcome to whatever is going on. Honestly, it’s been hard to come to terms with, to let go of the desire to have her be one of the happy people, someone who could put her hopes on the line and actually root for a no-hitter to happen. But beyond that, if you don’t dig deep into the pathology of negativity, it’s quite easy to just let it be her comment about that particular subject. Sometimes it’s harder. Any time there’s a conversation about the McCain/Obama presidential race, she’ll say with no equivocation, “He’s (Obama) not going to win. No way.”

One of the things I’ve learned in this new-ish relationship with my Mom is to put aside the parent-child relationship, and be with her, knowledgeable adult with knowledgeable adult. If someone in a bar or coffee shop or check out line said the same thing, I’d have a completely different reaction to their utterance than I do when my Mom says it. (Did I mention her short-term memory loss? She says it A LOT). To anyone else, I’d ask about their reasoning, how could they sound so sure about something that was so up in the air, etc. If they seemed able, I would even try to engage them in a conversation about their reasoning, knowledge, background, and even their hopes for the future. I know my Mom wants Obama to win, but she wanted McGovern to win too, and Carter his second term, and Gore, and Kerry.

From here I can get into the pathology behind unfulfilled wishes. For my Mom, I think the list is long. She lost her Dad and brother within 6 months of each other during World War II, when she was 14 years old, and the only child left at home. Her Mom, my Granny, busied herself with work. My Mom has told me many times in the past couple of years of the freedom she had because of her Mom’s focus on things outside the home. I can imagine that in some ways the freedom was nice to have, but that she would have given that up in a heartbeat if it could mean the return of either her father or brother.

She's lost children, two, both daughters. The first, Anne, died a day or two after being born 2 months premature in 1958. In 1970, Sarah was 3 and a half years old when she died of croup. (In my life, I divide things into 'before Sarah' and 'after Sarah').

And then there were all the things that happened to everyone during the 1960’s, 1970’s etc.

Is it easier at this point for her to be negatively outspoken, because then she can’t be hurt, because she didn’t really wish for something good anyway? Is there some comfort for her in being able to say, “I told you so,” when it comes to things like elections, job and career pursuits, relationships, etc? I don’t know.

What I do know though is that there is room enough in this house for me to say, “I hope he wins,” or “Wow, wouldn’t it be cool to witness a no-hitter in a pennant race?” AND for her to have her thoughts and statements about it as well. I know that I am not judged for my optimism. I am sure of my big-heartedness and (love for her) that I can be with her and be free of judgement towards her.