The Sigh

I've really been missing my mom lately. Yesterday I got a thing in the mail from hospice and among other things, it had a page with symptoms of Grief. I capitalize Grief because Grief has become an almost living being in my life. Having lost a son, I'm not exactly a stranger with Grief, but I'll take any pointers or help that I can get. Grief seems to have a mind of its own, a shape-shifter if you will. Anyway, I've noticed lately that I have the patience of a gnat, which is evidently a symptom of Grief.

Yesterday I had to go to the DMV to register my old Jeep. I had let the registration lapse and was actually planning on donating it to charity, but ended up having to drive it again for a brief stint while the Honda was in the shop. Anway, I started to think about Mom and let out this audible sigh; not just the kind where the air makes a lot of noise as it escapes your lungs but I let a sound escape from my vocal chords as well. I almost clapped my hand over my mouth as the sound escaped, realizing what I'd done. "The guy next to me is going to think I'm a total nutcase," I thought to myself. But sometimes something will get me to thinking and I JUST MISS MY MOM.

In yesterday's case, I was thinking about all the reasons why I kept the Jeep, which was to cart Mom around with her walker and then later, her wheelchair. I thought about what a strong spirit she had and how she fought so hard to live, and wondered if I'd let her down by letting the doctor's convince me to make her a hospice patient and sign DNR (do not resuscitate) paperwork for her. But Mom had been fighting with her body for most of her life, and defying pretty much everything along the way. Her indomitable spirit is what kept her going. It had reached a point where that persistence was making her life so hard, so miserable, yet she kept plugging away because that's what she knew best. And I sighed. A big, hard, audible sigh. A sigh that held so much within it and yet nobody around me had any idea what a big, meaningful, sigh it was. The sigh was Grief, rearing its sad head once again.

I miss Mom. I don't miss her hospital bed, her wheelchair, her walker. I miss the Mom that laughed and danced in her kitchen with my daughter. I miss the Mom that I used to call every day on my way home from work and would lose cell contact with when I passed the cemetery. I just miss talking to her. Oddly, I missed that when she was was living with me because by then, there wasn't much talking. Or listening. Mostly it was just a squeeze of the hand, a delicate hug because I was afraid I'd break her because her osteoporosis was so severe. I have so many things I wish I'd said. I wish I'd talked to her about dying on the day she died, but instead we just acted like it was understood.

And now, well, I just miss her. Yes, I do snap a lot. I don't have much patience. And I miss my mom.

Mom passed away on May 3. She caught a cold. I figured it'd be a cold or a fall that got her. She sure was a fighter...I don't know if I'd fight so hard for my life, but maybe by the time she got to the point she was at she just didn't really realize any differently. Chanti and I are taking a road trip to Colorado. We leave on Friday, will go to Yellowstone, then to Aunt Helen's in Loveland where there will be a mini family reunion. Then we're going to the Cambodian Heritage Camp in Winter Park for four days. It'll be sort of a cleansing trip for us. On to new beginnings. I have a job interview in the morning with the Public Affairs office at Kaiser in SSF. It sounds like a perfect job for me - assuming that I understand it correctly. All for now. I realized today that while I knew I missed Mom a lot, I think of her several times a day. She was quite the lady. I love her and miss her.

Today I sat in the dementia class that I've been taking and watched a presentation by another class member on adult diapers.

I keep promising myself that I'm going to write. And then I'm too tired, too depressed, feel like I don't have anything to say, too lazy - you name it, I've found the excuse.



"The Sandwich Generation"

"Caring for your elderly parent"

"Longterm care - a caregiver's guide"



Those are just some of the seminars that I never attended. I knew that I was a sandwich generation person, but I just kept hoping it would go away somehow. Mind you, I didn't (and don't) want anyone to die, but as an only child, I really didn't want to have to face this.



And as seems to be the case with much of life, that which we dread the most and avoid the most becomes our life. Or my life.



The past two years have been pretty much all about my mom. And my daughter. Little has had to do with my ex-husband, who I left right before my mother fell which was the beginning of "all of this." In fact, after receiving another nasty e-mail from him the other night, I found myself in tears. And I shook for two hours after reading it. Logic defied my emotions. I told myself, "he's always been like this, so why should he act any differently now?" The question fell on perhaps not deaf ears, but almost like a fog, it took awhile for the message to get through. Ultimately, I found myself feeling very sad, and concluded that so much has taken place since our separation that I've never taken the time or had a chance to feel sad. By the time I left, there really wasn't much to feel sad about. I'd been verbally bullied for years, and I guess that must've been okay with me because after all, did stay.

My mom is dying. Or maybe not. Mom is a fighter and doesn't give up easily. In fact, she never gives up, advice given to her by my grandmother, oft quoted by my step-father Ernie, who did give up. Two years ago, when it didn't look like Mom was going to make it, Ernie gave up. He basically lost his will to live, and he died. I remember telling him as I was coaxing him to eat, "You know, it would be just like Mom to pull through this." And she did. It was a long slow come-back, but she made it. That was when she had a hip replacement, which was two years after having her third heart surgery of her life: two valves replaced, a third valve repaired, and a double bypass.



It's been a rocky year and half. My mom moved in with me after Ernie died. Her health needs were too great and she couldn't live alone. Newly separated, it worked out reasonably well at first. I quit my job and became my mom's primary caregiver. Three months after she moved in she was hospitalized for some mystery illness. I don't think that one was ever diagnosed.

My mom has lived with me for one year, one month, and two weeks. Her health for the first six months was relatively stable. She was hospitalized once during that time when she had a bad cold, but she rallied. We even sent the wheelchair that was delivered here along with my mom back to the medical supplier.

But after about six months, Mom's health started a slow decline. First there were seizures. She's never really been the same since then. She came home from the hospital barely able to write. She quit going to the regular Senior Center and started attending the Adult Day Health program twice a week - when she was able. Now it's pretty much a hit and miss proposition. If she's up to it she goes, but more often than not, I end up calling and telling them, "Not today, she's not up to it."

In December we both got bronchitis. Actually, I got it first. I spent the better part of Christmas Day in bed giving Mom the run of the house. Her bronchitis was really bad. She has emphysema, or Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, so it did a number on her. I kept calling the hospital, calling the doctor...she was struggling to breathe. Her doctor prescribed a nebulizer for her which helped some. But one morning she couldn't walk. I called the hospital and they sent out a non-emergency ambulance. After giving Mom an IV of fluids, she was much better and able to walk. But I was exhausted. They were going to send her home with me. I talked to the hospital social worker, and she called some live-in home care agencies. It was pretty much a race - whichever agency called back and was able to provide someone at our house by 3 p.m. was getting the job.

At 3 p.m. that afternoon, Karmen sauntered through the door. Karmen pretty much always saunters. Once in awhile she's in a hurry, but usually she has a relaxed gait. Karmen quickly became our lifeline; my mom's because she can read my mom's health and tunes in to her every need, and mine because she took over the care of my mom. The original plan was we were just going to have her here for a couple of weeks so that I could get some rest and we could get my mom over the hump with the bronchitis. But Karmen fit into our household so well and more importantly, was so good with, so respectful of, and so kind to my mom that we made the arrangement permanent. She arrives on Sunday night and goes home on Friday nights. Almost as important as the care she provides for Mom is the companionship she provides for me. I'm an only child and a single parent.

Mom spent the first week of March in the hospital. At first they didn't know what was wrong. When she came home, I found out that it was pneumonia.

With each hospitalization, she comes home a little weaker, a little more confused. Her doctors are great and in some ways support me more than they support Mom. Kaiser sometimes take some hard knocks, but since my mom has lived with me, I can't say enough good about her doctors and the care she receives. For one thing, they all talk to each other and know what is going on.

This trip Mom was much weaker. She's getting another wheelchair delivered tomorrow. Hopefully that will open up her world a bit once again. Her doctor called me today and said he has been wanting to talk to me about my mom's longevity. He said she probably just has a few months left, that it is hard to tell because she is so frail. That was pretty hard to hear. I already knew it, but hearing it from a professional somehow made it more real or something. I had a prescheduled appointment with the therapist that I see who specializes in eldercare. She said that if I can pull it off, not to go back to work at this time - spend the time with my mom. She also pointed out that Mom's needs are only going to become more intense as time goes by. I think back on what my cousin told me last summer. He is retired now (at a very young age!) but worked as a geriatric social worker for 30 years. He said "You know Lori, it's only going to get worse with your mom. It will never get better." I'm sad tonight. This weekend I'm going to talk to mom and try to tie up some loose ends and make sure she knows how much I love her and how important she is to me.

I'm not going anywhere again unless it is for a full week and to a spa.

Let me introduce myself. I care for my 77 year-old mother, and my seven year-old daughter. Sometimes, it is hard to tell who requires more supervision. Being unemployed (and vascilating between bitter, relieved, and grateful about that) I made reservations for my daughter and I to retreat for a couple of days to a rustic Sierra Club lodge, built in 1934. Clair Tappaan must have been regal in its day. In many ways, it still is. The living room is spectacular with gigantic log beams and a huge stone fireplace. The lodge is well cared for, and quite clean. What really makes the place are the people you meet while staying there.

On our visit, had my mother gone, she would have been among the youngest of the lodge guests this week. This morning I had a conversation with a spry fellow wearing hiking boots. He was there with his wife. His cubicle (room, but it really is the size of a cubicle) was across from ours, and his wife's was next door. I had our door open to get a breeze going, as it was getting quite warm in our room. He kept going back and forth in pajamas and robe. From what I could gather, he couldn't find his slippers. Anway, he told me that Bob, and lodge guest, had four years on him at 88 years old, which made my conversation partner a mere 84 years of age. He had all of his faculties about him, and was about to set out on an all day hike up a mountain. In the meanwhile, I heard Bob in the background saying that if he knew he was going to live this long, he would have taken better care of himself. I've heard those words many times, but somehow coming from an 88 year-old hiker, they somehow took on extra meaning.

The first night there, I heard a loud "thump" from the cubicle next door, which was occupied by Bob's lady friend.