Bare your soul

Whilst I’m in the mood, I have another confession but this time I have a much better excuse, and believe me when I tell you that I am in great need of excuses, although I’m trying hard to pull myself out of the lake of guilt.

Just stop wallowing woman!

You see the other thing I missed was that lack of bath room use. My mother shares this experience caring for my father. It’s more difficult for her. Far more difficult with a spouse. This is especially so because of the type of man she married. She basically married an Edwardian, although I don’t think she fully appreciated the consequences at the time. Soft spoken, dignified and polite, they both had their traditional roles etched on the marriage certificate. All that has now changed. Nobody tossed her the reins as such but there she is, in charge of the horses.

Bathing became a big issue, an issue that I unfortunately had to mention. It was one of many bug bears. She knew it was an issue but only one of many. A different order of magnitude. So I tried my best to be gentle but my mother is oh so very different from me. A gentle prod was more than enough to beget action. She told me on the phone the following week. She was remarkably cheerful, far more cheerful than I’d heard for a long time. “I did it!” she beamed. “Did what?” I asked. “I phoned social services and got the ball rolling. Sometime next week a nurse will call to give him a bath. I’m done with it. Problem solved.” And solved it duly was but my predicament is far more delicate if not precarious. Nonna has been with us almost five weeks. It is the height of summer and yet not so much as a trickle of water or a smear of soap has been in contact.

I do have an explanation. Let me explain for us both, as they’re inter-weaved. It has always been Nonna habit to swim, daily. For some while last year this was difficult to negotiate since the boys couldn’t really swim, although they believed that they really could swim. We fell into a habit. I would open the pool, bring back the cover very quietly, half an hour in advance so that Nonna could enjoy thirty minutes of exclusive alone time. After that, she would sit on the side of the pool better able to watch her grandchildren, one natural seal, two flailing whales and me trying to keep everyone afloat. It was the cause of much amusement, to her at least. During the kerfuffle she would amble away to have a shower before the deluge of children ousted her.

This year, things are different. They are different but I didn’t notice particularly at first because other events obscured the true scene. The scene was basically green, a pool full of abundant, blooming algae. Technically it was safe to swim but swimming in pea soup is not a very attractive option. So, no swim equated to no shower, not daily, nor weekly, not ever. Once again I completely failed to connect the dots because it would appear that I am far more of a creature of habit that I should generally care to admit.

So there you have it, or rather I have it, or rather, she doesn’t have it, but have it she must. It’s just the ‘how to’ bit that I’m searching for but I have a tentative plan or two. It’s the how to approach with diplomacy that eludes me. I can think of few things more galling than to suffer such a personal attack from a daughter in law.

Since the pool is recovering, slowly, I could just wait a few more days, but that smacks too much of avoidance on my part. One tentative plan is to prompt, something like, ‘can I turn the shower on for you?’ The other tentative plan is to suggest that I do her hair again. If she’s going to wash her hair she might as well wash it in the shower rather than the sink. Lastly, if all else fails I shall use my trump card, the grandmother one. I shall exploit my son’s aversion to showers and ask if Nonna will don her swimsuit and accompany him into the shower to supervise. I am reluctant to use this one as I fear for Nonna’s safety in such slippy conditions but at least she won’t need her hearing aid to protect her from his agonizing screams. Needless to say, I still wear my learner plates and would welcome advice from all quarters. I’m tempted to trust my instincts but I’m not overly confident in this [new] department. Mistakes are inevitable but I’d prefer them not to be big ones nor permanent, as I suspect we all have a long road ahead of us.

Bare your soul

http://sandwichedgenes.blogspot.com/2009/08/bare-your-soul.html

You take the high road and I’ll take the low road

To be honest, my knowledge of "deafness" and "hearing loss" is both minimal and vicarious. In an ideal world I would research the subject in detail but I am short on time, so I make do with an emotional yet entertaining version, 'Deaf Sentence,' by David Lodge. I learn about pitch or more accurately, 'frequency,' which proves startlingly helpful.

We gather at the table in the garden for dinner under the pergola. My youngest son squalks in protest. He is very, very loud, perched on his hunkers in a carver chair for containment. Nonna sits two spaces down in the semi rocker chair. As she rocks she admires the Honeysuckle above, abuzz with bees, huge, black workers. She is deep in contemplation as she tears small puffs of warm bread. I attempt to drag her back into the conversation, or what passes for conversation around here. I already knew that many voices all talking at once, is especially difficult for the hard of hearing. It’s another added incentive to move the campaign forward, the campaign, for us all to take turns. Until recently this has not been a priority. The priority was to extract as many words from each child as possible, but times change.

There are lots of ways to describe it. One way to describe it is that the brain has little hot spots, near the surface for easier access but they are also fragile and semi-transparent. These spots are the ones that are used most frequently, but because they’re so hazy the brain can’t figure out whether they’ve already been used that day. Hence the repeats as they float around, bumping into consciousness. It’s a bit like at the end of the day when partners meet up with a whole list of important matters to cover. We ask the other one, just to make sure, “did I tell you already about……?” It’s because we’re so busy, it’s because we’re not certain, it’s because it’s just hovering, the reminder. But that’s just the scientific version. The reality is far more obvious. It’s just like when I nip to the supermarket to pick up a prescription together with a short list of necessities. I don’t write ‘prescription’ on the list, because that’s the main purpose of the trip. When I return home, I have everything on the list, but not the prescription, too busy, too harassed, too pressured, too scrambled.

So we live with repeats.

One of the repeats, one of the many, is the absence of Hummingbirds. I’ve added to the list. It’s one of my many pre-emptive strikes to stave off the repeats. I wait until I spot one. I don’t have to wait long.
“Look!” I tap her on the forearm and point, “look! A Hummingbird!”
“Ooo yes. Look at dat. Such a pretty little ting. Dat’s dah first one I see dis year. Such a shame you ave no Hummingbirds dis year.” We beam at each other, each with our own different sadnesses, bitter sweet. She rocks and returns her gaze to the foliage on high.
“Maddy?”
“Hmm?”
“Why you ave so many bees?”
“Well the top side, the other side of the pergola is full of blooming Honeysuckle.”
“Hmmm but why they are working now? In dah evening?”
“They’ll keep at it whilst it’s light.”
“Dey are so loud aren’t dey?”
“Yes indeedy.”
“Shame I ave not eard dah parrots dis year. Did dey get rid of dem?”
“No they’re still there, four doors down. They still put them out in their garden in the evening, on their perch, all three of them.”
“Dats funny. I wonder why I din ear dem no more?”
“Hmm……maybe we should walk up there later…..take a peek?”
“No dats alright……no need really……..we ave im don’t we!” she beams as she flaps a hand at her grandson, still squalking in protest as he submits to the last spoonful of veggies.

You take the high road and I’ll take the low road

http://sandwichedgenes.blogspot.com/2009/08/you-take-high-road-and-ill-take-low.html

Armed but hopefully not too dangerous

After far too much “thought,” I reach a conclusion. It is the sort of conclusion that my Dad would call ‘the bleeding obvious,’ now that he also has Alzheimer's, now that he has mis-filed his diplomacy corps. Alzheimer's and Dementia come in many different forms. I can liken it to a spectrum, which is “familiar” territory. Also, you don’t just wake up one day and find that the mind is lost. It’s much more gradual, spiky with dips. These two facts, although stark, give me just the toe hold I need.

I leap into action.

I delegate the “tough job” to my “daughter” and her partner Mr.B. They are volunteered to take the "children" and Thatcher the dog, to the park for at least an hour whilst I tackle Nonna. I tackle Nonna in what I hope will be the road of least resistance, hegemonic.

I set her up in the family room, the room furthest from her own bedroom, with the television that works, coffee, snacks, her glasses, handkerchief and make excuses. After making excuses at 50 decibels I excuse myself. Myself then litters the pathway from the family room to Nonna’s room with a series of obstacles, the kind of obstacles that will make noise and warn me of her impending approach. I am dubious that this, my new ‘self,’ demonstrates deviousness. Although I am often devious, I am usually devious with my children, not adults.

I creep into her room, draw the blinds and take in the full picture. The full picture is much worse than my initial fears. I unpack her suitcase and hang three quarters of her clothes in the closet on the new hangers that she has apparently ignored or possibly missed. I remove all other clothing from wherever I discover it, change the bed linen, clean every nook and cranny, vacuum and remove as much superfluous furniture as possible to aid ease of movement. I am just about finished when I hear a woof as the troops announce their return. I pick up all my props and leg it back into the family room to adopt an innocent air in front of Nonna who is enjoying a deep and well earned sleep.

We continue our day as usual, or as usual as is possible under our newly minted version but I wait. I fear that she will be angry at the invasion. I worry that she might be upset. I wonder if it will cause even further confusion. I wait for the shoe to drop or possibly the penny. I have to wait a very long time until my husband comes home. I explain our doings to him in unnecessarily hushed tones before he ventures off to the lioness’s den. I hover, within ear-wigging distance.
“Hello mum! Did you have a good day?”
“Alright….I suppose?”
“Are you ready for some dinner?”
“Wot?”
“I said, are you ready for some dinner?”
“No……I said wot?”
“What about what?”
“Dis ting?”
“What thing?”
“This……..room…….wot as appened ere?”
“I’m not sure………but it all looks very neat and tidy.”
“I know……..but ow it is all neat and tidy?”
“Hmm good question.”
“I tink maybe a fairy az come and tidy it all up for me, no?”
“!”
I can't see them but I feel the flinch, hear the silence, smell the breathing of hot air.
“Don look like dat……I know ow it is done…..it woz Maddy…….I am teasing you! You silly goose!”

Armed but hopefully not too dangerous

http://sandwichedgenes.blogspot.com/2009/08/armed-but-hopefully-not-too-dangerous.html

Earthquake country. What to do?

I have an internal debate as to whether to broach the subject of his mother’s declining health?

On the one hand, she is his mother.

On the other hand, she is his mother.

It’s my birthday so I am older, we both are, and he has noticed that we are middle aged. It is a sad day for him. He is sad with frustration because Nonna’s new television doesn’t work, nor the TIVO, nor the fire alarm, nor any number of household items in disrepair. He worries greatly about these things in part because they are all fixable but other things are not. It is easier to worry about the unfixed things that are fixable. I would be inclined to say ‘denial’ but I’m not a very good American. Feeble Americans would say grief stricken. It’s not as if he doesn’t know. I know he knows. I heard him just yesterday in controlled yell mode, “where is your hearing aid?” But of course a hearing aid doesn’t mend hearing, nor does it restore memory, “I’ve just told you a hundred times, they are married.”

I glanced into the garden where my daughter and her partner sat cringing under the pergola.

There was a catch in his voice. I recognized that catch as I hear it coming out of my own mouth sometimes too. Sometimes it’s the catch of despair other times mere annoyance and I can tell the difference. I’ve had more practice, much more practice. I think I’ve already mastered controlled, cheerful yell for approximately 95% of the day, even when it’s night time. I’m working towards a 100% clearance rate but it’s not easy.

There are only two repeats that cut me to the quick. The first one is the ‘married? / who is that man?’ question and the other is the ‘are they still autistic?’ question, but I’ve learned my stock answer by heart, the words, the tone, the delivery and that helps a lot.

But it’s different for him. I have the degree of separation, no blood, but he’s her only child, very bloody. All the onus is on him, I’m just a bystander in the headlights. I don’t know how to get the balance right between interference and privacy? I’m on unfamiliar territory and the ground is shifting fast.

Earthquake country. What to do?

http://sandwichedgenes.blogspot.com/2009/08/earthquake-country-what-to-do.html

Traveling light

I moan to my mother on the telephone about laundry. My mother moans to me on the telephone about Alzheimer’s, my father’s current state of health. It’s a form of international therapy for care givers, the cheap option, the time saving option, the option that relieves us of the problem of actually leaving the house. As we pause for reflection about our lot in life a very small shard of knowledge pokes me in the brain, two inches above my left temple, sharp, pointy with a nasty little thorn on the edge. We say our good byes and hang up.

I hover by the phone and think.

We have been back in the States for a month, four weeks just over, with Nonna, her tiny suitcase and her small collection of personal belongings. I had noticed that she has been more accident prone. I had noticed that her clothing was less than pristine. I had noticed she hadn’t been handing me presents of her clothing to add to the load. I had not connected the dots. I had noticed the lack of complaints, relieved. I had not noticed that her prompt was absent:-

“Why you not change my sheets today?”
“Because I try and stagger the loads.”
“It’s not my turn today?”
“No…..your turn is on Wednesday.”

A two liner exchange imprinted in my inventory of replies but I’ve not used it, not once, in four weeks. I skip along to her room and peek inside. I have not been inside for four weeks. I have respected her privacy or so I thought. Nonna naps on the bed because of a sleepless night. I know it was a sleepless night because I asked how she slept. She replied with the second of her alternating responses:- “me? I always sleep perfectly!” but the coffee machine full of spent grounds doesn’t lie. I watch her sleep, curled over tousled bedclothes. A picture of innocent neglect or overlooked failings. Someone must do something. Something must be done. I am the someone, but what to do? Or maybe, just how and when and which way?

Traveling light

http://sandwichedgenes.blogspot.com/2009/08/traveling-light.html

And other complications

At 5:15 in the morning I am busy sautéing onions in the kitchen. The boys read comic books in the family room, a direct consequence of the new campaign ‘no electronics in the morning.’ Their holiday plan is to skip sleep completely to gain more electronics time. I took a leaf out of my mother’s book, the one that reads ‘do try and get some rest dear,’ with subtext that says ‘enough is enough.’ It’s not a perfect solution, more of a holding pattern when Nonna appears, “ooo wot you do dere? You’re making lunch already?”
“No ….supper. I’m trying to get ahead.”
“When you cook lunch den?”
“I won’t cook, just sandwiches.”
“Dat’s a pity. Wot we do today den?” I’m tempted to say ‘tread water’ or just ‘cope.’
“Take a swim, do some crafts……the usual.”
“Dat’s a pity. I tink I watch dah news den please?” I take a deep breath and take a small stand, “could you watch it later, when the boys aren’t here please?”
“No news? Why?” It’s my best shot, appeal to her highly superior Grandmotherly sensitivities.
“Because all that carnage upsets the boys, the children, it scares them.” I don’t mention that it probably also scares the neighbours too at 50 decibels before dawn.
“Oh yes. Of course. I see. Just a coffee den please?”
There! That was easy.

And other complications

http://sandwichedgenes.blogspot.com/2009/08/and-other-complications.html

Dodos and other game old birds

I am in mid thunk, toying with paper, pencil and an elusive menu plan when I am struck by a stroke of unexpected genius. 8 people in the family and only seven days in the week. Surely I just need to ask each person to come up with one dinner and I will save myself no end of brain injury? I skip the children as I already know that their choices carved in cement. I tackle Nonna in the garden. This proves to be the usual challenge, how to have a private conversation at 50 decibels?

“Name me a dinner. Anything you like.”
“Why?”
“I’m trying to make a menu plan for the week. This way you’ll have at least one thing you like.”
“But I already like what you give me.”
“That’s no help at all. Think of something else that you like.”
“You know……anything……I don’t mind.”
“You’re being very un-coperative…….be helpful!”
She grins as she opens her palms in question.
“Eggs.”
“What sort of eggs?”
“Quail, duck, caviar!”
I pout. She beams.
“Anyway…..you don’t like fish.”
“I’m very easy to please apart from dah fish.”
“So you mean hard boiled eggs?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“Salad.”
“What kind of salad?”
“Dah usual.”
“Anything else?”
“Some kind of meat.”
“Which kind of meat?”
“Salami.”
“And……?”
“Some kind of cheese.”
“Which kind of cheese?”
At this rate of progress it will take me a week to canvas all the troops. I begin to wonder if I really am saving time and brain power.
“Oh you know.”
“No I don’t…….that’s why I’m asking.”
“Soft.”
“Brie?”
“Not really.”
“Camembert……Edam?”
“No I hate dat rubbery stuff.”
I make an exaggerated sighing noise, loud enough for people with dodgy hearing aides.
“Don’t be such an old fossil Maddy.”
“!”
“No……not fossil…..wot is dat ting without a spine?”
“A spineless…….an amoeba?”
“No. Dat old ting? Dinosaur ting without a spine?”
“Er?”
“No…..not spineless……flightless!”
“Pteradactyl! No that can fly. An ostrich? No that’s not a dinosaur……..”
“Anyway…..wotever it iz……do wot I do…….cook wot you like and to ell with dah rest of dem.”
“!”

Dodos and other game old birds

http://sandwichedgenes.blogspot.com/2009/08/dodos-and-other-old-birds.html