Numb

I can't think of a more appropriate title for this blog post than numb. It's how I'm feeling right now.

Almost three weeks ago, my mom moved to a nursing home. We were notified on Tuesday morning, and she was originally expected to move in on Thursday. I delayed until Saturday morning. I thought it would give her a couple more days in her own home, but in retrospect, moving in on the weekend was a bad idea. None of the regular intake workers are there on the weekend, and it was fly by night and make do until Monday.

It's been a tough transition. The night before mom moved, she suffered a mini-stroke rather than the TIAs we've been dealing with. It robbed her of her ability to communicate. She knew what she wanted to say, but couldn't get the words out to say it. My mom is not a chatty person on a good day, so this added an extra layer of stress to her worst nightmare. For her first couple of days in the new environment she was unable to communicate her needs. The staff then made a bunch of assumptions based on what they thought the knew about mom, and caused them to treat her like an addle-brained 3 year old. Why is it that some care givers talk to seniors like they are 2 years old and not the brightest child in the playground? For example, my mom's roomate is immobile, and we were told, doesn't communicate much. I heard her talking to her husband one evening and she could communicate more than she was letting on. I also noticed that the staff called her by one name and her husband called her a different name.  I had lunch with her and mom one day, and I asked her what name she preferred. Turns out she wants to be called by what her husband calls her, but I don't think anyone bothered to ask her.

As the after-effects of the mini-stroke diminished, mom regained her power of speech. She's waging a bit of a battle of wills with some of the staff and it's vintage Myrna. Because of the inoperable skin cancer lesions, her forehead must be bandaged. It's an open wound on a nerve and dressing changes are not a picnic in the park.  The home care nurses had learned the tricks, but the nurses at the home are still learning. Mom made me stop at a pharmacy on the day she learned we couldn't keep her family doctor, and she bought her own supplies and did it herself. I gave the staff a heads-up but told them to let her keep them. It gives her a tiny measure of control in a world that she's lost control in.

I thought she would be safe from falls, yet she's had 2 since she's been there. One they knew about, one she didn't tell them about. She's now in severe pain, and my mom is not one to complain about pain. She avoids taking pain pills if she can help it, and if she's asking for meds, there's a problem. We had to transfer to the nursing home doctor, and he doesn't know mom from a hole in the wall. I think she's hurt something, and I will keep bugging them until something is done. Get used to this face, people.

I now have to start dismantling the apartment. My mom gave my aunt my favorite pieces, an old easel and needlework picture stitched by my grandmother, and a washstand that always stood in our front hall. I can still picture my dad's hat on the corner. I was hurt and angry when mom gave the pieces away, but in the end, I still have the memories and it's just furniture. I'm starting to make a plan for the rest of the contents, but I'm starting with things that have no emotional attachment, like sheets and towels. I have 2 months to get the job done, and it's an emotional grind every time I go over. For 22 years, mom's apartment has been my safe place, and it's hard to see it go. A wise friend of mine told me to approach as one would approach eating an elephant-one bite at a time.

My daughter has taken the transition well. There's a candy machine and a shuffleboard in the lobby, and a large lawn to practice handstands and somersaults while we sit in the shade under the trees. "There's more to do at Grandma's new home," she said and comes to visit more readily than she did at the apartment. That's made things easier for me.

This has been a nightmare journey. Mom went from being self-sufficient with a bit of help, to a nursing home crisis placement in less than 7 months. I am mentally, physically and emotionally exhausted. I still go to see mom, but I've been able to skip a day here and there without panicking that she's fallen, or not eaten. On the days I don't go we talk 3-4 times on the phone. There are still many things I have to accomplish, many tasks to do, but at least I know mom is safe and isn't lying in the hall somewhere unable to tell me she's hurt. I had to make my mom's worst nightmare happen, and it's taken a toll. It was the right thing to do. It was the necessary thing to do, and signing the papers and leaving my mom there the first time was one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. We're adjusting, but there are still tough days.

At the end of the day, I need to be able to look mom in the eye, and face myself in the mirror and know I did the best that I could for my mom. I can do that. The vision might be blurry with tears, but I know I'm taking care of my mom the best I can.

The wisdom of Solomon

"Do you think I'd be better in a home?" my mom asked yesterday. Now there's a double-edged sword of a question if ever there was one. If I answer honestly, I will not only hurt mom's feelings, I will set myself for "you just want to put me in a home" comments on the bad days. If I answer "no". I'm lying to my mom, something I've been taught never to do.

Mom's nutrition would certainly be better in a long term care home. She has a bite of breakfast, whatever I make her for lunch, and lives on Ensure or Boost the rest of the time. I've left sandwiches for her and thrown them out days later. I've put the sandwiches ON the bottles of Boost in the fridge, so mom had to move them and she still chose the Ensure over the sandwich. She goes through a bunch of this stuff in a week. She likes it, and it's keeping her alive. If her meals were provided, she would eat more real food.

Mom would sit in her room. But then, she currently sits in her apartment, so it wouldn't be much different. My mom has never felt the need for a large circle of friends. She's shy and private and would decide that people aren't friendly, oblivious to the fact that if she'd smile and say hello, people might say hello back...

Mom would have to share a room. That is the economic reality of our situation. We don't have enough money for a private room and there is no house to sell to provide the income. Sharing a room is one of the reasons mom doesn't want to go to a home.

For me, there is no easy answer to that question. I'm dreading the summer, when my daughter is out of school. We're trying to find summer camps for her, but it won't cover all the weeks. It's not fun at grandma's anymore, and the Kid doesn't want to go. I'll have to think up some alternatives for the days when she will have to come with me. I can't find a WIFI signal, so Netflix on my laptop isn't an option. I may have to make do with the portable DVD player.

If mom were in a home, I could skip a day occasionally without panicking that she hasn't eaten. We might be able to plan an overnight holiday. I could get my work done without one eye on the clock.  But I couldn't just go in and make our cup of tea, and it wouldn't be home anymore.

Mom went wandering the other day. At least, when we got to mom's apartment with the flowers for her balconey pots, she wasn't in the it. Now granted, she only went down to get the mail, but what if she decides that she's going to go back to church instead? She wouldn't have her walker-she only uses Myrtle under protest-and what if she got partway there and couldn't remember how to get back? I do have spies in the building, but that would tip the balance for me into time to move zone.

I answered mom honestly. I told her that in some ways, she would be better in a long term care home, but I also knew it was her worst nightmare. I've only toured one so far, but it was bright and cheerful and the people were well taken care of and happy. I know I need to get the list in so that we can get on the waiting lists, but I'm stalling. I keep telling myself that I'm waiting until after the biopsy to decide, but I'm just postponing the inevitable and hoping that God will grant mom's prayer and take her to heaven before she has to leave her apartment. There is no win in this.

Parenting Fail

It's 8:20 am. My daughter and I are scurrying around, trying to make it out the door to school. She's in the hall getting her boots and coat on while I brush my teeth. It's Valentine's Day, and she wants to get there early. Valentine's Day is bigger than Christmas when you're in Grade 1.

And then the phone rings. Since all of my friends and family know my kid starts school at 8:30am it can only be bad news or something to do with my mom. Sure enough, it's the physiotherapist wanting to re-commence her physio sessions. He also wants to know what the hospital determined with my mother, because he saw her before and after what I still suspect was the second mini-stroke. I explain that I'm rushing out to school, but he has appointments he has to make, so we agree on a time for Friday morning.

I sprint downstairs because now it's 8:29 am and the bell will ring any second. My daughter is fuming in the front hall because she wanted to be early. We hurry to the car, which my husband has thoughtfully cleared of snow for me, head to school and pull into the drive-through. The school yard is empty. Parenting fail.

I drove to Walmart after choir last night, and joined a bunch of other last-minute shoppers pawing through Valentine presents. While I had remembered the card for my husband, mom and daughter, I forgot that for my daughter, the present had to be there before school. 2330 hrs is not the time to be indecisive, so I headed for the Barbie aisle and came home with another Barbie and some clothes. My daughter was thrilled this morning, but it was thanks to my husband that I made the trip after he asked if I had anything for our daughter for Valentines Day as I was heading out the door last night. I always take care of that kind of thing.

And therein lies the problem. I always take care of things. I take care of the schedules, the cards, the birthday presents, the dinners, and now, my mother, her appointments, her meds, her hygiene. I always take care of things...

How am I going to do this every day?