Forever My Momma

Advice from Naomi

I’ve recently come across some old writings that Hope did some 20 or 30 years ago. They are typed, so they aren’t quite as private as the things in her journals, but they are personal. They provide historical perspective and background on who Momma is and they give us insight into her life experiences. I’m going to be posting some of them on Mondays for a while. I hope you enjoy them!

Advice from Naomi

Years ago, when I was about to marry my faithmate and enter the life of a minister’s wife, my mother’s friend, Naomi, said to me, “Hope, in the ministry, you are bound to find yourself in situations where you will be called upon unexpectedly to say something. There will be times when you will be caught absolutely cold and you may even feel paralyzed. Well, in a situation like that, here is a little ice-breaker for you. You can rattle it off and while saying it, you can thing about what you really want to say.

We are retired now and I’ve never used it, but for some reason, it came to mind today and I thought, “Naomi, if I’m ever going to get any use out of your advice, I’d better hurry up and use it! So I’m recording it here in tribute to my mother’s friend:

When a maid of 17, with suitors, oooooh so many, is asked to meet a man, she says, WHO is he? Yea, WHO is he?

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When a maid of 27, with suitors not so many, is asked to meet a man, she says, WHAT is he?   … a.. just … WHAT is he?

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When a maid of 37, with suitors HARDLY any, is asked to meet a man, she says, WHERE is he? OOOOH, where IS he?

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Welcome Ellen!

 

Mom’s need for interaction with others and the simple fact that one person can never completely fill that need was causing great stress for me and tension in the home. Quite honestly, Mom and I eventually get bored with each other. I could elaborate here with various examples, but this is the bottom line. 

One day, when I was venting my frustrations to my dear friend, Kim, she suggested I get someone to come to the house on a regular basis to just spend time with Mom and give her some attention. 

“That’s easier said than done,” I barked. “Mom doesn’t want a baby-sitter, and besides, I don’t have any idea how to find someone!”

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I thought my problem was insurmountable and impossible to solve.

 

“What about Ellen?” Kim asked.

Ellen is Kim’s 17 year-old daughter. She has a driver’s license and is home-schooled, so her schedule is fairly flexible. Ellen is mature, responsible, competent, and sweet-as-can-be. Best of all, Momma loves Ellen. 

Hmmmm. I started thinking:

• Kim and the kids have been over for dinner enough that Mom is comfortable even if she’s still in her bathrobe and the house isn’t picked up;
• Mom often commented about how much we would miss Ellen next year when she goes to college;
• Every time we visit with Ellen, Mom talks for days afterward about how much she enjoys Ellen’s company;
• I knew Ellen could handle it

We started out on a trial basis: One day Ellen took Hope to her hair appointment and to Concannon’s for donuts afterwards. SUCCESS! Ellen picked up lunch and brought it over to eat with Hope one day. SUCCESS! Ellen took mom out for dinner one evening. SUCCESS!

Now Ellen comes twice a week to take Mom out or just be with her at home. Mom loves the attention and happiness spills over to all aspects of life. For example, Momma has things to contribute to conversations as she tells me what she did with Ellen and what’s going on in Ellen’s life. 

I have peace of mind knowing that Ellen is coming and that Mom is in good hands when they are together. 

Suddenly my insurmountable and impossible-to-solve problem has diminished to a manageable and solvable thing to deal with.

Simply adding Ellen into our lives on a regular basis has eased stress and tension and brought immeasurable joy to all of us!

Welcome Ellen! And thank you!

 

Our Day in the Woods

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Momma loves nature. She loves to look at it, sit in it … but most of all, she loves to manipulate it. Momma doesn’t even mind dirt when she’s using it to design beauty.

A common image of my mother all through my childhood is of her pushing wheel barrows full of dirt from one side of the yard to another. Only in adulthood did I understand that all that dirt-moving was to create beautiful gardens everywhere we lived.

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No doubt Momma bought things at nurseries and garden stores, but I doubt I ever tagged along on such trips. What I recall most is seeing her dig up things from other places and taking them home.

One day, when I was about 5 years old, Mom took me with her to a woods near our house at the lake. Momma had an agenda, but I thought our romp in the woods was a spontaneous detour on a regular day of errands.

I was awestruck by Mom’s giddy enthusiasm and to this day, I still feel as if I was witness to a very private ritual. She moved quickly; her voice sang when she spoke, telling me the names of things and her intentions with them. Like a happy goffer, she attacked one plant, then another, and another. Digging and pulling in one place, her eyes darted all around us like a kid in a candy store, anxious to get to the next one.

Momma’s excitement was contagious and for once, I was free to pick flowers without being scolded. I even picked weeds without getting in trouble!

All the regular rules and dislikes were completely gone – no fear of poison ivy or poison oak, no worries about chiggers, no batting at flies or mosquitoes, no allergy attacks, no insistence on the “right” way to dig or pull, no mind that I was in the dirt without gloves or shoes!

I felt like a partner in crime, a comrade; I felt included and important.

Never again did Momma and I share a day like that. It is one of those gifts you hold dear in your heart forever and ever. That day is a womb-like moment when we shared the same blood, the same heartbeat. It sealed us forever in a shared bond – the love of nature, and pure exhilaration in the presence of trees.

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That day stands out in my memory like a scene in a dream, highlighted by surreal beams of sunlight shooting down from heaven and bathing us with tremendous warmth and love.  

 

The Long Process

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In a comment to a previous post, my friend, who is also caring for her aging mother, referred to what we – both caregiver and OLD ONE – are experiencing, as “the long process”. My heart filled with emotion when I read that because this phrase absolutely sums up all of my woes and complaints and no doubt, Momma’s ongoing endurance. It’s not really about any specific frustrations or struggles, but rather that the demands are long - really long – especially considering all the unknowns in which we exist.

The unique quality about aging is that it is uncharted territory and so full of guessing at every turn. At any other stage in life, we share all the newness of that stage with others who are experiencing similar things, and we know that the challenges are limited to a fairly reliable timeline. We also expect that the challenges we face will lead us to something better. The “terrible twos” for example, last only 1 or 2 years. Adjustment to a move, a new job, divorce, death of a loved one – all these things fit into a predictable time frame for mourning and healing. Aging, however, is void of any prescribed time. Compounded by the stress of being in a vacuum of timeless forever is this strange phenomenon of personality – all the particular quirks of personality, along with a lifetime of baggage and subsequent effects on personality – swell, rise to the surface, and display themselves without the social filter of self-editing.

 And there is more: while our social support systems know what to do and what to say at all the other difficult times in life, aging stumps them and so often, people withdraw.

 Yes, it is a very long process, my friend. And so it is essential for the caregiver to care for self. It is not selfish, but rather a kind gesture of love. If we don’t care for ourselves, we will not be able to run this marathon with the strength and endurance called for in order for us to truly honor our aging loved one.

Resources: 

Taking Care of YOU: Self-care for Family Caregivers

 

The Cussing Lesson

 

Patience has always eluded Hope. She can’t stand to wait for any thing or any one. Ever. Period. Patience, in her opinion, means “wasting precious time” and, as she has chided me countless times, “there is just no reason for that!”

One morning Mom and I were on our way to the doctor’s office for a much dreaded MRI. We had to cross the railroad tracks to get there and, because a train was coming at our usual crossing, I opted to keep going straight in the hopes of crossing the tracks further down the road and avoid waiting. The freight trains that run through Muncie are hundreds of cars long (I know, because count them – obsessively – when I’m waiting: Lord forbid I should waste my time and have an idle mind when waiting for a train!), so my attempt was futile. Yes, we still had to wait.

“Boy!” Momma huffed, as I threw the gear shift into park. “If we knew how many people were waiting for this train all across town, we’d know just how many people were on the verge of cussing.” 

Seriously? Comments like this trigger my argumentative spirit, then fuel my temptation to tease, and set me on a roll.

“Ma. I really don’t think anyone is on the verge of cussing. People just don’t hoover on the “verge of cussing”. Most people who want to cuss just cuss!”

“Hey! Maybe that’s what I should do. If I would just cuss instead of holding in my frustration, maybe I would feel better and be a happier person.”

“That’s a really good idea, Ma.”

“No, not really. I don’t know how to cuss, so I just can’t do it.”

“I’ll teach you.” (Clearly I had moved from argument to jest by this point in the conversation.)

“Really?”

“Sure. I’d be happy to do that for you. Would you like that?”

“Hmmm. I suppose it can’t hurt anything, can it?”

“No harm at all. We can start right now while we’re waiting.”

Momma giggled. “OK.”

“SHIT.”

“Ohhh!”

“Ma. It’s a basic word so don’t act so surprised. Just repeat after me: SHIT.” 

“No. I don’t like that word. It’s too ugly.”

Now I was giggling; Momma had stopped. 

“Ma. It’s easy. You don’t have to like the word, just say it. Like will come later, after you feel good from saying it. Let’s try it again: SHIT.”

“Can’t we start with a different one?”

“No, Mom. You can’t advance until you learn to say this one. Now come on! SHIT!” 

“Humph.” 

She pouted and I started counting the cars on the train.

“OK. Let’s try this. Turn it into a two-syllable word like the Southern Belles do and push it out through a forced smile like this: SHEE-IT.” I turned to look at her to demonstrate the forced smile.

Momma giggled.

“Your turn.”

“Nope. Can’t do it.”

The caboose passed and we continued on our way to the doctor’s office.

“There’s just got to be a different cuss word for me to try on my first lesson. Isn’t there a nicer one?”

“What. You want to start out with the “f” word? Mom. You can’t move on to that one until you’ve mastered SHIT.”

“Yeah, you’ve got a good point. SHEE----. Nope.”

We pulled into the parking lot. Momma looped her arm in mine and we walked toward the door.

 “I really don’t see why I need to learn to cuss anyway. I’ve gotten along just fine this many years without cussing, why start now?”

Exasperated, and leaning back toward argumentation, I explained that the whole reason we were having that conversation was because she thought it would help her relieve stress and frustration. 

“Remember Mom, you wanted to cuss when we were waiting on that train back there.” 

“Oh yeah.” She looked up into my face and gave me a forced smile, but no SHIT.

The nurse explained the procedure then left us in the dressing room to change into a hospital gown. With nervous anticipation, Momma got tangled up in the strings on the gown. Once again she was frustrated. I helped her untangle herself and as I was tying the last bow under her breast, she fell into my chest – a spontaneous embrace.

Just then Momma turned her face upward, barred her teeth in a forced smile, and said, “SHEE-IT.” 

“Well done, Momma! Fucking good job!”

 

 

I Miss You

 Announcement:  I am now combining Wednesday’s updates with Saturday’s tips and reflections into one category to be posted on Thursdays.

I Miss You

Even though we are like water and oil, Momma and I have always been close. I have always been free to tell her all my thoughts, ideas, and opinions, and she has never hesitated to disagree. Talking and sharing ideas are at the core of our relationship: books, movies, poems, world and local news, politics, religion, creativity, relationships, self-development, … the list things we have always shared goes on and on. 

For all our differences, I have never wavered in my appreciation of our relationship. Momma has always been my sounding board, my confidant. Momma has been my friend – a friend who tolerated and embraced my every whim and all my faults. I know we have something very rare and special, and now I have to come to terms with the reality that this person isn’t here anymore.

It seems I don’t have the right to say this because she is here; but she isn’t. Mom doesn’t know where I am or what I’m doing; she doesn’t have any idea what I worry about or what I’m hoping for; she doesn’t know what’s in my heart.

Every day I forget that Mom can no longer hold these things in her mind and so I tell her things about my life. And each time, I suffer anew the stab in my gut – my own loss and loneliness – when she doesn’t understand or when she responds inappropriately.

When my father died in 1997, I was shocked by the sense of release I felt by finally being able to mourn the loss of this man I loved so dearly. For 10 years before he died, Alzheimer’s disease robbed us both of our relationship, but I couldn’t really mourn because he was still alive. I learned from that experience that loss has infinite forms and it can be sneaky and subtle. I am reminded of that now as I admit this steady loss I am struggling with now with Momma.

Society generally doesn’t have a place for mourning “loss”. We deny ourselves this by “counting our blessings” and “seeing the glass as half full” and focusing our energies instead on “gratitude”. These things certainly have their place and their value is tremendous, but mourning is also valuable. Mourning is both a necessity and a luxury. I’m indulging now – lamenting the loss of my biggest fan, the one person in this world who knew me completely and still loved me.

My message here is simply to reach out to other caregivers and encourage you to acknowledge the loss of spirit, loss of relationship, and to say that it’s OK to mourn. It is OK to mourn the loss of our loved one even as she continues to breathe and function in daily life. 

Mourning brings healing and healing puts tender kindness back in the spotlight. When we recognize the process of loss in terms of what once was but no longer is, we can begin to understand our own internal sorrow and behave more tenderly, both towards ourselves and toward our aging loved one. 

Resources

Coping With Grief and Loss

Grief Management Tips

What Are the Different Methods of Grief Management

 

 

 

Living with Animals

Adjectives that Mom loves include “clean”, “fresh”, “tidy”, “orderly”. She likes the smell of flowers, but mildew and dust make her gag. She likes smooth, not rough. She seeks perfection and rejects chaos with a vengeance. To this end, animals don’t fit into her world. She will say, however, that she likes animals and I do believe that in her own way, she does. When she was younger and could walk for longer periods of time, for example, she enjoyed aquariums. Zoos, on the other hand, had an “unbearable odor”. Momma does like to look at pictures of animals; National Geographic, movies like Beethoven, Marley and Me, and birthday cards with humorous images of dogs wearing clothes all bring giggles.

The subject of animals is yet another dramatic difference between Momma and me. I am the kid who always brought home strays – cats, dogs, broken-winged birds, abandoned baby bunnies… always met by Dad’s loving spirit and negotiating ways to find them other homes before Mom found out. Mom’s nose was incredible though, so she almost always found out before I even got through the door.

Over the years I have been furious by her turned up nose and exclamations of “Ew! Ew! Don’t touch that thing!” To be fair however, I have to say that I know that she too, has been furious by my burying my face in an animal’s fur and sneaking them into the house despite clearly knowing the rules.

Each of us has been relentlessly persistent our whole lives. Somehow, we have finally reached a neutral landing place on the subject of animals. She still firmly holds her ground and I still push the limits and this tension somehow keeps us at an understanding of both our own demands and each other’s limits. For example, she recognizes the pure happiness that an animal provides for my soul and honors that; and I recognize her values of clean, fresh, hairless. So when Momma allowed me to bring one dog from my broken marriage into her home, I kept him at a safe distance and cleaned everything in his wake. (And I no longer hold a dog on my lap at the dinner table.)

My father used to say jokingly, “One of these days, one of us is going to die and then I’m going to get a dog”. Momma would roll her eyes in disgust, but she took the teasing in stride. From that rather cruel joke, I learned to respect her boundaries regarding pet ownership. I have resolved myself to the fact that I will not be getting a Great Dane any time soon, for example.

Momma was very generous when I first moved into her home from my broken marriage by allowing my little-old-man-mutt, George, into her home, and for this, I am truly grateful. George has since died, and Rosebud, a Maltese-Chihuahua mix is now in our lives – a “favor” we did for granddaughter, Kendal, who couldn’t keep Rosebud. To my absolute surprise, Momma LOVES ROSEBUD! (More on that in a future post).

Although I am Rosebud’s primary caregiver, Momma thinks Rosebud is HER dog. I keep Rosebud free of that “unbearable odor” and am careful not to kiss her in front of Mom; in turn, Momma respects the joy Rosebud brings me and tolerates her, even in the house. Momma isn’t quite ready yet to admit her own joy in having a dog, but she allows me to tease her about that. Somehow, we two stubborn women have found a neutral way to merge our differences and live with a dog! 

 

Getting Help from Hope

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Growing up, Mom always referred to herself as the “hub of the wheel”. Honestly, thought that was a bit arrogant… until I became a mother and subsequently, the “hub of the wheel” in my own family. Mothers are blessed (or cursed, depending on how you view it) with the ultimate call to multi-tasking. No matter how much they explain to others what each individual task / activity requires, mothers are the visionaries of the whole picture and thus, the multi-task-ers that make that vision a reality.  They are master designers, managers, and constant do-ers. These skills become so ingrained in a mother’s life that I really don’t know how a woman ever really relinquishes the role of “hub of the wheel”. To her credit, I think my mother has done a phenomenal job of letting go each time a child flew out of the nest. She was never of those meddling mothers; she gave us life and then let us go on with it on our own.

That being said however, Hope never stopped doing. But really, what mother ever stops doing? Doing is in the female DNA; doing is how we know we are alive and that we matter.

 Since I’ve taken over the household chores and responsibilities, there are fewer and fewer things for Hope to do. As psychological cycles go, the less she has to do, the less value she believes she has in this world. 

I use words to encourage: 

Oh, but you have done so much for me!

You are so important to me!

You matter to me!

None of these sentiments serve to validate Momma’s life because they all refer to the past in her mind; they don’t represent her life today.

Once I recognized the impact that the act of doing has on self-worth, I was able to let go of my control (the role of “hub”) and offer more leeway for Momma’s attempts to at least be one of the spokes on the wheel. Of course, I had to accept what I saw as a less-than-perfect wheel, but that’s a small sacrifice to save Momma’s dignity.

 

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Here’s an example of what I am talking about:

Hope likes to empty the dishwasher. I used to try to be in the kitchen when she did this so I could “help” her – I thought I had to tell her where things go and place things on shelves that are too high for her to reach. 

Hope would huff and groan with every “helpful” comment and gesture I offered. She would constantly mutter self-deprecating statements:

I just can’t do anything anymore.

I don’t know anything, I guess.

I’m too short.

I’m too weak.

I’m worthless.

I just can’t do anything right.

I’ll just go to bed.

 I was frustrated and confused. I thought I was helping – as the “hub” after all, I took my central position seriously. I reasoned that if I helped her, things would go back to where they belong and our “wheel” would be perfect.

But my presence was taking away her autonomy and thus, her sense of self-worth.

I started leaving the house whenever Hope started emptying the dishwasher. And I’d come home to find the counter-top covered with clean dishes and Momma sitting in the chair in front of the TV – happy!

“Oh, thank you for emptying the dishwasher” I’d say enthusiastically.

“You are so welcome” she would reply, clearly pleased with her accomplishment.

This is now incorporated into our daily routine. I never finish putting away the dishes while Mom is within sight. And when I cook, I have to open nearly all the drawers and cabinets to find what I need because the small things are never put in the same location twice. (This continues to mystify me, but I’ve decided to think of it as creative credit to Momma, for being able to find new places for all of the kitchen tools every time!)

Sometimes I get discouraged because my wheel is far from perfect, and it often feels broken. But it is not; it is the wheel of my family and indeed, it is colorful and unique.

 

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So where’s the damn potato peeler??

 

 

 

Oooh! Feet in the Ocean!

Try as I may, I cannot keep shoes on my feet. I remember even as a toddler, crying on Sunday mornings as Momma would grab one ankle at a time and shove my feet into shinny little “Mary Janes”.

 On the last day of school (yes, all 12 years), it was my private ritual to take off my shoes as I exited the building and vow to remain barefoot until the first day of the next grade. We spent our summers at the lake, so I was basically able to do that. Church was held in an outdoor amphitheater or on the lake (boats gathered in a circle and the pastor used a portable sound system in order to be heard across the water); and local shop owners gave in to the summer season and allowed barefooters free reign. 

Momma tried, but without much conviction, to get me to wear shoes from time to time, but her pleas fell on deaf ears.

Throughout my life I have argued my point and defended it with various articles and reports and sightings of fellow barefooters. Momma’s response has always been the same – something along the lines of “I understand, but…” The “but” is always followed with some comment about growing up, looking the part, being respected in society, etc., And these points simply do not fit into my personal aspirations, my value system, my philosophy or world view, or even my personality. So Momma and I have agreed to disagree about the subject of my barefooting. 

I have always suspected Momma of being a “secret barefooter” because she too, sometimes kicks her shoes off under the table or stays shoeless in the house for long periods. I would never suggest this to her however, because I know too well her determination to disagree (gotta keep up the image, you know!) 

This being said then, you can imagine the thrill I felt when Momma and I were in Florida this summer and she wanted to be barefoot! Hope took off her sandals as soon as we hit the sand and I could no longer push her in the wheelchair. She “Oooh-ed and Ahhh-ed” all the way down to the shore, squealing and giggling as she proclaimed over and over “Oh my! This feels so good!”

We sat in the wet sand so that the waves came up and kissed her feet, sometimes lapping up over her ankles and even up to her knees. Mom dug her toes into the sand each time the ocean receded and cried out in delight each time it returned.

 I finally had to verbalize the bond I was feeling as I witnessed her joy.

“Mom, do you see now why I love to go barefoot?”

“Oh Honey!” she said, taking her eyes off her feet for a moment and looking directly at me. “I’ve always known. I just thought it was my responsibility as your mother to help you fit better into society.” We smiled at each other and I kissed her on the cheek. Hope broke the sentimental moment with a scrunched up nose and a jab of a joke: “humph! I guess I wasn’t very successful, was I?”

Together we laughed, then turned our focus back to our feet, watching as they sprang into a spontaneous dance on the grainy surface of sand just beneath the clear, warm water. 

Helping Your Aging Loved One Give-up Driving

Comments on my blog posts are mostly coming to me in person, via email, and on Facebook instead of directly here on the blog. Many of them are quite meaningful, so from time to time, I will provide a summary of what readers have shared with me along with further readings. My last post generated several conversations that I thought readers would find meaningful, so today I’m writing a list of tips or strategies and offering links with more information to help ease your aging loved one away from driving.

1. One reader told me about a program in which elderly drivers are put into a computerized simulation that tests their driving skills. I did a quick Google search for this sort of program and was rather surprised to find that not much came up on the results pages. I think this is a great idea and expected to find that all sorts of gerontology departments at universities, state-operated BMVs, nursing homes, and other such places would offer this sort of test. It seems to me that this might be a wide-open market for anyone looking to launch a new service-oriented business. Such a test would certainly be helpful to the caregiver as it would provide “evidence” to back up what you already know in your gut. It would support your efforts to keep your loved one safe.

            If anyone finds a senior simulated driving test service somewhere, please let me know and I’ll             post that information here.

            2. This same reader also told me that her daughter, a geriatric social worker, said that my             strategy for using logic to explain to your aging loved one why s/he should stop driving is             good and appropriate. To elaborate from my perspective, even if the older person has             problems with memory and cognition, using reason and logic (in a kind, gentle tone, of             course, not authoritative and reprimanding) demonstrates respect. Respect is emotional,             even if it is also reasonable, and emotional experiences are kept longer in the memory. An             older person who is suffering from even the slightest form of dementia will take an emotional             experience and use it to form her own kind of reason (don’t we all do this?). So even if she             doesn’t agree with your logic, or even fully understand it, she will know and understand that             she is loved, and therefore, safe within your judgment.

             3. Another reader told me about an aging father who would defy previously arranged             accommodations to take him somewhere by going on his own before the designated driver             arrived. I think this is probably quite common. In this case, more drastic measures are             required such as literally taking away the keys or even the car.

             4. Here is a list of links that I think would be helpful for readers to form their own strategies             and plan of action. Because each person is always and forever a unique individual, there is no             set formula to follow. Instead, those of us who love an aging parent need to gather             information, collect resources, and create our own plans. Keep in mind, however, that we             aren’t out here all on our own charting completely new territory; the only thing that is “new”             about it is that it’s only new for us and our particular situation.

PS – There is nothing “easy” about this, but we can make it easier on ourselves and all those involved by being informed and prepared.

LINKS

Driving and the Elderly

Elderly Driving: Cautions and Concerns

Computerized Test Helps Older Drivers

Elderly Driving Assessments