The Gift

It was December, icy cold and lonely.   My first holiday away from my children and I was feeling the tug at my heart yet trying to be festive.   Our neighbor invited us to a Christmas luncheon with lots of great food and good company so the least I could do was to be cordial.   Dad, of course, was joining us (free food), and despite my achiness for my children it turned out to be a very enjoyable day.  

The next day I had to run a quick errand and as I got into my car I noticed a tiny face peeking out from under the back porch of my apartment.  I realized it was a kitten and my first words were “go home little cat”.   After all, I already had two cats and my sister had a cat: we didn’t need any more cats.  Mother had always liked animals and we had hoped that our cats would be a nice companion for her and we briefly tried housing them with her.  However, none of our cats seemed to like being around her and they complained loudly.  So we kept them separated from her in our own apartments.  We really did have our hands full with mother after all so another cat didn’t seem like a good idea.

When I returned from my errand the kitten was still under the porch, and he was there the next day and the next.   And, with each passing day the temperature grew colder and colder.   I told my sister about the kitten and of course she thought it was cute and yeah so did I, but…

That night the temperature was expected to fall below freezing, so what else could we do?  We took him into the main house with mother.  Of course she was delighted with the kitten, and being a kitten, he didn’t mind her at all.  

So I took him to the vet to have him checked out.  I told the vet he was a stray and I wasn’t sure I was going to keep him.  The little guy was curled up under my arm and I was stroking him and the vet very nonchalant said, “Yes you are.”   I guess that confirmed it.  So we named him.  We named him Thomas O’Malley, the alley cat.   Okay, so that’s not very imaginative but he had been found under the back porch facing the alley.  It seemed appropriate.

A week or two later we went out to my dad’s place in the country.  His house faced my cousin’s cow pasture which also had a huge barn.  My sister and I noticed that one of the barn cats had markings similar to Thomas.  We mentioned this to my dad and he just chuckled.  My sister and I both shouted, “It was you.  You dumped that little cat on our porch.”  His response?  “You didn’t have to keep him.”  Yeah, right.

So now it was me, Thomas and my mother.  One of the blessings of this little cat was his adaptability to both my mother’s moods and mine.  As much as I hate to admit this, I absolutely hated for my mother to hug or kiss me.  It is common for Alzheimer’s patients to get huggy and kissy with people, even with strangers (now that’s another story).  Mother was never affectionate to us when we were children or later as adults, so it wasn’t easy for me in the best of times to be affectionate towards her.  To make matters worse she often would try to be affectionate with me after she had vomited out the most hateful things about her family.  It saddened me that I felt so strongly about this, but I couldn’t help it.  Anytime mother would try to cozy up to me, I would hand Thomas over to her.  She’d love on him and coo over him like a baby and he thoroughly enjoyed the attention.  When Thomas wasn't playing with his toys he was in my arms.  If I put him down he'd jump on my back or climb up my leg.  Fortunately it was winter and I was well covered.  Many comments were made that Thomas was a needy cat, but I think it was the other way around.  Thomas knew we needed him:  I needed him, and he proved to be a soothing balm for both of us.

The importance of Thomas went beyond helping me with my relationship with mother.  I had promised to keep in touch with my granddaughters but it was so difficult to find anything pleasant to write about.  But now there was Thomas – eating out of my soup bowl.  Thomas stealing mother’s stuffed bears to sleep on or to share his food with, and Thomas stealing Josephine’s watch and earrings.   Oh how he liked shiny things. 

 

Now there were plenty of stories to share with my granddaughters.  Most were true and some a bit embellished, and of course there had to be pictures of Thomas and his adventures.   And so our days passed with Thomas entertaining us and easing the burden.  Even to the end when mother could no longer get out of bed, he seemed to know that it wasn’t  time for mischief, it was time for comfort, and he was that for all us.    

The story I have titled The Importance of Thomas is a summary of several stories.  I wanted it to stand alone before going into the Thomas Chronicles.  In my next entry I will print the entire story, and from there I’m just not sure yet.  

May you all have a wonderful new year. 

Contacting me

I have to apologize to any of you who have been following my blog, but please know that I am computer challenged and did not realize my readers can't respond to my blog.  
So until I can figure out how to remedy that, please contact me at nanabeatty2@hotmail.com.   I would love to hear from you.  
I will be adding a new post about my dear Thomas in the next few days, and a new picture of him.   Thanks for visiting and have a blessed day.   Diana

The Unexpecteds

We settled into a routine fairly well, but mother’s pacing was still a challenge.  Every time we took her to the doctor they would tell us that her muscles, lungs and heart were strong and healthy.  We thought maybe mother just needed a good walk around the neighborhood, so one morning Josephine took her out for a walk.

She did fine walking at a normal pace for several blocks then Josephine turned her  around to go back to the house.   Just as they got to our house a woman came by them jogging.  When mother saw her she fell to the ground crying out that she hurt her leg.  Josephine was shocked.   The woman stopped to help.   Josephine tried to lift her but mother kept crying that her leg was hurt.  The woman who stopped turned out to be a nurse and so she offered to help get her back to the house.   She questioned Josephine and then took a good look at our living space.  Josephine felt she was being interrogated.  The woman took our names and phone number and said she’d be checking back on us.  Once the woman left mother went back to pacing around the house: her leg perfectly fine.   However, due to the woman’s scrutiny we took her to the doctor anyway to get her checked out.   After that we always took her walker, but even with her walker she could pull the injured routine on us, and always in public.

In sharing my story with others I have learned that many Alzheimer patients do this.  Much like a child throwing a temper tantrum, and it is frustrating because you never know when they will act out.  Even though it seemed mother did this for attention, we knew it was just her brain misfiring and there wasn’t anything we could do except make sure she didn’t hurt herself. 

My art work was also an unexpected.  I tried to engage mother in games, movies and coloring books.   That didn't work.  What she did enjoy was looking through home and garden magazines.  However, she would tear pages out of the magazine and then tear those pages into smaller pieces.  I could tell she wasn't being destructive, she was doing this with purpose.  While she did that I began coloring in her coloring books, then I started drawing the pieces of pictures she placed on the table; half of a chair or couch, an upside down lamp, plates on top of trees...so out of the upheaval and despair of our situation a whimsical form of art unexpectedly emerged. 

One other significant and unexpected challenge for us was in dealing with the emotional ups and downs.  Mother could frustrate me at times to the point of insanity and then suddenly my heart would just break for her when I’d see her playing with her dolls.   The emotional roller coaster takes an incredible toll on the caretaker.  Having a support group is vital.  When we began we only had each other and it was too much. The irony was that one of our most important supporters was my father: this man who had once tried to kill my mother was a calming presence for her.  She knew who he was but she never once brought up the ugliness of their relationship and divorce.  We were grateful for his help but what surprised us is that we actually experienced anger and resentment.  Why couldn’t they have had that relationship all along?  And why was it that she was nice to this man who had been so brutal to her and yet she was being brutal to her daughters who worked so hard to care for her.   That was one of the major unexpected issues that came up for us.  

And then this little cat shows up.  In my next blog I will share more about Thomas and how he changed our lives.

Day One

Josephine had a full-time job so the daytime care of my mother fell on me.  Even though we had prepared as best we could, the actual experience was a greater challenge than I had expected.  The year before Josephine and I had attended a work shop on aging that included Alzheimer’s, dementia and other age-related illnesses.  The workshop was primarily for nurses and professional caretakers; still we got a lot out of it so we thought we were ready.

At the beginning of my first day alone with her what I thought should have been an easy task took a great deal of time.  Giving mother her medications.  First of all, I had to sort it all out…which pills were taken with food, which ones on an empty stomach, which of her meds were to be taken in the morning, and which ones taken at bedtime and so on, and I was to keep a log of when I administered her meds.  Simple enough, but I was not able to do that with her present because she kept taking things and moving things around so I locked myself in our small office.  Big mistake. 

During the few minutes she was alone she turned on the water faucet in the kitchen and was trying to wash the toaster in the sink.  Fortunately the plug was far enough away from the sink that she had to unplug the toaster first.   After that Josephine would separate her medication into a weekly pill box that was labeled and color coded.

Later that same day I had to prepare a meal.  Mother, of course, tried to help, but she put empty pots on the stove and turned on the burners.  Then she kept taking food out of the fridge and laying the items all on the counter.  Then there was the bathroom.  Mother could take care of her bathroom needs just fine, but she would often run the water in the sink, or she  would flush and flush and flush the toilet.  That day was no different and something out of the ordinary went down the toilet.  I never looked to see what she put down the toilet (didn’t want to know), but like I said, we got to know the local plumber really well.  

But what wore me out the most was the verbal garbage that came out of her mouth.   She  talked and talked about how horrible her children are.   She would go through a list of offenses we supposedly committed against her years ago and how inconsiderate we were and that’s why we all ended up divorced or single… on and on.  In my mind I knew she couldn’t help herself but she managed to find all those sore spots and I felt I was being battered, but I was also terribly grieved. 

Then the pacing: she started a frantic pacing around 2:00 that afternoon and worked herself up to a panic.   I tried to calm her but then she became afraid and started the verbal spewing again that did not stop until my sister came home at 6:00.   I met Josephine at the door crying.  “I can’t do this, I can’t.”  

I fled to my apartment, overwhelmed and in tears.   I fell to the floor crying out to God.  Actually I was so angry at God I began screaming about how this was so unfair.  “Why?”  I asked over and over.  I was beating on the floor when suddenly these words flooded my mind.   "For God so loved the world, He gave His one and only son that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” (John 3:16)  God gave His son.  In a flash I saw my sons and I understood that what I was doing in caring for my mother, no matter how difficult, a positive affect would trickle down to other generations: my children and grandchildren.  This wasn’t about me.  As always, God has a greater vision and a better plan for our lives.  I still desperately wished to be far away, but I wasn’t angry at God anymore and I resolved to follow through.

The next day I dressed in scrubs.  I walked in and addressed my mother formally by her name.  It pained me to do it and yet she responded more respectfully to me then when I tried to get her to remember that I was her daughter.

I learned something else that day.  As I said before, mother would rant about her horrible children, and when I tried to reason with her she would throw God at me.  “God is going to make you pay!”   That was one of her favorite sayings.  So, I pulled out a Bible and said, “Let’s see what God has to say.”   I began reading in Matthew.   Now the only Bible that was handy was the King James version.   I never liked reading in King James; for me the language was a bit of a struggle.  But I learned to appreciate it because as I began reading, mother sat down next to me and listened.   For two hours I read the Bible… slowly... and for once she was calm. 

In talking with others who have cared for their aging parent or spouse, the challenge is that there isn’t a cookie cutter solution, and the patient is constantly changing.   They key is to be flexible, ask for help, and expect the unexpected.   

Settling In

I have been very slow to update my blog because in all honesty I have wanted to just forget the whole project.  I am reluctant to rehash the sadness and grief, because I have found that just bringing it to mind stirs up physical pain so I thought maybe it is best just to let it all go and be done with it.   Last week I met two women.  I overheard their conversation about the stress of dealing with their mothers who both had dementia.   I finally spoke up and shared my experience.   When they left, one woman came back to thank me saying, “I have been feeling so alone in all this and that no one could possibly understand what I am going through.  Your story has made me feel that someone does understand and cares.”  

So, I will continue.  First of all, I want to share an observation.   For the most part women end up being the primary caretaker for a parent or spouse, but sometimes this responsibility falls on the man. Generally speaking, men have more difficulty sharing their grief or asking for help.   I  have learned that it doesn’t matter who we are, how prepared we think we are, how educated or wealthy we are, when the responsibility falls on our shoulders, we all need emotional support,  and some time out.   We must ask for help.  For us it was Hospice that gave us the most support and reassurance as we muddled through this trying time.  We are so thankful for their help and compassion.

Now back to our settling in.  Once my sister and I accepted that we would have to move mother out of the assisted living facility we started looking for a home we could all live in.  We were fortunate in that my dad had a friend who was selling a home that had three apartments.  Perfect.  However, it was old and there was so much work to do to get it livable and “baby-proofed”.  That’s where my dad came in.  In the past he had built several homes so he was very knowledgeable about what needed to be done and so was a great help: and sometimes a great challenge.  Let’s see, there was the electrical incident, the window incident, the air conditioning incident... all the same we appreciated his help. 

In case you didn't know this, people with dementia can pick locks, and they are good at it.  They can wander off and forget  how to get back home.  This was a big concern for us.  Also one of the reasons why mother had to leave the assisted living facility was that she liked to put things down the toilet.  When the patient can still go to the bathroom on their own, it is very difficult to monitor that and after she came to live with us we made really good friends with a local plumber.  In fact, when she passed away they even sent us a sympathy card.   We also had to put locks on all doors to rooms she didn’t need to be in, like our bedrooms and the office.  However, we took off the locks to her room and bathroom so she wouldn't lock herself in.  When we were finished I ended up with a handful of keys that I literally had to keep hanging on my neck so that I could access the rooms I needed to get into. 

We were now ready to move mother in.  My dad went with me to pick her up and she was very happy to see him.   She didn’t recognize me at all, but because he was there she went with us.  We settled her in, my sister came home from work, we had a family dinner and all seemed well.  The next day I was alone with her.

I will continue in a few days.  Thank you for visiting. 

The Importance of Thomas

For me the importance of Thomas cannot be stated simply, but for you to understand his importance I must give you a little history.   Some of the things I will be sharing are still painful for me, and may even touch a nerve for you.  Yet I feel in my heart that there may be some of you out there who can gain some comfort or insight through my experience.  As much as I hate to admit it, painful experiences are often the best teachers.

I have a dear friend, Ginger, who I met initially as a massage client.  When we first met she was in the midst of caring for both her mother and father.  Her father had Alzheimer's.  As she shared her story with me I realized she had given up so much of her life to care for them.  I remember saying, "Never!  I will never take care of my parents."  But no matter how loud and emphatic my declaration, I learned, if it is something God is calling you to do, it is useless to say never.  Whether by a dramatic event or a gentle push, God will eventually get our attention.

Childhood was such a mixture of great experiences and yet some pretty horrible experiences as well.  We are not sure if mother was bipolar, she was never diagnosed as such.  However, she could flip from hot to cold in a second.  As nurturing and caring as she could be, she could also be violently abusive: which kept us always on our guard.  Mother's forte' was guilt.  We were responsible for her unhappiness and we owed her.  This mantra continued through to our adulthood and increased dramatically as she began to decline.  My father isolated himself from us as much as he could, but he too had been abusive, especially toward my mother.  Just before their divorce he tried to beat her to death.  We were children and we bore witness to the aftermath of that beating and it was pretty gruesome.  They both "disciplined" us out of their own rage and frustration and many times we were left with bloody welts.  In addition to the physical beatings, they both tormented us verbally and shamed us in front of others, and they made sure we understood that we deserved it.  Even though my father left when I was ten, I include him in this narration because ironically he played a role in the caring of our of mother.

Mother was an enigma.  As much as I wanted to know her, she always remained just out of reach: a shadow I couldn't quite get hold of.  She was born in Mexico in the late 20's, her father died when she was twelve.  She was poor and uneducated so that meant her options were limited.  Despite that she had a drive to better her life and ours as well.  She had a sophisticated style of dress despite having to buy clothes in thrift stores.  On the other hand, my father was from the South and even though he happily immersed himself in the Mexican language and culture, he had no ambitions to elevate his standard of living.  Keep the status quo.  Needless to say, they clashed.

When I reflect on the positive things about my mother I always think of her gardens.  She could grow anything in any environment and her plants always looked so beautiful.  As a child, I loved playing in  her garden and I realize now how much those memories have inspired my more recent drawings.

Mother also sewed most of our clothes.  If we had a special event to go to she always made sure we had something new to wear.  She also made sure we ate well, that our house was clean and she showed up for school programs.  Having worked for the school systems myself, I learned to appreciate the value of my mother's efforts, and I guess that is what planted the seed.  As much as I did not want to care for her, I could not deny my mother worked hard for all of us, so yes, we owed her.

My particular struggle, however, was that I did not want to take on this job out of guilt.  By then I had returned to church and had been working on my relationship with God.  I knew what the Bible said about "honoring our parents", but as much as I prayed about it, I still could not make peace with it.  What finally shook me loose was the fear that if my sister took on this job alone, the stress could kill her.

My sister Josephine was not only my friend, but she had often stood in as my mother on many occasions and she was dear to me.  I have to admit that the fear of losing her overshadowed any acts of obedience to God or the honoring of my parents.  That was the driving force that moved me: literally.  So, I jumped into that big ocean to rescue my sister from drowning only to find that we both desperately needed rescuing.

This is Thomas, a very small cat who made such a huge impact on our lives.   

Thank you for visiting my blog.  There will be more on Thomas and my art work in the coming weeks.