I have recently been reminded of how much I hate to shop. Well, let me correct myself. Put me in my favorite market with all that fabulous produce and I will spend more money than I have sense and spend hours over a hot stove for friends and loved ones serving up all manner of fodder. And may I mention that no-one has thrown anything back at me? When I start a sentence with, "Hey, I'm cooking, wanna come over and" I never get to finish the sentence. Let's go back a few years and start with a perfectly good example of what it is like to shop with Cheryl.
I don't even know what time of year it was, but a shopping spree was planned that included myself, my mother, my daughter and my sister. We ended up in one of those department type of stores that had home goods in the middle surrounded by a lovely walk path and different departments flanking that walk path. And let's all remember that I am short. Shorter than most clothing racks. Mother spent untold hours looking at every garment. I'd swear it was hours. My sister was in the shoe isle. I bet every pair in her size was tried on. Tina was planning a wedding, so house wares were on her shopping list. I looked around and then took a stroll.
Everyone lost sight of me. My daughter spotted a sales clerk and asked if she had seen a short lady with red hair. The clerk said, "Wait here about another 18 seconds and she will pass by. She has been circling the building like a caged lion." People! I was strolling!
Not long after I landed this new job it came to my attention that I needed to be back in suits and not the rather casual sportswear that I had donned at my previous employment where I was climbing in attics, fixing toilets and shoveling dead bunnies on top of running a rather large church office. I was now in a nice office with people who did those other jobs.
Explain the shoveling bunnies you ask? Well, one Spring near Easter time, the head mistress of our church school came into my office in a panic. "There's a dead rabbit in the main drop off driveway. Kids will be arriving at any moment. We don't want them to think we murdered the Easter Bunny. What do we do????" Well, the obvious answer was to get a shovel and place poor Peter in the dumpster. But I didn't say that. I said I would take care of it. I went to the custodial closet, got the shovel and scooped up poor Flopsy Mopsy and walked to the back of the church. Once at the dumpster I realized that the dumpster was much taller than me or my reach with the shovel. I GENTLY set Peter-Flopsy-Mopsy on the ground, raised the dumpster lid with the shovel, scooped him back up again and hoisted said bunny in the air. Uh, Oh. The best laid plans of mice and men started to go South on me. Peter began to slip down the handle of the shovel. He slid at a rate so fast an Olympic Luge team would have been proud. I tried twice more with the same results. Now my sleeve was coated in various bunny parts I knew were not the best of accessories for the day. So I grabbed him by the ears and hurled him over the dumpster like dunking a basketball. He hit the bottom with a thud just before the first car pulled in the drive. I slammed the lid to the dumpster shut and returned to my office. My assistant asked if I had been successful. I said yes. However, my outfit was not a success. Needless to say, the staff howled with laughter at the telling of my tale.
So the old wardrobe had to be left behind and a new one was in order. I summoned my sister and her red headed daughter, Patricia. If you haven't read the piece on Patricia, do so. It will help you visualize what transpired on the shopping trip to hell.
About the only clothing store I will patronize is Palais Royal. They generally carry a couple of petite sizes. My choice is limited, so if I see nothing to try on, I am off the hook and can walk out without the obligatory humiliation in the dressing room. While not necessarily on the line, my job was certainly part of the big picture in this venture. Alicia and Tricia accompanied me on the field trip and helped me scope out a few suits. I needed at least five or seven to start with. Once I was ensconced in the dressing room, they would bring me a new outfit as I passed over others.
It wasn't twelve minutes before I was disgusted with my choices, pissed off at the size of my ass and ready to get out of there. I said, "I'm through." and pressed down the door handle and pushed. The door wouldn't budge. Patricia had set herself on the floor with her back against the door, placed her feet such that they could wedge her body to the door, thus she effectively barricaded me in the dressing room. "Hey. I can't open the door. Go get someone." "We know that." was the response on the other side. "You can't come out until you have five outfits." "No way. Let me out." "Not gonna."
Trapped. In a dressing room. With black and pink wall paper. Standing with mirrors on three sides to clearly show me how much weight I have gained. This was not fair. Why couldn't it be one of those uptown boutiques that had those skinny mirrors? Remember the old Seinfeld episode with Elaine buying the dress, then seeing herself in other mirrors down the street? Well, my panic was much worse. I was well past my good behavior time slot for shopping. Three more suits came sailing over the door and landed on my head. My sister, who is a shopper, was in her element. I just knew she was getting back at me for something from the past. We'll just say I wasn't gracious. We finally came to an impasse. They took pity on me after other customers in dressing stalls started laughing while listening to our conversation, especially after I cried out in desperation, "There's nothing here that will cover the Buick parked on my back porch! Please let me out." One patron two stalls down said, "Oh, honey. I know the feeling."
Months later, still trying to complete a wardrobe, I was in a specific section of a women's wear store. I like to wear larger, loose shirts over a shell top with pants. So I patronize the 1x department. They have lovely stuff. However, I am still shorter than the racks and have a tough time getting attention from sales clerks. I approached someone and posed a question. She was quick to respond, "Oh, sweetheart, you don't belong in this department. This is the women's department." while trying not to say the words BIG WOMEN. I quickly responded, "Have you seen the Buick parked on my back porch? I qualify as big in places. Besides that, a hundred years ago I was a big lady!" She chuckled and gave me a little help as she was helping another patron, with whom I struck up a conversation. My shopping counterpart was fussing about all the new blouses having such low cut cleavage and how all the young girls didn't mind if their bras showed or what hung out. She stated that this poses considerable issues for young men in church. She went on to say it also posed issues for older guys in church and began to tell me about one particular Sunday. Now I must say that I really admire black women. They are beautiful. They don't show their age because of all that wonderful Melanin in their skin. They don't mince words, and they take action when action is needed. She proceeded to tell me about one Sunday when prayer meeting went a little long. A lot of prayers were needed that Sunday, and she was thinking her husband was getting hungry and restless. She could feel his movements. Then she realized that she needed to not be so 'prayerful' and take a look-see at what was going on. Every chance he could get, he was swinging his head to get a look at a young lady with all the goods she could possibly display out in plain sight for anyone to enjoy. She said she quietly slipped her left arm through his right, rested her other hand on his upper arm and slipped her fingers in and took a chunk of flesh between her two fingers and twisted it good. He settled right down. I told her that was priceless. We went on to thumb through racks. I lasted about five minutes.
I'll just wrap it up to say, if you need a shopping partner, don't call me unless you have a good story to tell. And may I state firmly that there will never be a trip for the garment known as the bathing suit! I'll be pregnant before that happens.
Gunnar Has Arrived
Alas, it was not me presenting mother with her first great grandchild. Younger brother Steve and wife Marlene have earned that title. His second daughter, Jessica and her husband Wesley, have brought the most delightful bundle into the world. The really sad part of the story is that mom is clueless as to the special place this baby holds in all our lives. If he had been born 10 years ago, I am sure mother would have moved earth and sky to be near him. Once he was placed in her arms, she would not have let him go. Now, she held him for the first time for a few brief seconds and was ready to give him back.
I, however, have the distinct pleasure of being titled Great Aunt Cheryl. Get that word Great. Being the family photographer, I get the first opportunities to play with him that only immediate family have the pleasure of. But it was well noted on our first photo session Gunnar wasn't impressed with my greatness or my prowress with the camera. He slept right through it. Best shot I got was of his foot being held in Wesley's hands.
Second photo session didn't go any better. His cousin [a whole week older than him] was the perfect photo baby. She looked right at me. She didn't cry. She didn't fuss when her mother changed outfits numerous times. Again, Gunnar slept. He stirred long enough to cry when his mother tapped the bottom of his feet. They lifted him in the air and whirled him around. He wouldn't wake up for anything. They called his name out loud, raised their voices, shook him around a bit...one eye rolled slowly open and shut. Drat.
I fully understand what those baby photographers at the mall feel like. Babies crying. Mothers getting frustrated. Dads getting impatient to get the heck out of the mall. All those toys being waved and squeaked for naught. Then you think you have a moment coming without tears, so you reach out and straighten little Adorable's outfit and uck, Baby Adorable has just puked down your hand.
Let's not leave out the most despised photo opportunity character of all time. Santa Claus. Yeah, we all have those first photos. Baby's first Christmas visit to the mall. You plunk the child down on the red velvet lap. There comes that moment when the baby realizes you have stepped away and that little head turns to look behind them. As the head turns back to the evil parents who have done this dreadful thing to them, the mouth opens. The New York Fire Department doesn't have sirens to compete with those wails. I now know why they hire retired guys to play Santa. First question on the application is, "Are you Deaf? If yes, then you have the job."
I have that very picture of my daughter. Like every other parent in line, I was sure I was going to get a delightful shot of the first visit with Santa. I got mouth wide open, tears streaming, face turning beet red, and sobs that shook her body into a near convulsive state. Between Santa and the baby photo studios in the mall, it's a wonder children aren't terrified of the mall setting. Maybe puberty erases those memories, because that is the only place tweens and teens want to be.
At any rate, my brother and his family are starting new memories and embarking on a whole new life. As the family photographer, I get to peek vicariously in on the wonderful life of grandparenting. And yes, I will be right behind them with my camera when they make that fateful trip to the mall at Christmas time.
I, however, have the distinct pleasure of being titled Great Aunt Cheryl. Get that word Great. Being the family photographer, I get the first opportunities to play with him that only immediate family have the pleasure of. But it was well noted on our first photo session Gunnar wasn't impressed with my greatness or my prowress with the camera. He slept right through it. Best shot I got was of his foot being held in Wesley's hands.
Second photo session didn't go any better. His cousin [a whole week older than him] was the perfect photo baby. She looked right at me. She didn't cry. She didn't fuss when her mother changed outfits numerous times. Again, Gunnar slept. He stirred long enough to cry when his mother tapped the bottom of his feet. They lifted him in the air and whirled him around. He wouldn't wake up for anything. They called his name out loud, raised their voices, shook him around a bit...one eye rolled slowly open and shut. Drat.
I fully understand what those baby photographers at the mall feel like. Babies crying. Mothers getting frustrated. Dads getting impatient to get the heck out of the mall. All those toys being waved and squeaked for naught. Then you think you have a moment coming without tears, so you reach out and straighten little Adorable's outfit and uck, Baby Adorable has just puked down your hand.
Let's not leave out the most despised photo opportunity character of all time. Santa Claus. Yeah, we all have those first photos. Baby's first Christmas visit to the mall. You plunk the child down on the red velvet lap. There comes that moment when the baby realizes you have stepped away and that little head turns to look behind them. As the head turns back to the evil parents who have done this dreadful thing to them, the mouth opens. The New York Fire Department doesn't have sirens to compete with those wails. I now know why they hire retired guys to play Santa. First question on the application is, "Are you Deaf? If yes, then you have the job."
I have that very picture of my daughter. Like every other parent in line, I was sure I was going to get a delightful shot of the first visit with Santa. I got mouth wide open, tears streaming, face turning beet red, and sobs that shook her body into a near convulsive state. Between Santa and the baby photo studios in the mall, it's a wonder children aren't terrified of the mall setting. Maybe puberty erases those memories, because that is the only place tweens and teens want to be.
At any rate, my brother and his family are starting new memories and embarking on a whole new life. As the family photographer, I get to peek vicariously in on the wonderful life of grandparenting. And yes, I will be right behind them with my camera when they make that fateful trip to the mall at Christmas time.
Like Taking Candy
As most of our friends know, I take mother to a sitter's house everyday while I go to work. We hit a point a few months back where the doctor confirmed that she should not be left at home all day alone. This was well supported by the events of Christmas week 2009.
On December twenty-third, I took mother to her hair dresser to get styled and gussied for Christmas company. We had plans for the whole family to come over, and I was doing a big dinner. All this planning ahead was lost on mother, and she was upset by the fact that we were going to the salon on the wrong day of the week. I try not to mess with the weekly schedule. It's one of the few concepts she has been able to hold on to. For example - we eat dinner out every Wednesday at the a restaurant in Richmond. On the way to dinner I fill the car with fuel.. If I fail to stop for gas, I won't hear the end of it. It will be mother's only conversation - "You didn't do that over there." I have learned not to vary from the routine. The owners of the restaurant know us very well. The waiter, Jacob, knows us like the back of his hand. Jacob has our drinks ready on the same table every Wednesday. They all look the other way while I fish mother's sleeve out of her plate or take things away from her from her that she shouldn't be grabbing. Jacob ensures there is no knife in her napkin set.
The hair salon is a Friday thing, generally followed by lunch out. So to do the salon on a mid week day just put a kink in things. I should have kept to the weekly routine and moved Christmas to February 9th.
As I sat in the waiting area of the salon I thumbed through glossy magazines full of beautiful young people modeling hair styles no one my age could pull off, my thoughts wandered. I knew mom was in good hands. Karin, mother's stylist, is very patient and sweet. She holds mother's arm and walks her to the wash station, then gently escorts her to the booth. She fusses over mother and makes her feel special. She does her best to keep mother under the dryer until the curls are well set, but doesn't grouse when mom starts sliding those rollers out on her own and dumps them in the drawer with loose hair mixed in. Karin makes her look lovely, then probably mutters under her breath after we leave while she sorts and cleans the rollers.
I am brought back from my thoughts by Karin's voice, "Miss Cheryl. There is something wrong with Miss Mary's head." I rushed over to be shown a huge goose egg on the back of mother's head. It was obvious it had bled rather badly. It shook me, but since it appeared to be already on healing side and no longer bleeding, I deemed it okay to continue with having her hair set and styled. When I asked mom about her head, she couldn't answer a single question about it other than to poke it herself and say, "This hurts."
Once home I investigated to see if I could find where she hit her head. I found nothing other than a tiny scratch on the wall by her bed. She was in the dining room working a puzzle, and I thought it would be good for me to 'act out' how she could have hit her head. "Mom, did you do this?" and I would pretend to step back into the fireplace mantle. All she could say was, "I don't know." I proceeded to act like I tripped over a chair. Again, I dunno. I was getting nowhere. My main thought was that we should get an X-ray for safety - just to make sure there was no real damage.
About this time the Maggie dog comes into the picture. I am dancing around the fireplace like a fool. I am pretending to fall forward and backward. Mom is looking at me blankly and Maggie unexpectedly decides to join me in the dance. CRASH! I fall for real and strike my foot on the fireplace. This is the very same foot on which I dropped the barbeque pit just nights before. I was already hobbling with a deep bruise and was pretty sure I cracked toes to begin with. Now I knew I was done in. My decision to take one of us to the hospital was now on the front burner of my agenda for the day and we would go in as an injured set.
I hobble in, fill out all the papers, and we wait. Mom is perfectly fine staring at the TV. I am bouncing around in pain. They call my name first, but I have to explain that I can't leave her....Alzheimer's. That one word stops all questions, no matter what we are doing. We take mom to X-ray first. They did several things, then did the CT scan. The girls watching the imaging hadn't been in on our conversation in the waiting room, but the images of mother's shrinking brain with the gaps in it profoundly told the picture of the advancement of the disease. They handled her as gently as possible, their eyes were pooled with sympathy and sorrow at what such a dreadful disease can do to a person.
My turn comes. X-rays show breaks, but all they do is buddy-tape toes together. The best advice the tech gave me was, "You know that one pair of shoes in your closet that are a little clunky, don't bend good and you walk like Frankenstein in them? Wear those. For at least twelve weeks." Great. Christmas. I am singing a solo in front of a whole church full of people. In shoes that don't look good or match. Ah well, it would be something to talk about.
So, from that point on the decision was that mother needed someone around during the day, just in case something happened. I was certain by this time she wouldn't know how to dial the phone to call me in case of an emergency, even though my cell number is written on a big piece of paper by the phone. We made the decision to look for a sitter.
We toured a very pricey facility. It was fabulous. Old dogs and old people roamed freely. It was beautifully appointed. However, they wanted us to sign a bunch of papers. We weren't ready to line her up for a full time living facility. All we wanted was day supervision. We toured a dreadful place next. Oh, I cannot tell you how my heart ached when I saw these people slumped over rows of old banquet tables watching television. Ragged couches were the only other accommodations. What was advertised as a secure outdoor patio living area was a section of concrete with a ten foot chain link fence and no shade. It was where the 'patrons' were allowed to smoke. I simply couldn't do it. This is what people with little or no resources have to resort to. If you work a menial job, someone has to watch your loved one for a price you can afford. I simply couldn't entertain the thought of taking mother there every day.
I had a recollection of one of mother's young neighbors telling me about her husband's parents moving to town and looking for work. I called Amanda and inquired as to the availability of her mother in law. Alas, she had long since found work. We visited a bit over the phone and ended with Amanda voicing her care for mom.
Amanda's house is two doors down from mother's home. At least once a week Amanda would gather up the five little boys and walk them down to visit with Mrs. Earles. The two ladies, vastly different in age, quickly formed a friendship. Amanda home schools the boys, so she was free to break away during the day for a little adult conversation. Mom would draw caricatures of the boys, had plenty of kid friendly videos for them to watch and would often tell me how smart they were after they read their homework to her. I ended our phone conversation letting Amanda know we appreciated her concern.
My phone rang the next morning. It was Amanda offering to watch mother during the day. She said she and her husband talked about it the night before, and it was heavy on her heart to do something for mother. I was astonished to find an answer to our prayers so quickly. I would rather mother be with someone we knew than in the fanciest of facilities where she would get lost in the shuffle.
Breathing a sigh of relief I packed mother's lunch and dropped her off at Amanda's home the next Monday. While she didn't understand, she was cooperative. Amanda was gracious, even though mother didn't quite recognize her, and welcomed her with open arms. Our report of the first day was good and the week went along without mishap.
Amanda has long known about mother's illnesses, her battle with cancer and heart procedures, back surgeries and the struggle with diabetes. Mother took four insulin shots a day as part of her daily life. Once I moved her in with me, I got control of her diet. Within nine months she was off insulin entirely. But I had to be the food Nazi to get her back to good health. Bread went out. Cereal went out. If you read the Halloween blog, you have a very clear picture of all the goodies that went down the disposal. Amanda is very diligent about calling me to see if it is okay if mother had this or that sugar free treat. We settled on a good routine, and I packed mom's lunch every day for the peace of mind that she wouldn't be a burden to Amanda and there would be no need for Amanda to try to keep up with the special diet.
Until I got a phone call . . . A very nervous Amanda was on the line asking if she needed to worry about something mother ate. "What?" I asked. "French fries." "Was it one, or two, or a whole bag?" Amanda wasn't sure. She was at the sink with her back to the kitchen while everyone ate lunch. She would turn around to see mother leaning back rather quickly. She started to watch the pattern, then turned so suddenly she caught her. Mother was seated next to the baby in the high chair. As Amanda would turn, mom would lean forward and snatch a French fry from the high chair.
I sat dead silent as Amanda said, "Cheryl. Is everything okay? Should I be worried? Should I do something?" My only response was, "Amanda you have nothing to worry about. I am sitting here just stunned that I have to say that I am so sorry. My mother is stealing French fries from a baby!"
On December twenty-third, I took mother to her hair dresser to get styled and gussied for Christmas company. We had plans for the whole family to come over, and I was doing a big dinner. All this planning ahead was lost on mother, and she was upset by the fact that we were going to the salon on the wrong day of the week. I try not to mess with the weekly schedule. It's one of the few concepts she has been able to hold on to. For example - we eat dinner out every Wednesday at the a restaurant in Richmond. On the way to dinner I fill the car with fuel.. If I fail to stop for gas, I won't hear the end of it. It will be mother's only conversation - "You didn't do that over there." I have learned not to vary from the routine. The owners of the restaurant know us very well. The waiter, Jacob, knows us like the back of his hand. Jacob has our drinks ready on the same table every Wednesday. They all look the other way while I fish mother's sleeve out of her plate or take things away from her from her that she shouldn't be grabbing. Jacob ensures there is no knife in her napkin set.
The hair salon is a Friday thing, generally followed by lunch out. So to do the salon on a mid week day just put a kink in things. I should have kept to the weekly routine and moved Christmas to February 9th.
As I sat in the waiting area of the salon I thumbed through glossy magazines full of beautiful young people modeling hair styles no one my age could pull off, my thoughts wandered. I knew mom was in good hands. Karin, mother's stylist, is very patient and sweet. She holds mother's arm and walks her to the wash station, then gently escorts her to the booth. She fusses over mother and makes her feel special. She does her best to keep mother under the dryer until the curls are well set, but doesn't grouse when mom starts sliding those rollers out on her own and dumps them in the drawer with loose hair mixed in. Karin makes her look lovely, then probably mutters under her breath after we leave while she sorts and cleans the rollers.
I am brought back from my thoughts by Karin's voice, "Miss Cheryl. There is something wrong with Miss Mary's head." I rushed over to be shown a huge goose egg on the back of mother's head. It was obvious it had bled rather badly. It shook me, but since it appeared to be already on healing side and no longer bleeding, I deemed it okay to continue with having her hair set and styled. When I asked mom about her head, she couldn't answer a single question about it other than to poke it herself and say, "This hurts."
Once home I investigated to see if I could find where she hit her head. I found nothing other than a tiny scratch on the wall by her bed. She was in the dining room working a puzzle, and I thought it would be good for me to 'act out' how she could have hit her head. "Mom, did you do this?" and I would pretend to step back into the fireplace mantle. All she could say was, "I don't know." I proceeded to act like I tripped over a chair. Again, I dunno. I was getting nowhere. My main thought was that we should get an X-ray for safety - just to make sure there was no real damage.
About this time the Maggie dog comes into the picture. I am dancing around the fireplace like a fool. I am pretending to fall forward and backward. Mom is looking at me blankly and Maggie unexpectedly decides to join me in the dance. CRASH! I fall for real and strike my foot on the fireplace. This is the very same foot on which I dropped the barbeque pit just nights before. I was already hobbling with a deep bruise and was pretty sure I cracked toes to begin with. Now I knew I was done in. My decision to take one of us to the hospital was now on the front burner of my agenda for the day and we would go in as an injured set.
I hobble in, fill out all the papers, and we wait. Mom is perfectly fine staring at the TV. I am bouncing around in pain. They call my name first, but I have to explain that I can't leave her....Alzheimer's. That one word stops all questions, no matter what we are doing. We take mom to X-ray first. They did several things, then did the CT scan. The girls watching the imaging hadn't been in on our conversation in the waiting room, but the images of mother's shrinking brain with the gaps in it profoundly told the picture of the advancement of the disease. They handled her as gently as possible, their eyes were pooled with sympathy and sorrow at what such a dreadful disease can do to a person.
My turn comes. X-rays show breaks, but all they do is buddy-tape toes together. The best advice the tech gave me was, "You know that one pair of shoes in your closet that are a little clunky, don't bend good and you walk like Frankenstein in them? Wear those. For at least twelve weeks." Great. Christmas. I am singing a solo in front of a whole church full of people. In shoes that don't look good or match. Ah well, it would be something to talk about.
So, from that point on the decision was that mother needed someone around during the day, just in case something happened. I was certain by this time she wouldn't know how to dial the phone to call me in case of an emergency, even though my cell number is written on a big piece of paper by the phone. We made the decision to look for a sitter.
We toured a very pricey facility. It was fabulous. Old dogs and old people roamed freely. It was beautifully appointed. However, they wanted us to sign a bunch of papers. We weren't ready to line her up for a full time living facility. All we wanted was day supervision. We toured a dreadful place next. Oh, I cannot tell you how my heart ached when I saw these people slumped over rows of old banquet tables watching television. Ragged couches were the only other accommodations. What was advertised as a secure outdoor patio living area was a section of concrete with a ten foot chain link fence and no shade. It was where the 'patrons' were allowed to smoke. I simply couldn't do it. This is what people with little or no resources have to resort to. If you work a menial job, someone has to watch your loved one for a price you can afford. I simply couldn't entertain the thought of taking mother there every day.
I had a recollection of one of mother's young neighbors telling me about her husband's parents moving to town and looking for work. I called Amanda and inquired as to the availability of her mother in law. Alas, she had long since found work. We visited a bit over the phone and ended with Amanda voicing her care for mom.
Amanda's house is two doors down from mother's home. At least once a week Amanda would gather up the five little boys and walk them down to visit with Mrs. Earles. The two ladies, vastly different in age, quickly formed a friendship. Amanda home schools the boys, so she was free to break away during the day for a little adult conversation. Mom would draw caricatures of the boys, had plenty of kid friendly videos for them to watch and would often tell me how smart they were after they read their homework to her. I ended our phone conversation letting Amanda know we appreciated her concern.
My phone rang the next morning. It was Amanda offering to watch mother during the day. She said she and her husband talked about it the night before, and it was heavy on her heart to do something for mother. I was astonished to find an answer to our prayers so quickly. I would rather mother be with someone we knew than in the fanciest of facilities where she would get lost in the shuffle.
Breathing a sigh of relief I packed mother's lunch and dropped her off at Amanda's home the next Monday. While she didn't understand, she was cooperative. Amanda was gracious, even though mother didn't quite recognize her, and welcomed her with open arms. Our report of the first day was good and the week went along without mishap.
Amanda has long known about mother's illnesses, her battle with cancer and heart procedures, back surgeries and the struggle with diabetes. Mother took four insulin shots a day as part of her daily life. Once I moved her in with me, I got control of her diet. Within nine months she was off insulin entirely. But I had to be the food Nazi to get her back to good health. Bread went out. Cereal went out. If you read the Halloween blog, you have a very clear picture of all the goodies that went down the disposal. Amanda is very diligent about calling me to see if it is okay if mother had this or that sugar free treat. We settled on a good routine, and I packed mom's lunch every day for the peace of mind that she wouldn't be a burden to Amanda and there would be no need for Amanda to try to keep up with the special diet.
Until I got a phone call . . . A very nervous Amanda was on the line asking if she needed to worry about something mother ate. "What?" I asked. "French fries." "Was it one, or two, or a whole bag?" Amanda wasn't sure. She was at the sink with her back to the kitchen while everyone ate lunch. She would turn around to see mother leaning back rather quickly. She started to watch the pattern, then turned so suddenly she caught her. Mother was seated next to the baby in the high chair. As Amanda would turn, mom would lean forward and snatch a French fry from the high chair.
I sat dead silent as Amanda said, "Cheryl. Is everything okay? Should I be worried? Should I do something?" My only response was, "Amanda you have nothing to worry about. I am sitting here just stunned that I have to say that I am so sorry. My mother is stealing French fries from a baby!"
Did I Win This Round?
It was a typical Sunday morning. Not for the average person, but for me. No matter the schedule, I still have to get up early enough to make the coffee and pour mother's first cup so it can cool before she gets up. But, Sundays require a little extra diligence. I have to ensure that mother does not get dressed before she has finished breakfast and coffee, brushed her teeth and done her makeup - which makes Sunday is a real chore considering I have to try to get in the shower somewhere in the midst of her routine. If her clothing is donned prior to any of the other activites of the morning, it is guaranteed that something will be messed up in the process. Hence, a change of clothing will be in order and there will be a discussion of sorts. And it won't be a good discussion.
Have you ever argued with a three year old? Ah, so you know my dilemma. With advanced Alzheimer's there is no logic or reason. You just have to stand your ground and win the argument any way you can with the least amount of conflict. The less stress you put on yourself and your opponent the better. It has not been an easy lesson to learn. I have admitted to being a slow learner before, but the events of this particular Sunday morning left me baffled and with few options.
The conversation started with reminders about not getting dressed until teeth are brushed and makeup is finished. I get a blank look and the response, "Well, alright. Whatever." I know she didn't understand, so I went to her room, demonstrated what she was to do and made it clear that she was not to touch her clothes until she finished her face. I discovered later my efforts were to no avail.
I finished showering and getting myself ready. I walked into the family room to find her sitting in her chair watching TV with her jacket clamped shut with her arms. Red flags went up all over the place. I told mom to stand up and let me see her outfit. She replied, "It's okay." as she defiantly held the jacket closed. I was not buying it. "Open the jacket and let me see." was my response. She complied and sure enough, a big smear of makeup was down the front of her blouse and a coffee stain complimented it. To add insult to injury she had chosen a dreadful shirt that I had been plotting to throw away at my earliest convenience. It was a black knit top with cheap purple jewels and plastic beads that once had a pearlized coating that were pretty much hanging by a thread. What few beads still had the coating on them were cracked. The others were merely white plastic balls. Quite ugly, but in mom's eyes, it was delightful. To me it was an appalling sight.
How could I drop her off at church looking like that? Adult protective services would be on my doorstep if they had reason to believe I was not caring for her properly. You've seen those elderly people in public. I know you have thought to yourself that someone ought to take better care of them. I was determined not to be in the category of caregivers who let their elderly go around looking like homeless people on the street. Besides, mom was always elegantly dressed for church. I couldn't let this disease take away her dignity, even though dignity was no longer in her vocabulary or her understanding.
So, with her best interests in mind, I told her to go change. Her response was, "No. I'm going to wear this." If you have children, you will fully recognize this argument: Yes you will. No I won't.
After five minutes of this I tried another tactic. "Change your outfit or I will leave you home." She responded with, "You too will take me to that that that place. You will too go there." "No, I won't unless you change." "You can't not take me to there. I go every every every...." "Not unless you change."
I was quickly realizing that there was no winning this short of force. I simply couldn't let this go. How else could I enforce the fact that, if I say something is bad and she needs to change, she needed to do as I say? Where was I to draw the line at what constituted as too dirty to go in public? With Alzheimer's there are other types of soil to deal with. And with mom's comprehension level, how does one differentiate from acceptable levels of soil and non-acceptable?
I stood my ground. So did she. As I stood there arguing with her I noted that my kitchen scissors were on the bookcase beside me. My mind took a turn for the worse. I grabbed them and made one last remark. "Are you going to change?" She firmly said, "NO!"
Whoosh. . . . the scissors sliced right up the middle of her shirt. Beads and jewels went flying. She looked down and stammered, "You, you, you broke it!" My response was a firm, "Damn skippy I broke it. Now go change."
I didn't tell my sister what I had done that morning. When I called her to inquire about meeting her that afternon, Alicia remarked that she was surprised mom didn't argue during lunch about getting extra chips and didn't try to snatch anything from anyone's plate. . . mom was completely cooperative and did exactly as she was told.
Oops. How was I to explain this one?
Have you ever argued with a three year old? Ah, so you know my dilemma. With advanced Alzheimer's there is no logic or reason. You just have to stand your ground and win the argument any way you can with the least amount of conflict. The less stress you put on yourself and your opponent the better. It has not been an easy lesson to learn. I have admitted to being a slow learner before, but the events of this particular Sunday morning left me baffled and with few options.
The conversation started with reminders about not getting dressed until teeth are brushed and makeup is finished. I get a blank look and the response, "Well, alright. Whatever." I know she didn't understand, so I went to her room, demonstrated what she was to do and made it clear that she was not to touch her clothes until she finished her face. I discovered later my efforts were to no avail.
I finished showering and getting myself ready. I walked into the family room to find her sitting in her chair watching TV with her jacket clamped shut with her arms. Red flags went up all over the place. I told mom to stand up and let me see her outfit. She replied, "It's okay." as she defiantly held the jacket closed. I was not buying it. "Open the jacket and let me see." was my response. She complied and sure enough, a big smear of makeup was down the front of her blouse and a coffee stain complimented it. To add insult to injury she had chosen a dreadful shirt that I had been plotting to throw away at my earliest convenience. It was a black knit top with cheap purple jewels and plastic beads that once had a pearlized coating that were pretty much hanging by a thread. What few beads still had the coating on them were cracked. The others were merely white plastic balls. Quite ugly, but in mom's eyes, it was delightful. To me it was an appalling sight.
How could I drop her off at church looking like that? Adult protective services would be on my doorstep if they had reason to believe I was not caring for her properly. You've seen those elderly people in public. I know you have thought to yourself that someone ought to take better care of them. I was determined not to be in the category of caregivers who let their elderly go around looking like homeless people on the street. Besides, mom was always elegantly dressed for church. I couldn't let this disease take away her dignity, even though dignity was no longer in her vocabulary or her understanding.
So, with her best interests in mind, I told her to go change. Her response was, "No. I'm going to wear this." If you have children, you will fully recognize this argument: Yes you will. No I won't.
After five minutes of this I tried another tactic. "Change your outfit or I will leave you home." She responded with, "You too will take me to that that that place. You will too go there." "No, I won't unless you change." "You can't not take me to there. I go every every every...." "Not unless you change."
I was quickly realizing that there was no winning this short of force. I simply couldn't let this go. How else could I enforce the fact that, if I say something is bad and she needs to change, she needed to do as I say? Where was I to draw the line at what constituted as too dirty to go in public? With Alzheimer's there are other types of soil to deal with. And with mom's comprehension level, how does one differentiate from acceptable levels of soil and non-acceptable?
I stood my ground. So did she. As I stood there arguing with her I noted that my kitchen scissors were on the bookcase beside me. My mind took a turn for the worse. I grabbed them and made one last remark. "Are you going to change?" She firmly said, "NO!"
Whoosh. . . . the scissors sliced right up the middle of her shirt. Beads and jewels went flying. She looked down and stammered, "You, you, you broke it!" My response was a firm, "Damn skippy I broke it. Now go change."
I didn't tell my sister what I had done that morning. When I called her to inquire about meeting her that afternon, Alicia remarked that she was surprised mom didn't argue during lunch about getting extra chips and didn't try to snatch anything from anyone's plate. . . mom was completely cooperative and did exactly as she was told.
Oops. How was I to explain this one?
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