Month: July 2019

            For someone who hasn’t gone anywhere this summer, I feel like I’m traveling all the time. Each day I commute between two parts of my life — the part that is thriving and the part that is dying. There’s no time change involved, yet I’m constantly exhausted, trying to be who I’m supposed to be in each scenario.  

            When I’m with my mom, who spends most of the day lying on the couch napping and not eating much of anything, I yearn for my kids and distract myself with my phone like a teenager. When I’m with my children, I feel guilty that I’m trying to enjoy myself, knowing that my mom is lying on the couch napping and not eating much of anything. I’m constantly checking my phone to see if my dad or Hospice has called. In both instances, I maintain a constant numbness that doesn’t allow me to cry or laugh. Sometimes it’s hard just to breathe. 

            After weeks of beating myself up over this, I decided to just let it be — or at least try to. If I can tap into a stream of happiness in either world, great. If not, I ride it out and hope for a better wave next time. So far I’ve found that this strategy serves me better than trying to be something that I’m not. My son calls me out the second he sees my fake smile anyway, so there’s no use in trying to fool him or anyone else. 

            Still I worry that I’m fooling myself. My mom isn’t going to be around much longer, and I have no idea what that looks or feels like. Right now, I’m busy organizing her care and making sure she has what she needs. There hasn’t been much time to ponder what the new normal will eventually be. When I do venture into those thoughts, I quickly think of something that needs to be done. My friends tell me that there will be time to process and grieve later, so I’m taking them on their word that that’s true.

            In the meantime, mom still smiles occasionally, and her eyes twinkle when she does. Typical mom, she apologizes for being lazy while she’s lying on the couch, not remembering that she has cancer. Her Alzheimer’s makes sure that she can’t recall that, which is probably a good thing. “It’s okay to be lazy,” I tell her. 

            As she naps, I either doze off with her or wander around the house. Because she’s at home now, I get to visit the museum of my youth on an almost daily basis. Rummaging through drawers and closets, I discovered a box of old photographs, the horse mask I wore in my first play and a slew of certificates commemorating any occasion you can imagine. (My citizenship award for good behavior in sixth grade, complete with a scratch and sniff sticker, is a favorite.) 

            These are all Winks of Goodness, but these winks sting because they remind me of a time when things were different — a time when mom took care of me and Hospice meant a free pen from their booth at the county fair. I realize that roles and situations change. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, and no matter how challenging it is, I’m grateful that we’re following life’s natural order.

            Now I keep all of my kids’ photographs on my phone and computer, they each have a paper fish hanging in their rooms from one of their first plays, and I save every certificate (sans scratch and sniff stickers) they earn. One day these artifacts will bring smiles to their faces when they least expect it and have no idea how much they need it. 

            Last night, my husband and children looked through the box of photographs I found at my parents’ house. Many of them were of trips my mom and dad took after I left home, but some captured moments of my childhood. The Tots loved seeing my class pictures from elementary school. They laughed at my Dorothy Hamill haircut (the only time I’ve ever had short hair), sun-sensor glasses (why was this ever a thing?) and Mr. Bill T-shirt (Mr. Bill still rocks). 

            I smiled because I was finally able to enjoy both of my worlds at the same time. Looking through these dusty photos, I knew exactly who I was supposed to be, and I rode that wave as long as I could. 

When I was first pregnant with twins, I was determined to do everything right. I bought a notebook to record my eating so my doctor would see that my nutrition savvy alone would be enough for me to win “mother of the year” in the delivery room. In one column I wrote the date and time of day, and in the other I wrote what I ate — blueberries for breakfast and salads for lunch. Then everything changed. 

            I was sitting in my home office one morning early in my first trimester when I became terribly nauseous. Minutes later I got sick and continued to do so multiple times a day until I gave birth. Needless to say, my notebook went by the wayside as I spent most of my time hunched over the toilet. 

            Nothing would stay down except junk food — think Pop-Tarts and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (the super cheap kind). When I explained this to my doctor, he told me not to worry about it because all he cared about was calories. “You just need to take in calories,” he said. 

            I feel like I’m in that same place again sans the Pop-Tarts. No, I’m not pregnant, but I am going through a tremendous life change, and it’s not in any shape or form the way I planned it.  

            When I resigned from my job in May, I had such grand plans for the summer. The Tots and I were going to play tennis, visit museums, swim at the pool and spend a stress-free week at the beach, a week where mom didn’t have to worry about deadlines for once. 

            Two-and-a-half weeks after my last day at work, my mom was diagnosed with cancer, and we were told that Hospice would be best for her. A few days ago, we admitted her into a nursing home, something my dad and I never wanted to do, and something that he still can’t digest. 

            Now our summer days are organized by visits with my mom, meetings with her care team, updates to family members and phone calls. Sometimes The Tots go with me, other times they hang out with their other grandparents or dear friends. The fun I promised my children is scarce, and I have horrible guilt about that. Our beach trip has been cancelled because there’s no way we can leave during this time, and we don’t want to, as the oncologist gave my mom four to six weeks. Of course, we have no idea how that will play out, but we want to be here for it — all of it, no matter how hard it is. 

            During the past two weeks I feel like I’ve been thrown into the Olympics for Winks of Goodness. Dealing with my dad’s denial and devastation about my mother’s diagnosis, which is understandable after being married for 60 years (together for 64), and his cognitive issues can be maddening, leaving any signs of goodness few and far between. Regardless, I keep looking because I need a handrail to hold as I walk this journey for my mom. 

            I see winks from my children, as their 9-year-old minds try to understand what’s going on. I see it when my son pushes my mom in a wheelchair to the nursing home’s beauty shop so mom can get her hair done. I see it when my daughter pulls the covers up over my mother. I see it when they converse with friends of the family they don’t know but who have heard all about them. And I see it in the staff at the nursing home. 

            The day we checked in, I went out into the hallway to get some air. A nurse named Charlene saw me and walked up to me just like the nice cool girl does to the new girl at school in an ABC Afterschool Special (those were the absolute best).

            Charlene could tell that I was trying to take it all in, so she gave me a casual tour of the place, informing me that the next day was Superhero Wednesday. Her smile was such a beautiful sight during such a dismal day. 

            Mom has been there a week now, and she is receiving excellent care, but my dad still can’t digest she’s there, and sometimes I feel like his angst is worse than the cancer. It’s a huge adjustment for both of them. (I believe the clinical term is “transition.”) Regardless of what you call it, it’s heartbreaking and beyond frustrating at the same time. We often say hurtful things to each other, and at one point over the weekend, I threw my Corkcicle across the parking lot out of anger. (Fun fact, the Corkcicle only suffered a small dent, so these tumblers really are worth the money. They should advertise the fact that you can throw them on asphalt in fits of rage and they’ll be just fine, as it truly is a selling point. Also, please note that no one was injured.)

            During last night’s visit, dad and I had a good conversation, but it was about to take a turn into “Tense Town” when a social worker suddenly brought in a white poodle. Truth be told, I’ve never been crazy about poodles, but this poodle was different. Flaunting her frizzy ears and floral scarf, Sasha (how sassy is that name?) walked up to me like we’d been friends for years. If a dog can give the expression, “I know how you feel, sister,” this dog did. 

            I quickly picked her up so mom could pet her, and in seconds, mom’s magical smile appeared as she began petting Sasha’s chin. For a few minutes, the stress of the situation subsided, and all we could focus on was this little dog. It felt so good. 

            The social worker promised to bring Sasha back on Thursday, and I hope I’m there when she does because that dog has magic powers, even though she refuses to wear bows on her ears. She’s a walking Wink of Goodness, and I’m so grateful she walked into our lives. 

NOTE: If you are visiting my parents, please do not mention this blog, as it would only confuse the situation. They are not very computer savvy these days. Thank you. 

            My neighbor wished me “Happy Freedom Day” on the 4^thof July this year, and I looked at her a little strangely when she did. Though I know the history of the holiday, I’ve never thought of it as Independence Day. To me, it’s always been my mother’s birthday, and because of that, Fourth of July week has been my favorite week of the year ever since I was old enough to say “firecracker.”

            For a summer person, it’s hard not to love a holiday that only asks for you to go outside and have fun with your family, and that is what my family has always done. We have more than one box of 4^thof July decorations (red, white and blue string lights, check), and we’re the first family to purchase any special edition 4^thof July candy, cookie or chip at the grocery store. We’re also probably the only crew around who has specially painted flowerpots for the 4^thof July. Think of us as the Griswolds of Independence Day. 

            For so many 4^thof Julys, we’ve thrown a big birthday party for mom at our family’s cottage on Lake Tillery, complete with a red, white and blue birthday cake. I can count on one hand the years that we didn’t do this, and this was one of those years. Sadly, my mom spent her 82^ndbirthday on the fourth floor of the hospital. 

            An X-ray turned into a scan and then another scan, then a biopsy, then a scope, another scan and finally a diagnosis. My mom has terminal cancer, and all that’s left to do is love her and make her as comfortable as possible. 

            For her birthday, we filled her room with patriotic balloons, a giant Snoopy wearing a red, white and blue top hat (mom and I adore Snoopy) and cupcakes. Every nurse and doctor who visited that day wished her a happy birthday, and in one of mom’s more lucid moments, she joked that the hospital was still going to charge her for the day even though it was her birthday. 

            I spent the night with her that night. Even though we didn’t have an official diagnosis at that point, in my heart I knew that this would be her last birthday and I wanted to share it with her. We each ate a bagel with cream cheese for dinner. (That’s all either of us could manage.) Then we watched the end of Jurassic Park and the beginning of a Madea movie. Soon the birthday girl went to sleep. 

            As I made a bed out of the foldout couch, I heard a couple of booms outside. “Oh, how I’d love to see some fireworks,” I thought. A moment later I looked out the window to see a green and yellow explosion scraping the sky, reminding me that it was indeed my mother’s birthday. (I know it sounds like a Disney movie, but it really happened.) That’s the only firework I saw that night, but I’ll remember it more than any firework extravaganza I’ll ever attend because it was the ultimate Wink of Goodness. It was the light that I needed.

            In the past week, I’ve experienced more emotions than a super-size Crayola box. My dad and I have spit venom at each other fighting about how to best take care of mom, followed by apologies, hugs and tears. For so long, we have been a family of three, and none of us wants to downsize to a party of two. The realization that this is inevitable sparks all sorts of feelings and thoughts, especially when it’s your sweet mother, and in my dad’s case, your wife of 60 years. 

            Sometimes those feelings come out right side up, and other times they come out jumbled and hurtful. Regardless, you have to keep going because it’s the circle, and the circle is everything — it keeps going through goodness and heartache. 

            My mom and I have had a couple of good conversations during the past week when the Alzheimer’s fog clears and her eyes renew their sparkle. These talks contain the things you really need to say but often don’t. As I listen to her, I try to sear each word to my brain because I know that soon that’s all I’ll have left. That and boxes of 4^thof July decorations waiting for a celebration.