Yesterday we got a call from Lugia, Leola's caregiver. She said she was going to have to start charging an extra $1000 a month for Leola's care because she is still getting up at night. Frankly, I'm surprised it took them this long.
Jon had a meeting in Vancouver this morning, so he went to see her on his way home. He told me she had even more memory loss just in the last 10 days since he saw her last. She didn't remember she had children, nor did the names of her two husbands mean anything to her. Before, if you reminded her of the names, she would remember, sort of. She recognized Jon's face, but didn't know who he was. Jon said she looked worse physically, too. She had a pasty, pale face with circles under her eyes. She had difficulty getting up out of her chair, which was new. She has stopped going outside and walking so much, which I'm sure is a relief to the caregivers, but certainly a change in behavior. However she seemed happy and in good spirits. I guess when you have a vacant brain, you can't remember enough to be unhappy. Literally every minute is like starting over.
He spoke with Lugia who said Leola can't remember anything at all. For example, one morning when Lugia was helping her dress, she said, "You put this on and I'll be right back. Then we'll have breakfast." Apparently Lugia was gone only 2 minutes. When she came back in, Leola was in bed thinking it was bedtime since she had already been wearing her nightgown. Toward the end of her stay with us she had, a couple of times, come upstairs with her nightgown and robe on saying she going to bed and it would only be 4 o'clock in the afternoon. When we pointed out the time, she would laugh and say, "Of course it is. I don't know what's the matter with me." Now she doesn't get it. She really doesn't know what is going on.
When Jon left she didn't get out of her chair to walk with him to the door, which she has always done.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Memoir Lost
A couple of days ago Jon spoke to Lugia, Leola's caregiver. She reported Leola still is leaving the house about 30 times a day requiring one of them to get her and bring her back in. In his usual direct way, Jon asked her if this meant Leola wouldn't be able to stay there any longer, because if that was what she was trying to tell us, we would like to know now so we can come up with plan C. She insisted, no she can stay, but Leola might need a change in medication. Apparently one day Lugia found Leola in her room pacing back and forth like a rat in a maze. Jon and Lugia talked with the doctor and a medication change was made. Since I am out of the loop on her care these days, I don't know what the medications were/are.
In the middle of the night last night, Leola got up to use the bathroom and must have grabbed onto her 6 ft bookshelf to steady herself. It came crashing down, splintering into shards, but fortunately she wasn't hurt and the shelving unit didn't have much in it. Obviously, the crash woke up the whole house and all the residents creating mayhem for all of them. Jon was told about the incident when he went to see her today to bring her some of the clothes we went through last weekend.
When I asked him how she was, he was quiet.
He said, "She seemed sedated. She hardly even got out of her chair."
"Did she like seeing the clothes you brought?"
"She recogonized some of them, but she didn't really care that much. Lugia told me she needs help dressing herself now. Otherwise she puts things on in the wrong order or has too many layers on - as though she forgets she already put on a slip and puts on another one. Or else she forgets to take off her nightgown and just dresses over it. I don't know."
I could tell the visit upset him. "She asked me if I was her husband. When I told her I wasn't, she said, 'Well who are you?'" he said.
He went on to say that when he arrived she was reading the autobiography she had written 10 or 15 years ago. She used to read and reread it a lot during the summer when she was living with us. She asked us almost every day if we had read it, too. Of course we had. Now however, she didn't remember she had even written it. In fact, she asked Jon if he wrote it. She had always been so proud of writing that little memoir and now she doesn't recall it. It seems there are thousands of small losses in this process.
In the middle of the night last night, Leola got up to use the bathroom and must have grabbed onto her 6 ft bookshelf to steady herself. It came crashing down, splintering into shards, but fortunately she wasn't hurt and the shelving unit didn't have much in it. Obviously, the crash woke up the whole house and all the residents creating mayhem for all of them. Jon was told about the incident when he went to see her today to bring her some of the clothes we went through last weekend.
When I asked him how she was, he was quiet.
He said, "She seemed sedated. She hardly even got out of her chair."
"Did she like seeing the clothes you brought?"
"She recogonized some of them, but she didn't really care that much. Lugia told me she needs help dressing herself now. Otherwise she puts things on in the wrong order or has too many layers on - as though she forgets she already put on a slip and puts on another one. Or else she forgets to take off her nightgown and just dresses over it. I don't know."
I could tell the visit upset him. "She asked me if I was her husband. When I told her I wasn't, she said, 'Well who are you?'" he said.
He went on to say that when he arrived she was reading the autobiography she had written 10 or 15 years ago. She used to read and reread it a lot during the summer when she was living with us. She asked us almost every day if we had read it, too. Of course we had. Now however, she didn't remember she had even written it. In fact, she asked Jon if he wrote it. She had always been so proud of writing that little memoir and now she doesn't recall it. It seems there are thousands of small losses in this process.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
food for the soul
Like many people, I have a list of things I want to do "some day" or "when I'm retired". Now that I am retired, I'm beginning to check some of those things off a list. I read all 7 volumes of the Harry Potter books in August and September. Currently, I'm watching Season 4 of the Sopranos. I'm trying to learn Photoshop
Another task I've been putting off is going through all my mother's recipes. This is less because of lack of time, but rather an avoidance on my part of the memories that would follow. After she died, Patrick gave me a stack of folders containing recipes she had brought with her when she moved in with him. I don't remember when she organized the recipes into these pocket folders, but it must have been during the 1980's. After returning home to Portland from Alabama, I stuck them up in a shelf in the kitchen cabinet along with cookbooks and my own folders of recipes. Jon made the comment that my recipe files look " just like your mother's". I was a little offended at first (mine are surely better organized!), but I realized he was right. Both were collections of recipes collected from magazines, newspapers and other people stashed into dog-eared folders with general labels like, "Desserts" or "Pasta". Many were decades old and some were dishes that had never been made.
Last weekend, I decided it was time to go through my mother's recipe folders. It was like walking through the last 50 years of my mom's life. A woman who loved food, she gained a lot of weight during her late 30's and 40's, which is not so unusual. However, her overeating was a way to cope with the depression from her unhappy second marriage. She withdrew and became semi-reclusive, but her world revolved around food and making meals for her family. My grandmother and aunt were also good family cooks and many recipes were from them as well.
Since I was looking for a couple of my grandmother's old Christmas cookie recipes, I started with the largest folder labeled "Cookies". There must have been 250 recipes in this folder. When I saw Mom's handwriting on the recipes for Snickerdoodles and Raspberry Squares, I immediately went back to that kitchen on Mulberry St. where we lived before my father passed away in 1958. Then there were the dozens of recipes clipped from women's magazines like "Good House Keeping" and "McCalls". There was even a recipe for persimmon cookies which must have been inspired by the persimmon tree in our neighbors yard in St. Louis, but I don't remember her ever making them.
Some of the older recipes had been clipped from boxes or bags of American Beauty spaghetti, Domino sugar and Old El Paso. There were some truly horrible early microwave oven ideas (deviled ham loaf) clipped from the "women's section" of the St. Louis newspaper dated 1973. I counted 37 recipes for variations on broccoli-chicken casserole. Funny, I don't remember eating that very often. Possibly she was on that kick after I had left home. The newspaper's food writers were really reaching for it when they came up with concoctions like"Pesto Mexicali" or "Mexicana Mostaccioli". Nacho pasta anyone? There were at least 6 versions of Tamale Pie, which, if memory serves, was a favorite of my brothers in the late 60's and early 70's.
As I made my way though the folders, I was reminded of some of her favorite foods just by the sheer numbers of recipes (Mexican food) as well as her dislikes by the absence of others, like fish. The only fish my mom ever cooked was shrimp or canned tuna. She loathed fish.
I recognized food fads and trends that came and went over the years - remember twice baked potatoes, breakfast casseroles or layered salads, calling for a cup each sour cream and mayonnaise? Speaking of mayonnaise (another favorite of hers), I found oodles of dips and appetizer recipes. Remember those ham and cream cheese roll-ups? There was even a mayonnaise pie. Huh?. Then came the 80's & 90's when she tried to make everything low fat in an attempt to lose weight. (It didn't work.) Everything was made with fat free mayo, fat free sour cream, low fat margarine, (it wouldn't melt!) and lots of whole grains, beans and rice.
Mostly, when my brothers and I were younger (roughly between 1955 - 1964), she didn't cook any of this stuff (except the cookies). Our dinner staples as kids were fried chicken, ham, corn and potatoes (any and every style), frozen vegetables, gumbo and jambalaya. We also had liver and tongue, which my youngest brother, Patrick (who called it "cow tongue") refused to eat. He said, "I'm not going to eat something that can taste me back!" I refused to eat the tuna casserole. We sometimes had hamburgers, hot dogs, macaroni and cheese (homemade) and spaghetti with meat sauce. After my mom remarried in 1964, things began to change. I was 13 and my brothers were 10, 8 and 7. Suddenly we were eating more red meat and BBQ was big, but fried chicken still reigned.
I found her recipe for BBQ sauce and chili sauce which she used to make with tomatoes from her plants in the back yard.
The recipes I discovered that made me smile the most were from my Uncle Thad. One was for his Bloody Mary (which I pleasantly remember getting hammered on as a young adult) and his Scotch Old Fashioned, which my mother adored. I made one for myself (even though I didn't have the required marischino cherry juice from Thad's recipe) and toasted to my mother, my grandmother, my aunt and to Thad for an afternoon full of tasty, bittersweet memories.
PS I didn't find my grandmother's cookie recipe I was looking for and I realized why. They were called Bourbon Cigars. My mother didn't care for bourbon, so she never made them. However, my aunt did have the recipe which she promptly sent to me.
Another task I've been putting off is going through all my mother's recipes. This is less because of lack of time, but rather an avoidance on my part of the memories that would follow. After she died, Patrick gave me a stack of folders containing recipes she had brought with her when she moved in with him. I don't remember when she organized the recipes into these pocket folders, but it must have been during the 1980's. After returning home to Portland from Alabama, I stuck them up in a shelf in the kitchen cabinet along with cookbooks and my own folders of recipes. Jon made the comment that my recipe files look " just like your mother's". I was a little offended at first (mine are surely better organized!), but I realized he was right. Both were collections of recipes collected from magazines, newspapers and other people stashed into dog-eared folders with general labels like, "Desserts" or "Pasta". Many were decades old and some were dishes that had never been made.
Last weekend, I decided it was time to go through my mother's recipe folders. It was like walking through the last 50 years of my mom's life. A woman who loved food, she gained a lot of weight during her late 30's and 40's, which is not so unusual. However, her overeating was a way to cope with the depression from her unhappy second marriage. She withdrew and became semi-reclusive, but her world revolved around food and making meals for her family. My grandmother and aunt were also good family cooks and many recipes were from them as well.
Since I was looking for a couple of my grandmother's old Christmas cookie recipes, I started with the largest folder labeled "Cookies". There must have been 250 recipes in this folder. When I saw Mom's handwriting on the recipes for Snickerdoodles and Raspberry Squares, I immediately went back to that kitchen on Mulberry St. where we lived before my father passed away in 1958. Then there were the dozens of recipes clipped from women's magazines like "Good House Keeping" and "McCalls". There was even a recipe for persimmon cookies which must have been inspired by the persimmon tree in our neighbors yard in St. Louis, but I don't remember her ever making them.
Some of the older recipes had been clipped from boxes or bags of American Beauty spaghetti, Domino sugar and Old El Paso. There were some truly horrible early microwave oven ideas (deviled ham loaf) clipped from the "women's section" of the St. Louis newspaper dated 1973. I counted 37 recipes for variations on broccoli-chicken casserole. Funny, I don't remember eating that very often. Possibly she was on that kick after I had left home. The newspaper's food writers were really reaching for it when they came up with concoctions like"Pesto Mexicali" or "Mexicana Mostaccioli". Nacho pasta anyone? There were at least 6 versions of Tamale Pie, which, if memory serves, was a favorite of my brothers in the late 60's and early 70's.
As I made my way though the folders, I was reminded of some of her favorite foods just by the sheer numbers of recipes (Mexican food) as well as her dislikes by the absence of others, like fish. The only fish my mom ever cooked was shrimp or canned tuna. She loathed fish.
I recognized food fads and trends that came and went over the years - remember twice baked potatoes, breakfast casseroles or layered salads, calling for a cup each sour cream and mayonnaise? Speaking of mayonnaise (another favorite of hers), I found oodles of dips and appetizer recipes. Remember those ham and cream cheese roll-ups? There was even a mayonnaise pie. Huh?. Then came the 80's & 90's when she tried to make everything low fat in an attempt to lose weight. (It didn't work.) Everything was made with fat free mayo, fat free sour cream, low fat margarine, (it wouldn't melt!) and lots of whole grains, beans and rice.
Mostly, when my brothers and I were younger (roughly between 1955 - 1964), she didn't cook any of this stuff (except the cookies). Our dinner staples as kids were fried chicken, ham, corn and potatoes (any and every style), frozen vegetables, gumbo and jambalaya. We also had liver and tongue, which my youngest brother, Patrick (who called it "cow tongue") refused to eat. He said, "I'm not going to eat something that can taste me back!" I refused to eat the tuna casserole. We sometimes had hamburgers, hot dogs, macaroni and cheese (homemade) and spaghetti with meat sauce. After my mom remarried in 1964, things began to change. I was 13 and my brothers were 10, 8 and 7. Suddenly we were eating more red meat and BBQ was big, but fried chicken still reigned.
I found her recipe for BBQ sauce and chili sauce which she used to make with tomatoes from her plants in the back yard.
The recipes I discovered that made me smile the most were from my Uncle Thad. One was for his Bloody Mary (which I pleasantly remember getting hammered on as a young adult) and his Scotch Old Fashioned, which my mother adored. I made one for myself (even though I didn't have the required marischino cherry juice from Thad's recipe) and toasted to my mother, my grandmother, my aunt and to Thad for an afternoon full of tasty, bittersweet memories.
PS I didn't find my grandmother's cookie recipe I was looking for and I realized why. They were called Bourbon Cigars. My mother didn't care for bourbon, so she never made them. However, my aunt did have the recipe which she promptly sent to me.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Clothes
Jon spent a good part of the day with Leola yesterday. The caregivers said she needed some slippers. I know she has some, but Jon thought they wanted her to have slippers that would keep her from going outside since she's still doing that. He took her shopping, to lunch and on a couple of errands he had.
He returned from his time with her depressed and weary. Her confusion is profound now. She asked him if he had children at least 8 times within a half hour, didn't know what his relationship was to her and repeatedly talked about wanting to go home. He feels she isn't happy there, but realizes she won't be happy unless she is in a childhood home with her parents again, which of course is impossible. Her health hasn't changed at all (seemingly unaffected by the cancer).
As I've mentioned, her room has been untouched since she moved to foster care 2 months ago. Maybe it was the visit with her yesterday or maybe he just needed time to process all of it, but Jon woke up today ready to start going through her things. I secretly jumped for joy since I can't wait to get that shit out of here. He is bothered by a certain fragrance that seems to permeate many of her clothes, coats, linens and throw pillows. Its origin is no doubt from a previously long-time use of a certain perfume. I don't find it unpleasant, but it is noticeable. Jon can't stand it, so he went to a carton business and got 2 big wardrobe boxes so he can put her clothes in the storage locker. So here we were once again going through her decades-old garments, doing triage with them - one pile to put in the boxes, another pile to take to her foster care and another pile to throw out. If a garment was stained, ripped or worn it went into the throw-away pile. These were things that weren't good enough for the Good Will. Sure enough, there were a lot in the throw-away category. I was pleased Jon was throwing out at least that much. I slyly threw out many kitchy nick-knacks, old pens, bows, tea towels, hot water bottles and the like knowing none of that stuff would ever sell in the garage sale we will eventually have to conduct. After going through the clothes, Jon moved the two ugly dressers under the house, but kept the other 2 in the room so as to make it less cluttered. As I looked at all the boxes of other stuff stacked in the room, I knew we still had a long way to go, but this was a start.
He returned from his time with her depressed and weary. Her confusion is profound now. She asked him if he had children at least 8 times within a half hour, didn't know what his relationship was to her and repeatedly talked about wanting to go home. He feels she isn't happy there, but realizes she won't be happy unless she is in a childhood home with her parents again, which of course is impossible. Her health hasn't changed at all (seemingly unaffected by the cancer).
As I've mentioned, her room has been untouched since she moved to foster care 2 months ago. Maybe it was the visit with her yesterday or maybe he just needed time to process all of it, but Jon woke up today ready to start going through her things. I secretly jumped for joy since I can't wait to get that shit out of here. He is bothered by a certain fragrance that seems to permeate many of her clothes, coats, linens and throw pillows. Its origin is no doubt from a previously long-time use of a certain perfume. I don't find it unpleasant, but it is noticeable. Jon can't stand it, so he went to a carton business and got 2 big wardrobe boxes so he can put her clothes in the storage locker. So here we were once again going through her decades-old garments, doing triage with them - one pile to put in the boxes, another pile to take to her foster care and another pile to throw out. If a garment was stained, ripped or worn it went into the throw-away pile. These were things that weren't good enough for the Good Will. Sure enough, there were a lot in the throw-away category. I was pleased Jon was throwing out at least that much. I slyly threw out many kitchy nick-knacks, old pens, bows, tea towels, hot water bottles and the like knowing none of that stuff would ever sell in the garage sale we will eventually have to conduct. After going through the clothes, Jon moved the two ugly dressers under the house, but kept the other 2 in the room so as to make it less cluttered. As I looked at all the boxes of other stuff stacked in the room, I knew we still had a long way to go, but this was a start.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Leaves
Autumn is showing off it's theatric beauty these days. Suddenly the leaves are bright gold and red and appear more vivid under the cloudy sky. With stately evergreens as their neighbors, the colorful trees look like drag queens next to men in dark suits. I remember thinking during the summer that it would be fun for Leola to watch the changing seasons from our deck - she so loved looking at everything out there or from the windows. But that didn't happen for her. We thought about bringing her over for dinner, but she doesn't remember the summer leaves, the views from the deck or our house. We may still bring her over for a visit, but I fear it will confuse her. It would be interesting to see what she would remember... probably just her furniture that is left in her room and the many clothes still in the closet. Her old room still sits like a ghost town of personal belongings. I had to chuckle the other day when I went in there. I went to close the window blind and remembered it was in the garage. When she still lived with us she had tugged so hard on the string to close it, she pulled it right out of the window jam and it came crashing down. I must remember to get it fixed.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The owl is real
Last night a neighbor posted a photo on our neighborhood email group of an owl that landed on her outside deck. At first she thought it was injured or sick because it just sat there looking at her. She was fortunate enough to snap this photo. I tried to enlarge it in photoshop, but it just blurred. Her picture/email spurred many email exchanges from neighbors who have listening to the owls all summer and fall. One neighbor says her 2 year old daughter was so enchanted by the sounds of the owl that she wants to be an owl for Halloween. Looking at the owl's face, now I know why they say, "wise, OLD owl". The face looks like an old man. We have some neighbors who are real birders and the concensus is that this is a Barred Owl. I think I'll name it Nicky.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Owl in the Night
My owl is out there hooting away tonight, but I don't hear it as much as before. I think I've learned owl language over the summer. There is a pattern/rhythm to the hooting that is the same every single time. I know he/she is talking to me, saying "All is well, it is. All is well, it is." Amazing how nature provides me with the comfort and strength I seek. Even as the nights grow colder, I leave the window open so I can hear my owl.
The hooting has stopped now... I hope it returns.
The hooting has stopped now... I hope it returns.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Autumnal Thoughts
I haven't posted for a month for a variety of reasons. Gone for a week on Cycle Oregon, 9/12-19 and it was wonderful. Felt great to really get away and into all that rural southern Oregon beauty. Upon my return I was sick with "flu-like symptoms" that could have been H1N1, but who cares at this point. Since then I've been working hard in my studio to get ready for Portland Open Studios Oct. 17-18.
Jon has been to see Leola every week, but I have stayed away since my last visit. I know she still looks at me and thinks I have taken Jon away from her in some way even though she really doesn't know who he is all the time. He is just an important male person in her life and she associates me with the loss of him. Jon says she is always glad to see him, but doesn't remember anything from one minute to the next making it difficult to have any conversation.
The caregivers are worn out since she is much more of a handful than they're used to in terms of mobility. She leaves the house often and walks down the driveway as though she is leaving, necessitating someone to fetch her. The outdoor wanderings will no doubt stop as the weather turns colder. She often gets up at night. If she opens her bedroom door, an alarm goes off in the caregivers' bedroom waking them. From what Jon tells me they have requested more medication, but I don't know if that has happened. I'm sure they will begin charging us more for the wandering since I remember seeing that in the contract.
A friend of mine named John Concillo recommended a book to me after reading this blog. It was a touching read by Portlander John Haugse called "Heavy Snow: My Father's Disappearance into Alzheimer's". It is written in graphic novel style with pictures drawn by the author. I was struck by the many similarities in our situations.
This afternoon, Jon is taking his mother back to the oncologist to check the mass under her arm to see if it has changed. Don't know if we'll have any new information or not. He has been feeling depressed about his mom's situation lately. He thinks we made a mistake putting her in foster care - that she should have gone into a memory unit where they are more quipped to deal with her activity level. He thinks she's too cooped up and unhappy. However, if the cancer progresses, she will be in the perfect place. She still talks about going home soon.
Jon has been to see Leola every week, but I have stayed away since my last visit. I know she still looks at me and thinks I have taken Jon away from her in some way even though she really doesn't know who he is all the time. He is just an important male person in her life and she associates me with the loss of him. Jon says she is always glad to see him, but doesn't remember anything from one minute to the next making it difficult to have any conversation.
The caregivers are worn out since she is much more of a handful than they're used to in terms of mobility. She leaves the house often and walks down the driveway as though she is leaving, necessitating someone to fetch her. The outdoor wanderings will no doubt stop as the weather turns colder. She often gets up at night. If she opens her bedroom door, an alarm goes off in the caregivers' bedroom waking them. From what Jon tells me they have requested more medication, but I don't know if that has happened. I'm sure they will begin charging us more for the wandering since I remember seeing that in the contract.
A friend of mine named John Concillo recommended a book to me after reading this blog. It was a touching read by Portlander John Haugse called "Heavy Snow: My Father's Disappearance into Alzheimer's". It is written in graphic novel style with pictures drawn by the author. I was struck by the many similarities in our situations.
This afternoon, Jon is taking his mother back to the oncologist to check the mass under her arm to see if it has changed. Don't know if we'll have any new information or not. He has been feeling depressed about his mom's situation lately. He thinks we made a mistake putting her in foster care - that she should have gone into a memory unit where they are more quipped to deal with her activity level. He thinks she's too cooped up and unhappy. However, if the cancer progresses, she will be in the perfect place. She still talks about going home soon.
Friday, September 11, 2009
I'm so glad to see you, whoever you are.
Leola was overjoyed to see us, but didn't have any idea who we were. She knew our names and knew she knew us from somewhere in her life, but little else. We didn't prompt her and kept the conversation light. She didn't remember that Jon had been there a few days ago, didn't remember she had lived with us, but she did ask if we were married! She dwelled on the marriage topic and kept coming back to it. She has lost so much language and ability to construct sentences that it was hard to follow her at times, but she was positive, cheerful and giddy like a child. Out of curiosity, Jon never gave her the information that he is her son. The care giver hadn't known we were coming, so couldn't have prepped her. She never knew him as her son during the 30 minute visit. She talked about going home , her mother and father who would be coming to get her.
She said, "I don't think I was married much. I think I had a husband, but I don't remember." She turns to Jon, "I didn't marry you did I?" He laughs and shakes his head.
Later, after asking for the 3rd time how long we'd been married, she said to me, "You got a good one, but I had him first."
Is this when I get all Bill Clinton on her and say, "It depends on what the meaning of "had" is"?
All I say is, "Yes, I've got a good one."
I couldn't help asking her if she had children. She thinks for a minute and says, "Yes, I think I had a boy and a girl, but I don't remember. I don't know where they are now. Oh, I don't remember much of anything anymore."
When we are in the car driving home I quietly say, "I'm sorry."
He says, "It's easier this way. I'd rather she not know me than saying 'Jon, get me the hell out of here!' This way, she just keeps thinking she's going to be going home soon, just like she did when she lived with us. It doesn't seem to matter where she is. We know she was happy to see us and she's well cared for.
And we both know we couldn't give her that care. It's OK.
She said, "I don't think I was married much. I think I had a husband, but I don't remember." She turns to Jon, "I didn't marry you did I?" He laughs and shakes his head.
Later, after asking for the 3rd time how long we'd been married, she said to me, "You got a good one, but I had him first."
Is this when I get all Bill Clinton on her and say, "It depends on what the meaning of "had" is"?
All I say is, "Yes, I've got a good one."
I couldn't help asking her if she had children. She thinks for a minute and says, "Yes, I think I had a boy and a girl, but I don't remember. I don't know where they are now. Oh, I don't remember much of anything anymore."
When we are in the car driving home I quietly say, "I'm sorry."
He says, "It's easier this way. I'd rather she not know me than saying 'Jon, get me the hell out of here!' This way, she just keeps thinking she's going to be going home soon, just like she did when she lived with us. It doesn't seem to matter where she is. We know she was happy to see us and she's well cared for.
And we both know we couldn't give her that care. It's OK.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Miles of birthdays
We drove over to Bend yesterday. Although I've been here a couple of times this summer, Jon hasn't been here since last December and he hasn't seen Whitney and Micah's new Bread LaVoy operation. He also wanted to get in a couple of higher elevation bike rides in preparation for Cycle Oregon which starts next weekend. Whitney was somewhat taken aback at Jon's tired face and thin body. Other people have told him he looks tired, too. He says he is sleeping well enough, but undoubtedly the stress of the last few months has taken its toll on him. He has also been putting in many miles on his bike which can be harder on a 61 year old than on a younger man's body. Although she is still alive, I know in my heart that Jon is also grieving the loss of his mother. And his sister. Today would have been Bonnie's 53 birthday. Since Daniel's birthday is Sept. 10, we often celebrated Dan and Bonnie's birthdays together when Dan was younger, usually over Labor Day weekend.
I decided to go with Jon on Cycle Oregon, not as a rider obviously (I don't even own a bike) but as a guest. I'll sleep in the tent with him and have breakfast and dinner at the campsite, but otherwise I'll drive from campsite to campsite each day doing my own thing. I think this trip will be really good for both of us to get completely away for a week with just the beauty of southern Oregon's back roads with us.
I decided to go with Jon on Cycle Oregon, not as a rider obviously (I don't even own a bike) but as a guest. I'll sleep in the tent with him and have breakfast and dinner at the campsite, but otherwise I'll drive from campsite to campsite each day doing my own thing. I think this trip will be really good for both of us to get completely away for a week with just the beauty of southern Oregon's back roads with us.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Swept Away
The deck needs sweeping. Since we have so many tall trees around our house, debris is continually falling on the deck. In her search for something useful to do, Leola swept off the deck regularly all summer and she did a damned good job. Sometimes the task would take her an hour to do. I have numerous potted plants and flowers out there and she always took care to sweep around them all. Our deck never looked as clean as it looked during the last 3 months. I guess I'll have to get back to the sweeping.
Jon went to visit her. He was obviously wary of her reaction to him given the picture-stabbing incidents. She may have been prepped for his visit by Ligia, the caregiver, because Leola recognized him immediately as her son. To Jon's relief, she introduced him to others saying, "This is my son". Not "my husband". He said she asked, "How's Julie?" and even said, "You picked a good one. I think you can keep her. I approve." Now Jon seems to think the whole Julie-as-the-slut delusion is over with and she is back to being his mom again. Of course he wants to think his mother is back. He desperately wants it. I'm not so sure it's true. But I wasn't there. However, I found the picture frames, minus the mutilated photos of us, in the garage after his visit.
Post Script (to my bad day last week):
My brother Patrick is not going to Iraq after all. His director didn't appove it because he couldn't do without him for 6 months. Pat's disappointed, but I'm relieved.
Daniel is not moving home. I never really thought he would, but he always calls me when he's at his lowest point, teary and defeated, wanting his mother's comfort. This happens less often than it used to, but it is still upsetting for me. I'll worry about him for hours or days, then I'll call him and he will have moved on - the crisis forgotten. Similar to Jon and his mother - only in reverse.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
a vacant room
I have to admit it's a relief to have Leola gone. Still I miss her. In a way, it seems like she died rather than moved to foster care. Her room still has furniture in it and lots of her clothes still hang in the closet and are stuffed in drawers. Boxes of her things are still here, but she is not. There is a sadness in our house that feels similar to death, but yet it isn't.
I remember when my mother died 3 years ago and I had to leave my brother's house in Birmingham, AL (where she had lived with him) to go back to my life in Oregon. She died on a Sunday, just hours after I had arrived on a seemingly endless flight from Portland to Atlanta to Birmingham. I like to think she was waiting for me. During the next few days my brothers and I took care of arrangements for cremation, cleared out her clothes, boxed up her stuff, laughed and cried when we went through old photos. It was a healing time for the four of us. The funeral was to be much later at Arlington Cemetery in Washington where our father was buried. I'll never forget the day I had to leave to come back to Oregon and the feeling of pervasive sadness in Patrick's house. How difficult it must have been for him to say goodbye to us that day and be left in the house with her empty room, seeing it day after day. I don't think I've ever missed anyone as much as I missed my brothers in the days after I returned.
I avoid going downstairs where her room is because it seems ghost-like. Yet I know we are going to have to deal with all this stuff of hers sometime. Even if she can't stay at the foster care home and needs to move somewhere else, she won't have room for all of her clothes. I thought we might trade them out from time-to-time, to give her something "new" to wear while we dry clean some of the sweaters. She loves her clothes. I hate it that she can't have them all with her.
I remember when my mother died 3 years ago and I had to leave my brother's house in Birmingham, AL (where she had lived with him) to go back to my life in Oregon. She died on a Sunday, just hours after I had arrived on a seemingly endless flight from Portland to Atlanta to Birmingham. I like to think she was waiting for me. During the next few days my brothers and I took care of arrangements for cremation, cleared out her clothes, boxed up her stuff, laughed and cried when we went through old photos. It was a healing time for the four of us. The funeral was to be much later at Arlington Cemetery in Washington where our father was buried. I'll never forget the day I had to leave to come back to Oregon and the feeling of pervasive sadness in Patrick's house. How difficult it must have been for him to say goodbye to us that day and be left in the house with her empty room, seeing it day after day. I don't think I've ever missed anyone as much as I missed my brothers in the days after I returned.
I avoid going downstairs where her room is because it seems ghost-like. Yet I know we are going to have to deal with all this stuff of hers sometime. Even if she can't stay at the foster care home and needs to move somewhere else, she won't have room for all of her clothes. I thought we might trade them out from time-to-time, to give her something "new" to wear while we dry clean some of the sweaters. She loves her clothes. I hate it that she can't have them all with her.
Monday, August 31, 2009
The Bitch
I spent the weekend in San Francisco with Dan, so I missed a visit from Jon's niece, Trista (Eric's sister), husband and son, who is Leola's only great grandchild. They came from Yakima, WA to visit Leola at her new home and take her out to lunch. Jon had not visited her all week at the caregiver's request, but planned to go on Sunday after Trista and family left. He asked Trista to get a feel for how Leola was feeling about Jon and me. Here's how that went:
Leola says to Trista, "You know why I'm here don't you?"
"I think so." she says.
"Because Jon ran off with that bitch, Julie."
Jon said Trista seemed reluctant to tell him this, but it was what he was expecting. Actually, he had hoped she was over this particular delusion, but wasn't sure he was ready for the next one, whatever it might be.
At this point, I thought nothing would surprise me, but I didn't expect to be called a bitch and I have to admit it hurt.
Leola says to Trista, "You know why I'm here don't you?"
"I think so." she says.
"Because Jon ran off with that bitch, Julie."
Jon said Trista seemed reluctant to tell him this, but it was what he was expecting. Actually, he had hoped she was over this particular delusion, but wasn't sure he was ready for the next one, whatever it might be.
At this point, I thought nothing would surprise me, but I didn't expect to be called a bitch and I have to admit it hurt.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Retirement (Part 2)
Early in the blog, and also one of the motivations for writing it, I spoke about my retirement from teaching in the public schools. Last spring I said I probably wouldn't really understand the full impact until this fall when school was starting again - without me. I've noticed it for a few weeks. In the past, usually when July turned over into August, I would mentally or literally start to make a list of things I wanted to get done before I went back to work at the end of the month - hike Dog Mountain, pressure wash the deck, have lunch with so and so. That didn't happen this year. As the days of August ticked by, I didn't feel the usual anxiety, the resistance to letting go of summer and focusing on the school year with its inevitable changes and challenges. That's a pleasure of retirement. I have lots of time. I'm on Harry Potter #5 and the Sopranos season 2.
I have many friends in education, some of whom like Debra, Nancy, Ann and Pru have already started back at work since they are principals (Debra and Nancy), librarians (Ann) or secretaries (Pru). My teacher friends contractually don't have to be back until September 1, but most have been into their classrooms by now or have been busy writing lesson plans or doing prep work at home. For those of you who think teachers have three months off during the summer, think again. In Portland, our last contract day was June 12. I know several teachers who taught summer school to earn extra money. It's a rare teacher who doesn't spend some time during the summer taking professional development courses, planning projects, learning new a curriculum, reading kids literature, moving to a new classroom or at the very least, just planning how they might do some things differently - all requiring time they are not paid for. But I'm off topic...
There is something bittersweet about retiring from teaching. Yay! I don't have get up and be at work every day by 7:30. Yay! I don't have that nasty commute. Yay! I don't have to go to staff meetings or deal with the politics. I could go on with that list. But here is what I WILL miss - I'll miss having all those kids in my life every day, I'll miss watching them make progress both academically and socially, I'll miss making a difference in their lives, I'll miss the funny things they say and I'll miss talking about the kids with my colleagues. Fortunately there will always be kids and I can sub or volunteer at my leisure, but it's a little different when they aren't my responsibility. Maybe that's the part I won't miss.
I have many friends in education, some of whom like Debra, Nancy, Ann and Pru have already started back at work since they are principals (Debra and Nancy), librarians (Ann) or secretaries (Pru). My teacher friends contractually don't have to be back until September 1, but most have been into their classrooms by now or have been busy writing lesson plans or doing prep work at home. For those of you who think teachers have three months off during the summer, think again. In Portland, our last contract day was June 12. I know several teachers who taught summer school to earn extra money. It's a rare teacher who doesn't spend some time during the summer taking professional development courses, planning projects, learning new a curriculum, reading kids literature, moving to a new classroom or at the very least, just planning how they might do some things differently - all requiring time they are not paid for. But I'm off topic...
There is something bittersweet about retiring from teaching. Yay! I don't have get up and be at work every day by 7:30. Yay! I don't have that nasty commute. Yay! I don't have to go to staff meetings or deal with the politics. I could go on with that list. But here is what I WILL miss - I'll miss having all those kids in my life every day, I'll miss watching them make progress both academically and socially, I'll miss making a difference in their lives, I'll miss the funny things they say and I'll miss talking about the kids with my colleagues. Fortunately there will always be kids and I can sub or volunteer at my leisure, but it's a little different when they aren't my responsibility. Maybe that's the part I won't miss.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Traveling at the speed of mom
People have asked me if I will stop writing the blog now that Leola is in foster care and I've generally told them I'll write it as long a s I feel the need. I started writing it as a way to cope with all the changes in my life last spring. The pace of change hasn't slowed. If anything it has accelerated.
Notes from the foster care givers:
Leola has been there for 3 nights now. The first night she got up several times during the night which was to be expected. The second night she got up at 3:00 AM and never went back to sleep. Last night she got up and entered another resident's room and woke them causing a disturbance. They have asked us to consider medications and Jon put a call in to her doctor to talk about that.
More disturbing:
It seems I am the scarlet woman now. She is convinced Jon is her husband, he has left her for me and that's why she is living in this new place. She made them take down and put away a recent picture of Jon and me we put in her room so she would remember us. In retrospect, the comments about the boyfriend and her continuous surprise that Jon and are married fit this pattern of thinking.
Yesterday, she was found stabbing pictures of Jon with a letter opener. Obviously that didn't go over very well.
Jon called and talked to her today and nothing he could say could convince her that he wasn't her husband. Her mind is trying to construct a reality that is coherent to her, so she's piecing bits of memory from her past together. Presently she is taking the bit from when her marriage to Jon's father broke up. She told Jon on the phone, "If you say you're my son and I say you're my husband, who's to say who's right? I'll say you are my son if I can come back and live with you." There's no way that is happening... not if she thinks I am the bad guy and she is using letter openers to stab photos.
Jon and I are coming to the sudden, horrible realization that this foster care placement might not work. She might be too much for them to handle. If that happens... well I guess we better have a plan C.
In other news today, my son called from San Francisco. He has been laid off from his new job and thinks he should move back home. My 52 yr. old brother who works as a geologist with the Dept. of the Army, sent me an email saying he took a job in Iraq. He leaves Sept. 27. Who said retirement is relaxing?
Notes from the foster care givers:
Leola has been there for 3 nights now. The first night she got up several times during the night which was to be expected. The second night she got up at 3:00 AM and never went back to sleep. Last night she got up and entered another resident's room and woke them causing a disturbance. They have asked us to consider medications and Jon put a call in to her doctor to talk about that.
More disturbing:
It seems I am the scarlet woman now. She is convinced Jon is her husband, he has left her for me and that's why she is living in this new place. She made them take down and put away a recent picture of Jon and me we put in her room so she would remember us. In retrospect, the comments about the boyfriend and her continuous surprise that Jon and are married fit this pattern of thinking.
Yesterday, she was found stabbing pictures of Jon with a letter opener. Obviously that didn't go over very well.
Jon called and talked to her today and nothing he could say could convince her that he wasn't her husband. Her mind is trying to construct a reality that is coherent to her, so she's piecing bits of memory from her past together. Presently she is taking the bit from when her marriage to Jon's father broke up. She told Jon on the phone, "If you say you're my son and I say you're my husband, who's to say who's right? I'll say you are my son if I can come back and live with you." There's no way that is happening... not if she thinks I am the bad guy and she is using letter openers to stab photos.
Jon and I are coming to the sudden, horrible realization that this foster care placement might not work. She might be too much for them to handle. If that happens... well I guess we better have a plan C.
In other news today, my son called from San Francisco. He has been laid off from his new job and thinks he should move back home. My 52 yr. old brother who works as a geologist with the Dept. of the Army, sent me an email saying he took a job in Iraq. He leaves Sept. 27. Who said retirement is relaxing?
The Move
We moved her to foster care. It was surprisingly easy. Not much to take - a dresser, a bookshelf, a chair, a nightstand, the coffee table with tiles she made. The furniture, except for the book shelf, we moved last weekend and she didn't even notice it was gone. The chair came from the storage locker.
We arranged for Leola's cousin's daughter, Deila, to take her out for the morning while we packed some of her clothes, personal items, knick-knacks and pictures and moved it all into her new room in the house with the Romanian family in the Multnomah Village neighborhood of Portland - about a 20 minute drive from our house. The house is beautiful and the family friendly, warm and wonderful. Jon and I spent a couple of hours hanging her clothes and putting them in drawers, putting up pictures and arranging her stuff to make the room as cozy as possible. Deila brought her to her new home from the morning's outing, which included lunch and a trip to the hair dresser. Jon was waiting for them. I had returned home to pick up a few more things, but was delayed by traffic due to the closure of I405, so I wasn't present when Deila brought her in and the news about her new home was presented to her. Jon said she initially was fine with it but when she saw her room she said, "You tricked me!"
I arrived with a couple of boxes of her things which I brought into the room where the 3 of them were pleasantly chatting. I could tell Leola was wound up form her day out with Deila and was a little hyper. As I unpacked her hat boxes and the lamp, she asked me, "Did you use my car to bring this here?" Uh, no. "Well where is my car?" It was easy enough for Jon to distract her onto another subject.
Deila left first. Jon and I stayed for a while chatting with the family and Leola. Then I left. Jon's burden was huge. He said his mother talked to him rationally saying, "I understand why you did this." Maybe she did. Who knows. Ironically, the day before we moved her, she told us that it was time for her to go. She said, "I've been here long enough." Of course, she meant she wanted to go home, where ever that is, but it sounded to us like she was ready to move out of our house. Be careful what you wish for.
We arranged for Leola's cousin's daughter, Deila, to take her out for the morning while we packed some of her clothes, personal items, knick-knacks and pictures and moved it all into her new room in the house with the Romanian family in the Multnomah Village neighborhood of Portland - about a 20 minute drive from our house. The house is beautiful and the family friendly, warm and wonderful. Jon and I spent a couple of hours hanging her clothes and putting them in drawers, putting up pictures and arranging her stuff to make the room as cozy as possible. Deila brought her to her new home from the morning's outing, which included lunch and a trip to the hair dresser. Jon was waiting for them. I had returned home to pick up a few more things, but was delayed by traffic due to the closure of I405, so I wasn't present when Deila brought her in and the news about her new home was presented to her. Jon said she initially was fine with it but when she saw her room she said, "You tricked me!"
I arrived with a couple of boxes of her things which I brought into the room where the 3 of them were pleasantly chatting. I could tell Leola was wound up form her day out with Deila and was a little hyper. As I unpacked her hat boxes and the lamp, she asked me, "Did you use my car to bring this here?" Uh, no. "Well where is my car?" It was easy enough for Jon to distract her onto another subject.
Deila left first. Jon and I stayed for a while chatting with the family and Leola. Then I left. Jon's burden was huge. He said his mother talked to him rationally saying, "I understand why you did this." Maybe she did. Who knows. Ironically, the day before we moved her, she told us that it was time for her to go. She said, "I've been here long enough." Of course, she meant she wanted to go home, where ever that is, but it sounded to us like she was ready to move out of our house. Be careful what you wish for.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Boyfriends
"I hear you have a boyfriend." Jon says to me the other night. "Mom said you have a boyfriend who comes over. " He's teasing me of course, but she did say it.
If I didn't know better I'd think she was saying this on purpose. She has already told Jon she doesn't like it that he's married to me because she wants to marry him, which has completely creeped him out. The subject comes up again at dinner.
"What's your boyfriend's name?" she asks me.
I point to Jon. "That's him. I'm married to Jon."
"No, I mean that other guy who comes over."
Jon changes the subject. "Do you have a boyfriend?" he asks her.
"I've had lots of boyfriends. Boys always like me, but I never wanted to marry any of them. I'm glad I never got married." she declares.
"Really." say Jon. "Did you never have children, then?"
An odd, confused look crosses her face. "No. I mean yes. I did have 2 kids, so I guess I must have been married. I wonder where they are now?"
"I'm one of them. I'm Jon." he says.
"You are? Oh, yes of course you are." she says, but looks dubious.
If I didn't know better I'd think she was saying this on purpose. She has already told Jon she doesn't like it that he's married to me because she wants to marry him, which has completely creeped him out. The subject comes up again at dinner.
"What's your boyfriend's name?" she asks me.
I point to Jon. "That's him. I'm married to Jon."
"No, I mean that other guy who comes over."
Jon changes the subject. "Do you have a boyfriend?" he asks her.
"I've had lots of boyfriends. Boys always like me, but I never wanted to marry any of them. I'm glad I never got married." she declares.
"Really." say Jon. "Did you never have children, then?"
An odd, confused look crosses her face. "No. I mean yes. I did have 2 kids, so I guess I must have been married. I wonder where they are now?"
"I'm one of them. I'm Jon." he says.
"You are? Oh, yes of course you are." she says, but looks dubious.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
a letter
Leola got a letter in the mail yesterday from an old friend in Bandon, OR. When I gave it to her, she didn't know quite what to do. She kept looking at the envelope and reading the return address out loud, then her name and then the post mark (which said Rochester, NY for some odd reason). "I don't know anyone in Rochester," she said. The letter was addressed to her, but it said, "c/o Jon and Julie".
She said, "Oh, it's from Jon and Julie. They are my cousins."
"I'm Julie. Why don't you open it and see who it is from?"
This has to be one of the saddest things I've seen so far in the deterioration of her brain. She has lost the ability to understand the parts of a letter - who is writing it, where it came from and even who it's for. She didn't remember the friend who had sent it or where Bandon is. Several time during the next half hour she asked me where Bandon is.
Later in the evening when we were getting ready for dinner, I told Jon, "Leola got a letter today."
"I did?" she said.
"Sure. It was from your friend Jackie, in Bandon. What did you do with it?"
"I didn't get a letter." she insisted.
"It was over next to the chair before. It's probably still there." I said.
She found it and the whole conversation started over again.
She said, "Oh, it's from Jon and Julie. They are my cousins."
"I'm Julie. Why don't you open it and see who it is from?"
This has to be one of the saddest things I've seen so far in the deterioration of her brain. She has lost the ability to understand the parts of a letter - who is writing it, where it came from and even who it's for. She didn't remember the friend who had sent it or where Bandon is. Several time during the next half hour she asked me where Bandon is.
Later in the evening when we were getting ready for dinner, I told Jon, "Leola got a letter today."
"I did?" she said.
"Sure. It was from your friend Jackie, in Bandon. What did you do with it?"
"I didn't get a letter." she insisted.
"It was over next to the chair before. It's probably still there." I said.
She found it and the whole conversation started over again.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Owls
I'm listening to the owl again. I hear him/her almost every night now. I'm selfishly thinking the owl is hooting just for me. I wish I could hoot a response back. I would say, "Thanks for the comfort, strength and beauty you give me. What can I give to you?"
My last nerve
Irrational as this may be, everything about Leola gets on my last nerve lately. Allow me to make a list.
1. The previously mentioned tampering with the cat food. She is still clandestinely adding milk or water to Ozzie's dry cat food causing a soggy mess he won't eat. I've thrown away more sodden cat food this summer than I care to think about. Yesterday I heard her banging around in the kitchen. When I asked if she needed something, she said she wanted to heat the milk for the cat! Fortunately, she can't figure out how to turn on the stove.
2. She thinks she's so fucking cute - giggling over the stupidest things and acting like a little girl. Of course she always did this and wanted to be the center of attention, I guess dementia hasn't changed that.
3. Her vanity is unbelievable. When we show her pictures taken this summer (and there are a lot of them), all she can comment on is how she looks!
4. I'm tired of her closing all the doors and windows and talking about how cold she is when she's already wearing two sweaters. Put on another sweater for christ's sake! This is August and it's warm! She also closes all the interior doors for some odd reason. Ozzie can't get to his cat box.
5. She's taken to throwing things (mostly food when we eat out there) over the side of the deck. She doesn't understand that we'll have rats if she keeps it up.
6. Most of all, I'm angry that she doesn't know who Jon is most of the time now. This is irrational on my part and I know she can't help it, but I don't want to see him hurting. He is.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Dreamland
Yesterday late in the afternoon after returning from the studio, I laid down on my bed to rest for a few minutes. Jon had left to go to his cycle class. I was in that place between sleep and wakefulness when I felt an odd unease. I opened my eyes to see Leola standing over me peering down into my face. "Ahhh!" I jumped. She giggled as though this were very funny.
"I didn't mean to wake you up. I just wondered what you were doing?" she said still giggling that irritating little girl laugh that seems to say, "Aren't I just the cutest thing?"
"I was taking a nap."
"I wondered where Jon's mother was," she asks.
"You are Jon's mother and he went to the gym. He'll be back a little later. I'll come downstairs in a few minutes," I said sitting up.
"Well, I know, but where are all the other people?" she asks.
"What people? Only three of us live here, you me and -"
She interrupts, "Well, I know, but I need to get my car from the service station. I can't believe I was so stupid to let that man talk me into leaving it there. Can I talk you into giving me a ride over there? It's just over that way (she's pointing), then you turn and around the corner... I have to get my car back so I can go home."
"Leola, go downstairs and let me wake up. I'll be downstairs in a minute to start making dinner. The we'll talk about your car."
"Oh, Okay. I'll let you sleep." she shuffles down the stairs.
Unfortunately, I wasn't dreaming.
"I didn't mean to wake you up. I just wondered what you were doing?" she said still giggling that irritating little girl laugh that seems to say, "Aren't I just the cutest thing?"
"I was taking a nap."
"I wondered where Jon's mother was," she asks.
"You are Jon's mother and he went to the gym. He'll be back a little later. I'll come downstairs in a few minutes," I said sitting up.
"Well, I know, but where are all the other people?" she asks.
"What people? Only three of us live here, you me and -"
She interrupts, "Well, I know, but I need to get my car from the service station. I can't believe I was so stupid to let that man talk me into leaving it there. Can I talk you into giving me a ride over there? It's just over that way (she's pointing), then you turn and around the corner... I have to get my car back so I can go home."
"Leola, go downstairs and let me wake up. I'll be downstairs in a minute to start making dinner. The we'll talk about your car."
"Oh, Okay. I'll let you sleep." she shuffles down the stairs.
Unfortunately, I wasn't dreaming.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Cape Disappointment
The view from the North Head lighthouse at Cape Disappointment is one of the most spectacular on the Oregon/Washington coast. In good weather, you can see south across the mouth of the Columbia River, down the coast of Oregon and that's without even going up in the lighthouse. It looks over the bar, which is sometimes called "The Graveyard of the Pacific" because the dangerous coastal waters have claimed hundreds of ships. Sunday we drove to the coast, through Seaside and Astoria, across the long bridge over the Columbia River into Washington and on to the little town of Ilwaco where Leola was born. She hasn't lived there since 1929, but she returned often over her adult life to visit various relatives, some of whom still live there. Jon, having paid little attention to relatives over the years, was unaware of who it might be that lived there now. Leola was unable to tell him.
After having made the decision to move Leola to foster care, Jon decided he might not have another chance to take her where she keeps incessantly asking to go - Ilwaco. I told him I probably should have my head examined, but I'd go, too. We also felt compelled to go full circle with these pilgrimages having to do with her early years. Every day is a new day to her and no matter how often she has traveled on Oregon roads in the past, she reacts as though she is seeing it for the first time. Upon our arrival in Ilwaco, she didn't recognize it of course. The picture in her mind is the town in 1929 or even earlier. In the car, she said we needed to stop and ask someone.
Jon said, "What will you ask?"
"Where my house is", she replied.
"Mom, no one is going to know where your house was if you can't tell them an address." Jon said.
"Well, I'll ask them where the mill is. If I find the mill, I know I'll just turn left and go up the hill." She turns to me, "We had a Finnish bath house behind this house, you know. I wonder if it's still there?" I wonder.
Jon and I both knew the mill she was referring to was long ago torn down and she wouldn't be able to ask a coherent question to anyone. Jon had been to Ilwaco before, but not for many years and had little memory of any of what she was talking about. We decided to get out at the marina, walk around a little and get some lunch. The first opportunity she had, she walked into a gallery and asked the startled proprietor, "Where is Ilwaco?" "Leola, we are in Ilwaco. This is it." I said impatiently, trotting behind her. She didn't believe me and proceeded to babble away to this guy, making very little sense. Jon came in and explained that she had lived here during the 1920's. Fortunately, this guy was a 3rd generation Ilwaco native and very friendly. He patiently told her that very few buildings were left from her era except for some houses and we could see pictures of the town circa 1920 at the museum. He told us about some of the Finnish families who were still around town.
As we left the gallery a strange coincidence occured. Several people walking by said, "Leola?"
I recognized one of them as a someone I had met before. It turns out these people were the very relatives of Leola's I was referring to. It was her 80 yr. old cousin, Richard Patana, his wife and 2 of their daughters visiting from out of town. Leola didn't know them at first, but they convinced her of who they were. Jon was blown away by the serendipity of the situation. I was getting more and more irritable asking myself why on earth I had decided to make this trip and wondered what was in store for us the rest of the day.
One of the daughters, Deila, who lives in Beaverton, has spent a lot of time with Leola over the last few years. She took us to where the old house is and explained to Leola that no family lives in it anymore even though there is still a sign in front of it that says "Patana" which was Leola's mother's maiden name. Leola did not recognize the house. We all went to lunch, then said our goodbyes. Back in the car, Leola said, "We never saw the house." Jon knew he would need to take a picture of her in front of it or she would be saying that all the way back to Portland, so we went back. 'That's it?" she said. "It sure doesn't look like it. No, that's not the house." We've learned not to argue or try to convince her, but Jon said, "Come on Mom, let's take a picture." He took a picture of her in front of the house with the "Patana" sign visible.
As we drove the short distance to Cape Disappointment and the lighthouse, I couldn't help but wonder what this town was like when it wasn't a beautiful summer day. According to the visitor's center, it rains over 130 days a year with an average of 72" of rainfall. It also claims the largest number of hours of fog, 2,552, or the equivalent of 106 days! However, it's stunning beauty on this lovely summer day took my breath away. As Leola pointed out China Beach, she told us that's where she learned to swim. No wonder this is what she remembers.
After having made the decision to move Leola to foster care, Jon decided he might not have another chance to take her where she keeps incessantly asking to go - Ilwaco. I told him I probably should have my head examined, but I'd go, too. We also felt compelled to go full circle with these pilgrimages having to do with her early years. Every day is a new day to her and no matter how often she has traveled on Oregon roads in the past, she reacts as though she is seeing it for the first time. Upon our arrival in Ilwaco, she didn't recognize it of course. The picture in her mind is the town in 1929 or even earlier. In the car, she said we needed to stop and ask someone.
Jon said, "What will you ask?"
"Where my house is", she replied.
"Mom, no one is going to know where your house was if you can't tell them an address." Jon said.
"Well, I'll ask them where the mill is. If I find the mill, I know I'll just turn left and go up the hill." She turns to me, "We had a Finnish bath house behind this house, you know. I wonder if it's still there?" I wonder.
Jon and I both knew the mill she was referring to was long ago torn down and she wouldn't be able to ask a coherent question to anyone. Jon had been to Ilwaco before, but not for many years and had little memory of any of what she was talking about. We decided to get out at the marina, walk around a little and get some lunch. The first opportunity she had, she walked into a gallery and asked the startled proprietor, "Where is Ilwaco?" "Leola, we are in Ilwaco. This is it." I said impatiently, trotting behind her. She didn't believe me and proceeded to babble away to this guy, making very little sense. Jon came in and explained that she had lived here during the 1920's. Fortunately, this guy was a 3rd generation Ilwaco native and very friendly. He patiently told her that very few buildings were left from her era except for some houses and we could see pictures of the town circa 1920 at the museum. He told us about some of the Finnish families who were still around town.
As we left the gallery a strange coincidence occured. Several people walking by said, "Leola?"
I recognized one of them as a someone I had met before. It turns out these people were the very relatives of Leola's I was referring to. It was her 80 yr. old cousin, Richard Patana, his wife and 2 of their daughters visiting from out of town. Leola didn't know them at first, but they convinced her of who they were. Jon was blown away by the serendipity of the situation. I was getting more and more irritable asking myself why on earth I had decided to make this trip and wondered what was in store for us the rest of the day.
One of the daughters, Deila, who lives in Beaverton, has spent a lot of time with Leola over the last few years. She took us to where the old house is and explained to Leola that no family lives in it anymore even though there is still a sign in front of it that says "Patana" which was Leola's mother's maiden name. Leola did not recognize the house. We all went to lunch, then said our goodbyes. Back in the car, Leola said, "We never saw the house." Jon knew he would need to take a picture of her in front of it or she would be saying that all the way back to Portland, so we went back. 'That's it?" she said. "It sure doesn't look like it. No, that's not the house." We've learned not to argue or try to convince her, but Jon said, "Come on Mom, let's take a picture." He took a picture of her in front of the house with the "Patana" sign visible.
As we drove the short distance to Cape Disappointment and the lighthouse, I couldn't help but wonder what this town was like when it wasn't a beautiful summer day. According to the visitor's center, it rains over 130 days a year with an average of 72" of rainfall. It also claims the largest number of hours of fog, 2,552, or the equivalent of 106 days! However, it's stunning beauty on this lovely summer day took my breath away. As Leola pointed out China Beach, she told us that's where she learned to swim. No wonder this is what she remembers.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
I can't seem to shake the blues I've been carrying around the last few days. Maybe it's the grey, chilly weather (I even put on socks this morning), but more likely it's a feeling of failure and defeat. I'm finding it difficult to keep my sense of humor.
Throughout the last 2 1/2 months I've been trying to see this situation from Leola's perspective, but I just can't. I can't fathom what it would be like to lose so much memory and not be able to think straight. When I was 20 years old, I was hospitalized for severe depression and was given electric-shock therapy. I lost some memory after those treatments, which was both frustrating and frightening, but most of it came back eventually. I still have trouble remembering the people from high school my friends Mary and Nancy talk about, but it has been 40 years since I graduated from high school and I really don't care. Leola's loss of memory is vast and it includes language loss. Sometimes I see a blank look on her face when I talk to her, as though she's watching me on TV. Outward signs of frustration are obvious when she has difficulty explaining something and she will give up and say, "I guess I just don't have any brains anymore!" How horrible that must be.
Throughout the last 2 1/2 months I've been trying to see this situation from Leola's perspective, but I just can't. I can't fathom what it would be like to lose so much memory and not be able to think straight. When I was 20 years old, I was hospitalized for severe depression and was given electric-shock therapy. I lost some memory after those treatments, which was both frustrating and frightening, but most of it came back eventually. I still have trouble remembering the people from high school my friends Mary and Nancy talk about, but it has been 40 years since I graduated from high school and I really don't care. Leola's loss of memory is vast and it includes language loss. Sometimes I see a blank look on her face when I talk to her, as though she's watching me on TV. Outward signs of frustration are obvious when she has difficulty explaining something and she will give up and say, "I guess I just don't have any brains anymore!" How horrible that must be.
Health part 4
We took Leola to the oncologist yesterday who confirmed that she definitely has an aggressive form of breast cancer. He said it hadn't yet manifested itself in any major organs or bones (except maybe the brain which we haven't checked) but it is just a matter of time before it does. He wants to watch the mass under her arm to see if it changes during the next 2 months. If it gets larger, we will have it removed, but he wants to try to avoid any surgery or hospitalization if necessary because of her age and dementia. Obviously she isn't a candidate for chemo therapy. He mentioned that her rapid cognitive decline could partially be explained by the fact that her body is overburdened with disease.
Given this information (and having suspected it for a while now) somehow made it a little less difficult to make the decision to move her to foster care. We know she won't live another 10 years. The foster care setting we visited on Tuesday will be a warm, inviting place for her to live and we know she will be cared for better than we could do ourselves.
Given this information (and having suspected it for a while now) somehow made it a little less difficult to make the decision to move her to foster care. We know she won't live another 10 years. The foster care setting we visited on Tuesday will be a warm, inviting place for her to live and we know she will be cared for better than we could do ourselves.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Birthdays part 2
I went over to Bend on Wednesday in order to be with Whitney on her birthday. Upon my arrival, we walked to the farmer's market with her friend, Melissa and her 7 month old baby, Selah, to shop for our dinner. In the four years Whitney and Micah have lived in Bend, we have spent many good times with their friends, Melissa and Sean, including Thanksgiving, Christmas, Melissa's baby shower and now, Whitney's birthday. The market was bustling and I was pleased to see a crowd around the Sparrow's booth. Business has been better than ever for the Sparrow and the new Bread LaVoy, their bread operation, but Whitney and Micah are working more than ever.
Whitney turned 27 on Wednesday. As I watched her hold and play with Selah, I couldn't help remembering when she was 7 months old and I was a young woman. Unexplained tears sprang to my eyes and I had to briefly excuse myself before anyone noticed. I'm teary again even as I write this. What a glorious and complex relationship it is between a mother and child. As Jon struggles to understand his mother's decline and her dependence on him, I wonder if it will happen to me with my daughter or son.
Whitney turned 27 on Wednesday. As I watched her hold and play with Selah, I couldn't help remembering when she was 7 months old and I was a young woman. Unexplained tears sprang to my eyes and I had to briefly excuse myself before anyone noticed. I'm teary again even as I write this. What a glorious and complex relationship it is between a mother and child. As Jon struggles to understand his mother's decline and her dependence on him, I wonder if it will happen to me with my daughter or son.
Whats his name
Leola was in her room before dinner taking a nap when Jon went down and knocked on her door. He poked his head in and told her he was leaving for a little while and would be back in a couple of hours. I was reading in the living room absorbed in the 4th Harry Potter book. Later, she came upstairs and sat on the couch across from me.
"Where did Eric go?" she asked me.
"Do you mean Jon? He went to work at the free clinic this evening." I told her. I was pleased she remembered Eric's name and connected him in her brain as a male family member.
"No, not Jon. Not your Jon. I mean Eric. He came downstairs when I was sleeping and I wasn't very friendly to him, so I thought I better come up and talk to him, but now he's gone."
"Eric wasn't here today. He was here on Saturday. That was Jon who came down to say goodbye before he left."
"No it wasn't Jon," she insisted. "I know who Jon is. I guess Eric left before I could talk to him."
"I didn't see Eric today. I guess I missed him, too."
I have learned not to try to convince her of anything. It only makes her more anxious and confused. The downside is that it thwarts any kind of conversation and I feel dishonest when I have to "humor" her. But it's either humor or distract her or get into one of those pointless arguments. Either way, it's pretty damned sad.
"Where did Eric go?" she asked me.
"Do you mean Jon? He went to work at the free clinic this evening." I told her. I was pleased she remembered Eric's name and connected him in her brain as a male family member.
"No, not Jon. Not your Jon. I mean Eric. He came downstairs when I was sleeping and I wasn't very friendly to him, so I thought I better come up and talk to him, but now he's gone."
"Eric wasn't here today. He was here on Saturday. That was Jon who came down to say goodbye before he left."
"No it wasn't Jon," she insisted. "I know who Jon is. I guess Eric left before I could talk to him."
"I didn't see Eric today. I guess I missed him, too."
I have learned not to try to convince her of anything. It only makes her more anxious and confused. The downside is that it thwarts any kind of conversation and I feel dishonest when I have to "humor" her. But it's either humor or distract her or get into one of those pointless arguments. Either way, it's pretty damned sad.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Burt's Bees
She washed the dishes with "Burt's Bees Hand Salve" the other night. I keep a tin of "Burt's Bees" next to the sink in the kitchen to use on my hands after gardening, cleaning or using solvents in the studio. It's heavy, thick and waxy, the consistency of petroleum jelly. We left some dishes in the sink after dinner since the dishwasher was full, intending to clean up a little later. Leola came to tell me her hands were greasy. I suggested she use soap and wash them. She replied she had used soap but it made it worse. I assumed she was confused and ignored it. Later after she had gone to bed, Jon said, "I think mom washed the dishes with Burt's Bees Hand Salve." After closer inspection I saw he was right. A waxy film was smeared all over the dishes.
Owls and Foster Care
It's raining tonight and I can hear an owl hooting. I've heard it several times this summer and wonder if it's the same owl I saw on my walk a couple of weeks ago. Two feet tall and dusty gray in color, it looked regal sitting on the branch of a fir tree. I've seen an owl around here from time to time, but it's rare. The hoot is strangely comforting or reassuring - as though its mythical wisdom will somehow take care of me.
We looked at another foster care facility today and it was a perfect place for Leola. It's a beautiful house with 4 other residents run by a nice Romanian family with three daughters. AND it's only about a 15 minute drive from our house. However, Jon and I have mixed feelings about releasing her from our care. Jon particularly, is having trouble letting her go. Yes, she is difficult to care for, but I don't think she will necessarily be happier in foster care than she is now. She will still want to "go home", wonder where her car is, talk about her boathouse on the Columbia River and say she needs to go see her mother. She will just be saying those things to strangers. But then I have to remember than Jon and I are like strangers to her sometimes, too. Does it really matter if she's with us? I don't know. Maybe the owl will tell me.
We looked at another foster care facility today and it was a perfect place for Leola. It's a beautiful house with 4 other residents run by a nice Romanian family with three daughters. AND it's only about a 15 minute drive from our house. However, Jon and I have mixed feelings about releasing her from our care. Jon particularly, is having trouble letting her go. Yes, she is difficult to care for, but I don't think she will necessarily be happier in foster care than she is now. She will still want to "go home", wonder where her car is, talk about her boathouse on the Columbia River and say she needs to go see her mother. She will just be saying those things to strangers. But then I have to remember than Jon and I are like strangers to her sometimes, too. Does it really matter if she's with us? I don't know. Maybe the owl will tell me.
Pantyhose Redux
The pantyhose story never ends. Jon decided he would buy his mother new pantyhose and pitch the hundreds of old ones with runs she keeps wearing. He was quite proud of himself after returning from Fred Meyer with 7 new pair of Hanes - size A/B, displaying them to me like a child with a picture he had drawn. I looked at them and smiled. He had gotten the size A/B correct but he had bought "Plus Size" and Leola is the size of a nine year old. Determined to get this pantyhose issue behind him, he returned to Fred Meyer, exchanged them for the correct size, then proceeded to throw out the massive amount of old ones. I wonder if this will be the end of it?
Sunday, August 9, 2009
The Secret Garden
Early on in this blog, I
mentioned my neighbor, Betty. Smart, 
fit, sassy and irreverent, she is what I want to be when I'm 80 yrs. old. Betty comes and turns on water from a hose bib in our lower garden to water the small neighborhood veggie plot above. In exchange, I can pick all the veggies I want. She calls our lower garden The Secret Garden because you really can't see it much from the street and it's necessary to go down the steps before experiencing the full effect.Five years ago when Leola moved from Coos Bay to Portland we had to get rid of many things, but it was hard to part with all the rocks and stones she had collected over the years and had decoratively placed in her front yard. She had thousands of them and many were quite large. During the move when I was in Coos Bay, I began piling many of the rocks in the back of my car thinking we could display them in our yard and Leola could still enjoy them. We had movers coming to move her stuff, but it seemed absurd to pay someone to move a bunch of rocks. However in light of what actually did get moved (see June blog entries), the rocks would have been one of the better choices. Anyway we moved a small portion of them - not as many as I wanted - and laid them in a spot under a hose bib in the garden below. Last year we had some repairs for water damage to our house and moved them so they wouldn't get lost or trashed. They sat in buckets under the house until this summer. One Sunday in July, Jon and Leola spent the whole afternoon, washing and placing the rocks back where I had put them 5 years ago - just like she used to do with them in Cos Bay.
Now mind you, I'm not into "cute stuff" and Leola is. She put a few rocks with cute faces painted on them that had come from the porch of her apartment at Northwest Place in there, but I let it go. This is, after all, her house, too, now.
But back to Betty and the secret garden. Betty's young grandchildren visit her periodically. The other night Jon and I noticed from the kitchen window as she brought several children as well as her husband and another neighbor with his two kids down the stairs to our lower garden. Today when I was working out in the yard Betty couldn't wait to tell me how the kids delighted in seeing the "secret garden" and the rocks. They just loved the rocks with the faces on them.
She exclaimed, "That was better for them than 20 Disney movies! They were also in awe of the rabbit bench."
The stone rabbit bench or "bunny bench" as we call it, came from Jon's sister Bonnie's yard after her death last November. It weighs a freakin' ton and I remember Jon and Daniel struggling to carry it out of her yard and into our car the day before Thanksgiving last year when our grief was so still so raw. Both Bonnie and Leola would be happy to know their whimsical garden fancies are sparking the imaginations of another generation.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
