caregiving: shower day

Thursdays are shower days for Mom. The whole process takes a couple hours, from start to finish. It's hard to get Mom in the shower, first off. She'll stick out her tongue and flat out refuse: "I just did this yesterday!" or "I want to take a bath like I did when I was a kid, not a shower!" I make bargains sometimes, remind myself to be patient, kind, and gentle.

On Thursdays, I'm wiped out—more mentally than physically—by noon. I mean, my back hurts a little, but mentally and emotionally, I'm just plain tired. There is something so draining about bathing your mother. This is when the parent/child relationship is so obviously reversed. There is the frustration that comes with hearing the childlike "I don't want to do this; why are you making me?" again and again. There is a hefty dose of remembering, as I blow dry her hair, that this is the woman who bathed me as a child, who patiently rolled my hair in pink plastic curlers every Saturday night and then stuck me under her warm, comforting hair dryer. And there is the in-your-face reminder of how the body ages and fails, how it sags and wrinkles and weakens, and, frankly, the knowledge that someday, this will be me.

In the end, though, she always ends up smiling. "This is wonderful! I never want to get out! How did you learn how to do this?" She is overflowing with gratefulness, bubbling with the joy of accomplishment. After I dry and curl her hair, she thanks me and says, "I'm going to pay you a million dollars!"

These are bittersweet days, ones you never imagine until you are here in the midst of it, moving slowly through the hours and days and weeks, shaking off the frustration, returning the smile, breathing deeply, giving back.

The Loop

 

"Coleslaw for breakfast?" Mom asked. "I've never had coleslaw for breakfast."

"It's not breakfast, Mom," I said for the 15th time in the 30 minutes since Mom had been awake. "It's 6 o'clock at night. It's supper."

"What? No!" she said. "It's early in the morning!"

"You slept nearly the whole day," I remind her. "And now it's time for supper!"

She takes a bite of her coleslaw. "This is delicious!" Chews a minute. "I've never had coleslaw for breakfast."

It's a circular conversation. Anyone with aging parents—with or without dementia—is familiar with looping: this repetition of ideas, questions, stories. 

The stories always begin as if this is the very first time she's ever told them. 

"My mother was a good cook like you are. She used to make food for Dad's store and people would line up to buy it." 

"I loved to sit on the porch swing with Mama. She lived right across from the junk yard, and we'd watch people bring their junk."

"I loved my Dad.  His store was across a busy road and I ran away to get to him, but I got stuck in the mud before I got to the road. I could have died."

"I used to love to watch Shorty kill the cows. He'd thump 'em on the head and they'd fall over."

These stories are having their last telling. Who will tell them after she's gone? I may tell my own children and future grandchildren how my mother told these stories, but I won't tell them with the same first-person gusto. I don't hold these memories myself, these memories of folks long, long gone, of a time when a woman would sell angel food cakes and German potato salad at a neighborhood grocery.

The looping is endless. Oh, we know all the right things to do. We smile. We answer a question, again and again. We listen to a story and smile. We exude patience, love, and kindness. 

But let's be honest: The looping drives us bananas. The looping is hard, and we just want to shout: I JUST TOLD YOU THAT! or YES! YOU'VE TOLD ME THAT STORY 600 TIMES BEFORE!

Hang in there, caregivers of aging parents. You're not alone. 

I repeat: you're not alone.

(Did I mention... you're not alone?)

Home at Last

 Twenty-two years ago we bought our first house. We didn't have a huge list of requirements. We were thrilled just to have our own house after living in rentals for the first 11 years of marriage. But we did want a house that had an attached apartment—not a basement one, but one with plenty of light and its own entrance. Our dream was always to have my parents spend time with us. For the first 10 years, my parents were snowbirds. They came to TN from NY from November through March of each year. It was a wonderful time; we had what we always wanted: that our children would know their grandparents.

After dinner games and books, 2004

And then they finally decided to sell their beautiful house on the shores of Seneca Lake and move down here full time. They bought a house just two minutes down the road from us and lived there for 12 years. Every now and then something would happen— a fall, a hospitalization, too much housework—and we'd wonder if it was time for them to move into our apartment. But they always rallied and decided they wanted to stay in their own space. 

Mom in the hospital with a broken arm

Dad battling a toe wound

Last month, just a week before Mom's 95th birthday, Dad sent me a text on a Sunday afternoon. "Can't wake Mom up. Can you come?" When I got to their house, Mom was out cold, completely unresponsive. We called 9-11, and she was transported to the hospital. She'd had a mild heart attack and also had a urinary tract infections. UTIs are serious in the elderly, often causing delirium and leading to hospitalization. She finally awoke the next day, bewildered and weak. My brother and I alternated between being in the hospital with Mom and transporting Dad to and from the hospital. Randy fed us every evening. We all decided that it was time to move Mom and Dad into the apartment.

Mom said "This hospital sure is nice!'

And so, here we are in this new season—one we always knew was coming but didn't really know what to expect. This all happened at a good time. I just had a few weeks left in the semester. As an adjunct at a small private college, my load is light anyway. Mom and Dad seem happy to be here, although Mom is often confused, wondering where she is and where she came from. 

We still have some adjustments to make. My brother is putting in a walk-in shower—and also finishing his last semester as a college professor. We have to eventually figure out what to do with their house—and all their stuff. For now, we're just taking this day by day.

It's an honor to have these two kindhearted people who have lived in this world so long and seen so much here with us, for however long it lasts.

70 Years

My family gathered for a milestone celebration earlier this month.

My parents celebrated 70 years of marriage on August 8, 2018. They were 21 and 23 when they go married in 1948, both of them recent graduates of the University of Illinois. Dad had already been to war and back. He had left the university in 1944 and enlisted in the Army in February 1944. He served as a Artillery Observer with the 291st Field Artillery Observation Battalion and participated in the WWII Campaigns of Ardennes, Rhineland, and Central Europe. Dad received his Honorable Discharge from the Army in 1946 and returned to the university, also spending a semester at Cornell. When he came back to U of I, he met Mom, and they married soon after.

They had James two years later, and then Dad went to war again—this time in Korea.

Dad writing to Mom while in Korea. Love the picture of Mom and James there on his desk.

Dad came home, they bought a farm in southern Illinois, they both went to graduate school (Dad got two master's degrees and a PhD, Mom got a master's degree), and then had four more kids—there are 16 years between James and me. We moved to upstate New York when I was 18 months old.

This picture was taken with our grandparents right before we moved from Carbondale, Illinois to Geneva, New York in 1967.

This picture cracks me up. I'm probably three in this picture, maybe four, and James is 19 or 20.

My parents spent their first 40 years in Illinois and their next 40 years in New York, where we lived first in this wonderful house on Castle Street and then we built this amazing house on Seneca Lake.

665 Castle Street, Geneva, NY

4233 Glass Factory Bay Road

We all miss our house on Seneca. Wow, how we miss it! But our parents moved down to Tennessee in 2009 —that house on the lake was getting challenging. And, more than anything else, all the grandkids were here in Tennessee.

And now there are even more grandkids and a bunch of great-grandchildren, too.

With all of us except our oldest brother, James, who is always missing.

With #2 son, John and Sharon

With #3 son Peter and Nancy

With #4 son, Stephen, and Jen

With me, #5 and only daughter, and Randy

With #2 granddaughter, Ellen, and Justus

With #1 grandson, Owen, and Bri

With #2 grandson, Isaac, and Courtney

With all the grandkids and most of their spouses: brothers Maxwell (3) and Kollman (6) on the front, all the way to siblings Owen, Ellen, Isaac, and Seith; to my kids Laurel, Duncan, and Jesse; and April (her sister Esther, the oldest grandchild, is the only one missing)

Rory, Xavier, Judah, Soren, Justus, Lucy, and Miles: all the great-grands except Corena and Abigail.

All the grandkids, most of their spouses, and most of the greats.

That was a 10-minute summary of 70 years of living. I left out almost everything. I left out heartbreak. Lost dreams. Uncertainty. I left out counting pennies, washing out dirty diapers, sickness. I left out sleepless nights, loneliness, doubts. I left out terse words, cold shoulders, and slamming front doors. I left out secrets, desires, and unmet expectations. I left out loss, pure anger, and heaps of disappointment. I left out the struggle.

I left out the magic of discovering the world anew with each child, the magic of a moonlight sail, the magic of snow. I left out thousands of days spent in the orchards, thousands of nights spent beside each other on the same double bed, thousands of meals started with a simple prayer of gratitude. I left out little sticky hands and the smell of peaches ripening on the counter. I left out the sounds of laughter and skis slicing through fresh snow and the waves lapping the shore. I left out my father's terrible jokes and his stories around the dinner table. I left out my mother's apple pies and her sewing machine and how she made tiny dresses for my Barbie dolls. I left out the two of them singing and reading the Bible and going to church every single Sunday. I left out redemption stories.

We all have our own stories to tell and memories to share of our family history, sure. But what makes up this marriage are the stories held just between the two of them, the ones we can never know and can only begin to understand as we travel in our own marriages.

I believe what my parents would say is that it all comes down to this: 33 lives directly connected to these two, and so many more to come. Our inheritance is richer than any bank account; their legacy of love surrounds us all, pushes us to greater things, to love and cherish and protect and encourage.
To rise above, to spread our wings, to always keep this in our hearts:

Love never fails.

(My father reading his poem "Always 21" to my mother.)

First Day of Summer, 2018

This morning I read lots of Mary Oliver poems, and I was struck again by just how utterly united with nature she is, how her poems reveal her absolute devotion to the natural world. “I think there isn’t anything in this world I don’t admire,” she writes in “Hum.” “If there is, I don’t know what it is. I haven’t met it yet. Or expect to. “

 I carried lots of Mary Oliver with me today, making a promise to myself to spend more time watching the raindrops gather on the bee balm and less time liking posts on Facebook.



This afternoon, during my usual visit to my parents, my mother told me this week’s stories, ones I have heard several times lately. About picking the green beans, about how her shoe fell apart, about how she did a load of laundry, and back to the green beans. At 91, her stories loop, and I nod and smile each time I hear them.

And then my mother started talking about the rain. “I didn’t get a good nap today,” she said. “I heard the rain and had to get up and listen to it.”

 Something in my heart wrenched and sang with joy at the same time. My mother heard the call of rain, after two weeks without, and rose to greet it. Oh, my mother, my poet, my kindred soul, who taught me the names of flowers and put jelly jars of the sweetest smelling Lily of the Valley by my bed at night.

 “I loved the solitude,” she continued. “I sat on the bench and listened to the rain. I watched the little cardinal flicking raindrops off his wings.” She flapped her elbows a little and gave herself a little shake. “Then the little finch came to the feeder and took a little nibble, flipped his wings and flew up to the big tree.”

 Here is my mother, the embodiment of a stanza from one of my favorite Mary Oliver poems, “Sometimes”:

            Instructions for living a life.
            Pay attention.
            Be astonished.
            Tell about it.”

To listen to the rain fall, to watch the cardinal flicker, to follow the finch’s flight, to breathe in wet earth, to abandon sleep to soak it all in: that is how to live a life.

Plant Science 101

{Alternate post title: Just One of the Reasons We Homeschool} 

On Fridays, Duncan has the privilege of a private class with a retired Cornell University professor. To Duncan, he’s Opa—his grandfather, my Dad. Opa pokes at the soil with his cane, shows Duncan how to use a grafting knife, poses questions and possible scenarios, scribbles homework questions in his nearly illegible script.

Duncan is learning more from my father than definitions and cycles and tools of the trade. He isn't required to regurgitate for a single test and then dump what he's memorized to make room for the next chapter. He’s learning the magic of plants, the ancient art of growing things, the gift of his heritage.



 
 



In his book Apples, author Frank Browning writes that my father “spent his life recasting the shape, character, and genetic health of apple trees.” He has done that, true. But better than that? My father has spent his life recasting the shape, character, and health of his children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren. And that is a life spent well and spent generously.

I am grateful, so overwhelmed with surging gratitude, that we have taken this path that allows this relationship between the generations to be fostered and nurtured. If he forgets all he learned about photosynthesis and erosion, so be it. What he will remember, what he will rest upon as he walks into his adult life, is his grandfather's gentle voice under a blue, blue sky. And that's reason enough to homeschool.

Linked up with the Homeschool Blog Link-up and the Weekly Wrap-up

January in Review

1. Laurel went back to college: second semester of her sophomore year. It was hard for me to leave her there, but we had a lovely, long Christmas break. This semester will be an exercise in adjusting to life-after-studying-abroad. She's decided to add a second major (psychology) to her family relations major. It's a natural fit. She's taking 3 psychology/family classes this semester (lifespan, family, and social) plus a couple of her gen ed requirements. She also works 12 hours/week at an elementary school.

2. Dad turned 92. I am so blessed to be able to celebrate yet another birthday with my Dad. I love him so much. Here is is blowing out the candles with great-grandsons Rory and Soren, who shared his birthday cake. And the picture below is of our family's newest ping pong tournament champs: my Randy and my oldest nephew, Owen.

3. Duncan began his Eagle Scout project. His project involves mapping out all the veterans' graves at a large local cemetery. Over the course of two work days, he directed his fellow Scouts (several of them are in the second picture) to find, record, and mark on a map about 500 sites. The next step will be for him to put all of this into a database—and then to write up his project. So, step 1 is done!

4. Speaking of Eagle Scouts, this one submitted his application to graduate school today. He's been working for American Airlines for close to three years now, and he's ready to move on and back into academia for awhile. Don't ask about the large piece of equipment that he brought home. As one of my friends said, "They can graduate the boy out of homeschooling, but they can't take the homeschooler out of a man!" AKA: why let a perfectly good belt loader to to the junkyard when you can have it for free?

5. Bullet journal. Wow. The bullet journal is changing my life! Mine isn't as complex or as detailed as most of the ones I see on Pinterest, but it is working wonderfully for me. I got this blank calendar/journal in my Fair Trade Friday box several months ago, and it is perfect for the bullet journal concept. I have areas for exercises, notes, projects, movies to see, quotes, things I've learned, and, of course, to-do lists and calendar items. I love it.

 6. The Book Thief. Wow, I love teaching The Book Thief in literature class. I'm so excited that my class will get to do my Repurposed Pages project in just a couple of weeks. This is one of my favorite class projects ever, and I can't wait to see what this new crop of students creates!

7. Gatlinburg Fire Recovery Center. Our Appalachian Studies class volunteered at this huge warehouse in January. The place is overflowing with donations for families who lost their homes and businesses in the Gatlinburg wildfire. We had a group of about 30 and did everything from sorting clothes to helping shoppers. It was an amazing set-up, and seeing our community come together in this way is truly inspiring and affirming.

8. Winter campout. Duncan's Scout troop had its annual "winter" campout. Some years it really is cold; this year, not so much. Duncan's wearing shorts and a sleeveless shirt in the photo below. Yep.

9. Book Club. We had our annual Book Club Getaway weekend and chose the books for 2017. Lots of good food and laughter with these wonderful friends of mine. Here's our book list!

February: Where the Heart Is by Billie Letts
March: Shakespeare’s Landlord by Charlaine Harris
April: Songs of Willow Frost by Jamie Ford
May: Same Kind of Different as Me by Ron Hall, Denver Moore, Lynn Vincent
June: My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell
July: The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper by Phaedra Patrick
August:  Hillbilly Elegy by JD Vance
September: Mink River by Brian Doyle
October: Snow Falling on Cedars by David Guterson
November: The War that Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley
December:  Ordinary Grace by William Krueger 

I had read the first one and the last three previously, but that's OK! I don't mind re-reading books if they are worth re-reading!

And... that's January all wrapped up. How was your month?

Linked up with the Weekly Wrap-Up at Weird, Unsocialized Homeschoolers