We Got This!

There are many things I’m frustrated/sad/ grumpy about right now with the COVID-19 pandemic – but there are many things I’m happy/grateful/ tickled about, too.

First off, I’m grateful that I’m not sick. Nor is anyone I care about - to my knowledge, anyway. Like the meme that states, that moment when you’re worried about the elderly and then you realize you are the elderly. Haha – right?

Not so much. Egad. How and when did I join the “elderly” category?

Suddenly, social distancing becomes way more important, doesn’t it? I really don’t want to come out the loser in the “who gets the ventilator” coin toss because of my age. So listening to the experts is critical. (And something I would have done even if I didn’t have to take my advanced years into consideration.)

I’m annoyed about things, too. Like, for instance, it annoys me that I’m still worried about flippin’ toilet paper, for cryin’ out loud. (Clearly, since my last blog was also about the scarcity of the ol’ bath tissue!)

But every time we use up another roll, I get a little jittery. Over the past two weeks, we’ve gone to the store maybe three times and there hasn’t been any toilet paper on the shelves even once.

I can’t think of any other staple in our household that causes me such consternation, but I truly think it’s my “Girl Scout” mentality that comes into play here of always being prepared.

If our supplies get too low, we may have to resort to looking at Youtube videos for DIY bidet installations.

I kid. Sorta. It depends on the Charmin’ situation in the next several weeks.

On a serious note, I am truly sad that I can’t visit my mom at her memory care unit right now. She is pretty far advanced in her Alzheimer’s and probably wouldn’t know if I have or have not visited her, so I suspect that any visits would benefit me more than her.

But I am incredibly grateful for the staff at The Glen because they have called so we can say “I love you” to mom. They have shared photos on FB or via texts so we can see her. And they are taking such good care of our loved ones that I am not sure how I can possibly ever say “thank you” enough.

They are most certainly tired. They have to go through a health check process just to walk in the door to get to work. And the uncertainty they face about potentially contracting the virus from some unsuspecting coworker who doesn’t show symptoms has to weigh heavily on their minds and hearts. Because they could then unknowingly bring the virus home to their shelter-in-place families.

It is the same for all front-line healthcare workers and first responders. I cannot imagine having the strength to do what they do. But I’m awfully grateful that they do it to benefit me and all my fellow citizens. (I was going to say “My Fellow

Americans” – but that still sounds a little too Nixon-ish for my taste.)

So while I miss going out to dinner and seeing a movie or heading to the gym for some much needed cardio, or running to the store to pick up, well, anything besides paper products and hand sanitizer – I think this time is a good “reset” for us to realize what is important in life. And that, although there will be some heartache or tough economic times for many of us ahead, we will weather the storm as we demonstrate the resilient nature we have.

And if we don’t have a resilient nature, we’re darn sure going to have to dig up some resiliency. After all, our forbearers made it through war and famine and all sorts of epidemics that we, with all our modern medicine and technology, can’t even imagine.

They even made do without the Charmin’ mega-rolls – or bidets.

So we got this!

You Are My Sunshine

One of the saddest days I’ve experienced in recent years with my mom dealing with Alzheimer’s was last summer when she broke her hip and was not doing well at the rehabilitation facility.

I had made the decision to cut her rehab short and move her back to the memory care unit. Hospice could once again be involved in her daily care and she wouldn’t be subjected to the difficult rehab that wasn’t working for her. She was in pain and couldn’t walk, had lost so much weight in a very short period of time and we thought we were losing her.

So plans were quickly finalized and I told the hospice nurse that I would be in mom’s room when they got her ready to move. The aide and the driver from Parkside Village would arrive and take mom and her bags in the van and I would follow behind in my car.

On my way there I received a call from hospice telling me the driver and aide had gotten mom and were on their way back to the memory care unit.

That was a surprise as they weren’t scheduled to pick her up for another hour or so. But since I was nearly at the rehab facility, I said I’d just pop in and make sure they had gotten everything. I also wanted to thank the nursing staff for the care they had given us.

When I got to her room I discovered that nothing had been packed. It was an unexpected oversight, but I assumed our signals had somehow gotten crossed and perhaps they thought I was planning to do the packing.

So I went to work. When I finished, I went out to thank the nursing staff. The aide I especially liked – her name was Avis – gave me a big hug and wished us both well. As I tried to hold off more tears (I’m becoming such a big baby in my old age), I told her what a blessing she was to us and how much we appreciated her efforts.

When I turned to leave she said, “Wouldn’t you like to see your sweet mama?”

I am sure the look I gave her was of utter disbelief. “Hasn't mom left to go back to Parkside Village?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “Your mom is in the TV room!”

So we walked to the TV room and a woman I didn’t even recognize was dozing in her wheelchair. Her bangs had grown out since she hadn’t had her hair cut since before her fall and she had two tiny little cornrow braids on either side of her head.

I smiled because I thought they were cute, but I laughed because I knew that mom would’ve hated her hair in braids.

My whole life I cannot remember mom doing anything to her hair other than the obligatory perm when she cared about that sort of thing. She never colored it. Her hair was always short, so she never wore it in a ponytail or a braid. And she never affixed a hair clip in her hair.

Mom's hair was not this big!

The only thing I can remember that was different about mom’s hair was a short period in the late 60s when she wore a wiglet. I don’t know why…maybe she wanted a little more of the bouffant hairstyle that was so popular back then and she didn’t have enough hair to achieve the look.

All I really remember was that it was gray (or “silver” as mom insisted we call the color of her hair). And to me that wiglet looked sort of like a dead squirrel in the little box she kept it in.

So I was a bit nonplussed by the cornrows, but I let it go. I figured someone was spending time with and caring about my mom.

We wheeled her back to her room just as the Joy, the aide and Johnny, the driver, came in to pick up mom.

Avis asked if she could sing her one final song before she left. Mom nodded – so Avis started crooning, “You Are My Sunshine.”

Johnny chimed in – and then mom tried to sing along, too.

I couldn’t have joined in if I tried.

I was standing behind mom’s chair, which turned out to be fortunate. Witnessing this moment of compassion between these caregivers just about broke me. I had tears streaming down my face – much as I do right now.

It was an incredibly poignant moment. Later, I wished I’d been able to capture it on video, though I don’t think I would have been capable of holding the camera at that moment.

But the memory will stay with me.

I know there are good caregivers and there are not so good caregivers out there.

That day I witnessed the very best.

So I’d just like to say thank you to all the people who care for someone else’s loved one. I, for one, am extraordinarily grateful.

And I thank you.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are gray

You’ll never know dear, how much I love you

Please don’t take my sunshine away.

                (Jimmie Davis and Charles Mitchell, 1939)

The Other Side of the Door

Imagine – for just a moment – you are sitting in a room. The rocking chair, ottoman and the blanket that covers you all seem somewhat familiar, but you don’t recognize the room itself. 

You are alone in the room and there is a door straight ahead, but you don’t know what’s on the other side of it.

So you stand up and walk slowly toward the door. You peek out. There are people outside in the hallway, but you don’t recognize anyone.

A woman with a nametag pinned to her tunic calls you “Anne,” so she clearly knows who you are, but you have no idea who she is.

She looks off down the hall and then turns back to you and says brightly, “You have a visitor!”

A moment later, a woman walks up to the doorway and with a big smile on her face says, “Hi mom!” so you greet her and call her by name. At least you recognize your daughter and remember her. When she hugs you, you hold on a little tighter because you’re so very confused.

She walks you into the room and settles you into a rocking chair that seems sort of familiar, but you’re not really sure where you are and how your daughter happens to be there.

Things are so muddled and you have many questions, but you’re her mother - the woman who has always been in charge – so you don’t want to admit that you don’t know what is happening or where you are.

Once you’re situated and she covers your knees with the blanket, she asks if you’d like a glass of wine. Oh! Something else familiar – and you know how to respond. So you teasingly reply, “need you ask?!” and give her a wry smile because no one in our family ever says no to happy hour.

When she hands you the glass of wine, you say, “merci beaucoup!” because somehow you recall a little bit of the French you learned in high school. Or maybe it was in college. Things are so confusing.  

After your daughter talks to you for a few minutes, she sees that you’re struggling with something. “What’s the matter, mom,” she asks.

You feel like something horrible must have happened to you because you can’t remember anything.

Something is very wrong. But how to begin?

So you say, “I don’t know, I’m feeling very confused. What am I doing?”

And then you look around the unfamiliar room and ask, “Where am I?”

She explains that you’re in a place called Parkside Village. That she and her husband Vince live only a few miles down the street. And that you’ve been here a little over 2-1/2 years.

You are astonished by this and are distressed that you have no recollection of the past 2-1/2 years. But then you ask your daughter the most important question on your mind.

“Where is dad?”

A despondent look crosses your daughter’s face and she tells you that dad passed away.  He fell and hit his head and later died of his injuries.  

You have no memory of your husband of many years – you really have no idea how many - passing away, but you feel like you can give a rational explanation by saying, “I must have repressed those memories.”

Only you can’t really recall the word “repressed” so you struggle for a moment. When your daughter helps you with the word, you nod gratefully.

Carrying on a conversation is very tiring.

And you’re very confused.

So you ask your daughter, “What do I do here?”

She teasingly says, “Well, mom, pretty soon you’re going to have to get into the kitchen and cook dinner for everyone!”

You know that’s not true so you say, “Oh, I don’t think so!” And she smiles and says, “You’re right. You’ve done enough cooking – it’s time someone else does it for you.”

And then she tells you that someone will come in to get you and take you to the dining room for dinner. And then they’ll help you get ready for bed.

You look over at the one bed in the room and ask her, “And where do you sleep?”

She explains where she lives, but you can’t retain the information.

She tells you that your other children will be visiting next month, so you look over at the clock that gives the day, date and time to orient yourself about when “next month” is.

She picks up a photo and shows you the last time your children visited, but you don’t remember it. You don’t say anything, though, because you don’t want your daughter to know you can’t remember anything.

As you finish the last of the wine and hand the glass to your daughter, you ask, “Where’s dad?”

You’re very confused. You don’t know where you are or why you’re there. Nothing is familiar. You recognize your daughter – thank God – but nothing else makes sense.

And then you turn to her and ask, “What’s on the other side of that door?”