Tag: Family Page 9 of 11

The family I grew up in or the family I now live in.

Chanukah

On December 22, 2011

Tuesday, December 20 – the 12th day I am here with my mom and the first night of Chanukah. And I am not with my son or husband this year to take out the candles and organize the celebration or even to make latkes. But my husband called me on SKYPE and asked where the menorah was and if there were any candles. I told him where the menorah was kept and that candles were in the same place. So after about 15 minutes he SKYPED me again and I could join them for the Chanukah candle lighting and watch Bevin say the prayer. Its a Star Trek world and videophone is alive and well. But as far as latkes are concerned they will probably have to wait till I get back home.

Last night I met with my mom’s doctor. I want him to tell me how my mom is. Actually, I want him to play God – to know how long she has left, to tell me for certain. But he isn’t God – just an ordinary, geriatric specialist type of doctor and he doesn’t know. I asked him if we could take a few blood tests to see how her body chemistry is but he said if we do that and discover how badly she is doing then he would have to do something to try to fix it. Because he is a doctor. So we will just let her be, let her body do what it has to do.

So I wait. I sit in her room, sometimes next to her bed, sometimes in front of my computer. I help to feed her. She is given puréed food now. She would at least open her mouth when she felt the spoon near her lips. But now she is hard to wake up for meals. She sleeps. Peacefully. Seemingly without pain. And I wait.

December 30th keeps coming closer. That’s the date on my return ticket. Whenever I think about it I get very anxious. Worried. Scared. What will I do if she keeps continuing this way? I can change my ticket but not for too much longer than that – I have a job I need to get back to. A life. Do I leave, only to have to return a week later? Do I stay longer but its still not long enough? I can feel the anxiety building. So once again, I tell myself “One day at a time, just take it one day at a time.”

And tonight has become Wednesday already, the second night of Chanukah, commemorating God’s miracle of light.

Good shabbos

By Hilarie

On December 19, 2011

In Family

Friday December 16

Today I told my mother. At first I thought I shouldn’t. I told all the nurses and her aids not to tell my mother that Marty had died. But he hadn’t been to see her since I first arrived here and perhaps even before that. He called Mom’s room phone the day after I got here – in the morning – to say he wasn’t feeling so well and wouldn’t be coming by. But he didn’t talk to my mom – I answered the phone for her. I gave her the message though she seemed barely aware enough to understand what I was saying. He called the next day also, in the afternoon, to tell us he was in the hospital. Two days after that, on Monday, he called again to say he was leaving the hospital and was going to be placed in Health Care, where my mom is. Monday evening, the nurse came over to let me know that Marty had arrived and settled in and I went over to see him and meet his daughter who, like me had gone to Pratt. The next day he was dead, gone, so shockingly quick.

Until the day he died, he called mother practically every day to let her know where he was and when he was coming over. A friend of my mom’s told me of the time my mom was down by the entrance to the dining room expecting to meet Marty there but he was late and my mom got very upset, not knowing where he was. But now he’s not calling or coming any more. And my mom is still here, lying in her bed asleep and waiting. So I told her. So she could stop waiting. So she would know that he hadn’t decided to abandon her.

The question everyone seems to ask me is “How did she take it? How did she respond? Do you think she understood you?” I have no answer for those questions. I’m not sure. I think she heard me. How much she took in, I don’t know.

On Friday afternoons at 4:15, some of the Jewish residents here gather to hold a Shabbat candle-lighting service. I attended one in August with my mother. It was a lovely service. I felt I needed to go again, tonight, to welcome the Sabbath, to say hello to God, just in case he’s listening. I entered quietly. I sat towards the back, off to the side, picked up the booklet they created and use and the service began. The two women in the front, the leaders, lit the candles, saying the blessing. Then they chose people from the audience to read passages from the booklet they use. “You there, Evelyn’s daughter, from Sweden, I don’t remember your name, can you read the next section?” I did and that felt good – to be included, nameless or not.

As the service was about to end, I saw from the first row a friend of my mom’s, who she used to play canasta with, motioning to me with hand gestures as though to say do you want to eat with us. I nodded my head and met them outside the auditorium. I had been adopted and was being asked to join them for dinner. At their table they had challah and a bottle of kosher Manicheivits Concord grape wine. One of the women at the table said the blessing over the wine and the challah and we continued to eat our Friday night shabbas dinner. It was a good way to start the weekend.

Listing

By Hilarie

On December 10, 2011

In Uncategorized

December 10, 2011

Arthritis
Congestive heart failure
Senior diabetes
Edema
Vascular insufficiency
Pelvic fracture
Pneumonia
Kidney failure
The list goes on and on….

Today is my second full day here at Monroe Village. The nurses have been here to change mom’s robe, clean her and redress the sores on her legs. She screams at the top of her lungs when they have to move her, shift her position. I stand near her and talk to her trying to distract her. I talk about the old days, older relatives, her mother and her aunts, and her cousins that she grew up with. I recite their names, repeating stories that I remember hearing. She listens, hopefully she is remembering. Finally the nurses are done. I continue talking with mom till she once again is calm.

But sometimes, she starts to get very worked up and anxious without seeming to have any reason for it. She starts crying out, shouting. She moans out “Maaaaaa” over and over again. I ask her if she is calling for her own mother. Sometimes she almost nods yes. Sometimes she keeps repeating “I have to get out of this car” I ask her “what car are you in or where is the car going”. She looks at me a bit and can’t give me an answer. Sometimes she simply repeats what I am saying like some sort of mantra. Her distress is palpable, her fear, her anxiety – to be someplace else, to get away is so strong yet she can’t do anything about it. She is trapped in a shell of a body no longer under her control. I listen to her as I stand next to her bed, holding her hand and I see a lost soul trapped on a sinking ship, desperately looking for a way to escape off the ship. Trapped and afraid, she screams for help as the ship gradually lists over on its side and slowly, slowly, slowly slides under the surface.

Fading

By Hilarie

On December 10, 2011

In Family, Life

December 9, 2001

Here I am, sitting in my mom’s room in a nursing home. Dinner has been served, even to me – on a tray. I help to feed my mom but she doesn’t eat much. I’m reminded of the days when I fed my son when he was still a baby. The food is all in small pieces – chopped up turkey (whole pieces for me), stuffing, gravy. All her liquids are thickened because they are worried about her ability to swallow liquids. I also get some ick “onion soup” and spinich. We both get lemon merange pie. She has dozed off and is sleeping and peaceful. The TV is on, turned to the Food Channel. I am sitting at her desk trying to type this out on my mini computer’s tiny keyboard.

Earlier, just before dinner my mother was often getting very upset. All afternoon she has been asking me to “get her out of here”. When I ask her where does she want to go, she can’t find the words to tell me. She doesn’t know. All she knows is that she doesn’t want to be where she is – lying in bed with her feet up. Finally she starts crying, almost on the verge of hysteria. I go to stand next to her bed. While I hold her hand, my other hand gently scratches her head through her hair, like one does with a dog, while saying schoosch, schoosch, its OK. She gets calmer, settles down.

I had a meeting today with her doctor. He seems like a nice man. I guess you have to be to specialize in geriatrics. Dealing with the relatives of dying patients must be a very common part of his practice. He is unable to give me any time reference for how long she has. Days or weeks, probably not many months. Her kidneys are failing. We have decided not to do anything to correct problems. We will let nature take its course. And in the meantime try to keep her comfortable. Now its up to Nature to decide how long it takes to fade. I can only watch and wait and be here.