Thursday, September 30
Has it been so long since I wrote about Mother? The days are running together—good days when she seems to remember; sad days when she seems to remember; goofy days when she doesn’t have a clue what’s going on. We like the smiley days. They come a couple of times a week.
Today was my day. While Jerry mamasat, I got to go to my toning class and yoga at the Y. Then, after a bubble bath, I escaped to my writing group for a few hours. Of course, I shared my journal about Mother, so it wasn’t really an escape from thinking about her but a time to talk to other human beings about what dealing with her is like for me. God love Jerry for taking care of me!
When I got home, a lot of confusion was going on. Jerry had promised to take Chloe and friends to the middle school football game, so we had four or five girls waiting at the house. Then my son Cord and his friend Phillip dropped by. Mother was listening to the conversation as Jerry said he was taking the girls out for burgers before the game.
“We’re having burgers, too,” Cord said. “I’m cooking for Phillip and the boys at his house tonight.”
“Hamburgers for us, too, then!” I said to Cord. “Can you stay with Grandma while I run to Sonic and pick up a hamburger for her and me?”
Suddenly Dorothy turned into her bossy old self. “Where are you going now?” she demanded.
A little surprised at the attitude in her voice, I said, “To get us a hamburger. Wouldn’t you like a hamburger?”
Then she wanted to know why I had to go out to get hamburgers. I knew what she was thinking because it was the way she had felt her entire life—such a waste of money to buy fast food when you can eat at home. She might not have actually known why, but the concept was still there, even if buried deep.
We had a very difficult conversation back and forth while I explained where everyone was eating. “…so I’m going to get us a hamburger.”
“I’ll just eat something out of the refrigerator and go to bed.”
I was astonished at her fluency. She said refrigerator! I don’t know why I didn’t listen to her—maybe because I wanted a hamburger. “Wouldn’t you really love a juicy hamburger with lettuce and tomato?”
She wrinkled up her nose in frustration, and I left. Back home, when I got her settled in at her chair at the dining table, I unwrapped her burger and laid it in front of her. “Oh, I can’t eat all that!” She says that every meal then always eats it all.
I said what I always say, “It’s OK. You don’t have to eat it all.”
She took a couple of bites. “We didn’t need this!” She waved at the sack and paper wrapper and red French fry boxes. She was mad. “I can’t eat all this.”
Repeat. Same conversation. With the third pronouncement, I said, “OK!" I got up, went to the kitchen, and cut her burger in two.
“Where is it?” she asked about the rest.
“I’ll save it for Slade.” That wouldn’t be wasting it. Surely, she’d go for that. When she was at the Baptist Village, she had always taken her leftovers back to her refrigerator, “for Slade to eat if he comes.” She didn't know I threw the rotten stuff away when she wasn't looking.
“I can’t eat this,” she said, frowning at the half burger missing two bites.
“C’mon, Mom, just another bite,” I said, sounding just like a toddler’s mother.
“OK.” She chewed and chewed. “Who will eat this? I don't want it.” She shoved it at me.
I went back to the kitchen and returned with the baggie with the other half, stuffing hers in with the rest. “Here. Gimme that. I’ll save it all for Slade.”
Then she stared at her place mat. “Where did it go?”
It felt good to be mad at her again—good old Dorothy, always bullying us around. “OK. What now?” I asked her. “Chair or bed?”
“You decide,” she said, like always.
“Well, I think it’s too early for bed. The sun won’t even be down for another hour and a half.”
“In here? In here?” She pushed her walker into the living room. I hooked up her oxygen tube for her, lifted the footrest on her chair, put her OU snuggie over her outstretched arms and wrapped it around her shoulders. She sat there glaring at me for a few minutes. “I’m ready to go to bed.”
I bit my tongue. How could I be mad? Why hadn’t I listened to her when she told me, “I’ll just eat something out of the refrigerator and go to bed”? Next time I’d listen.
Now, the old Dorothy wouldn’t have hurt my feelings if I’d served something terrible to eat.
Since she’s been here, she’s refused to eat three things. One night in the kitchen, sitting in her grandma’s rocking chair, she watched me make homemade pesto out of fresh basil from my garden. “I can’t eat that,” she told Cord, after I gave her a bite of the sautéed chicken. And she didn’t. I heated her up some leftover stroganoff. Another night, she refused to eat a stuffed pizza from Papa Murphy’s. She usually likes pizza. “Who’s going to eat this? Do you want it?” She kept shoving it at all of us, trying to get us to eat it, especially Chloe. “Eat this! I can’t eat it!” Finally, I heated her up a bowl of soup.
Tonight, though, she was going to bed with two bites of hamburger in her tummy. And a half a Xanax.
September 29, 2010
Sometimes I wonder how she can sleep so much. She is just like a baby. Today she was up at 7, had breakfast and medicine, and down at 8:30 (1 ½ hours). Up at 9:45 for dressing and grooming with Charlene, down at 10;30, for 1 ¼ hours. Sue came at 11:20. She talked to her, but we think she was talking in her sleep as Sue checked her blood pressure and listened to her heart. She woke up at 12:30 for lunch and a little time on the deck outside but went down again at 1:30, awake for an hour. She woke up at 3:45 when Chloe came home and napped while Cord cooked supper. She was in bed by 6:00. Surely all that sleep isn't caused by 1/2 mg of Xanax.
Why does she need to sleep so much? Does her body need all that time to regenerate? Is the cancer taking over her body? Will she sleep more and more and more until one time she just doesn’t wake up?
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