I've been meaning to post, here, for the last few days.
    On a twice daily basis, at least, I've been mentally writing posts, vowing to get back to the computer, then something distracts me and I head elsewhere, in some cases securely locking those intended posts away from my conscious mind. Perhaps, later in this post, I'll return to an old habit and try to dredge up enough to list make-shift titles for those posts and reminders. In the meantime, here's what's been going on the last few days.
    Mom is battling a cold. This has been going on for, oh, today, I think, will be the fourth day. This battle has caused Mom to be uncomfortable (all the sneezing and nose running) and more tired than usual but, happily, not so tired that I haven't been able to coax her out of two potential sleep days. The first potential sleep day almost occurred on Monday. She was hard to rouse from her nap. The only technique that worked to sit her on the edge of her bed was a reminder that she could not sleep through the night without a change of underwear or she'd be swimming in a pool of her own urine. Thus motivated, I quickly slapped a breathing treatment on her (not one of her favorite activities, by a long shot) explaining that this would keep all that opportunistic mucus being produced by what I was finally recognizing as a cold from sticking to her lungs and causing potentially worse problems, like pneumonia. Although she had sworn, while abed, that she wasn't interested in eating, once upright, her nose running well and we'd indulged in a bit of bedside chat, she wondered if there was "anything interesting around to eat. I'm not that hungry," she said, "I just think I need a little something to hold me up."
    I immediately went into Design a Bedside Evening gear. I love our rare and sweet Bedside Evenings. First of all, the TV isn't on for most of the evening. This is a rare treat for me. My mother is an information and drama junkie and, despite her enjoyment of me reading aloud to her out of books that pique her interest, despite her delight in conversation, despite her now-and-then interest in games, it's not unusual for her to idly wonder, in the middle of some other activity, what she's "missing" on Animal Planet, The History Channel, PBS, TCM and The Hallmark Channel (which she calls "the movie channel"). The Hallmark Channel is a relatively late addition to our personal channel line-up. She didn't used to have a taste for the sweetly romantic, mildly dramatic stories that are a, well, a hallmark of The Hallmark Channel. From our daily watching of the later episodes of Touched By an Angel, the ones not yet on DVD, though, she's viewed the channel's ubiquitous self-promotive advertisements for their brand of drama and voiced interest in just about every one of the subjects of the teaser ads. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Although I've never known my mother to slaver over love stories, sweet or otherwise, she likes "the new" and these types of dramas would certainly classify as a new interest. She's devised a hilarious pick-apart strategy for them and it's a never ending source of entertainment for me to discover what she considers "unrealistic", "silly", "heartwarming" and just plain "nice" in these shows.
    Another reason I like Bedtime Evenings is that they usually occur when my mother isn't feeling very good physically, so they have the same cozy, intimate atmosphere of childhood sick days, for me as well as her. It's a pleasurable challenge to figure out what my mother will consider tasty, for instance, when she's eating off a TV tray from the edge of her bed. When an evening takes place in her bedroom the cats invariably migrate there, so her bedroom becomes "the whole fam-damly" room. In such a small space, the cats interact, between themselves and with us, with vigor. Mom and I also have lots more "I wonder if..." and "What do you think about..." conversations in bedroom-close quarters. Every time we have a Bedside Evening, I am always reminded of specific instances in elementary school when I was sick and would accompany her to a very special room at whatever school in which she happened to be administrating or teaching, always full of toys, crayon-on-paper activities and ginger snaps. Mom would check in frequently during the day, feel my forehead, rub my back a little and ask how I was feeling. It was always to my advantage not to admit to feeling too good. Once, some years ago, long before she and I became companions, I asked her if she knew that "sometimes" I faked being ill as a child. She knew, she responded, when each of us girls was faking it. She went on to say that she figured that on the days when we were faking it, for one reason or another we needed a "sick day" and we each knew what was best for us. "None of you girls ever did so poorly in school that you couldn't afford a not-sick sick day," she added.
    At 2330 on our Bedside Evening she decided she was ready to retire for the night. Within 15 minutes of lights out, though, an unusual noise from the monitor receiver I have in the living room prompted me to check on her. She was sitting up in bed. "You must be psychic," she greeted me. "I was just going to come out to talk to you about something." In the effort to reseat herself on the edge of the bed she'd forgotten what had been so important that discussion was required but we continued our Bedside Evening for another hour, I was able to get not only a little more fluid in her but her third breathing treatment accomplished and we polished off the night imagining possible scenarios taking place among dead relatives "in Heaven":

• Mom once told me a story about her father, who loved to fish, deciding to coax her mother, who was not a "fishwife" in any sense of the word, into accompanying him on his very favorite activity, "when they were still young and in love". Grandma finally agreed. During the fishing session in question, though, which commenced before dawn one morning, which was my grandfather's favorite time to fish, she insisted on bringing a lantern, a book, and reading in the boat, to my grandfather's exasperation. Monday night, as we discussed the current residences of Mom's dead relatives, when I speculated that both Grandma and Grandpa were probably "in Heaven" (she's not so sure about some of her other relatives, including her brother), she opined that, if they were, they were probably reliving that fishing incident and both were probably unsure about whether they were in Heaven or Hell.
• Although, being fundamentally genial, she is always reluctant to speculate on where, exactly, the souls of dead relatives might have been assigned, when we talked about her sister's and brother-in-law's deaths we rehashed our assumption that her sister was probably thrilled, upon death, to be free of her husband. We remembered that someone, we're not sure who, it could have been one of us, upon the very sudden death a year and a half later of her sister's husband, speculated that Mom's sister probably wasn't particularly pleased to suddenly be saddled, again, with her husband. "I hope they're in separate places," my mother said on Monday, "even if they're both in Heaven."
• Regarding the disposition of her brother's soul, about whom she once said, when I reminded her of his death by saying, in response to her asking if I knew what he "is doing now", "He's probably playing the harp," which got the point across, she responded, "Weeell, you never know, he might just be shoveling coal."
  I was surprised to hear this, as she asks about her brother's whereabouts far more often than she does her sister's. On Monday night I reminded her of what she'd said. She "remembered", in the sense, I think, that she processed what I told her and approved it as something she's sure she's thought at one time or another.
  "Why did you say that?" I asked her, once we were both firm in the memory of her statement.
  "Oh," she said, "I'm not sure, but he could be a little demon."
  "What," I cued, "do you mean?" I gave her some leeway by recalling the story she's told about her brother stirring up an ant hill and somehow convincing my mother to lay on top of it.
  Mom chuckled at the memory, then added, "That was one of the lesser of his crimes."
  I tried to solicit more information but, from then on, she wasn't divulging. I'm not sure if it's because she couldn't remember specifics, only the indignant wakes of such episodes, or if she simply wasn't interested in rehashing his more significant "crimes".
• I asked her what she thought her maternal grandfather was doing in Heaven. This is a man who died the year my mother married, so I never met him (although I wish I had) but he played such an important and felicitous role in my mother's life that she asks about him as much, if not more, than her mother or "Dad" (I always have to ask, when she inquires about "Dad", whose "Dad" she means). Last night she imagined, "Oh, I'm sure he's running the church." He was a minister in life.
• I also asked about her youngest maternal uncle, who is often mentioned of a piece when she asks about her maternal grandfather, as the two lived together for many years when her uncle was Director of Music at Cornell College in Mt. Vernon, Iowa. When Mom attended college there she lived with them and recalls this period more frequently than any other period in her life. My assumption is that it was one of her favorite times.
  Her response to my query about her uncle was, "I can't imagine. I hope, whatever he's doing, he's happy." This reminded me that I'd heard he'd suffered from an entrenched depression through much of his later years, so I had to ask if she felt he also suffered from depression early in his life.
  "Well," she said, "he was a deep thinker." Certainly a true-to-my-mother response, whose character is so removed from depression that, when I was younger and in the habit of saying, "I'm sooooo depressed," she would immediately and firmly correct me, "You're not depressed, you're discouraged." Although this used to irritate me, truth is, I think she detected something fundamental in my character: That depression descends upon me when I have been discouraged by situations, people I know, the world, humanity in general, etc. When I feel myself slipping into serious depths it's not uncommon for me, now, to remember what she said, search out exactly the object of my discouragement, then begin the hard work of changing my attitude. It doesn't always work, but, when it doesn't, it's easier on me to think that the fault is my tendency to luxuriate in the attitude of "discourage"-ment, not in the object about which I am discouraged.

    Although yesterday she felt worse than the day before and her cold was strikingly evident, some sense prompted me to attempt to move her into the living room after her marathon nap of a little over four hours, even though I was able to upright her from the bed by suggesting another Bedside Evening. The move was appropriate. Even when it's hard for her to move, which was true last night after her nap, there are times when getting her moving is the best medicine. Last night was one of those nights. Once she was in the living room in her rocking chair before the television her appetite revived enough for her to eat a good portion of a ham-and-egg dinner. I set a Costco sweet roll out for her but she didn't eat it, which surprised me [Reminder to me: Delete that from last night's dinner list at The Dailies]. She ate enough to revive, though, and she stayed up until 0130 this morning while we indulged in our second viewing of Sex and the City, The Movie. It was an especially interesting viewing for me because my mother reacted in a curious way to some of the saddest scenes: While I was sitting stone faced, honing in on the emotional aspects of the various "tragedies", she laughed, sometimes wickedly. A couple of times (and, believe me, she found many surprising scenes at which to laugh) her funny bone was so tickled that she'd turn to me, expecting to share the laugh at the joke, and was surprised, and dismissive of the fact, that I wasn't also grinning and guffawing.
    The last few nights have thrown me into a rumination on sleep, wakefulness and death. As each of the nights has revealed itself as part of a slower and softer than usual day for my mother, I've wondered, as I've initiated my attempts to rouse her to at least a modicum of uprightness and movement, whether "this night" is the night when I will discover that her lung cancer is requiring ever more sleep from her and we've turned yet another corner. That's why both nights have surprised me. With each coax I've tried to be alert to the possibility that "tonight is the first night..." of such probable days. Thus, the ease with which I've been able to manipulate her from a burgeoning sleep day into a shorter (but not by much; yesterday, all together, she was awake 9.5 hours) than usual day has surprised me. I've been wondering whether, and hoping that (and, you know, the longer she lives the more likely are days like this) I'll recognize the signs and graciously allow my mother the dignity of of acting on what she knows she needs when she needs it, rather than trying to fight against the inevitable. I hope so, and, I think I'm getting there. I'm no longer bothered by her prodigious and increasing sleep habits, although, occasionally, I wonder whether I'm doing "the right thing" by allowing her sleep sway. I look forward to the day when I will no longer wonder, when I will simply kiss her "good nap" or "good night", bless her sleep without the slightest reservation and go about my part of our business as she goes about hers.

    Which reminds me, in the interest of informed observation, one of my most valuable tools in assessing Mom's state at any particular time and, as well, in order to make sure Hospice has appropriate and detailed information when they approach the points where they feel the need to judge whether my mother should remain on Hospice, night before last I compiled all the "Sleep" records I've been keeping over at The Dailies into a Sleep Report, which you can access at the immediately previous link, if you're curious. I took a period of 68 days and divided it into two 34 day periods. There is a short discussion of my observations vis-a-vis the report in this Dailies post. Nothing spectacular, really, but I think a definite, gentle trend is showing.
    I hadn't planned on going to the trouble of translating it into CSS and HTML and uploading it but, quite by accident, I discovered that the version I have of Microsoft Word (I'm still using the 2003 version) allows the user to instantly convert any document into a web page. I couldn't help but try it. Turns out, conversive properties include both CSS and HTML. The process produces pretty dirty code, full of proprietary junk, which doesn't surprise me. Other than that, it worked beautifully, translating my document instantly into a tidy web page, the product looks exactly like the report I printed for Hospice from the original document, minus, of course, my mother's identification parameters and the code was easy enough to read so that I was able to make a color change in it. It was the product of one of my special play times. The immediately previous link is to a long neglected journal which I was prompted to continue a few days ago after reading about the subject of the post to which this link will direct you. Oh what fun!
    Speaking yet again of sleep, I'm three minutes away from Mom's 12 hour sleep mark. We agreed, last night, that I'd try awakening her at this time. About an hour ago I heard her coughing and misinterpreted it as a reconnaissance cough. When I entered her room, although her eyes were open, she asked me the time. When I told her, her response was firm, "I've got another hour."
    Hour's up, Mom. Time to figure out how to fashion another delightful little sick day, if necessary. I already have plans...
    Ooops! I got distracted, editing this post pre-publishing and went on too long (which is why I rarely edit posts before I publish them the first time)! Well, I'm sure Mom's not going to begrudge me an extra half hour, certainly not today!
    Later.
- posted by Gail Rae @ 14:00   email  this post