The fine line between adventures and nightmares

Background:  My older sister, Martha, lived in Cuenca - Ecuador for 32 years, from approx. 1968-2000.  During those years, I traveled twice to live with her and her family.  The first time was when I was 14 years old and the second was when I was 20. When I returned from my first extended stay in Ecuador it was 1972 and I was 15 years old.  Everything in my life was upside down and completely out of control.  My parents divorced. Dad drifted out of the picture.  Mom, my little sister and I were broke beyond belief.  We found ourselves homeless more than once during those months after I first returned.  I remember this as being a desperate time. 

I can still feel the fear, the loneliness and the uncertainty whenever I think back to those years.  I have made choices throughout my adult life that (I thought) were inspired by my never wanting to experience that degree of uncertainty ever again. Those years are why I delayed having children.  Those years are why I stayed married long after the love was gone.  Those years are why I chose a career that was solid and stable - - albeit plodding and dull. 

Last week I was going thru some things of Mom's and found a stack of letters I wrote to Martha after I first returned to the U.S.  Why Mom had them and not Martha, I don't know. 

Like I said, my memory tells me that this was a forlorn and bleak period.  But these letters make my life sound almost gleeful.  I've attached the first letter I wrote during that time.  In it I write about being lonely, having to sleep outside in the cold, not having money for rent, etc.  but it is served up in a basket-full of exclamation marks and teenage humor.  Like, I was living an adventure.  Like, it was all no big deal. 

Which is true?  Have I conjured up that time to be worse that it really was?  Or, did my youth and hormone-infused bravado keep me blissfully unaware of our dire reality?  Which was it... a scary chapter in my life?  Or an exciting adventure?

Ayla

I've been writing you a letter every year since your first birthday, chronicling your journey the past year.  Tomorrow you will have completed twenty two revolutions around the sun,  In that time you have learned to talk, walk, read, write, add, subtract, play the piano, drive a car, achieve a goal, get a job, fall in love and do the right thing. 

This year, I thought your birthday letter should look ahead, instead of back, and muse upon what still lies before you:   A career, a home all unto yourself, a car you want instead of one you can afford, maybe a husband, maybe a child, or two.  You have yet to experience the death of a dear friend.  You haven't faced cancer or some other terrible disease.  You haven't watched your parents fade and become frail - - slow, yes.  But not (yet) frail! You haven't been published, or had a room full of people applaud you for your words.  You haven't become your own best friend. 

Yes.  There is still much loss and heartache before you, but your next decade will be focused on defining who you are in this world.  Your career.  Your most intimate relationships.  Finding a comfortable compromise between your dreams of youth and the realities of life is still ahead of you.

You have built a solid foundation, my sweet thing.  You are a compassionate, hard working, fun and spirited young woman.  You embrace life and all of its diversity with a passion and have a delightful, self-deprecating way of retelling your struggles.  I'd like to think you believe in yourself.  I know I do. 

But so much is unknown to you right now.  I hear your uncertainty.  I sense your fear.  And all I can say is: Don't worry, dear daughter.  I know you will be fine in the years ahead.  You have what it takes to survive.  More than that, you have what it takes to flourish.    

Here's to many years that still lie ahead.  May they be best yet!

I love you more than all the stars in all the universe, and beyond.
YRM (Your Real Momma)

Filling the Void

This is Mama Kitty.  Mama,  for short.  She is our third cat.  Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Three cats. I know.  But this does NOT make me a Cat Lady.  I checked.  It takes at least four cats (4) before one can be considered a Cat Lady according to Wikipedia.  

But I digress....

I got Mama Kitty shortly after my Mom died.  I was perusing cute puppy and kitty videos during my lunch hour as I (too) often do, when I decided to take a peek at the local shelter's websites.  I like to consider the older dogs.  Dogs over seven years old.  Thankfully there are never many of this ilk, so I can log on, view, and log off - - and still sleep at night.  But that day I decided to look at the cats too.

There are so many cats posted on the shelter sites.  Often twice as many cats as there are dogs. Page after page of felines.  It becomes difficult to differentiate one from another after looking at thirty or forty of these photos.  But on one website, Mama's picture and description, made me pause. She is nine years old and was sheltered in a cage at a nearby pet store for the past two months. She was described as being a sweet and loving cat and, most important, it was said she was used to living with other cats and dogs.

But it was her age and her name that drew me in the most.  Mama.  An old cat named Mama.  This registered as a "sign" to me.  I kept this encounter to myself.  But her picture and description continued to resonate and I found myself logging on to the site every day to see if she was still there.  I felt my heart race as I searched the website hoping (hoping, hoping...) that she was still there.

Several days later I told Dan about Mama and how I wanted to adopt her.  He encouraged me to go get her and after work that day I did.  I drove to the pet store after work only to learn she was no longer there. I felt so sad hearing this.  But then it was explained she developed a respiratory infection and was returned to the shelter that same day to have the infection treated.  I immediately drove to the shelter and, sight unseen, I put $10 down to "hold" her and waited for her to get better.

A week later the shelter called and Dan drove me there in a blinding snowstorm, cat cage in hand.  We visited the roly poly cat who was too frightened to come out from under the table.  Undeterred, I signed the adoption papers and brought her home.

We kept her in the spare bedroom the first week, spending time with her there.  Then we brought the other animals into the room to meet her.  She hissed and postured and hid under the bed.  We started leaving the bedroom door open hoping she might venture out. When she did, she promptly beat the holy hell out of our alpha male cat.  

Mama wasn't a frail older kitty.  Nope.  She was a bad-ass bitch cat. 

The two other cats gave her a wide berth after that and she soon claimed ownership to the entire upstairs.  We waited day after day for her to venture downstairs to the main living area, but she didn't seem to have any interest to co-mingle and be part of the family.  

This wasn't what I had envisioned when I considered adopting her. I thought her age and her gender would make her the bridge between the other animals.  The soothing water.  The neutral zone.  But what she seemed to be, instead, was another source of stress and jealousy.  When I told my good friend Grace about adopting a third cat so soon after Mom's death what Grace said was profound:  "Isn't it curious," she said, "How we can't seem to be comfortable with calm in our lives?  How we alway seek a source of chaos to fill the void?" 

So true.

I reasoned that Mama was more afraid than she was anti-social.  I decided to put her in the dog crate in middle of the family room. Inside the crate she could observe the family activity and be in closer proximity to the other animals - - without me risking another costly visit to the vet. This process seemed to go well enough.  Encouraged, we left the crate door open.  Mama Kitty soon learned to nudge the door open all the way but, rather than cautiously explore this new space, she promptly ran upstairs instead.  I crated her again the next day and brought her back down to the family room only to have her run back upstairs at the first chance.  And I did the same the next day.  And the next...

But after much patience, persistence, cajoling (and slivers of real tuna) I am happy to report that Mama Kitty now wanders the full house and has formed a truce, of sorts, with the other animals.  She takes her assigned place in line to eat - - second, after the alpha male cat.  She runs everywhere.  We delight in hearing the soft tinkling from her tag on her collar as she runs thru the house.  She runs to greet us. She runs to the food bowl. She runs to the sand box.  She runs down the stairs when we call her name.  She has claimed a space in our bed to sleep every night:  Next to me.  She burrows firmly against me and I feel her warm body, soft fur and hear her gentle snores next to me every night.  

The void has been filled.  I am endeared now to this soft, furry ball of chaos.

Waiting....

We are gentle with one another these days.  Patient and kind.  He holds me close at night, his words unspoken and my tears unshed. 

I don’t want him to be in this place all alone. But I’m not able.  Not right now. 

So, he doesn’t tell me.

And, I don’t ask. 

Instead, we hold tight to one another through the night, hoping our tomorrow will never come.

In the darkness - - he waits for his courage.  

In the silence - - I wait for my strength.

A Chronicle of Recent Events as I Remember Them

Been losing her in bits and pieces over the years.  This past week, though, has been exceptionally suck-y.   Each day took us a quantum leap further along the continuum. 

The worst of it started Tuesday night when I arrive at Mom's to pick up Lydia.  As I enter the door I can hear Mom's screams.   "Owwww!  Don't TOUCH me!" I hear her wail from behind the bathroom door.  Lydia is standing in the kitchen with a river of tears falling from her cheeks.  She tells me Essie is trying to clean up Mom.  I know what that means, but Lydia shares the details anyway.  More screaming and pleading fills the house.  The other residents are no where in sight having retreated to their room to escape Mom's wailing.  Lydia and I hunch over the kitchen counter and try not to wince with each wail.  Lydia tells me that Essie is very good with Mom.  Lydia tells me that she could never do what Essie does.  Lydia tells me that she can't bear to hear mom scream and cry.

I nod in agreement.   

Essie eventually gets Mom into bed and Lydia is the brave one, going into her room to kiss her good night.  I remain lurking in the hallway, me and my spineless shell.  

Wednesday is spent waiting. Waiting on the nurse to come and examine Mom. Waiting on the doctor to call with his recommendation.  His recommendation is to transport Mom to the clinic so he can  examine her.  We wait for the clinic transport bus.  Then we wait for his call telling us how he can help.  When he finally calls, he says he cannot help as she won't let him examine her. 

No <fucking> d'oh! 

He sends Mom to the emergency room.  And there Lydia and I wait while, again, listening to our very scared mother cry and plead with everyone to not touch her. She begs us to take her home.  She says she'll pay for a taxi.  She'll buy the gas.   We cajole.  We sing songs.  We sit in numb silence waiting.  Never once does she curse or threaten or call anyone names.  She is a lady who knows her manners throughout the cursed ordeal.

At the hospital we are told her hip is fractured.  Her wails of pain and pleas to not be touched are real.  Not her dementia.  Rat bastards. 

I feel the rage seep into my veins.       

She is admitted and given pain meds.... fifteen hours after our initial call to the nurse.  Rat bastards.

The next day is a swirl of activity trying to find a place for Mom to die.  Finally, a place is settled upon and it agreed she will be transported there the following day.

The following day is another day filled with waiting.  Waiting for the new facility to bring the papers we need to sign.  Waiting for the new facility to transport Mom.  Waiting.  Waiting.  Mom is on morphine now.  She isn't screaming or crying, but hallucinations have taken hold of Mom's brain.  She asks about the man with the wheelbarrow.  Lydia discovers a three course meal packed inside her cheeks.  Mom has lost the ability to swallow. 

Three o'clock Friday afternoon Mom is finally in her new room at the hospice care center.  This facility is an oasis after a desert-filled hell.  The doctor there consoles us and says we three sisters look shell-shocked - - we are the walking wounded, she says.  We are too wary to speak, lest we break down in that moment.  The, "should haves, would haves, could haves" taunt us.  We console one another, but silently damn our own selves. 

I feel the guilt of my inadequacy as a caregiver seep into my veins. 

Lydia and Martha opt to stay with Mom.  I kiss my now very medicated mother good bye and go home to celebrate Valentine's Day.  Yeah.  Rrrrright.   

Fourteen hours later Martha's phone call awakens me.  The sun is just touching the horizon when Dan and I arrive in her room.  She is face up in bed.  Her mouth is gaping open.  I kiss her forehead goodbye, grateful she isn't altogether cold yet.  We stand around her bed as Martha leads us in the Lord's prayer.  We don't hold hands or hug as we say these words.  It seems each of us is in our own private place of pain and sorrow.

Two days have since passed.  Lydia is back in Texas now and I have the day to myself .  I welcome the endless sadness that now seeps into my veins. 

See you next time, Mom.

The Agonizingly Slow March Towards Certain Death

From the moment we are born, we are on a path to our death. Some get there quicker than others. Infants die. Children die. Young adults die “in their prime”, they say. These deaths we mourn. These deaths tear our hearts apart into teeny, tiny pieces. We question God’s grace and curse the unfairness of such untimely deaths. Unfair, I suppose, because these now-dead infants, children and young adults are denied the harrowing journey into old age.

Mom is 93. Her joints have stiffened and her eyesight has failed. She lost her right breast decades ago to cancer. If, ten years ago, she were to have not awakened from her night’s sleep, her death would have been very sad, but not unexpected. I would have missed her terribly and I’d regret how my daughter didn’t get many years with her grandma. But such is not the case. Instead, it was about ten years ago that we started noticing Mom’s mental processes beginning to fail. She repeated her life stories more often. She couldn’t remember names of neighbors and friends. She took to writing everything down and posting these notes throughout her apartment:

• Aspirin in drawer next to sink
• $650 rent due on 5th of month
• Dr. Anderson - primary care physician
• Clean cat box

I adapted, as did she, to her ever diminishing abilities. I reasoned that this was Mom easing into old age.

Then the adaptations began to fall short. I found opened containers of yogurt, pudding and salad dressing stored in the cupboard rather than the refrigerator. Duplicate, triplicate and quadruplicate purchases of batteries, ketchup, scotch tape, envelopes, jelly, and other random items were scattered about her small apartment. Her fingernails were often dirty, her hair disheveled and food dotted the front of her blouses.

Three times I accompanied her to her doctor appointment to discuss these changes with a medical professional. Three times THE MOST ASININE TEST EVER to assess her cognitive abilities was administered. Three times she was determined to be okay.

Diarrhea became common-place. Was it the unrefrigerated food? Maybe the host of supplements she recently purchased? It was obvious she was suffering alone at night as her bed and the path from her bed to the bathroom was often stained with her own feces. The apartment manager began suggesting it was time to move Mom somewhere else.

An assisted living place that would accept her meager income - - and her cat - - was found. She accepted the move from her apartment to assisted living with relative ease. “I have the nicest neighbors here,” she’d say.

And it was this same pleasantness that became the hallmark of her decent.

The handful of stories from her life that she repeated over and over again all had happy endings. When asked, she always replied she felt great. She was always happy to see a visitor and never sad when the visit ended. She loved the mountains, the rain, watching people from the front porch. Everything was good, right, pretty and happy. This ever-pleasant, easy going, upbeat person was definitely NOT the mom I knew.

The descent continues. She doesn't live with her cat as she can’t remember to care for it. She struggles using her walker, opting for the wheelchair more and more often. She wears pull-ups 24/7 and a Johnny-on-the-spot is permanently placed in her room. The life stories she recounts is reduced from twenty different stories to maybe five or six… on a good day. I self-medicate before visiting her so I don’t become too exasperated having to hear the same story repeated over and over and over again. She quit wearing her glasses a few months ago. “A miracle,” she claimed one day and she hasn’t worn her glasses since. She sleeps most of the day in the chair in front of the television. Her ability to initiate conversation with others is gone. Her stories once rooted in fact have become pure fantasy. She believes she drives a Pontiac convertible and tutors rich kids every Tuesday.

What hurts most is realizing my heart connection with this frail and confused woman is faltering. She doesn’t behave, talk, reason or conduct herself like my mom. She is becoming just some old lady that I must visit and spend time with. Any sense of guilt I may feel when I don’t visit her is eased with the knowledge she doesn’t even realize I’m not visiting her. She’s incontinent, in pain and her sense of taste and thirst are so diminished that she enjoys neither drinking nor eating.

My truth is, if she were to die today, I would only feel relief. I have already grieved Mom’s passing. Mom is lost somewhere down the dark hole of dementia, and it kills me a little bit every day to know she is nowhere near the bottom.

Gossip*

Rumour has it she has replaced her teeth with matches.

In her apartment, there is a queen-sized bed. It is littered with pillows. The pillows are stuffed with human hair. That’s what they say.

The matchstick teeth catch against the necks of the people she brings home. She sets them alight within seconds, cannot help but watch wide-eyed as fire swallows their limbs, bone and all. Later, she disposes of the body, but not before dripping honey over the char. Not before scalping them with her nail file, which she has sharpened into a shiv against her hipbones. They say she pulls each hair out one by one, say she does it lovingly, say her hands are steady. She cuts out their tongues. So I’ve been told.

She cuts out their tongues and serves them to friends under the pretence of pig’s feet. When she was a young thing, her father had a sweet tooth for her body. Helped himself to seconds so often that the sugar eventually turned him to rot. They say she mixed his ashes with soil and the seed of a strawberry tree, watered it with her own saliva. She picks the fruit by hand and dishes it up with cream, eats it every night for supper. Never gets tired of the taste. At least, that’s what everyone says.

(*Found this on some random blog I stumbled across.  It's not my writing, but I liked the imagery.)