Scents and Scentsibility

(With Apologies to Jane Austen Fans)

            The best way to find out if something works is to stop it.

            That’s how I found out that the air purifiers in the living room and my bedroom really do make a difference.  I stopped them.

            Of course, continuing high pollen counts coincided with the unplugging, the catalyst for which was the preparation for getting the rest of the new flooring installed. 

            Once the flooring is in tomorrow, the purifiers will be moved back to their respective places, and I will breathe better and sneeze less. 

            My home will be a bit of olfactory heaven:  no more wall-to-wall carpeting, a cat that has rediscovered the litter box, and both air purifiers running.

Friday Beat

            I’m beat.  Mom and I both had a busy day.

            While she was in the garden this morning, I was bringing her stuff back over from the shop one armload at a time.  It made for a lot of walking, but it also kept me from picking up things too heavy for me.  My flash of inspiration was to arrange some of her cherished items on her desk and dresser—and box up the rest in her closet.  I doubt she will miss the things in the box, but if she does they will be easy to extricate.  That is not to say that I am done yet, but at least I made significant progress. 

            After her podiatrist appointment this afternoon, we both went back to work.  She trimmed bushes along the driveway while I trimmed back the contents of the hall closet.  It was one of those jobs that was not high priority at the moment (though badly needed), but all at once I was motivated to do it.  Again, the box idea served me well.  Into a banker’s box went a miscellany of items that we never use but which I was sure she would save.  I threw out a lot, too—things like empty cardboard rolls for tape, seriously holey sheets, and burned-out light bulbs.  The end result is an organized closet.  The best part was using the top shelf space for my assorted travel bags, which used to fill the floor of my closet.

            It’s a good thing we have leftovers in the refrigerator because I really do not want to cook tonight.  I believe I can manage reheating the meat loaf, potatoes, and green beans in the microwave and mixing some fresh strawberries with yogurt for our healthy dessert.

            Then I’ll adjust the makeshift lumbar support and neck support in my recliner, put up my feet, and grab a book, the perfect ending for a busy Friday.

            Oh, but one thing remains:  tossing out the wilted daisies and fresh foxglove that Mom brought in earlier today.  I rather not have a poisonous plant decorating my kitchen.

What I Am Here For

            Last night was the first time I had the sense that Mom was looking at her magazine and not reading it.  It was also the second time this week that she took off down the hallway with only half her clothing on.

            This is the woman who still makes witty remarks and engages in verbal punning.  She can operate her golf cart.  She works on acrostic puzzles every day.  She still sits down at the parlor organ to play her slow versions of her favorite classical music.  But in the past week or two, she has started to lose another significant chunk of cognition.

            It’s more than the absence of short term memory and the confusion in long term memory.  It’s a little different than forgetting processes like how to heat her coffee in the microwave or how to turn on the bathroom heater.  And the “it” is more than one thing, I think.

            Her ability to reason is disintegrating fast.  She’s missing obvious connections.

            And it seems she is more aware than ever that she cannot remember.  Of course, that awareness does not help her remember.  At Costco with John yesterday, she chose a small area rug to put at the side of her bed.  She carried it in the house, set it down, and almost immediately lamented that they had not been able to find a rug.  We showed her the rug, she went and placed it on her bedroom floor, came back, and talked again about how they could not find a rug.

            Last week, to my surprise, she energetically packed up all the clutter on her dressing table, file cabinet, desk, and dresser to prepare her room for having the furniture moved and new flooring put in.  Anytime she went into her room, she asked why all her furniture was bare.  Last night, she seemed mystified when I told her we would unpack the boxes and put things back today.

            It’s 8:30 a.m.  I better put my laptop away and get ready for the day.  If I am lucky, Mom will be able to rearrange her stuff in her room.  I honestly don’t know if she can do it.  But I guess that is what I am here for.

Relax

            I’m training myself not to tense up.  Just seeing a high E or F# makes my throat tighten.  Instead of stretching and straining for the sound, I’m concentrating on relaxing and letting my air flow.

            It seems counter-intuitive that the way to reach my goal of a pure, full sound is in relaxing rather than in reaching.

            Sometimes I wonder how much of my life I have spent on tiptoe, trying to grasp what seemed just beyond my reach.  It is true that kitchen cupboards are designed for someone taller than I.  Have I learned to keep out a step stool to assist?  No.

            More significant things have been out of my reach as well, like a healthy marriage.  I stretched and strained to the breaking point in both my marriages, trying to assume the shape of my beloved while he was reaching for the next picture or the next pill.

            As heretical as it may sound, I found God again when I stopped trying so hard.  I started to relax, to breathe, to allow the emergence of my true self.  Jesus was waiting for me in friends new and old, in nature, in writing, and in music. 

            The Spirit’s song is like the high E I am learning to breathe into:  it sings most beautifully when I relinquish my hold.

Scenes from the Silver Lining

            She rushed in just before lunch, frantic to put down the wild daisies, the beat-up water bottle, and her work gloves.  I directed her to the kitchen sink and turned on the cold water so she could wash her nettle-stung hands.  That was just over three hours ago.

            Washington nettle is nasty stuff.  I confess to being glad I have never encountered it and the resultant tingling, burning, and itching skin.  I also confess to being exceedingly tired of explaining my best guess at what happened (her hands brushed against some nettle while she was picking daisies) approximately every two minutes.  We have already washed hands, applied the corticosteroid cream, and taken Benadryl.  There is nothing else to do for stinging nettle.  I’ve even tried a silent scream in the bathroom, but that didn’t help.

            Most of the ankle swelling from last night’s tumble is gone.  Maybe it is only a strain and not a sprain after all.  Maybe the RICE method works very well when immediately applied. 

            To keep myself from favoring the left foot and thus causing a whole new set of problems with my knees and hips, I am wearing both air braces today.  They provide excellent support for my ankles as well as a constant reminder to go slow and limit my walking.  I really do not want to aggravate either ankle.  I hope to graduate to a single, smaller ankle brace by Sunday. 

            My new towels came in today.  When I saw the Land’s End sale last week, I couldn’t resist: a bathmat and set of six (two bath towels, two hand towels, and two washcloths) at less than half their usual price.  The Supima cotton is silky soft, and the color—lilac breeze—is lovely.  Maybe I’ll even succeed in convincing Mom to use these towels instead of the fifty-year old threadbare ones I just threw in the wash.

            We went to town to return a couple library books and go to the pharmacy, where I picked up a refill for John’s elderly cougar, Eiger, and some Sudafed for me.  Funny that I did not need to show my driver’s license for the 50 mg Tramadol tablets (Eiger has severe arthritis) but did for my 24-pack of decongestants.

            The silver lining in this cloudy day is taking the time to write, something I have neglected in the flurry of preparations for the new flooring.  About an hour ago, Mom got bored and went out to pick berries, so I have been writing in the relative quiet of our home.  The ceiling fan whirs overhead, the heating stove rattles like it does day and night, and the refrigerator trips on with a hum.  The pain is picking up in my ankle, so once I check on Mom, I guess it is time for more ice.