Don't Worry

            As I worried my way through the morning, a sentence presented itself to me:  “Don’t worry; worship instead.” 

            Starting the thirty minute drive to the memory care facility where we moved Mom last week, I listened to my tried and true Steve Green worship CD.  “People need the Lord” seemed especially appropriate.  As my mind tried to drift off into its well-worn worry mode, I focused on the music.  Then it seemed appropriate to voice my worries to God and give them over to Him yet again.  Music and prayer, prayer and music got me to Oak Harbor.  That plus a wonderful concept learned at Saturday’s prayer workshop:  come to God in prayer with expectancy instead of expectations.

            As I parked the car and prepared to enter Home Place, I knew I could count on God loving me through this visit no matter how it went.  I asked for help and wisdom and, most of all, the ability to bring compassionate love to my mother.  The only pre-planned strategy I had was to greet her cheerfully.

            Yes, the pleading began quickly, and my heart ached for her.  Knowing that her repeated pleas make her more miserable and me more guilty, I tried being direct.

            “Mom, I would like our visit to be one we can both enjoy,” I said, and brought up my recent election to church office here at Whidbey Presbyterian.  I knew she would relate to that because she served in the United Methodist Church for many years in many capacities.  She brightened right up.

            “Yes, that’s just like me.  I rose up in the ranks of the Methodist church, too.”

            “This is not about rising in the ranks,” I thought to myself.  “It’s about loving God and receiving His blessing to love and serve Him in this part of the body of Christ.”  But now was not the time to debate our differing perspectives.

            Then it occurred to me that Mom would be happy to hear I am transcribing the letters her parents wrote to each other before they married in 1917.  So far I’ve done the first three months of 1915 (Grandma’s senior year at Oberlin College and Grandpa’s sophomore year at Wesleyan University).

            Mention of their letters inspired another five or ten minutes of happy reminiscing on her part.  I realized that I was really enjoying this conversation, too.

            And then, she got back to the foremost subject on her mind:  going home.  She said again (and again and again) that she was doing everything she can—eating more and exercising in her room--to prove she could come home.  She got teary-eyed again and my heart broke again.  It was time to wrap things up.

            Ever the hostess, she walked me to her door.  We hugged again, and I reassured her that I would be back soon. 

            As I stepped out into the unexpected sunshine of this February day, I knew for a fact that worship trounces worry every time.

           

Pleading

 

            I was doing okay until my brother told me about his visit with Mom today.

            Perhaps it is predictable, but I did not predict it.  Mom pleaded with John to take her back home.  In 24 hours, she has rallied—walking and moving better than she has in a long time—in order to prove she is strong enough to be home.  What she does not know is that it is as much her dementia as her weakness that prompted this removal to residential care.  In the meantime, says Wendy (the coordinator) Mom is isolating herself in her room.  Maybe we made it too welcoming.

            Knowledge of her distress unnerves me.  I can hardly stand to think of her so upset.  Worse, I can hardly stand the prospect of hearing her pleas when I visit day after tomorrow.  I am one guilt-ridden coward.

            I hate having been the one who ran out of steam.  I hate being responsible for moving her.  Why couldn’t I bear more?  Why did I run dry before her memory completely ran out?  Why can’t I be super-daughter?  How can I feel so relieved to be here in her home alone, making it my own?  How do I deal with the guilt over my relief and the ache over her anxiety?

            Mistakenly, naively, I thought the worse was behind us once we made it through yesterday’s move.  This morning at our church’s prayer retreat, I vowed to use my new solitude at home to draw closer to Christ.  So here I am, Jesus, and I’m a mess.  Please bring peace to Mom’s soul and help John and me to help her through this terrible transition.

           

I Can

            I just realized I can turn off the mute button on my computer now.  Mom is not here to be startled by computer sounds.  That means I can play Mah Jongg at full volume or watch a You Tube video.  I can throw away plastic containers.  I can come out to the living room in the middle of the night if I cannot sleep.  I can talk on the phone, uninterrupted.  I can get up early or sleep in late.  I can take a shower without worrying that she will need the bathroom.  I can read or write any time I wish.  I can practice my flute music to the tick-tick of the metronome without driving her crazy. 

            But what I am relaxing into tonight is the silence.  What I am trying not to think about is how she is doing at this exact moment.  I am turning down the heat, I am writing on my laptop, I am wandering around the house.  I am sad and relieved at the same time.  But, mostly, I am ready to sleep.

Rough Draft of a Rough Day

            She’s more confused tonight than she has ever been.  We never watch TV after the 6:30 p.m. news, but she wants to tonight.  I find a channel that plays the oldies.  Over the course of the evening, we watch “M*A*S*H*” and “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” and “Dick VanDyke.”  Every minute or two (I am not exaggerating) she asks what we are watching.  I turn off the TV at 9 p.m. and help her get a bowl of ice cream.  After a bite, she says it doesn’t taste good to her (that’s a first) and wants to go to bed.  Getting into her pajamas takes a while because she makes several trips to the bathroom and a couple more to the kitchen for another sip of water.  She does not want to bring the water glass to her bedside.

            It has been a long, hard day for me with the grief of this being her last day at home and her not knowing it.  The little routines that have come to define my days over the past two months are bittersweet today:  answering her repeated questions, reheating her coffee, refilling her fizzy water, turning on the classical music station, reassuring her when she is surprised she feels weak (which is every time she stands up), hearing random memories told in a cyclical fashion . . . “Mrs. Clefish was our country school teacher.  She was awful.  She had two fat daughters and was raising them alone.”  Pause for 30 seconds.  “We hated country school.  Mrs. Clefish was terribly underqualified.  I wonder what happened to her daughters.”  Pause for 30 seconds.  “Poor Mrs. Clefish . . .”

            Half of a mini-cinnamon roll for breakfast; a bite of egg salad, one sugar snap pea pod, and three grapes for lunch; a couple bites of casserole and two small pieces of cucumber for supper; a couple sips of Ensure; a taste of ice cream; two bottles of Starbucks Frappuccino; and about a cup of fizzy water:  this is all she consumed today.  She is not hungry, she says. 

            Tomorrow has cast guilt and grief over today.  Tomorrow we move her, unawares.  Tomorrow everything changes.  I hope that she will forget this betrayal quickly, that she soon feels at home in her new quarters.  I hope I will be able to forgive myself for handing over her care to someone else and feeling relieved about it.

Neuronic Woman*

            Not to brag or anything, but I am a woman of unusual abilities:  I sprout headaches worthy of hangover status without any alcohol.  I develop extremely sore and achy muscles with or without exercise.  And tonight I suddenly acquired stabbing pain in the top of my foot, no effort required.

            You would think that sitting in my recliner with proper lumbar support should not implicate my right ankle.  Think again.  Now, it is true that the pain did not appear until I stood up, but I neither tripped nor fell.  Even though I am no athlete, I routinely stand and walk multiple times a day.

            Lest you don’t take me seriously, let me emphasize the fact that this right foot of mine has been hurting for two hours now.  I hobble instead of walk because my foot seizes up when I bear weight on it.  The band of ice pick prods extends along the top of my foot and is only slightly relieved by sitting.

            Fortunately, though, I have experienced similar strange foot pains in the past, so I realize that this, too, shall pass.  Maybe I can sleep it off.  First, though, I’ll take off my shoes . . . Voila!  A little relief for my right foot, but now my left foot hurts, too.  I guess the old neurons are misfiring tonight because the fiery jolts have just begun in my right pinky.  I better get to bed while I still have working parts.

            *Neuronic is a bona fide word, not to be confused with neurotic.  I even looked it up twice.