Time for Myself

I read a lot while caregiving my mother in Virginia. Mom lent me her library card to use at the only public library I knew about in Lynchburg. Campbell County actually has three public libraries as well as some private collections, and I just learned the library snagged the former visitor's center to create a downtown library. In 2014, however, the library on Memorial Avenue was the only one I knew.

I thought mom weathered the hectic and short-lived visit with friends the previous two days, because I felt comfortable enough to leave the house for the afternoon. I stopped at Starbucks on Boonesboro, then traveled down Rivermont to the library. I was familiar with their collections by this time, as I already had gone through the eight books in Stephen King's Dark Tower series, as well as the five books contained in The Hunger Games series by Suzanne Collins. I read the former as a dare to myself, and the latter so I could understand my daughter's fascination with the movies based on those books.

This time I listed The Invention of Murder by Judith Flanders, Indiscretion by Charles Dubow, Deeply Odd by Dean Koontz, and House of Earth by Woody Guthrie as my borrowed reads. I don't remember reading any one of these four books, and I don't know why. I do remember the premise of Deeply Odd, because my late husband and I discovered "Odd Thomas" during one trip to Virginia as we listened to a book on CD. I became slightly addicted to poor Odd.

I won't know why I don't remember those four books in particular until I go through the upcoming memories that Facebook holds. I do know that, after my husband died in 2015, I couldn't read for years. I couldn't concentrate enough, and my retention of what I did read was at zero. Only recently, almost ten years after his death, have I been able to read and retain information. Fiction bores me now, even Stephen King. What I crave is non-fiction works that prove I am now capable of learning and retaining.

Who am I trying to prove anything to? Myself. I think that's important.

Photo by Vincenzo Malagoli at Pexels.

A Visit from Former Neighbors, 2014

The hospital released mom five days prior to this day in 2014, and mom was still recovering from her bouts of cellulitis and fevers from infections when we heard a knock at the door. I answered, and three strange (to me) elderly women and men stood there asking if mom was home. As soon as my mother heard their voices, she was up and shuffling into the foyer to greet the women and their husbands, who turned out to be former friends and neighbors of hers from South Carolina. My parents lived in South Carolina during the 1980s, so they last saw each other almost three decades before this visit.

The women had decided among themselves that they were going to travel to Virginia to see mom for the last time. They had a few plans up their sleeves, and once they settled in for the visit, one of the women approached me to tell me they were intent on cooking breakfast for mom the next morning. They had booked hotel rooms, and they were going out to eat with their husbands that evening. They spent several hours with mom until they saw she was fading. 

I took the photo shown here and I obscured her friends' faces. One, because I don't know if they're still alive; and two, because I haven't received permission from them to show their images, even if I knew how to get in touch with them. I wanted to tell my mother she shouldn't wear green, as that outfit seemed to match her complexion that day. But, I wanted her to be happy, and she was beside herself. I think she knew, deep in her heart, that she had some loyal fans somewhere on this continent.

The next morning, the three woman arrived at 9 a.m. to cook for mom, and mom was shocked. She was still floating on the visit the previous day, and had no clue they were arriving again to cook an omelette for her, something she was craving (that was my tip to her friends the previous day).

I stood by to tell the women where to find certain items, and I think--but I'm not sure--that I set the table. I don't remember, either, if dad put the leaf in the table to extend it to seat more people. I was just busy watching mom and tending to her friends, so I'm glad I took that one photo to help jog my memory about my mother's reactions. I think I took another photo of her friends in that tiny kitchen, jostling for space, but I remember it being a dark photo, too dark to use for anything other than memories. I don't even remember if their husbands came with them or not.

I just remember that this event was a great memory for mom, and I think this visit was the best thing to happen to her since she was first diagnosed. My heart goes out to these women, still unknown to me, to thank them for what they did.

The DNR, Funeral Planning, and Time for Me

Today in 2014, I mentioned on Facebook that my mother's horrendous bed wedge arrived (that matched her bedroom walls), that mom's cardiologist wasn't happy with mom's edema, and that I had discovered the DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) and posted it on the side of the refrigerator. That was a handy place, as the kitchen was located just off the entranceway.

The responses I received from my friends to this post were both heartfelt and expansive. Some of my friends went into great detail on how they handled their own parent's DNR and then segued into how their parent sat down to plan their own funerals. My mother did write her obituary, but she was certain no one would come to her funeral or memorial service, so she vetoed that idea. Hospice had other plans, though, and we did get to enjoy a service months after she died. We lost her obituary, though. That's another story.

The cardiologist was a contentious issue, because hospice wasn't happy with the number of visits that he wanted my mother to add to her schedule. Hospice, at that time and place, was into providing palliative care to make the patient comfortable. The cardiologist was intent on keeping my mother alive, which was going to prove to be a losing battle.

Interestingly, both the cardiologist and hospice agreed that my mother should continue to see her nephrologist, the doctor who specialized in the diagnosis and treatment of kidney disease. I think hospice felt it would be good to keep tabs on that one kidney mom had to know more in advance about when her kidney might give up the ghost. I agreed. Cartainty in the face of uncertainty, for me, was vital at the time. That was a healthier compromise for us all.

Another friend wanted me to find a massage therapist for me, not for my mother. But, as I told her, anytime I left the house, I could count on my mother having an emergency situation. I was thankful for mobile phones, but I still didn't have much freedom.

The one joy I allowed myself to have in my trips back and forth between Virginia and home was to stop at the Blenko Glass Factory in Milton, Cabell County, West Virginia. I would pick up one piece, resulting in several dozen pieces that I eventually sold on eBay. The piece I purchased on my last trip to Virginia that ended with mom's death was a rare one. White frosted glass with dimples. I still have that piece.

I took the photo above during one pit stop at Blenko. It was a very colorful place, and I always enjoyed browsing all the interesting shapes and textures. I do miss those visits.

Some Days are Quiet

Caregiving is a roller coaster, with days that go up and down. On some days there is nothing to report, like today. That's when it's time to sit back and reflect rather than conjure up something out of thin air. I'm sure I'll be here tomorrow with news from the past.