New Midlife Mommy

Here She Is

Transfer went fine.

And then I had to put my cat of 14 years to sleep, and it was unexpected (unexpected that it would be today).  I suspected chronic renal failure, because I'd had three cats die of it previously (two in the last six years).  None of them went so far down so fast.  I expected that she would be around for another six months to a year, but we were not so lucky.  Her values just wouldn't come back down since we started her on fluids on Saturday evening.  Faced with only a miserable few more days of life, I made a very sad choice.  Fortunately, I've been talking with DD about this, so she knew what "putting an animal to sleep" means, and how it is the kinder thing to do sometimes. 

For them, not for us.  Never for us. 

Dirty Little Secret

I've mentioned before that I spend my Sundays with my father going through my mother's things.  (And yes, Sunday afternoons are my only block of free time, so my own house is falling down around our ears from neglect, because DH can't do everything.)  Many people are shocked to find out that I'm still there, doing the same thing, every Sunday.  Since my brother and I started talking again, he joins me on Sundays (rather than avoiding me by going on Saturdays), and he brings a child or two, all of whom seem to have grown much too quickly into very well-mannered and extremely helpful young people

So, why are we still doing it?  Well, honestly, my mom was a hoarder.  There is a series running now on A & E (I think), called "Hoarders."  Holy cow.  That's my mom, folks.  You wouldn't have known if if you came to visit (provided she had some notice), because she could make the house appear to be clean, or at least the bathroom and the living/dining room would look clean.  You wouldn't be permitted in any other room, not even the kitchen.  Towards the end, though, she didn't even put up a pretense.  There was literally stuff all over.

I always knew that she was messy.  Not messy in the sense that there was rotting food around, but messy in terms of too much stuff, too much clutter, and not enough purging.  She loved buying things, especially knick knacks, holiday decorations, and clothes.  She never threw anything away.  She said she did, but I do find that hard to believe.  We have removed several thousand pounds of newspapers, and a thousand pounds or so of magazines.  Unread magazines.  Newspapers that were twenty years old (actually, some were over fifty years old).  Junk mail that she couldn't part with.  Clothing.  Fabric.  Ceramics.  Unused Christmas presents.  Packages and packages of cheap toilet paper (seriously?) and paper towels.  Every piece of furniture they every owned.  Stuff, stuff, stuff.  If you can imagine it, she had it.

For fifty years, my parents lived together in a 1500 square foot, three bedroom house, with a full basement, and a full attic (though the ceilings in the attic angle, the floor space is the same as the footprint of the house).  Do the math -- that's 4500 square feet of STUFF.  I had to start cleaning one of the bedrooms by literally standing outside of the door and sorting through things.  The inside of the room was piled as high as I am tall, and you could not go inside (or even open the door very far).  I thought that there was a bed underneath all those things, but there wasn't.  It was just an empty room filled with stuff on top of stuff.  (Now I know why my mother couldn't retrieve things, like, say, baby and childhood pictures for my wedding video, because she wouldn't have known where to start.)

Her old room was the same way, except that there was a bed in there.  She and my father started sleeping together again in the third bedroom, and I have a sneaking suspicion that she moved out of the bedroom she had been using because there wasn't any room for her any longer (I'm only half kidding).  There was stuff all over the floor of the living room, dining room, and kitchen.  I took out several garbage bags of things from their only bathroom (she liked to save articles from the newspapers she read, and there were literally so many little pieces of paper in there that I don't think she could have managed to even one more sliver of paper in any of the drawers or cabinets).

Now, we're working on the basement and the attic at the same time.  My brother and his kids bring things down from the attic, filling in the spaces that I manage to empty in the basement, leading to my own depressed feelings that this project will never end.  And, do recall that my mother made me promise to go through everything.  I stupidly agreed, never realizing the magnitude of my commitment.  Yet, even if I hadn't made the promise, I would probably do it anyway, because she indiscriminately stuffed things in boxes and bags.  For example, I found $750 of almost fully matured bonds stuck in a bag of old newspapers.  I've found priceless photos in the same manner.  I've described this as treasures among the trash, and it really is.

There are so many things that can be used by others.  My father lets my brother and I have anything we want.  And still, so much left.  So, I have been taking containers of stuff home with me, suitable for the Salvation Army, and writing lists about what is inside, estimating the values, and delivering it.  I am literally at the Salvation Army two to three times per week, and I am familiar with the nearest Salvation Army donation site that is closest to my daily stops.  And, I usually spend part of the small amount of time I have in the evenings typing up these lists so that I can staple the donation slip to it and hand it over to my father for him to use when doing his income taxes.  If he had his way, he would have just delivered it to a charity or thrown things out wholesale.  I just can't do that.  Reduce, reuse, recycle.  I'm not a tree hugger, but I can't countenance the waste, either of the things my mother saved, or the little bit of money that my father might be able to recover in charitable contributions on his taxes by documenting what he's donating.

The whole thing is exhausting.  And endless.

I sometimes think of it as the "Depression-era" sickness, though the "Hoarders" program has made me realize that it affects all ages.  I have to believe that it is quite common, because we learned that after a neighbor two houses down from my father died, his wife had to bring in a dumpster, not only for all the things he'd saved over the years, but also for all the things that he'd retrieved out of other people's trash (he also wouldn't buy her anything new, forcing her, for example, to use one of those wringer-washing machines that you see in museums).  A high school friend told me that her father had filled up her childhood home from top to bottom, then moved and filled a second home from top to bottom.  (Understandably, she has been dreading how the family is going to manage after he passes on.)  And, my father has a friend whose sister has the same issues.

My brother thinks my mother was "crazy" because of this.  Crazy, to me, means someone who has broken with reality and sees or believes things that have no basis in fact.  I have concluded that my mother had a form of neurosis, an obsessive/compulsive disorder that would have been treatable had she sought treatment (she would have been livid, I think, if I had known the depth of what was going on and suggested she get help).  It became so much worse in the ten years before she died, and at that point, I wasn't looking into her bedrooms, basement, or attic to see what she was storing.  But she wasn't crazy. 

As for me, I am slightly guilty of hoarding, but I have a few saviors.  A 750 GB internal hard drive.  A 1 TB external hard drive.  And Carbonite.  My little scraps of paper are saved digitally.  Though you wouldn't know that from looking around my house lately.  Because holy cow, I just can't find the time to straighten out my own life at the moment.  And that would be because I'm still trying to straighten out my mother's life, over two years after she died.

Am I angry that this has happened?  Yes, but I know, at some level, that she couldn't help herself.  But the resentment seeps in anyway, because damn it, my life is on hold while we do this.  And, it seems as if every moment of my time is allocated to someone else -- my husband, my child, my father. 

Sometimes, I get lost in the shuffle.

One Less Thing We Share

When we were packing to go on our vacation, DH assumed the responsibility to bring the "adult" CDs.  You know, the ones that have nice, normal music on them.  Not kiddie music.  We were kind of hopeful that we might have the opportunity to listen to a few as DD napped during the long drive to our vacation spot.

While sifting through the myriad of possibilities, DH came across some CDs for DD that we had never even opened.  They were all Signing Time CDs and contained all the music from the associated DVDs.  Two of them were from volumes 1-3, and 4-6, and the other two contained the music from volumes 1 and 2 from the Baby Signing Time DVDs. 

We listened to Baby Signing Time over and over and over and over, beginning when DD was about 15 months old.  I wanted her to learn sign language, because I thought it would help her communicate with us and avoid at least some tantrums.  It did work.  DD loved the DVDs, and she learned to sign.  It made life so much easier.  She also loved the songs.  We knew them all.  We sang them all.  She would do her own version of the "Diaper Dance" while getting ready for bath; I provided the words, and she never failed to entertain.

DH and I kind of argued over who would take all of these CDs.  You see, we have our limits.  We only want those CDs in our car that we have the capability of listening to over and over and over and over without stabbing ourselves in the eye with the leftover spork that has slid under the front car seat.  I won, or lost as it were; I agreed to take all four CDs and add them to my repertoire.  (I'm kidding.  I actually like the songs on these CDs.)

So, we started with the Baby Signing Time CDs at DD's request.  We listened to one yesterday, and one today.  I sang enthusiastically and did all the signs (well, as much as I could while driving).  DD just sat and listened.  No signing.  No singing.  No flash of any recognition.

Today, I asked her why she wasn't singing along, and she didn't answer.  I let it go.  When I couldn't remember the sign for "dog," I asked her for help.  She said she couldn't remember either.  Then the "Diaper Dance" came on.  I started bouncing around excitedly in my seat, and I urged DD to sing along with me.  She didn't.  I asked what was wrong, didn't she remember?  Um no.  No, she didn't.  Seriously?  You don't remember dancing in the bathroom?  You don't remember mommy singing and signing?  You really don't remember?  Nope.  You don't remember the "Time to Eat" song that mommy and daddy used to sing to you in the kitchen while you ate lunch?  Nope, nope, not at all.  And please stop asking me the same question over and over mommy.

And then it hit me.  The childhood amnesia.  It's come.  You know, the reason that you can't remember much before you were four?  Yes, that.  I remember learning about it in college, and as I recall, one of the theories is that as we develop our language skills, our brain begins to store information in a different way and in different places, making our memories from our prelanguage and beginning language years inaccessible after a time.   

I know that's how it is with me.  In my earliest memory, I am driving in the car with my parents.  I think we were going to church.  They were arguing.  My mother was mad, really, really mad at my father.  She made him stop the car.  She got out.  And she walked home.  It scared me.  My mom had never done anything like that before.  I don't remember exactly what my father did, I don't know what they were saying, I don't remember going home, but I do remember that moment, frozen forever in timein that green station wagon.  While I don't recall my mother ever telling me what the fight was about, I do remember that she said that she wanted to leave my father that day.  But she couldn't.  Because she thought she was pregnant, and it just wasn't done in those days.  And, in fact, she was pregnant.  So, that would put me at just over four years old.  And I don't remember anything before that moment.  Kind of sad, I think.  I don't remember any of my "only child" years.  I'm sure they were good.  I'm sure that I was treated as well as any princess.  But I digress. 

I have always had a fear in the back of my mind that perhaps something would happen to me while DD was very young, and she would be left with no memories of me.  Just two dimensional pictures, pasted in some scrapbook.  Or maybe not.  DH isn't really the scrap booking type. Whatever nice memory preservation there will be in our house will be from my efforts.  DH is more of a put-the-photos-in-a-big-box-and-guess-what-they-are-about-later kind of guy.

And so, after quizzing DD for awhile about her memories of the music, and her seeming sincerity about having none, I came to believe her.  Things from just a year or so ago were lost to her.  Not to DH or I, but to her.  I guess that's what they mean when they say that when you lose your parents, you lose your past.  (And when you lose your children, you lose your future.)

As many of you may know, I'm nearing a very sad occasion.  In a couple of weeks, it will be the first anniversary of my mother's death.  It hasn't been easy.  It hasn't gotten better.  I miss my mom every damned day.  Every one.

I was her first born.  I was her only daughter.  I drew close to her after my marriage.  My brother pulled away after his, which occurred many years before I took the plunge.  Well, to be honest, he was not ever very close to her, and often not very kind to her (to be fair, I was guilty of that too, but not in our later years). 

My mom dreamed of the day that I would have children.  She comforted me as I wept following my miscarriages, and she listened when I railed against God for having done nothing to save my babies, nothing to help me to have my "own" child, with my "own" eggs.  She was a delight during my pregnancy with DD, and she beat us to the hospital on the day she was born -- quite an accomplishment for her, since she seemed to be physically incapable of being on time for anything (seriously, she was late for her own wedding).  She held DD, loved DD, and spent time with her whenever she could.  During my six month maternity leave, I came to visit several times a week.  She would hold DD as I left to go exercise.  When I returned an hour or so later, she was still holding her.  Sometimes, we would just call and talk with her on the speaker phone during bath time.  We had fun.  As I am going through her things now, I see how much DD was on her mind -- there were so many little things that she'd set aside for DD that she misplaced before giving them to her, things that only her youngest granddaughter would need or want.

And then, I had an awful thought.  Was the amnesia complete?  Surely, DD would remember someone so special, wouldn't she?  For some reason, I just had to know.  And so, I asked the question and heard the answer that my heart wasn't ready to hear --

No mommy, I don't remember her.  I don't remember grandma.

I had a hard time accepting that.  So, I started quizzing her.  Don't you remember . . . ?  And . . . ?  And what about . . . ?  Nothing.  I just succeeded in annoying DD with all my questions.

And so, as I approach the first anniversary of my mother's death, I am feeling another loss.  While I can close my eyes and see, feel, hear, and almost touch my mom, DD will only know her second hand.  My mom will be only a series of stories to my daughter.  Or just two dimensional pictures, pasted in some scrapbook.

How very, very sad.

Happy Birthday

I have been wearing a "right hand ring" lately.  It's a beautiful, large London Blue Topaz in a filigree gold setting.  It is a deep turquoise, and it is the color of the Caribbean.  That color brings back good memories of taking cruises with loved ones.  Since my daughter's birth, we haven't done that.  But we will again, someday.

This is the first July 22nd that I didn't have someone special to call, just to say "Happy Birthday!"  Of course, it would have been unusual to catch her, since she had a tradition of going gambling on her birthday, just because it was supposed to be lucky.  Sometimes it was lucky, sometimes it wasn't.  It didn't matter; she was intimately acquainted with all of the slot machines ever invented.  She played whether she was winning or losing.  She and my father would go with my honorary aunt and uncle, M and N.

I remember last year this time as clear as day.  I received a call from my honorary aunt M (who also believes that you are especially lucky on your birthday).  It was late at night, and she never, ever calls me.  She said that she was worried, because when they were out, my mom couldn't walk very far without becoming winded.  I had been nagging my mom, hell, sometimes yelling at my mom, to go to a pulmunologist, but she was convinced it was "just asthma."  (As it turned out, it was fluid build up in her lungs due to further liver deterioration.)  I told M that I was afraid that she was going to die soon, because she just wouldn't listen to anyone.  I only half-believed what I was saying.

Because my parents always celebrated their birthdays with the slot machines, we developed our own tradition on non-birthday days.  My husband, daughter, and I would take my parents out for a nice dinner to celebrate my father's birthday and Mother's Day (though they were usually with us on Mother's and Father's Day; we just went out to brunch instead).  And we would do it again to celebrate Father's Day and my mom's birthday.  For some reason, we never got around to scheduling that second dinner last year.

And, last year, I was unusually late in giving my mom her presents.  She and my father came over to celebrate DD's birthday in late August.  We gave my mom her presents then, and DD opened hers as well.  I gave her the ring; it was my last gift to her.  I doubt she ever got to wear it.

So, now it sits on my hand.  I had an awful, fleeting feeling as I was wrapping it, thinking that it would come back to me someday, and hoping that day was a long time in coming.  As it turned out, it wasn't.  So, while I would rather be buying my mom more jewelry that she won't wear, I'll be sending a check to the American Liver Foundation in her honor.  It's not quite the same, but maybe, just maybe, it will help someone else keep her mom around a little while longer.  I would have moved mountains to keep mine, even giving her a part of my liver, but she wouldn't hear of it.

You know, there isn't a day that goes by that I don't miss her.  I wish I could call her.  I wish I could hug her.  I just wish I could be with her.  And I still can't wrap my arms around the fact that I won't ever get to see her again.  How is that even possible?

Wherever you are, I hope you know how much we miss you, how much I miss you.  Happy Birthday, mom.

I Can't Believe He Asked

I've mentioned before that I spend Saturday afternoons with my father trying to clear out the house.  Yesterday was no exception.  And, sadly, we talked about the fact that my mother had died exactly five months ago.  It seems like a long time, and yet it seems like no time at all.

Since my mother's passing, I have often been angry with my father, and I've mentioned one of our disputes here.  Sometimes, I really wonder if my mother even knew him -- despite the fact that they lived together for fifty years.

For example, my grandparents owned a very small cottage several hours away from my parent's house.  My grandparents retired there.  It was very important, very precious to my mother.  It is very special to my brother and I.  I do remember, though, that my mother had a concern that my father might remarry, and that my brother and I would find ourselves inheriting along with any offspring his new wife had.  However, she wanted him to be able to spend as much time up there as he wanted, thinking that he was as much in love with it as she was.  To accomplish this, her will gives him a life estate only, and as far as I know, my father's name has never been on the deed.  This means that the house is my father's to do with as he pleases for as long as he lives, and then the ownership transfers to my brother and I.  My mother talked extensively with me about this, so I knew what her will said before I read it.

Little did my mother know how he really felt.  She hadn't even been buried yet, and he said that he planned to sell the house.  I told him that would be hard to do, because as far as I knew (and still do), he only holds a life a estate.  You can try to sell your property if you want under those circumstances, but no one is going to buy it.  As soon as my father dies, no matter what he's done with the property, my brother and I will own the house.  To his credit, he didn't want to sell for the money, which he said he would give to my brother and I.  And, I do understand that he doesn't want the burden of taxes, etc., which amount to a few thousand dollars a year.  I did tell him that I would be more than happy to pay half, provided he also asked my brother for half.  As far as I know, he's not done so.  He can afford the expense, because he does have some savings, but I do understand that he doesn't want to.  But still -- his first response was to want to sell it.  Clearly, my mother didn't see that one coming.

He's made comments about how now that she's gone, he can be organized.  And, now that she's gone, he's never late for anything.  He's quick to add that he would prefer her here, but he's doing fine.  Just fine and dandy.  Please understand, I don't want him to suffer.  But I am not interested in hearing, over and over, how much better things are now that she's gone.  I'm not sure that he realizes that's how he comes across, but he does.

Sometimes, I wonder how he really felt about her.  He's mentioned a few times that oftentimes, the remaining spouse will die within a year.  I couldn't hold my tongue, but I was gentle when I said that I thought that normally happened when people were very, very close and couldn't imagine themselves going on without the other.  I told him that he probably didn't fit into that category, did he?  He didn't dispute that point.

Moving on.  Yesterday, my father mentioned that he'd lost touch with one of his friends, and he really wished that he could connect with him again.  I think that it was a high school friend, and this man is my brother's godfather.  I asked him for all the information that he had, and I said that I would scout around on the Internet for him.  I asked him if there were any other people he wanted me to look for, while I was at it.  And he said yes, and gave me a woman's name.

I had never heard of this woman before.  I asked him why he wanted to find her, and he said that they were "friends."  I couldn't resist -- I asked him if they'd ever dated, and he said "yeah, a few times."  And apparently she also dated all his friends as well (that part was interesting, eh?).  Not believing what I thought I was hearing, I asked rather bluntly if he was trying to find this woman so that he could start dating her.  And he said "yeah, I'd date her."

So, let's summarize, shall we?  My mother has been dead for five months, and my father wants me to find him a date.  Apparently, it's time to move on.  I don't think that I am going to help him with this one, but rather than silently seething, I will probably tell him how I feel.  I did ask him if I could find old friends for him, so I opened the door, but honestly, this just seems like a line that shouldn't be crossed.  He knows how close I was to my mom, and it's just not right to even ask this kind of a "favor."

Am I wrong?  What would you do?

I Second That Emotion

Someone clicked over here from "Missed Conceptions," a blog that hasn't been updated in over a year.  I clicked back on the post that sent the reader here, and once again, it resonated with me.  Just as it did the first time I read it.  You see, Karen also conceived her child with donor eggs, and she also had to come to terms with the loss of a genetic link.

Here is what she said, in part:

Of course I have pangs and fears related to the way he was conceived. I wish I could take credit for his beautiful blue eyes. I hope he never feels as though a part of him is missing. But if I was offered the chance for a reproductive do-over, to have one of my miscarriages erased and my "own" child born without ever having gotten to the stage of even thinking about donor eggs, I'd hug my funny, feisty boy to my chest with a heartfelt "No thanks."

Amen to that.  Amen.

And Life Goes On

We buried my mother on September 22nd, several hours away from the place she called home.  Someone in her family -- grandfather or great grandfather? -- had purchased a number of burial plots in a small cemetary.  There were three remaining.  My parents were to have two of them, and there was an extra.  My mother always said if my brother or I died before getting married, we could have it.  I guess it will remain open, since we both have our own families now. 

While in the hospital, my mother came to believe that she had only two to three months to live.  She inferred this from one of her doctors, who told her that things would get worse over the next two to three months.  She couldn't imagine how things could possibly get worse, since she was having such a rough time of it.  She told me that she didn't want to die around Christmas time, because it would be so cold then.  My mother had an aunt who died on Christmas day (that was her aunt's wish), and my mom said that was so hard on the family.  I know that my mother also recalled what it was like to lose both of her parents in January, in the middle of winter's icy grip.

On the day we buried her, only family members were present.  My father, my brother and his family, and our little family.  We'd brought DD this time, even though we'd sheltered her from exposure to the funeral home and the open casket.  We told DD that we were going to say good-bye to grandma.  It was such a beautiful day, so peaceful and warm.  We each placed a rose on the casket and said our final good-byes.  My mother could not have picked a more perfect day to be placed at rest, next to her own mother.  Later, on the way home, DD said:  "Mommy.  I didn't want to give my rose to grandma.  I wanted to keep it."  Now that would have made my mom smile.

I've finally finished the thank you notes.  There were quite a number of them, because my mother knew how to make friends and keep them, and many people came to pay their last respects or sent flowers or cards.  Oddly(?), my father received sympathy cards from her hairdresser, physical therapist, and pharmacist.  Two ladies from her hair salon came to visit us at the funeral home, full of very nice things to say about my mom.  (By the way, thank you to all of you who left such warm and loving comments; they were all appreciated.)

I've been agonizing over the cause of death on the birth certificate.  The doctor said that it was non-alcoholic cirrhosis/liver failure, caused by non-alcoholic steatohepatitis, and complicated by acute renal failure, congestive heart failure, and sepsis.  I've been researching this, and I think that she died of sepsis.  I don't know why it is so important to me that the record be straight, but it is.  Her liver enzymes were consistently normal while she was in the hospital.  We did not expect her to die, but yet she did.  I don't believe that any of the doctors and nurses did anything wrong -- I'm just trying to understand why she died when she did.  My mother always believed that when it is your time to go, that's all there is to it.  I do accept that God called her home at this time, and even though I still don't quite understand it, I am glad that she didn't have to go through all the suffering that is end stage liver disease.

On another note, my brother and I aren't speaking to each other now.  Well, he's not speaking to me, unless I speak to him first.  You see, my SIL did a lot of inappropriate things while my mother was alive.  On three occasions, she tried to coerce my mother into being cremated.  I only heard the last conversation.  What was the point?  Why, to leave "the family" with more money.  Why did she care?  I'm not quite sure.  It isn't her money; it's my parent's money.  And she really made my mother upset.  During the conversation that I heard, my mother said that she absolutely did not want to be cremated.  SIL wouldn't let up.  I ended the conversation by saying that it was her money, I was to be appointed her personal representative, and we were going to honor her wishes -- no cremation.  End of story.  At that time, I didn't realize that this was the third time that dear SIL had brought this up, or I would have torn her a new orifice.

And another thing.  My parents had an ongoing argument during their 50 years of marriage.  My mother was a horrible housekeeper, as in you-can't-even-get-in-some-of-the-rooms-because-of-the-accumulated-junk bad kind of housekeeper.  That was my father's complaint.  My mother always accused my father of not picking up after himself.  It was their argument, their marriage, their business.  My brother and SIL chose to insert themselves into the middle of this argument, taking my father's side, and they apparently decided that SIL was going to clean my parent's house -- whether my mother liked it or not.  She repeatedly tried to get my mother to agree to let her into the house to go through everything.  At one point, she told my mother that she was going to come over and "go through all the drawers and all the closets," because things needed to be straightened up.  My mother was not the type of person to tell her to go to h*ll, as she would have been justified in doing.  Instead, she just said she really didn't want her help.  It was so bad that when my parents went on what would be their very last vacation together in March of this year, my mother was afraid that dear SIL would come into her house when she wasn't there to go through her things.  She didn't do that, but my mother still worried about it.

These types of things just p*ssed me off.  My SIL always waited until I had left whatever the family gathering was before having these little discussions.  I also heard her ask once who was going to "get" something after my parents were gone, as though she had some claim on family things, I guess.  That also p*ssed me off.  But I never said a word to her, because my mother asked me not to.  But it was no secret to my mother how I felt about her and the things she'd said.

On the first viewing night, someone asked about my mother's pearls.  I told this person that they were mine, because I wasn't able to find the ones that my mother had worn with the dress (she was buried in the same dress she'd worn for their 50th anniversary party -- she looked so pretty!).  Truly, I did look for the necklace, but as I said, my mother's house was in such a disarray, I just didn't know where to find it.  I didn't mind -- I was glad to give her a necklace of mine.  SIL took this as an opportunity to pipe up and say -- are you ready? -- "we're going to find all kinds of things when we start going through her stuff."

WTF?  But I didn't say a word.  The next day, while talking with my brother about a number of issues, I (nicely) told him that I didn't want SIL going through our mother's things.  (Quite frankly, I honestly believe that if I didn't say something, SIL would have shown up on my father's doorstep the day after we'd buried my mother to "help" him -- she truly is that dense, and that persistent.)  My brother said "she's not going to do that" and hung up on me.  Hung up on me!  A**hole.  He wouldn't speak to me the next night at the funeral home, on Friday at the service, or at the gravesite on Saturday.  Interestingly, when I sat down with my mother's best friend on Thursday night, the first thing that she told me was "your mother didn't want SIL to go through her things -- don't let her do it."  And my father said that my mother told him the same thing. 

So, I guess my instincts were right.  I've since told her, in response to an e-mail that she sent to me, that I wasn't trying to hurt her feelings, and she shouldn't take it personally, but going through my mother's things is something that my brother, father, and I should do.  I also added that I wouldn't have dreamed of suggesting that I should go through her mother's things after she died.  (What kind of barn does someone have to be raised in to have to be told these things in the first place?)

But, apparently, they've both decided to be p*ssed off about this.  Honestly?  Right now, I don't care if I ever talk with either of them again.  They do have three kids, and my daughter is fond of them, but it wouldn't be the end of the world if they don't want to talk with us anymore.  DD has other cousins on my husband's side, and that family is so much nicer.  And, BTW, if something happened to DH and me, DD sure as h*ll wouldn't be going to live with my SIL.  I'm sure that she and my brother would be quite surprised by that, though they shouldn't be.  I would never let SIL raise my daughter.  Unless of course I would like her to be loudly screamed at whenever she does the slightest thing wrong, or have her drugged if she's a little too active, because it's just too much bother to deal with otherwise.  Um, no thanks to that.  Yeah, I'm bitter.  And I have a lot of suppressed anger that my mother wouldn't allow me to let out.  I do imagine that we will all talk again, but right now, I just don't care to.

I'm still missing my mother so very much.  I see her everywhere, in everything.  Things that should make me smile just make me cry.  I still have trouble telling people that she's gone.  I can't get much further than that before I start crying.  People tell me that it will get better.  I can't possibly imagine that.  Because it will mean that I am going to get used to not having my mom around. 

And how can that possibly be a good thing?

It's Over

My mom died.  That's so very hard to say.  I could never imagine it coming to pass.  But here it is.

They did move her from ICU, because she was doing so much better.  But, on Saturday, I received a call at around 8:00 in the morning.  It was her night nurse.  He told me that my mother was "coding."  I later learned that her respiration slowed down to nothing, and her heart stopped.  My mother always wanted efforts to be made if there was any hope.  So, we did not leave a DNR order for her.

I called my brother and my father.  My brother is about 45 minutes from the hospital.  I live an hour away.  Yet, I got there first.

Her room was empty.  I panicked.  Then I learned that they'd moved her back to ICU.  She was on a ventilator, because they didn't think she could breathe on her own quite yet.  She was a little confused when I saw her, and struggling to get out of the hand restraints that the nurses said were necessary to make sure she didn't pull out the breathing tube or the IVs.

Because it was the weekend, we were all able to stay without having to worry about calling work.  They threw us out before 2:00 to attend to her.  We were allowed to return from 4:00 to 8:00.  And we did.  And we did the same thing on Sunday, though we were limited to two people.  My father wanted to be there the whole time; my brother and I took shifts.

We watched my mom go downhill from Saturday morning until Sunday evening at 8:00 when we had to leave.  In the beginning, she was somewhat responsive.  At the end of the visiting day on Sunday, she seemed to be unresponsive.  The big problem was keeping her blood pressure up over 100.  If they could just do that, then they could start dialysis (her kidneys had stalled again).  I whispered in her ear that she needed to work on that before I left.

Until this point, the doctors had given us some hope, though all had said that she was in trouble.  Even though her liver values were in the normal range, she was having problems with her heart, lung, and kidneys, which they all believed was due to her liver problems.  And, she had developed an infection that was resistant to antibiotics.  They left me with the belief that Monday was the day that we would have to make a decision.

As it turned out, we didn't have to.  At 10:00 on Sunday evening, the nurse called and said that my mother's blood pressure had dropped, and none of the medications they were using to bring it back up were having any effect.  I asked if she was dying, and she said yes, that no one can live very long with a blood pressure as low as my mother had (generally, around 75/30).

We all returned.  After we got there, I asked how long she had, and the nurse told me it could be a couple of hours, or it could be a couple of days.  I immediately felt bad dragging my father back to the hospital.  We were all exhausted, but at 77, I imagine that it was more draining to him.

So, we sat.  And waited.  And watched the monitors.  The nurse brought in two additional recliner chairs so that we could try to get some sleep as we stayed with her.  I positioned my recliner next to her bed, so that I could lie next to her.  I jammed pillows above and below my hand, so that I could always be holding my mom's hand, even if I fell asleep.  It was the least I could do, and I know she would have done it for me.

I've mentioned that my mother and I have sometimes had a difficult relationship.  I was a brat when I was a teenager, and I rejected my parents as hopelessly irrelevant.  I didn't have much to do with then when I was in my 20's and 30's, mostly because I always seemed to be in night school.  But after I got married, things changed.  I realized just how wonderful my parents were, and we became very close.  That was over eight years ago.  But still, no one could push my buttons faster than my mom.  I would often yell at her.  She rarely yelled back.  I felt so badly about this, and I tried to talk with her about it before she went to ICU.  She dismissed it, saying that I had been a good daughter.  But, on Saturday, after my father went down to the cafeteria, I was able to tell my mother how much I really loved her, and how very, very sorry I was for ever treating her badly.  She wasn't perfect, but she was the very best mom I could have asked for.  I know that she heard me, because at that point she was still able to respond to us.

On that awful night, as I lay next to my mother, a wonderful thing happened.  Sleep escaped me, but I was bathed in the warmth of one wonderful memory after another.  Memories of just my mom and me, of our whole lives together.  Memories of childhood.  Memories of my wedding.  Memories of the last day we spent together, when she held me as I cried because I was worried about her slipping health.  She'd asked me then, "Do you believe in God?"  I told her of course I did.  "Well, then there's nothing to worry about then."  I think that on some level, she was trying to give me one final gift on her last night here on earth.  A gift of love.  To let me see that all was forgiven, that in the end, our true heart is all that matters.

At around 3:30, my mother's heart rate started fluctuating.  At 4:00, her heart just stopped.  It was over quickly.  We were told that she was not in any pain.

The doctors had already told me that my mother was not sick as a result of the cat bite.  Her main doctor told me that he used that as an excuse to get her into the hospital, because she was much sicker than she appeared.  In the end, I believe that she died of sepsis.  All along, the doctors had been talking to us about an infection in her body that she was trying to fend off.  It was just so low on my radar screen that I really didn't hear it.  I was worried about everything else.  But, sepsis probably caused her kidneys to fail and her blood pressure to drop.

Since then, we have just been performing our obligations.  Or, actually, I've been performing most of our obligations.  My father is feeling lost, because my mother always did everything for him.  My brother has expressed no preferences one way or another -- somehow, I find this incredibly annoying.  I have often felt overwhelmed since my mother left us.  I dread the thought of what kind of funeral she would have had if it were up to the two of them, instant indecision makers that they are.  I'm thankful that my mother drilled her history, my history, into my head.  It allowed me to answer the funeral home's questions easily.  We still have some decisions to make, but I guess we will talk about them tonight.  I think we will probably lay her to rest on Saturday, many miles away in a grave that is near her parents.

In a few minutes, I will start to get ready for the funeral home.  It will be the first time that I've seen my mom since early Monday morning.  I am dreading it.  I don't know how any of us will get through the visitation.  I wonder about stupid things, like whether I should even bother with makeup.  Because I've pretty much cried it all off every time I've put it on.

Lord help us all.  But most of all, please take good care of my mother.  We miss her so.  And mom, if you could, please leave me some kind of a sign to let me know that you live on.  Because that is the only thing that is keeping me going.  Hoping against hope that someday, I will see you again, healthy and whole.

My Heart Is On A See Saw

"They're moving me to ICU.  I don't have much longer."

That was the message that I received from my mother yesterday.  She called me at work from the hospital.  See saw down.

As it turned out, things weren't quite so dire, though they were still very bad.  They did move her to intensive care.  Her kidneys were shutting down.  Her heart was failing a bit.  And she could hardly breathe, because her lung was filling with fluid again.  The pulmonologist, who is the point person now, decided to move my mother.  Her general practitioner, a man who is truly sent from heaven, told me that the pulmonologist does his best work in ICU.  They just wanted to be able to watch my mother more closely.  The nurse ratio there is 1:2; in the "step down" ward, it is 1:4.  I was assured that she was not "actively dying."

She looked awful.  She could hardly breathe.  She started to hallucinate.  And I couldn't understand anything that she was trying to say.  The pulmonologist asked me about "end of life measures."  What would she want?  You know, her whole life, she's never been real clear on that.  She wants the doctors to do whatever is necessary, as long as there is hope.  What does no hope mean?  Well, when my grandmother was dying of congestive heart failure, they offered her a pacemaker.  It would have given her 24 more hours of life.  My mother refused it on my grandmother's behalf.  I agree that was the right decision, but it has haunted her ever since.  But the "end of life measures" question was what convinced my mother that the end was near.  I was convinced as well, because the pulmonologist told me my mother was  sicker than she appeared.  I couldn't imagine how that would be possible; she looked so very bad.

My mother argued against dialysis of her kidneys.  The kidney specialist was blunt, as was I.  If she didn't want it, she could expect to live for one more week.  If she tried it, they might be able to jump start her kidneys.  Based on everything she's ever told me, I would have thought that was what she wanted.  But, she was scared.  She didn't want to start dialysis, because she thought she might never stop.  And it would "tie her down," once she got out of the hospital.  She is such an optimist.  The rest of the family was thinking that she would never leave the hospital.  In the end, she agreed to try it.

And, they used the dialysis machine last night and this morning.  And she looked so much better!  So much better, in fact, that they kicked her out of ICU this afternoon.  Praise God.  See saw up.

I haven't been able to stop crying these last few days.  I know that my mother doesn't have much longer to live.  Even if she does get out of the hospital, the chances are she's no longer a transplant candidate, if she ever was (due to age and other medical conditions).  When she was originally diagnosed with liver disease in January 2005, that doctor gave her 2-1/2 to 3 years to live.  I don't know where all the of the time went, but we are into the end of that time frame.  And, earlier this week, my mother understood that she only had 2-3 months more.  I'm not quite sure where that came from, but after yesterday and thinking that the end was near, I thought how much I would have preferred the 2-3 months I had bitterly railed against only days earlier.

Please understand.  I love my mother.  I would trade places with her if I could.  She is a wonderful person.  But, over the years, our relationship has been tumultuous, to say the least.  No one can push my buttons as fast as she can.  We have had some knock down, drag out fights.  My husband often reminds me that I will be sorry someday for fighting with my mother.  I guess someday is here.  I have so many regrets.  I wish I could have bit my tongue more.  I wish that I would have known how much it really meant to her to spend time with me after DD was born -- I was just so overwhelmed.  If I had even an inkling how important it was to her, I would have gladly invited her over.  And those are things I think about.  Not about the times I was able to help her.  I'm in a flagellation mode, I guess.

I hope that she can come home.  I hope that we have another Christmas.  While I'm at it, I hope that she's a candidate for a transplant and is lucky enough to get the opportunity.  I pray that the surgery would be successful.  But if it can't be, then I hope that we can make peace.  I hope that she knows how much she means to me, and how I can't even imagine life without her.  It is so hard to tell her without crying, and she is so tired of everyone around her crying.  She said that it is very depressing, and she just wishes that we would all save our mourning for after she's gone.  I can't say as I blame her.

I'm so fortunate that my employer, the one that I complain about from time to time, has been understanding.  I understand that I can use the FMLA, and that they have generous leave policies, but they have just been really nice about it.  I expected my supervisor to be nice, but someone that I thought was hostile through and through is being supportive as well.  The hospital is fairly close to work, so I have been able to come in earlier and tack that time onto my lunch hour.  It's nice to be able to spend time with my mom like that.  And, if I need to stay longer (like today, when she needed help to eat), they don't care.  In fact, I gave my supervisor a leave slip (we are supposed to document all leave time usage), he simply tore it up.

I really believe that my mother is still alive by the grace of God.  I've asked everyone I know who prays to please pray for her.  Whenever I get too overwhelmed, I tell God that I am choosing to trust Him.  And I am.  I am going to trust Him.  And we will all get through this.

It is just so unbelievably hard.

Drifting Without A Rudder

That's really how I feel.  Drifting, just drifting.  I'm so very, very worried about my mom.

She has an appointment at a university hospital on Wednesday with a very good specialist, but she may not make that appointment.  Why, you might ask?  Because she's in the hospital trying to get over an infection.  From a cat bite.  From my cat.

A long time ago, I rescued a litter of kittens who were abandoned and nursed them back to health.  It was hard to find homes for them.  My parents took one, my brother took one, someone from work took one, and I kept two -- a boy and a girl.  For whatever reason, these cats are one family cats.  They don't like outsiders.  Period.  They all growl and hiss and just generally avoid other people.

My male cat will "turn" if he feels that his sister is being attacked.  And once, he turned on me when he thought my daughter was being attacked -- by me (she'd fallen and was crying; I think he thought I was hurting her).  On these occasions, even though I know why it's happening, it's very upsetting.  And it hurts!  He doesn't have claws, but if his teeth connect with an ankle or a foot, yikes.  I've had him for twelve years.  This has happened about six times.  On each occasion, there was a precipitating event.

My father, who loves cats, just can't seem to accept that my cats don't like him.  He is always trying to approach them.  And they don't like it.  The Monday before last, he was trying to pet the female.  And she started growling.  So, the male cat came out of nowhere and started attacking my mother's foot.  No big deal.  He didn't get past her shoe.  And then he left the room, and I assumed it was all over.  Then, I guess I did something stupid.  I went over to the female cat and stroked her fur, hoping to calm her down.  She growled a little, not really at me, but just because she was still upset.  Then, out of nowhere, the male cat came over and bit my mother in the ankle.  Hard.  I guess she was the first human in his line of sight.

She wouldn't go to a clinic.  She was in a hurry to go away for a couple of days, and we were on our way out to begin our vacation.  Because she has fluid buildup in her legs from her liver disease, she couldn't get the wound to stop draining.  Two days later, she brought it to her doctor's attention at a regular appointment.  He gave her antibiotics.

Apparently, they didn't work.  Her leg turned red from the ankle to the knee, and her doctor instructed her to go to the hospital, where she was admitted.  They've been pumping her full of antibiotics ever since. 

I went to the vet this weekend, because while this is an infrequent problem, and it is always explainable, it is still unacceptable.  Even though this cat is protective of my daughter, I wonder what might happen if he thought she was hurting his sister.  I find it hard to believe that he would ever hurt her, but you don't know.

The vet didn't have much to offer.  We have some pheromones that are supposed to be calming; it works kind of like a Glade plug in.  We could administer psychotropic drugs.  I could make an appointment with a behaviorist, and I will probably do that as soon as possible.  I could have his canine teeth pulled, which are the teeth that do all the damage in a bite.  Or, I could put him to sleep.  Oddly, the vet thought that euthanasia was more humane than removing his canine teeth.  I guess they are hard to remove, but still.  Worse than killing him?  I don't know about that.

My mother is very disappointed that she can't make it to her university appointment.  She is having such a hard time breathing with all the fluid buildup around her lungs (they've had to drain it three times now, about every other week), I think that she was hoping to hear some treatment options.  And my stupid cat screwed that up.  He is a very gentle soul otherwise.  And she doesn't want me to put him down for her sake.

Tonight, they told her that she may be developing kidney problems too.  That is a common problem for people with liver disease.  The kidneys try to take over for the failing liver, and then the kidneys begin to fail as well.  I'm hoping that is not happening.  I'm praying that is not happening.  They did just tell her that two very common liver values were within normal limits (PGOT and PGPT).

I can't even talk about this with anyone without tearing up.  I just don't know how we are going to get through this.  I do know that I am not ready to let my mother go. 

But, you know, I am never going to be ready to do that.  Not today.  Not two months from now.  Not ever.