Another one bites the dust. Literally.

Another tooth broke off.  I think that's the fifth one in a year - maybe sixth.

She mentions it like her fingernail broke.  I looked at it and just groaned.  That chunk of tooth (actually, the gold crown with some tooth underneath) now sitting on her walker represents more appointments, more questions, more decisions.  What does one do for an 89-year-old hospice patient?  Of course, comfort is first.  But how much 'fixing' is the right amount?

She keeps saying, My mother didn't teach me to brush twice a day.  OK, Mom, I get that, but what about the seven decades since then?  Oh well.  Off we go to the dentist.  Again.

Old themes returning

Rewind.  Here we go again.

A few days ago, Mom said that she hoped that my husband and I took good care of our health (more about how she said that later in this post), so that we don't experience the terrible life that she is experiencing.

What?  Terrible life?  That came out of left field... though ... it really just is a replay of old poor-me comments.  Every time I think we've licked the self-pity and helped her get a positive attitude, she regresses.  Sigh.  Do I sound unsympathetic?  I'm not, not entirely anyway.  I'm ambivalent, really.  Yes, of course she is not enjoying this difficult phase of her life and that's sad, but on the other hand, she has chosen so much about where and who she is.  She has chosen to sit alone in her room, she has chosen to make Dr Phil as the high point of her day.  So, yes, I am mixed between sympathy and impatience.

I asked her why her life is so terrible.  She said it's because she has no friends.  She recalled back to before she moved here locally, as if that was some idyllic life filled with fabulous friendships.  So I asked her if she had friends in her previous senior housing complex - 'well, no not really, but I knew people'.  "Oh, kinda like here?" I replied.  Yes, she said, I guess so.  Then I asked if before Dad died, were there more friendships then?  Yes, that's it.  He was the outgoing one, and (in her words...) "I just went along for the ride".

Honestly, I feel rather sorry for her, though mixed with annoyance and impatience.  Her entire life she has 'gone along for the ride' with a more social husband.  (She has forgotten that although he was more outgoing, his rudeness also deeply offended many many people who refused to maintain a friendship. The rear-view-window is pretty rosy.)  But isn't that just too sad that someone has lived their entire life without the gift of knowing how to reach out to others?  of being so self-involved that she isn't interested in others' lives?  She commented about a woman very recently widowed that she must not be grieving much because she is already back eating in the common dining room! She is famous in her home for loudly making rude comments about others, and she is reaping what she has sown.

I told her that just outside her door are a small army of individuals who are also lonely.  All she has to do is just go knock and say hello, how are you doing today?  As she's done before, she agreed that she could do it and probably should.  And soon, this whole conversation will be repeated.  I give it a month at most.

Her way of telling me that my husband and I should take care of our health is to tell us that we each needed to lose 100 pounds, 'for her'.  Good grief.  Yes, both of us need to lose weight, but 100 pounds is insane.  Very very hurtful. I felt again like the crushed preteen that suffered cruel comments on my weight from my cold mother so many years ago.  The next day after our conversation, I went back and said how much it hurt me and to please know that, on the list of my motivators, she is way way down on the list, and to please never ever mention it again.  It's not her problem, it's not her business.  "Yes but..." was her response.

Rewind.  Replay.  Here we go again.

Steaks and corn on the cob and a great breeze

Yesterday, my husband was off work for Memorial Day and we decided to grill some steaks.  I debated inviting my mother - I knew she'd enjoy it but the logistics (transport, toileting) are a nightmare.  It would turn a potentially lovely relaxing evening to ... something else entirely.

I invited her.  Oh lordie I'm a good girl!  (oh, what's that noise you ask?  the sound of me patting myself on the back... grin...)  Also invited our kids and grandkids at the last minute - a family day. 

So I make the run to her assisted living facility, pack her up with her essentials (water, sunglasses and a clean Depends; I convince her not to bring a banana since we are not going to a third world country but just to my house).  We get back to the house and I muster up my courage and wheel her through the grass, down the hill, through the gate, around more hillside, until we finally get to the back of the house and onto the brick patio.  Though this sounds perilous (OK, OK, I admit she almost dumped out a time or two), it's better than the three steps up into the house and the six steps down to the walkout apartment which leads to the patio.)

But, she had a GREAT time.  She just sat there, enjoying the breeze, asking about the bushes and vines.  Listening to birds.  Eating steaks with luscious corn on the cob and salad.  It was a perfect day - warm in the sun, pleasant in the shade.

The kids came over, and she (kinda) listened as the girls talked about school and this and that.  My daughter in law asked about her life - what was the highlight of her life.  She answered, much to my surprise, "My kids".  That may be some elder-editorializing since I'm not sure that would have been her answer earlier in her life, but it's nice to think that, upon reflection, that is what mattered most.  Really nice.

When I brought her home, as we opened her apartment door, she gasped happily, "Oh, I'm HOME!".  She enjoyed her day but that apartment is her safe zone, her refuge.  She had a wonderful time going to our house - and coming home.  A good day, and some nice memories for us all.