Mom has moved to the nursing home

Mom has moved to the nursing home.

Mom, Marilyn and me

Ah, the passive voice ... "Mom has moved".  Doesn't begin to describe the chaos and labor of the last week.  Before the troops came Friday, I had been sorting, pitching, organizing for a week.  On Friday afternoon, my brother came from a distance on a business trip, and happily was able to pitch in Friday afternoon and the weekend.  My sister and her husband came from 4 hours away and arrived Friday evening, and rented a U-Haul for the move as well as did a tremendous amount of work all weekend.

During the work, we largely ignored Mom Saturday as we went over to her old place at the assisted-living home.  We had boxes for each of us three kids ... sometimes welcomed items, sometimes begrudgingly accepted.

There were piles and piles of things that we just had to send to the trash - the detritus of her life but meaningless to us - such as my father's obsessively copious notes from a 1980's trip to Europe (what was the daily weather, what photos were taken exactly at what locations on each day, indexed by 3-4 different sorting schemes).  Expired food. Shoes that were badly worn.

The shoes touched me.  I recall from a book, The Year of Magical Thinking, that Joan Didion (the author and then a recent widow) was horrified at the idea of throwing away her deceased husband's shoes.  Her irrational thought was, "what if he comes back needs them?"  As I pitched or donated her shoes (pretty, delicate heels, etc) it just felt so enormously sad to think that she wouldn't ever be that woman again.  Same sadness with her art supplies - she's done with those, and off they go.  (Note to readers of this blog - we did bring over to her the pink dresses for her to just look at and remember better days....)

And there were piles for charity donation.  Usable shoes, clothes that no longer fit.  Furniture that was not an 'heirloom'.  Dishes.  Piles.  U-Haul loads of donated items.

Mom in her new home (with my husband on bed)

And of course, the piles of things to go to the nursing home for Mom.  We moved that over, and carefully found places for everything over there in the small area that is now her home.  Her favorite red chair, a chest, a bedside table. An electric bed from hospice, and her wheelchair and walker.  It all fits and feels homey.  Her 'Sleeping Fisherman' painting on the wall made it instantly more homey, more her own Roberta space.

This week I will work on small details like putting more photos on the wall, darkening a too-bright window, changing her mail.  But mostly it's just helping her feel at home, really at home.

An easel and a pink dress

As I went through some closets with Mom, to determine what gets moved to the nursing home, some things brought particular grief.

An easel.  It was just a metal, adjustable easel.  But my mother is an artist, a water colorist, and when we looked at the easel to decide whether it moves, it brought a flood of sadness.  Saying "no" means recognizing that her artist days are done - at least, the productive, "I-can-go-anywhere-to-paint" days are done.  Yes, she could put paint to paper in a group activity in the nursing home, but for someone who painted at the ocean, in the Southwest, on vacations ... it is a terrible loss.

And the long pink dress.  I don't really know what in her life it connected to, but she felt so sad to think that she will never need that again.  That the 'dress-up' days are over.  That she won't feel special and pretty like she did before, when she was a beloved wife and socially active woman.  Miss Topeka, 1937.

There were other small things - scarves and fancy purses, even underwear that she no longer uses now that she needs disposable briefs.  A hundred things that say her life is so reduced that it now fits into a semi-private room in a nursing home.

I've been Miss Positivity, reminding her that the easel only reminds her of a part of her Life, that the Life she's enjoyed is the reality, the joy.  But, I do get it, I understand.  Touching the easel, the pink dress, the fancy purse - brings back a spark of the life she enjoyed.

It's time to grieve that loss.

Persistently Positive battles Deeply Depressed

I'll just start out by admitting I can be obnoxiously positive.  It has served me well in my life, to seek out the life-view that is hopeful, expecting good things.  I don't welcome negativity or hopelessness.  Maybe it's because I lived in a profoundly depressed state for about a decade, receiving professional help.  I dug myself out of that grim time by forcing myself to seek life and health even in tiny bites, tiny steps. Little by little, I'm doing really well for a decade now.  There it is, I've admitted it (in this public blog that perhaps no one even reads... like screaming one's secrets in an empty forest).

So, returning to Mom's move to the nursing home...  I terribly depressed.  I know this feeling, and I don't like it.

My sister told me she is also feeling this awful sadness.  So, I may be sad but I'm not crazy!  (smiling...)

Why is this overwhelming my positivity?

I think it's because the situation just ... merits sadness.  It's a sad thing.  It's a really really sad thing, to acknowledge that my mother needs skilled nursing care. That she is 'disappearing', now even more so, fitting her life into a shared hospital room basically.

I will go see her today to pack some things, in anticipation of her being admitted tomorrow morning.  Her official move day, tomorrow.

Up til now, I've been obnoxiously positive to her, helping her view the change as a good thing, that she will be fine, that she will make a new home there and be happy.  But, I will also tell her how sad I am to her.  I will tell her I've been crying for her loss.  Then I will warn her that I will continue to be positive, confident that she WILL find contentment there. And I do believe that.

Still, it's just so deeply sad.

Yes, a move to a nursing home.

Yes, mom will move to a nursing home, on Friday.  She is still not 'believing' that it is necessary (not believing that she has the incontinence issues, not believing that she has refused help) but accepting.

We visited it today.  It is bright and clean (I guess) and pleasant.  She will have a window, and share a room with Carmen (who promptly fell asleep in her chair after we introduced ourselves).  Mom will have a several pieces of her existing furniture, plus a hospital bed, plus stuff on the wall (photos, her art).

I know she is not thrilled, but is accepting - but what surprises me is my own depression over this move.  It's really so sad.  I know I'll need to do some work to support her (take her to the doctor, change her address, etc) as well as to support her emotionally (visits, pep talks, walk her around). But you'd think this was happening to me. Personally. I'm depressed.

I'm also just getting back from a vacation where we are shopping for "after-she-dies, where-do-we-go" locations.  And I realize she could continue to survive another year, maybe two.

When she first moved here, I recall saying I thought she'd survive maybe 6-9 months.  That was 3 years ago.  Over 3 years ago.  I'm not saying I wish her ill, or even just that I don't appreciate her... just ... we don't know.  We don't know.  And a commitment is for however long it lasts.  Yet - my husband could retire today, and I am already 'retired', courtesy of a couple of layoffs.

I'm the horse in the gate, ready for the gun to go off.  I'm eager for my next adventure in life, but realizing that my commitment here is continuing.  I don't resent it, exactly, but ... when we hear the gunshot, I can promise you that we'll move quickly.

But I remain in a crazy bifurcation - on one side, prancing, antsy, ready to go go go - yet simultaneously creating a new stable routine for my mother, with my daily visits to a nursing home, a new long-term location, a new set of faces to learn, new staff to greet and befriend, new residents to get to know.  New dinner-table, new dinner-companions for Thursday nights. A new place to sit and be ... quiet, be ... still.  And me, prancing, muscles twitching, ready for the next Big Adventure.

Sure, this is about my Mom's move.  But it's also about my ... delay.  My waiting. Until... after.

Reality sinks in...

I visited with the unit manager at Mom's assisted living facility. She assured me that they would do all they needed to for Mom's care, but that her incontinence (and occasional refusal to accept help) makes this the time that we need to move her - or else bring in someone to help her daily so she could stay there.

So, Mom's name is on the waiting list for the nursing home.

My sister mentioned the move to our mom a couple of weeks ago, and we were both giddy with amazement that she took it so well.  I mentioned it again last evening before dinner, and she just then 'heard' it.  Really understood.  She was horrified, saddened.  Shocked.  She repeatedly said she doesn't believe it's that bad.  We brought down the unit manager and she explained it, and mom again repeatedly said "I don't believe it" (that she refuses help with her soiled brief).  Then at dinner she said they were kicking her out.

We continued the conversation after dinner, and I suggested she think about HOW she phrases it when she shares this with her friends there.  Rather than saying "They're kicking me out" (which is ungenerous and untrue), she could say that she needs more care.

She is still reeling, but when I left her last night, better.  I suggested she fully enjoy the 'todays' she has remaining there, not stressing about any future move, not borrowing tomorrow's anxieties (as Mt 6:33 says).

Not sure what I'll find today, but big changes ahead.

A drama...

In the first half of January, I took a 16-day vacation with my husband to South America, and I just got back yesterday afternoon.  It was wonderful and fun and a huge change-of-scenery.  My sister Marilyn was in charge of being Mom's 'person' during that time, and though she lives a few hours away, I was grateful and confident that all would go great.

During that time, the hospice nurse called Marilyn to say Mom was "sitting around all day in her feces" and refusing help, and that due to odors she would need to move to a nursing home facility.  Marilyn handled it great from her location, on top of a busy teaching job, but it was stressful.

And Mom said it really wasn't that bad, that the hospice nurse was over-stating the problem.  She absolutely doesn't want to move from a three-room apartment to a two-person hospital room (basically).

And at Mom's present assisted-living facility, the unit manager said it wasn't urgent and that they were expecting to wait until I got back to handle it.  It appears that the hospice nurse over-reacted.  I wonder if it is just a matter of my mother being unable to adequately clean herself after a bowel movement - understandable with limited range of motion and poor balance.  Plus, let's just say that Mom has never been a slave to cleanliness. So I'm sure the hospice nurse has a point, but I'd like to see if there are options available.

Anyway, I'll meet with them in the next couple of days to find out what's happening.  Poor Marilyn, having to juggle the drama from afar.  But, at some point, Mom will have to be moved, so this was either Step One of that process, or at least a dress rehearsal.