Eeyore in the 'home'

Maybe it's a curse.  Maybe mom is just our own Kansas version of Eeyore.  While my mom has had her moments of being difficult, I don't see that as her pattern right now.  Yet, things keep happening.

Last night's aide refused to help mom change her brief at bedtime.  When mom asked for help, the aide pointed at the wet brief and said, "Take that off.  Then put this on."  And walked out.  This is an aide that has a good reputation.  (The aide will be assisted to understand what should have happened.)

The night before, the aides couldn't find mom's medicines in the cart.  Inexplicable, since the day aides could find them.  The night aides couldn't. (She eventually fell asleep without the sleeping pill.)

Her sheets haven't been changed for over two and a half weeks because they do that on Shower Day, but she wasn't scheduled for a shower there since hospice comes in twice weekly. (She has now been scheduled for both a shower and sheets.) 

Mom was worried that she had offended someone (which is not completely out of the question, given her history, but is not the issue here).  And even if she had been crochety, she deserves good care.

And of course, this follows a nightmarish 5 weeks of dealing with issues at the nursing home where we had just moved her.  I kept complaining, daily, constantly, over real issues. I felt like a real kvetch.... because I was one, though fully merited.

Problems here are nowhere near as consistent nor as major nor as frustrating as in the nursing home, but things do keep happening to her! We are handling them with the facility without the least bit of rancor on either side ... and our few concerns are being well-received and handled correctly.

We had a nice, truly friendly chat with the director today.  She just shook her head, apologized, said the aide absolutely should have helped, that Mom didn't do anything wrong ... and remarked with surprise that it just seems that it keeps happening just to Mom.  A mystery.

Eeyore Roberta, with her personal rain cloud that follows her.  I'll bring an umbrella.

Still on the fence ... leave her there or not?

We met with the director of nursing, and aired the lengthy list of issues that we had with the nursing home where she is staying. They were concerned, clearly, and promised to take steps to improve the deficits.  And, she said that Mom is not using her button to call staff needlessly or excessively, which was good to hear.

But are her promises enough?

The next day, her pants had all disappeared.  Every one.  I went down to laundry's lost and found, and went through a double-mountain of lost items, and found at least a dozen items of hers - including some that were clearly marked.

And the staff was snippy, possibly in retribution for her/our raising issues.

And the shower room was strewn with other resident's dirty towels when it was her time for hospice to come in to help her.

But, at least, for once, her oxygen was not empty.

Mom says she's getting comfortable there.  Do I leave her there, hoping that status improves, and that they 'get used to her preferences'?  Or, do we move her quickly before it becomes even more traumatic to move a second time?

And if we move her to another nursing home I've researched with an excellent reputation, will they have similar issues?  It's impossible to research all the potential problems.

I honestly don't know.

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.