The Burrow

There was a heartwarming story in the Arizona Daily Star while I was away.  A family, out in the early morning, delivering the Star, saw an elderly woman lying on the ground.  Wearing only a shower cap, underwear and socks, she was frozen on the sidewalk.  They covered her with their coats and spare blankets from their car. The dad lay next to her, blowing warm air on her face while the mom called 911. Less than 10 minutes later, professional help had arrived. They saved her life.  She spent five days in the hospital, thawing out, and is now on her way to Milwaukee, to live near her daughters.  The retirement home in which she's been living threw her a going away party, and invited the family who rescued her. She greeted them with a hug and a kiss and these words:   I don't remember you but I love you. Her friends described her as a socialite and a fashionista.  I'd call her mildly demented and unsafe to be living alone. This story is the nightm...

I'm remembering a phone call with my mom, a few months after Bubba, her mother, died.  I'd been regaling G'ma with stories of her wonderful, beautiful, magnificently talented and brilliant grandson when I heard her sigh. G'ma was not one for deep sighs.  She wasn't the kind of mother who shared her sorrows with her children.  She was there for us; it never occurred to her that we should be there for her.  So, when I heard that aching exhale, I stopped chattering. The silence was powerful.  In a moment, one I am sure was shorter than it felt at the time, she collected herself and, with a rueful laugh, explained that, while my stories were wonderful, they also opened a hole in her heart.  "There is no one with whom I can share this," my mom told me.  "It will sound like bragging to anyone else."   Bragging.... the antithesis of her socialist upbringing... she couldn't make herself tell my aunt or a neighbor about her marvelous ...

And it's all stuff.   Anything remotely valuable or marginally sentimental was distributed when she left the East Coast for Arizona.  What she had left were trinkets.  They made her smile, especially since someone else dusted them twice a week.  Somehow, they've taken on new importance since her death.   A $10 small river rock painted with a blue bird's face was claimed by several relatives across the generations.  The gorgeous glass paperweight was on everyone's list. I received emails and text messages and picture-grams with circles around the items that absolutely had to be sent so that G'ma could be remembered. Apparently, the crewel work pictures are stretched on important frames; I am not to release them from their bonds. There are many reasons families should live close to one another.  Having to ship 6' long framed stitchery is only one of them. It's not as if I can throw them out, of course.  They are my mother's creations,and he...

My thoughts won't stay focused.  I begin to opine about sequestration, and I wonder how I'd explain it to G'ma.  I listen to a fascinating four minutes on health care costs and consider that post on where does the money go  which I've been trying to write for a year or more and then I devolve into thinking about how much G'ma's broken leg cost the insurance company and Medicare.  I wander into the room where TBG is watching talking heads and I burrow into his chest for a hug and a kiss. I miss my mommy. The post you read yesterday was written the afternoon before she died.  I had it scheduled as a buffer between remembrance and reality.  I just re-read it.  I don't think I could write that right now. It's an olio for sure, but one without G'ma.  Since she died in her sleep  two Thursday's ago, I haven't had three thoughts in a row without my mother poking herself into the stew.  In the grocery store, every second customer is a moth...

Esther Tamara Rukasin Annis Born February 19, 1923 Died December 5, 2013 A smart, thoughtful, interested and interesting woman. A loving grandmother and mother and aunt. She is wallowing in chocolate, Hershey's kisses on the side,  watching Christina-Taylor jump in mud puddles. Listen in to the conversation: "You're getting filthy, sweetheart!" "It's fun!" "Come, have some chocolate.... take more... don't be stingy with yourself." Peacefully,in her sleep, surrounded by her memories and supported by Hospice and staff and family, she left this world and is now reunited with the woman she used to be.  Sad but not tragic, her loss leaves a void to be filled with good books, loving children, and more photographs than any family should ever collect in ten lifetimes.  She will be missed and remembered. ***** I'm taking a funeral hiatus for the next few days. The Burrow will feature a series of...

There's so little left of what used to be my mother.  She's toothless and listless.  She's not eating because she's not hungry.  Even chocolate can't entice her to put sustenance into her body; the same large bag of Hershey's Kisses has been in the bowl at the side of her chair for two months now.  When G'ma's not eating chocolate, you know there is something amiss. She's still sparkly when I walk in the door, but there's no gleam of recognition beyond responding in kind to the smile in my eyes.  She knows she's supposed to be glad that I am there; she just doesn't remember why.  I remember when that kind of forgetfulness made me very sad. Now, it's just part of the gestalt. She weighs less than I do, which is wrong on so very many levels.  Losing twenty pounds since May has left her without any padding. Her pants fall down unless her underwear is bunched up, preventing gravity from undressing her in public.  She's always cold...

I've been preparing myself for the end for a week or two.  She was pale, she wasn't eating, she was rarely awake. Her back hurt, though the x-ray showed no damage.  Never exceptionally energetic, her condition made listless look perky. As the gerontologist said, she was beginning to fade away. I sat and watched her sleep. I rubbed her feet. I snuggled up close to her in her bed, gently resting my hand on her shoulder.  She doesn't like back-rubs, so I resisted the urge to touch more of her. I wanted her to feel the connection, though, to know that I was there even as she rested with her eyes closed. I was getting ready to let her go. I wasn't surprised that she was ready to leave.  Everyone is dead, or lost in the fog of senility. Food - even chocolate - held no allure.  She didn't want the television turned on.  She just wanted to lie in bed.  She was checking out of this life, moving on to another, better, place.... at least that was what I saw. ...

Thursdays are good days. I love my Pilates foursome, a mid-morning gathering of women of a certain age, each with our individual aches and pains, but all of us committed to the method. JannyLou and I drive up together, and there's just enough time to catch up and feel the love. I missed it all this morning. The House Manager at G'ma's pod castle interrupted my morning routine. G'ma was in pain. She was unable to remain in the dining room during breakfast.  Nausea, perhaps from the pain, sent her back to bed, with a Tylenol or two to ease the aches.  The doctor had already been faxed and would be called when the office opened at 9.  Did I want to come over and see her? No. I didn't want it to be happening at all.  I was on my way to my own rehab, to a pleasant morning of movement and chatter followed by a walk around the Prince Playground with goblins and ghouls and ghosts. I didn't want to enter to cavern of care toward which she was beckoning. Of course...

Forty-five minutes of conversation about caring for my mother took the place of visiting with said mother today.  The owner, the nursing supervisor, and I sat in the office in the pod-castle while the subject of our conversation, my aging-none-too-gracefully-maternal-unit, slept in her recliner.  I didn't ask her if she wanted to join us.  I didn't want her to be there. This is my new reality. I have her teeth pulled without seeking her opinion . I make plans without consulting her. I decide and she lives with the consequences.  I know that she trusts me and that she loves me and that she knows that I love her too, but, until very recently, we were in this together. Now, I'm in charge and she's out of the loop. It's not that she'd be an effective participant in the loop. She can't remember where the questions began, let alone formulate a coherent answer.  I try to break things up into manageable pieces, but the ability to hold onto the information is los...

The phone rang at 6:15am.  I cursed as I swung my leg out of bed, knowing that it was the pod-castle before caller id confirmed it.  No one else calls that early. The cheery voice on the other end of the line wished me a good morning, wondered how I was doing, and apologized for calling at such an awkward time. I didn't want to hear any of that.  I wanted to hear that my mother was safe and healthy and unbroken. That information came after the pleasantries.  I was not in the mood for pleasantries before sunrise; I bit my tongue and listened as the caregiver rattled on... and on... and on. The story that was hidden amidst the verbiage wasn't pretty. Two bed alarms rang just after 2:15 this morning.  The lone caregiver in the pod castle attended to the chimes emanating from another patient's room. When the floating caregiver arrived (to provide coverage for her break), she was directed to G'ma's room, where she found my mother on the ground. I don't kno...

I didn't want to go. I wanted to read the T Jefferson Parker police procedural I downloaded from the library's website. I wanted to swim, or go to the gym, or even watch professional football.  I just didn't want to go over to the pod castle. I'm still raw from thinking about what used to be and what is now. But I was also hungry for soft serve ice cream and the pod castle was concerned about a swelling on G'ma's jaw so I bundled my nerves in swaddling clothes and drove over to see my mom.  Going over to the grandparents on Sunday afternoon is an old routine.  Perhaps I was channeling the angst that came from sitting in the backseat, listening to G'ma's "Two hands on the wheel!!"  as Daddooooo sang along to opera and pointed out the varieties of airplanes flying overhead. I had two miles not twenty to drive, and only one old woman to see. It was totally different. There would be no one to play canasta with me, no one to make me a hamburger...

I love my brother. The phone rang this afternoon just as I settled down for the last third of Lee Child's latest Jack Reacher novel. The pace was quickening, the bad guys were dropping like flies, and the phone was ringing.  I was all full of grrr  and leave me alone  until caller id told me that Brother was there. I knew before I said "Hello!" that he and his girls were driving from their new home at the end of the Red Line to their synagogue much closer to town. Talking to me on their way to Kol Nidre was a good use of time.  It was good for my soul, as well. There aren't a lot of people who want to hear me talk about my mother.  I write about it here because I know that you can click away if you find me annoying or self-indulgent or too morose for where you want to be right now. There's no harm and no foul; I don't know and you don't have to worry about offending me. I get it off my chest, and I feel better. Healing through blogging; it's the...

Rosh HaShana comes early this year.  I took the cards over to the pod castle for G'ma to inscribe. We go through the motions, my mother and I, even as they remind us of what is lost. We do it because we've always done it and because it needs to be done and because others expect it and because it used to be fun. Used to be. Like almost everything involving my mother, used to be  rears its ugly head.  It taunts me with what was, as G'ma's formerly perfect printing wavered on the page. It took her some time to adjust the pressure of nib to paper.  Her initial attempts were faint, the repairs just made things worse. My heart aches for her grandchildren, who have been watching her decline through these obligatory notes and cards, watching her signature wobble where once it was definitive, like the swirl and the dot below it. Some of the cards had the decoration . For some of them, she was too tired to write  Dear, let alone a name following the salutation, even t...

At least she understood the word incontinent . That's about as happy as I can be about the scene in G'ma's apartment last Thursday. The physical therapist was discharging her from home care.  She's walking better than she has in years, lifting her quads and bending her ankles and using her entire leg in the process. The PT has instructed the staff and watched as they perform the two sets of exercises my two-months-past-her-broken-leg-90-year-old mother does every day.  She complains. She moans. She cajoles.  She complies. The therapy is working.  She's made enough progress to continue on her own. Thus, the creation of a discharge summary and a plan. The PT, G'ma, and I sat in her apartment and reviewed her systems, inside and out.  Heart, lungs, activities of daily living... all were considered.  " Can she brush her own hair?" set my short hairs on edge... she  was sitting right there and was as aggravated as I was. " Of course I can brush m...

I was sad yesterday.  I typed to you before I'd been back to visit G'ma in the pod castle.  I was trying to prolong the vacation feeling, the I can't do anything about it so why worry -ness of the past two weeks.  But I was home and G'ma was down the road instead of across the country and there was work to be done. I try to avoid guilt about not visiting her sooner. I delude myself into thinking it's too long for me to walk in the heat from the parking lot to her apartment.... but I'm having a hard time just typing that with a straight face. The truth is she doesn't know if I come every day or every month. Sometimes she has my name, sometimes she is merely recognizing a familiar face. I try to concentrate on the smile in her eyes and not the loss in mine. It's hard to watch her fade away.  Even worse, it's boring. It used to be that I would talk and she would listen.  I liked to talk.  She liked me.  It worked. I always knew that she found me i...

The phone rang at 10pm. I knew it would be bad news before I lifted the receiver; Caller ID told me that the pod castle was calling.  There was nothing I wanted to hear from them at that hour of the night.  I was right. "Your mom fell." My heart dropped. The plane to Chicago and BlogHer and Little Cuter was leaving in fifteen hours, and I planned to be on it no matter what.  "How long was she on the floor?" I asked.  "Is she bleeding?  Have you called the doctor? "Not long. No. No. She's fine.  We just wanted to tell you.  We found her in her chair.  She doesn't remember a thing." This is where it starts to get fuzzy for me.  G'ma was not bruised.  She was on her chair.  She, of course, was unable to tell the staff what had happened.  I wondered how they knew she had fallen. No one was able to give me an answer.  I'm not suggesting that they didn't give me a good answer, I'm saying that they didn't have an a...

It's been seven weeks since the phone rang with the news that G'ma had fallen and couldn't get up. The story just continues to make waves in our lives.  Usually, they are gentle swells.  Yesterday, I was in the middle of a tsunami. The original home health care company discharged her.  They didn't tell me.  They just did it.  Apparently, when there are no skilled nursing needs, they cancel the connection.  The fact that her physical therapy was still an issue to be addressed didn't register on their radar.  She was done.  That was the reason the PT never returned to the pod-castle.  She wasn't on the list. I didn't bother arguing with them.  If they don't want the case (and the dollars that come with it) they don't need it.  Her primary care physician (PCP.... because he reappears in this saga and I don't want to type it all out over and over again) was happy to send a referral to another agency.  They were happy to send a ...

G'ma doesn't remember that she broke her leg last week.  She has no cast, so there's not a visual cue to start her memory churning.  She is not in pain when she's not moving, which is most of the time, so there's not a physical cue to remind her.  She doesn't notice that anything is different at all. The problem is, she is not allowed to bear weight on that limb for five more weeks.  She can touch her toe to the ground for symmetry and balance, but 99% of her body weight must be borne by her left leg.  Should she put too much pressure on the damage leg, the plate and screws securing it to her soft bones will not hold. She has to grow more bone over the hardware. That thought has not made it into the permanent memory bank. The orange discoloration from the betadine washes has faded.  The bandage covering the incision on her thigh is comfortable.  There's no reason to fill her with sorrow as she contemplates the failure of yet another body part. ...

Hospitals are great places to be if you are ill or broken.  If you are trying to fix levels of medication in an elderly body, they might not be the perfect venue.  No one sleeps in a hospital; there is too much noise, too many lights, too many finger sticks at 4am.  No one eats well in a hospital either, even when the food is as delicious as that at UAMC. Though the transition was difficult, everyone is glad that G'ma is back at the pod-castle.  She needs rest and TLC.  Both are found in abundance there. ***** There ought to be a list, handed to every family member upon admission.  It should tell you how to solve basic problems.  What if the nurse is unnecessarily testy? Who will make the discharge decision?  How will that information be communicated to the staff and the family?  Who makes the phone call to arrange transportation home? Where do you park when you're picking up the dischargee?  Where should compliments be sent? Facts...

She's home. Snuggled under the blanket she crewel worked herself, a full bowl of Kisses at her elbow, the tv turned to NCIS because we both agree that Mark Harmon is worth looking at, she is as comfortable as she's going to get. The staff who've been transferred to another pod-castle within the complex stopped by to hug her and welcome her back. They were worried about her, they were glad to see her up and smiling, they were teary and grateful and G'ma was overwhelmed. She's not a woman who enjoys being the center of attention. Compliments make her uncomfortable.  She recognized none of the huggers and smilers but it didn't make any difference.  She was overwhelmed by the emotion, by the warmth, by the love. I couldn't ask for more. Well, I could, but I wouldn't get it. I've adjusted my expectations to conform to our reality.   No Unhappy Days  has been my motto since G'ma moved to the desert's heat from New Jersey's ice storms....