Mother’s Day, Two Ways

Today is Mother’s Day, 2014 (May 11- kind of early this year).  So much comes up whenever there is anything to do with moms and family.  I was put up for adoption at birth, though not at the wishes of my biological mother (by a long shot).  She was nearly 18 years old, but in the early 1960s, the ‘image’ of the family was one to be protected at all costs in most families, totally blowing off the wishes of the biological mother, AND biological father.  The fathers weren’t considered at all- his name isn’t even on my birth certificate, though I know much more about him now.

The mom who raised me, who I just call my ‘mom’ since she’s the one I knew the longest, and who raised me, died on March 13, 2003 after a brief illness (urosepsis that wasn’t treated properly at an ER near Phoenix, AZ).  She had become demented after radiation to her brain after a tumor was removed- that was the last cancer she had to deal with after breast, some suspicious pre-cancerous cells on the other breast, and lung metastasis.  She went through hell with cancer- and it didn’t kill her.  She survived cancer free for seventeen YEARS from the last cancer surgery when she died.

One of my favorite photos of my mom... Taken around 1988.

One of my favorite photos of my mom… Taken around 1988.

Our last Christmas, 2002... we had no idea she'd be gone less than 3 months later.

Our last Christmas, 2002… we had no idea she’d be gone less than 3 months later.

Cancer wasn’t the only thing my mom had to deal with, and that was much less emotionally painful than the death of two newborn sons about 2 years apart, by the time she was 26 years old.  She never got to see either of those babies.  They were a bit early from placental abruption (tearing away from the uterus – in her case, partially), and their lungs weren’t developed. Back in the late 1950s and early 1960s, they didn’t have NICUs, so it was sort of a crapshoot who lived and who died.  They both succumbed to hyaline membrane disease.  Now, they would have had an outstanding chance of survival, especially since they both weighed enough that they had no weight to gain in order to be sent home.  Their little lungs just didn’t work.   My mom wanted kids (so did my dad, but mom was the one who ‘needed’ a baby).  She was the oldest of four siblings, and she wanted the same. I ended up being an only child.

But the deaths of those two babies changed her, understandably so especially considering how infant deaths were handled back then.  She never saw them, never had photos, couldn’t go to their burials (which my young dad had to take care of on his own), and was basically told that it was in the past, don’t bother with it.  She was in the hospital for at least a week, so she was there as long as both of them lived- and never saw them. She was basically told to move on.  It was cruel.  She never forgot those boys.  It made bonding with me difficult for her, but I never doubted that she loved me.  My guess is that she didn’t want to get ‘too’ attached, should something happen to me, especially in my early years.  Later on, beginning when the adoption was finalized in August of 1964, she knew I couldn’t be taken from her, which helped.  But she still had a lot of grief that never was dealt with in a way that was of much help.  Things like that just weren’t considered  an ‘issue’.   And she hurt from those losses.  When I finally understood that, it helped me see her with much more compassion.

My mom did the best she could.  She returned to college and became an elementary school teacher.  Her students loved her, which confused me, since they saw a side of her I didn’t .  They weren’t a ‘risk’ to get close to- they went home every night, and she knew her relationship with them was just distant enough to allow for more displays of warmth and ‘teacher affection’.  Many of her students came to her visitation after she died, and still remembered her very fondly.  She and I had a strained relationship for many years.  I never doubted her love for me, and knew she wanted me. From the beginning, she read stories to me about how adopted kids are ‘chosen’, and how she and dad waited a long time to get me (about 2 years).

She and I had our worst battles when clothes shopping. There were some epic fights that dad learned to listen for the number of slams from the garage door when we got home. One meant one of us was mad, two meant he needed to lie low for a while, since we were both seething.  😮  I’ve never been a frilly girl.  I loved dolls and dollhouses, and also chasing frogs and turtles and climbing trees.  I was NOT cut out for fancy smocked dresses (Polly Flinder’s was her favorite brand), and much preferred shorts and t-shirts, and loathed anything ‘girly’.  My favorite dress as a kid had monkeys on it- no lace or smocking or bows.   But, she and dad made sure I had everything I needed, and then some.  I took all sorts of lessons (ballet, tap, tumbling, figure skating- my favorite, flute, piano, swimming, tennis, horseback riding- at camp), and I got to go to camp for a week every summer before 4th-11th grades (and later worked on summer staff there).  I went to day camps in the summer before then.  They exposed me to all sorts of art (which annoyed me- I much preferred the natural history and geology museum next to the local art museum, where I could look at rocks and fossils). They traveled extensively, and when it was appropriate (like being gone ON Christmas for the Hawaii trip, or when I was older and in my teens for the month in Europe, or traveling throughout the US), I went with them. On several trips, dad made sure that we saw historical and/or National  Park sites, as well as stuff that was just fun (the Olympic Ice Rink in Innsbruk, Austria, where Dorothy Hamill had won her gold medal the year before we were there- he had hoped I’d be able to skate during a public session, but they were doing lessons).

My mom drove me to Texas when  I moved there after getting my RN license in late 1985 (back in the days when they came by mail).  We had a GREAT time going down there.  Whenever she and dad visited, we had wonderful holidays together (usually they came at Christmas, but sometimes in the Spring- either going to or from their winters away from the cold Midwest).  I loved when they came.  The memories I have are mostly good, and as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become so much more aware at how much pain she must have had when those babies died.  She never had any image to remember them by- just that she had two babies that never got to come home.

My biological mother and I have a great relationship.  Out of respect for her wishes, I don’t post photos of her.  We had a brief connection back when I was 19 years old, but it turned out both of us needed some time to get it all figured out- suddenly connecting after 19 years of wondering about each other was hard.    Then we had many years of no contact, except via word through  an aunt and uncle, and cousins that I got to know during our initial contact and several months of letter writing.  She had wanted me.  Giving me up wasn’t her idea.  She went through a lot, and also had no image of me to ‘know’ after I was born.    We now talk about all of that stuff, and it’s been amazing to find out how much we’re alike in so many ways.  It’s been good to know where I came from, and where I get some of my personality traits and other characteristics.  While I was always accepted by my adoptive family, there’s a gap that can only be filled by knowing about origins- at least for me.  I understand myself a bit better by getting to know her.

It’s been awkward with all of the ‘labels’.  My mom is the one who raised me, yet without my biological mother, I wouldn’t exist.  I call her by her first name, or ‘bio-mom’ when writing.  When looking for Mother’s Day cards, this is the first year I’ve seen a ‘real’ one from Hallmark for birth-mothers. There are some  through some specialty online sites, which are fine- but it’s nice to be able to choose one… and one it was.  :/   They had one to ‘choose’ from.  I had to make a couple of adjustments, since adoptive situations aren’t one-size-fits-all.  And the ‘regular’ ones talk about years spent together from infancy on, and those aren’t appropriate.  For her, I’m her daughter- that’s the only term that’s appropriate.  For me, it’s a little more complicated.  But I’m so thankful for both of them.  I wish my mom could have met my biological mom.  She knew when we were writing when I was 19, and also wrote to her during that time.  But my mom died almost 7 years before my bio-mom and I reconnected.

When I was going through chemo for leukemia, I wrote to her- and wanted to give us a chance to reconnect should the leukemia stuff not go well.  I didn’t want her to hear that I’d been sick from someone else, especially since she’d already buried one son (I still have a very alive half-brother that I’ve met and had some contact with- he’s a hoot, and I really enjoy talking to him on some holidays, and whenever he is en route to see  his dad’s family – who have also ‘readopted’ me; there are also two half-brothers on my biological father’s side).  Turns out, it was the right time for both of us, and we have been in regular contact since then, sometimes spending 3-4 hours on a single phone call !  I love when she visits 🙂

I’ve been blessed.  I was wanted from before my birth, by two mothers. On the day I was born, my mom told my dad that she knew that ‘their’ baby had been born that day (this was in the day of closed adoptions, where there was never any contact with anyone in the biological family at all).   One was forced to give me up, and the other was doing her best to grieve the loss of two newborns of her own while becoming a mom to me.  One wondered about me for decades, while the other created memories for as long as she could.  I love them both.  One gave me life, and the other taught me how to live.  I was able to hug one throughout my childhood and until I was thirty-nine years old, and the other has been in my heart and thoughts since I was old enough to understand what it meant to be adopted- and now I have the personal relationship with her.

I’ll never know what it’s like to be a mom… but I have ( or had) two amazing women in my life in that role- however it’s described.

Advertisements

Remembering Peeps and Mom

Mom loved Peeps

Mom loved Peeps

This week will mark the 10th anniversary of my mom’s death.  It really was a miracle that she lived as long as she did, considering bilateral breast cancer (one side was actually ‘pre-cancerous’ but required a simple mastectomy, but the other side required a radical mastectomy), metastasis to her right lung, and metastasis to the right side of her brain.  Those are ‘just’ the cancer sites…she also had other cancer-related diagnoses including seizures that started well after her cancer treatment and dementia as a result of brain radiation.  The dementia was the hardest to watch. On March 13, 2003, she died after becoming septic from a urinary tract infection. She couldn’t verbalize symptoms very well, so dad didn’t know how sick she was until she began to have increased seizures and became unconscious during their winter away in Arizona. She had been ‘fine’ the day before, and had been with him at an art gallery.   Mismanagement (neglect) by the emergency room where she had been taken by ambulance (unconscious) took away any chance she may have had (they sent her home when she needed IV antibiotics- not pills and an elderly husband as her only caregiver more than 2000 miles from home)…but dad and I have to look at it this way: at least she didn’t end up in a facility not knowing anybody, and being impossible to care for at home. She survived 17 years after her last cancer diagnosis… I don’t know many people who have survived the all of the various cancers she had, especially back then.  If I remember right, her first breast cancer diagnosis was in 1981.  Things have changed a lot.

My mom and I were never all that close. For decades, I knew she loved me, but didn’t have a clue if she actually liked me. It was a hard way to grow up, especially when I was little.  As I got older (as an adult) and was able to imagine things from a point of view of someone in her situation (she had two newborn baby boys die within two weeks of their birth about 2 years apart  by the time she was about 25 years old), it made more sense that she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of being  vulnerable to more loss.  She was able to convey warmth to her students during the years she taught 2nd grade and later 4th grade and in the resource room at Rockford Christian Elementary School; they weren’t hers to lose; she could risk more of herself… but I never saw that degree of warmth.  I get it now.  She wanted me. She loved me. And she was terrified of losing me (confirmed by her mother).  It’s heartbreaking to look back at what she went through.  As a kid, I didn’t get it.  I just felt like she wanted me out of her way. I’m glad I was able to get past that as an adult, and feel compassion towards her.  She did the best she could most of the time.  I may not understand her reasons for some things, but I think most people do the best with what they are equipped to handle.  Add the loss of two newborns before her brain was even done growing, and more makes sense. That in and of itself would change her brain chemistry.

As mom’s dementia progressed, she had fewer and fewer things that she remembered and gave her some degree of pleasure. She watched the same movies over and over again, since she remembered them (and do NOT call  her while she was watching them, or she’d hang up on  you- something she’d never do in her ‘normal’ years).  She loved sweet stuff, which I’m told isn’t how she was when she was younger. I do remember her liking ‘Fifth Avenue’ candy bars when we went grocery shopping when I was a kid. She also was quite willing to take my Halloween candy leftovers (I didn’t like Baby Ruths, peanut butter taffy, or most marshmallow candy).  All I had to do was sort it, and give her my rejects- and she loved them.  During her dementia years, spice drops (gum drops) and Peeps were favorites. I made sure she had gum drops when she and dad visited me in Texas.

Peeps began making their marshmallow candies for holidays other than Easter, so I’d go to the store the day after holidays and buy mom a bunch of Peeps when they were half-price. They hardly weighed anything, so I’d mail them to her in Illinois from where I was in Texas.  She loved getting those ‘care packages’. Dad, however, was not all that amused by having to police them, since she’d eat them all at once if left alone with them.  This is the guy who would go all over town in July looking for pumpkin pie since mom thought it was Thanksgiving.  With the Peeps, he’d hear “I want some Peeps” multiple times a day until they were gone.  She remembered they were there…

Whenever I see Peeps, I think of her and the simple things that made her happy during her last several years.  As hard as it was to watch her slip away and become someone who was so unlike the ‘normal’ her, it was also so easy to make her happy.  I never felt I could do things ‘good enough’ as a kid- it may sound sappy, but I wanted to do something to make her happy when she had so little of her real self left.  For dad, it was hunting for pumpkin pie (and other goodies) during the off-season for whatever she had in her head that she had to have. For me, especially before I moved back home to help dad take care of her, it was gum drops when they visited, and Peeps to mail to her.  I don’t like Peeps at all.  But they do make me smile when I think of how happy they made her .  🙂

Peeps remind me of my mom

Peeps remind me of my mom

The Emotionally Damaged Parent

Watching TV news, and working as an RN for years in the mental health and recovery fields, it’s so apparent why familial abuse is cyclical.  Nobody knows any better. Nobody ‘grew up’ in a normal manner and completed developmental stages. They all end up stuck, confused, and in pain.  They then traumatize any offspring they have-  sometimes very unintentionally, but leaving behind another generation of damaged adults and more confused kids.  While they do the best they can, they cause mass devastation. Others just become cruel.  I’ve seen some horrendous families.

These parents can’t see things through their child’s eyes since they never completed developmental stages themselves.  When a child enters the ‘terrible twos’, a very necessary developmental stage, the stuck parent can’t cope because they’re still functioning on an emotionally childish level themselves. So the actual toddler gets the brunt of it, and never learns how to get its own needs met, since the parent needs the kid to meet unmet needs of their own.  The child becomes the nurturer, in an incredibly dysfunctional manner.  The parent can’t identify their child’s needs since their own needs weren’t met.  And they don’t know any better.  Or that there’s even a problem  (they have no other frame of reference). And they certainly can’t fix it on their own.

The wounds continue as the children learn to live without a functional parent.  Life becomes a matter of surviving and just getting through it.  Any sources of perceived love and care (no matter how horrendous or dysfunctional) become like beacons for these kids as they grow up.  And the cycle continues, since the child ends up being used by those with an agenda, who seek them out.  The lucky ones actually have functional adults step in and help them learn what is and isn’t healthy.  Others become statistics, or abusers.  And ‘parents’.

The more dysfunction and desperation I see on the news, the more I wonder how and when people became so damaged.  I don’t think the majority of people strategically set out to screw up their kids, but they manage to do a good job of it none the less.  And I wonder who hurt them.  And so on.  I can trace some deficits (perceived or real) that  go back to the flu epidemic in 1917 or 1918.  Orphans are abandoned souls, no matter how loving their assigned parents are. They then are clueless about bonding and attachment, since being vulnerable has only meant pain and loss in their child’s view of life.  Their kids then have to learn to function with the only tools THEY have, and so on.  Nobody meant to cause pain. Nobody meant to leave  a legacy of abandonment and dysfunction…but it’s still there and very real for those who were left with the aftermath.

It’s easier for me to forgive pain caused by developmental neglect and  loss than abusive behavior with no cause, or outright cruelty.

Dementia Wins By A Landslide !

I worked in various nursing homes during the years I worked as an RN, starting in 1985.  I worked as a ‘floor’ nurse, charge nurse, supervisor, and administrative (desk) nurse.  Nursing homes really are quite delightful places to work, and while nursing home nurses are often looked down upon by hospital nurses (I’ve done that kind of nursing too), the skill set required is extensive.  They have to have a bit of knowledge about all medical specialties (except obstetrics, though one gentleman did scream that he was giving birth to a calf in an emergent situation…my guess is that most people in a 3-4 block area knew of his distress; his doc felt that Haldol was a good ‘post-partum’ drug… I don’t like Haldol for the elderly; it was designed for schizophrenics- but it did quiet him down).  There are the medical issues that put people in nursing homes to begin with, and then there are those folks with dementia who can be so totally heartbreaking to watch…or a source of some humor. If we didn’t chuckle, we’d weep.  The following are from some decades ago… some of the rules were a bit ‘different’ back then, though nobody ever did anything to make the situation worse.

One woman I remember was very distinguished in her outward appearance. She was always ‘put together’ in how she dressed and in her appropriate greetings of people she met in the halls, but had no clue about hygiene or changing her clothes regularly.  Usually the certified nursing assistants (CNAs) could get almost every resident into the shower without too much hassle, but this lady was persistent in her refusal.  Nursing home residents have the right to be sloppy…when they are coherent enough to know the risk/benefit of their decisions.  When a green cloud follows them, and people fall like dominoes in their wake, something has to be done.  That’s when the administrative nurses have to jump in and figure something out.

The first thing to do was notify the family and get their permission to bathe Mrs. Cloud, even if she refused. They were the legal guardians since she couldn’t make decisions, so that wasn’t hard- they were thankful we were looking out for her (they were also out of town, so couldn’t be ‘hands-on’). The next thing to do was to figure out a plan.  The assistant director of nurses (ADON) and I were the ones who somehow got blessed with this task assignment, and thought we had a pretty good idea of how to get the job done. We got Mrs. Cloud into her private room, and carried on some generic, though tangential conversations as we got her overcoat off, and then talked about getting her clothes washed (that was usually less threatening than actually talking about showers up front).  OY.  We got the coat. We were doing pretty well with the dress, but getting down to her slip, and undies, we noticed that she had about 4 pairs of caked-on pantyhose. Each of those pantyhose required getting Mrs. Cloud back on her bed, ‘scootching’ the hose down, and then removing them…. x 4. Between each ‘scootch’, she’d bolt up and try to run off, so we’d have to get her seated again, then lying back on the bed so we could continue ‘scootching’.   The ADON and I were sweating by the time that was over.  The slip, bra, and undies were a piece of cake after the pantyhose circus.

So, we get Mrs. Cloud into her shower- after all, if we’re going to clean her clothes, why not get a nice warm shower (sounded like a good line)… she wasn’t happy, but went for it. We had the towels and washcloths ready. But…. oops. I forgot the body wash.  The  poor ADON was left wrangling Mrs. Cloud in the shower as I sped out of the room to find body wash.  I found what we needed, and we finished the shower from hell with no casualties.  A few minutes later, I saw Mrs. Cloud in the hallway, all fresh and sans cloud-o-funk, and she greeted me as if she’d never seen me before- very polite with a superficial smile. She remembered nothing. Crickets.

I also worked ‘the floor’ at night for a while.  One night, another confused little lady was wandering in a sort of frenzy, and was visibly tired. She had a sleeping pill ordered, so I offered her one. She wouldn’t take it.  I opened up the capsule, and mixed it with a tablespoon of orange juice in a one ounce plastic ‘shot glass’ medicine cup. I offered her a little nightcap, and she was so happy to take it.  I had poured some plain orange juice to get rid of any funky taste in her mouth, and she looked at me- dead serious- and said “Oh, Honey- I can only have one”.  She traipsed off to bed and finally got some sleep.

Another night, I was doing my routine work on the 11-7 shift, and one of the CNAs comes flying up the hallway off  one of the ‘pods’ (a grouping of rooms), calling my name as if she’d just witnessed Jack the Ripper field dressing a dozen deer in the back room.   I immediately went racing down to meet her, and follow her to the room in ‘distress’.  I stopped cold when I saw the elderly gentleman (also confused as all get out) sitting completely naked, bolt upright in his bed, grinning from ear to ear with his sheets and blankets all over the place. He was ‘splashing’ the gel from his gel mattress (as much as someone can splash something with the consistency of applesauce).  He had managed to puncture the mattress (used to protect skin), and had that gunk all over the place. It was hysterical.  I didn’t want to laugh at him, but it was hard to maintain anybody’s dignity at that moment. He was having a ball !  We got him cleaned up, and my only comment to the CNA was the need to differentiate between something that is life-threatening and something that is an inconvenience, but essentially harmless.  We didn’t need blood curdling screams in the middle of the night for a little  gunk on the floor (well, OK, it was a lot of gunk).

We also had a  hoarder.  The facility towels and washcloths, junk- didn’t matter. And she was possessive.  Anybody who went to clear out the stuff for laundry to rewash had to have someone else ‘stand lookout’, or the poor ‘lone’ retriever would be yelled at for a good 3-5 mintues, until the hoarder forgot why she was mad. One afternoon, one of the activity aides found a family of mice (mama and babies….LOTS of babies) living in a leftover popcorn bag (from movie and popcorn day), and a cake in a plastic bakery container that was so old that nobody could figure out the original flavor and/or color.

One of my favorite little ladies was superficially appropriate, but 2-3 minutes into a conversation there was no doubt that some bulbs were dimming. She was generally cheerful, and had a buddy she hung out with. She also was not fond of showers or combing her hair (think Einstein plugged in to a household outlet), but would let me check her skin weekly (per required protocols everyone got weekly skin checks- head to toe). The CNAs and I got into a routine of doing the skin checks in the shower room, and since I needed to see ALL of her skin, she’d agree for the CNAs to ‘hold’ her clothing…funny how the shower would get turned on, and she’d get nice and clean- she was always very agreeable once she felt the warm water. One day before getting showered, she walked past one of the mirrors, and saw herself. She literally gasped loudly and stepped back from her own reflection… she looked at me and asked about a hairbrush.  At least she still knew it was her own reflection- some lost that.

Nursing homes get bad reputations, but there are so many nice ones. I had the chance to work at two that I really liked, each for about 2.5 years.  The residents become like extended family, and some of their families also became part of the daily routine.  I’ve worked with CNAs who have been at the same facility for over 30 years…when offered promotions, they refused, not wanting to leave ‘their’ people. ❤  I’m incredibly thankful for the coworkers and residents I met when I was working at those facilities. 🙂

The Why of Loss

I remember when a dear friend of mine died unexpectedly a few years ago, I couldn’t get past the question ‘why?’.  She had been through several complications and surgeries from a knee replacement, coupled with her longterm steroid use for rheumatoid arthritis.  Her muscles, tendons, and tissues were weakened by those steroids that she had to have in order to treat the arthritis.  When she was found dead one morning on her daughter and son-in-law’s floor, I couldn’t comprehend it. I had talked to her the night before, and she sounded great!

I had talked to her nearly daily since she’d moved in with them in another state, to be closer to her grandkids (she was so excited!). I had talked to her daily from each of the rehab facilities she had been in following the various surgeries.  She wanted a nurse’s input regarding some of what was going on, or for me to explain how things work in nursing and rehab facilities (one of which was a kinda creepy). She had done well during the various phases of her surgeries for the knee issues, until another complication set in. When I talked to her the night before she died, she asked me to call her the morning, as she’d be at home alone. She was perfectly safe doing that even with her cast. She was someone who just got it done. But she said she’d feel better if she knew someone was going to check on her- so I told her “no problem”.

When I called several times that next morning, and got a busy signal, I knew something was wrong. The house phone had more than one line. One line should be open.  A few hours later, her daughter called and confirmed what I already knew in my gut. She was gone.  It had apparently been very sudden, as she was next to the bed.  I couldn’t grasp it.  It still bugs me sometimes, but I understand that she didn’t suffer.  She’d been through so much.  At least the end wasn’t painful, like the years of rheumatoid arthritis had been.  I still miss her like crazy; we’d been neighbors, and while we hadn’t known each other for that many years, we had near daily contact during the last eighteen months or so.

When my mom got sick during her winter with my dad in Arizona, I was livid at the treatment she got (or didn’t get). The emergency room in Sun City West had blown her off. She had been brought in by ambulance, unconscious after a seizure- and they couldn’t get blood samples to find out if she had some sort of systemic infection (sepsis)- but they got an IV in. Most competent ERs get the blood from the IV site before they hook it up to fluids (if fluids are started- which they were). They got a urine specimen, that showed a bad urinary tract infection, which along with the altered level of consciousness should have screamed urosepsis (when the bladder infection gets so bad it gets into the bloodstream) and the need for admission to ICU for IV antibiotics.  That is SO basic, and yet it was ignored. She was sent home with my dad on antibiotic pills.  She was semi-conscious and they sent her home on pills (the home they were renting).  It took three people to get her into the car on the hospital end- they didn’t care how she got out of the car at home….with my 71 year old father as her only caretaker.  He found some friends to help, but he shouldn’t have been in that position. Period.

My take on the whole Arizona ER situation is that they saw my mom as some disposable dementia patient who had a ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ request IF she was to the point of needing resuscitation. But her heart hadn’t stopped. She had a treatable problem.  She had been with my dad to an art museum the day before. She still enjoyed things, even if just for the moment- but in the eyes of those medical ‘professionals’ the hospital people, she wasn’t worth the time. The hospital had been full; several people were waiting in the ER for a room. But the greater Phoenix area has many, many hospitals. A competent ER doctor would have sent her to another hospital, and that would have been appropriate. Instead, my dad had to make arrangements to fly her back to Chicago  after a few days of those antibiotic pills (crushed in applesauce) to make her just well enough to fly. When I went to help get her off of the airplane, the flight attendant told me that dad had to hold mom’s head up for most of the flight back. He’d left his car in the parking lot of Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix, and flew with what he had on his back. The original plan was for me to pick her up with a family friend on this end of things, and dad drive the three days back. But the airlines wisely required that dad fly with her.

It’s a good thing that dad was with her, since he never would have made it back from Phoenix before she died. She was admitted to the hospital as soon as we got into town from O’Hare (airport near Chicago- for those outside of the US), and was dead within 48 hours.  Gone. I’ll never know if she would have had a chance IF the hospital in Arizona had done the right thing.  They took that away from us.  But, she also didn’t end up getting even more demented and lying in a nursing home, not knowing anybody.  I’d moved back from Texas just 3 1/2 months earlier to make sure she stayed out of a nursing home as long as it was physically possible for me to help dad keep her at home… and then she was dead.

I think about a 90+ year old lady who had been admitted to a nursing home I had just started working at in Texas. She had developed  kidney failure after a severe bleed in her gastrointestinal (gut) tract. The blood loss was so bad that her kidneys didn’t get enough blood to keep them functioning. The family decided that she was not going to get dialysis- the only thing that would keep her alive. She was admitted to the nursing home not knowing her own name or why she was there. This was a lady who had been living on her own, in her own house, doing her own yard work, etc.

Her life had changed in one single day. The aftereffects of that day lasted the rest of her 34 days. She got to the nursing home 17 days after the bleeding started. She left the nursing home a couple of weeks after that, following continued deterioration, and readmission to the hospital (and a physician who didn’t return calls to nursing homes; he was a problem).  Without dialysis, her body couldn’t even get stable. Her legs leaked fluid from the loss of proteins in her system, causing pools on the floor under her wheelchair, for the brief periods of time she tolerated being up. And her skin became fragile, and ‘broken’. The really sad part of that lady’s story is that her family decided that they’d like to profit from her death, and held the nursing home (four of us who worked there) responsible- even though they were the ones who refused the dialysis (and I understand why they made that decision- it would have been a miserable existence for someone who didn’t understand why it was happening- and getting a shunt into her blood vessels would have been a nightmare of torn vessels from the low protein levels). The doctor was never named in the lawsuit; he also didn’t help our defense attorney (provided by the corporation that owned the nursing home).

I was one of the people sued for wrongful death. To a nurse, that’s like saying I killed her. The lawyers had absolutely NO interest in the truth, or even the entire story- they just wanted some way to make money. Period. I felt like I was being accused of murder. I took care of that woman the best way I could; she was dying when she got there.  There was division  in the family about whether or not to sue- and nobody ever visited or called when I was on duty during the day, so I never even met the person who initiated the lawsuit.  What that lawsuit did was erase most of what made that woman who she was– an independent elderly woman who was amazingly strong and intelligent, and reduced her to a lawsuit.  The lawyers eventually settled, which angered me. I was ready to go to court. After a grueling seven (7) hour deposition, I wanted to see it through. But lawsuits don’t work that way- they just destroy people on one side, and issue a paycheck to someone on the other side (and their lawyers).  When there is some evidence of absolute negligence or malpractice, that’s one thing. When someone dies because their body breaks down, and someone wants to blame someone for it, that’s something else. 😦

Lousy things happen. Sometimes, there is some nice explanation, and it’s somewhat expected, even though it still leaves a sense of shock and deep, deep loss.  With each of the three examples above, I have to look at one thing: at least it wasn’t worse.  My friend could have ended up in a nursing home for life dependent on people to help her with basic mobility, her mind intact- that would have crushed her independent spirit.  My mom could have also ended up in a nursing home, oblivious to anybody or anything around her for years– at least she still recognized people up until 36 hours before she died. And dad and I were both with her- he wasn’t on the road, and I wasn’t stuck here waiting for both of  them to be able to get here, unable to have those last days with her.  With the lady in the nursing home, well, her situation was pretty bad all the way around. And it was made worse by the displaced grief and anger of at least one family member,  and questionable intra-family dynamics. She will always be associated with ‘the lawsuit’– not a sweet lady who had been changed by tragic and unpredictable physical disease.

I can’t pretend to understand why God allows some things to happen. I can understand why things fall apart from a medical standpoint. When one thing is going on, it’s usually pretty straightforward. When there are complications and coexisting problems, that makes it easier to understand in my head, though my heart has trouble catching up. I do know that in God’s timing and purpose, all things work together for good.  That doesn’t take the pain away, but it does help me realize that there is a much bigger frame of reference for things than my human brain can comprehend.  God has it under control- and He’s with me when I do or don’t understand why some things happen.  Sometimes it’s just so hard not to want to be able to make sense of it all….and some things just don’t make sense.  Except to God.

Forgiveness

It’s not about the other guy. It’s not about the person who has caused pain. It doesn’t mean that ‘presto’, everything is OK about what happened.  It doesn’t mean you condone anything that happened to you. It doesn’t mean you will ever have that person in your life. It doesn’t mean you go on as if nothing happened.  It doesn’t mean that you have to deny your feelings about what they did. It doesn’t happen overnight. It doesn’t mean you have to do it perfectly all at once.

Forgiveness means you don’t let that person continue to run your life through frequent thoughts about them.   It means that you let go of wanting more revenge. It means you let God have the final say in how that person is judged.  It is an act of obedience as described in Matthew 7 (Bible). It’s about the relationship you have with God, not the perpetrator.  It means that you can turn over the feeling that the perpetrator stole your life.

Forgiveness is not a feeling- it is an action and choice.  The feelings come later. Forgiveness takes the person who hurt you, and moves them out of the forefront of your life. Forgiveness allows you to move forward.  It takes the painful events and people and puts them where they belong…in the past.  🙂

But first, have you forgiven yourself for anything you’ve done to impede your life? 

The Little Things That Made Her Her…

My mom died in March 2003.  She had survived cancer multiple times (breast x 2, lung, brain).  She got through surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiation.  And lived 17 years longer than her last cancer diagnosis.  What was worse than all of that was the dementia caused by the radiation to her brain.  It sucked the life out of her one cell at a time.  For over ten years.

When dad was going through her clothing to decide what was going to be donated to charity thrift stores, he had me come over to be sure there wasn’t anything I wanted.  I was fairly certain I could go on with life not owning her socks. There were very few items I wanted- the Christmas sweater she wore so much when I first moved back, and some goofy shoelaces she got at the San Diego Zoo.  That was pretty much it. In her ‘normal’ state, she never would have worn goofy shoelaces.  She could be a bit on the prissy side, and only pricey name brand shoes with the shoelaces they came with would do.

Dad and I were getting to the end of the stuff he wanted to go through, and we came across a rather dull shoebox.  I opened the lid, and that’s when I lost it.  Inside, her  hairbrush and make-up case (still with the make-up she hadn’t worn for years in it) were like a time capsule.  Dad did a good job of keeping her clean and dressed, but in mom’s ‘normal’ days, she had herself put together  from head to toe.  Her hair was perfect, and she always had make-up on in just the right amount.  I couldn’t let go of that make-up case or hairbrush.

Some of the things mom did when she was demented were SO unlike her.  She had always been so mannerly and socially proper.  With the dementia, she was clueless. She’d munch on the shrimp ring at holiday events as if it were for one person- HER !  When she’d get done on the bedside commode, she didn’t wash her hands unless she was told to and given the supplies. She had no problem immediately reaching  for the gumdrop jar I kept for her when she and dad visited. If  dad couldn’t get to her fast enough,  she’d be happily munching on gumdrops.  She was generous however, and would offer those gumdrops to me after her unwashed hands had been wandering through them.  “No thanks, Mom- I’m good.  You can have them…”.  I’m so glad she didn’t know how far she’d sunk.  It would have finished her.  The disease was making a mockery of her former self.

She never left her bedroom (with adjacent bathroom) in the morning without putting on her make-up and doing her hair the way she wanted it to look.  I don’t remember her ever having breakfast in her robe. She was always dressed and ‘made up’.

I’ve still got those personal things in that shoebox, along with assorted sympathy cards and things from the memorial service.   I never had any real use for them, but they represented what she’d been like.  They gave me back a piece of who she was before dementia took one piece of her at a time, over a year at  a time until she no longer was who she had been.  In many ways, the mom I knew was never going to leave that box.  So I had to keep it.