Been working on piecing a mid-sized Village Quilt in between calls from my sister’s hospice team, her friends, and the nursing home where she now resides. A whirlwind. Way too much to relate. Nobody knows how long she has, and a recent rally confuses things, but she can no longer be alone.
It’s been pretty day by day here. Someday I’ll write publicly about more of this. How to describe it all? Eleven February trips to Salem, now with meds and my mouth guard on board. Just in case.
Last week after the determination was made that she could not be alone, I spent a horrible night on her floor. Not a clean sheet or blanket in the place on account of her incontinence. The smell of urine distracting. Her insistence that the TV stay on all night, not to be argued with.
K was in Moscow and arrangements had to be cobbled together for the dog. More stress. (Finn seems to have survived his first night alone in the house by hiring the dog walker for an extra walk at 8 pm.)
Fifteen firefighters assisted my sister in three days — five on Sunday to help her up from a fall; five on Tuesday morning to get her into her new hospital bed; five on Wednesday to get her onto a gurney to take her to a nursing home.
I knew I could never spend another night like that one. By then it was clear that she needed more that 24/7 care because there would be many moments in a day requiring three or four people. In the end, that made the decision easy.
On that awful night, she demanded to get out of bed at two a.m. Really argued. Picture me standing at the bedside, worried that someone who weighs almost three times what I weigh would shove herself forward and take us both out.
Highest of praise for the hospice team! They had a bed for her at a facility within 12 hours.
The hospice team is amazing. They’re skilled caregivers who are trained to address the needs of the whole family. After nine years of being rendered invisible in the face of my sister’s need and pathology, it’s disorienting. “Wait, what? You’re asking how I’m doing?” One of many signs that shows how difficult it all has been.
My sister says she is not scared. Believes that there are way worse things here on earth than could ever be in hell. Any anyway, she believes everyone goes to heaven. Never mind the inconsistencies — she has some kind of faith and that’s a good thing.
Today, she talked about rehab and wanted to know if I’d given all her things away already?
A process.
Her cat is here. Poor thing hides under C’s bed or in the laundry closet. The dog wants to kill her and would, given half a chance. No joke. But, one thing at a time. And anyway, it doesn’t feel right to give the little tuxedo away while my sister still lives.
Meanwhile, the news is a tempest.
Tomorrow my standing writing date will be a TV viewing date instead. Michael Cohen. I’ve made cookies.
First up: Educated by 
A Mormon with eyes on the Rapture, Westover’s father did construction and ran a scrap yard in the hills of Idaho. Probably bi-polar, his mania was fueled by panic about being ready for the end of the world. His frenetic pace created a wanton disregard for the basic safety of his off-spring. Limbs nearly severed. Rebar thrown like lethal spears. Avoidable explosions. The hair-raising mishaps in the scrap yard were truly horrifying.
Patchwork. The stalwart metaphor for bringing disparate pieces together. This is Deb Lacativa cloth and one of my felt houses. I hand-pieced the house’s surround this time instead of what I usually do, which is to plunk the house onto a surface and stitch it down. This made the parts more coherent, but it was awkward to do.
If it had been pouring rain, I’d have thought this Korean BBQ restaurant, Quarters, a scene straight out of Blade Runner. This was LA, after all.
Small plates offered up greens, sprouts, scallion pancakes, pickled veggies, and all manner of hot sauces. It was exotic and delicious.
This was September, 2018. I guess I’m still catching up with myself. This might have been my favorite dining experience while traveling last year, although the taco truck a few blocks away was a close second. And the place at the base of Mt. Hood was really good, too.
I abandoned the line to go over and watch the pork carver — a young man skilled with a knife. I loved to watch him flip pineapple chips into the open taco waiting in his other hand. Such precision! Such drama! Poor K was left in line, the lanky guy continuing on without missing a beat. Like I said, admirable. We ended up giving him and a few other homeless men money that trip, but it felt useless, maybe? They were everywhere. Chapped feet. Carts with sleeping bags. Those haunted faces. A problem so much bigger than emptying one’s wallet on a Saturday night.
Five months is a long time, sometimes. This five months was. The ongoing onslaught of news, turning weeks into months and months into years. My sister’s decline. D’s success with EMT training. A break up.
Hither, thither and yon. Now I’m 62. Three birthday meals are plenty! Earrings, a bracelet, a length of shibori ribbon, and a felted scarf. One memoir. One phone call. A check. Tulips and chocolate. I’d say it was a banner year.
Oh, and I’m to order a dress and pair of shoes, courtesy of my sister. She insists. The shoes are pointy and printed with flowers. I love them. The dress is faux patchwork, but not in a cheesy way.
In other news, life pounds along. Hospital bed delivered today. New aide seems to be working out. Need for weekend help noted. Bank account blocked and funds transferred to new account. (“YOU GAVE THEM YOUR ROUTING NUMBER, TOO?!”) Online predators promising computer help. She didn’t know. We’re all of us, I think, at one time or another so desperate for tech help, we might do something equally stupid.
The misstep had me at Salem Five Bank this morning, power of attorney in hand. I was desperate to pee. Angel the clerk suggested that I go to CVS — contacting legal would take a minute anyhow. But lo! CVS toilet out of order. I think I yelped. Nearly dropped the popsicles and antihistamines gathered for my sister. We’re talking two cups of coffee. Almost an hour in the car. A bad stretch of bumpy road approaching Essex Street. On my way back to Salem Five, I looked around for possible places to relieve myself. A dirty but tall snow bank. A dumpster screened by a fence. I’ve peed in less dignified places.