Category Archives: caregiving.

Piecing, falling, tidying

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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.

More to figure out.

There’s always more to figure out. This week: a meeting with my sister’s team. In spite of strenuous suggestions from me, no weekend help materialized. K and I went up yesterday. Tidied. Tended. Tried to help N into her new bed (failed). Paid a guy in the building to bring up her Sunday Times (yeah!)

But she was alone today. Not answering the phone.

There are seven reasons my sister might not answer the phone:

1. She’s on the phone, 2. She’s dropped it and can’t pick it up, 3. She’s neglected to put it back on its base and drained the battery, 4. She’s asleep, 5. She’s busy in kitchen or bathroom, 6. She’s fallen and can’t get up, 7. She’s dead.

For years, her failure to answer the phone has produced annoyance laced with mild panic. Voice mail or messaging problematic, for some reason. Once after two days (during a much busier era when I couldn’t just dash up there), I called the police.

This morning after four attempts over two hours, I was really worried. Debating whether to head up there and when.

And then, I got word.

It was #6. She’d fallen and couldn’t get up. Lifeline called 911. Ambulance guys arrived (again). Helped her up. Helped her back into her chair.

Sigh.

Remarkably enough, her sense of humor is intact. She tripped on a cat bowl and managed to, as she put it, “get Kibble up my ass.”

Somehow, the Times ended up on her bed during the tumult of rescue (yeah!)

With all this happening, no wonder I like the control that tidying up offers. This weekend, I tackled socks. Though I originally resisted Kondo’s advice on sock storage, I went with it and guess what? Folding IS better than rolling. I offer you a before and after.

Felonious intent

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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.

Back at the counter, I asked Angel again. “Please? So I don’t have to pee behind the snow bank?” I used the word ‘mercy,’ but didn’t think to tie it to her name.

Angel was having none of it. She said, “The problem is we’d have to walk past the vault.”

Does comedy improve bladder function? Or heighten patience? Because I was suddenly fine.

Picture it: me, in a dusty black down coat that drapes to my ankles. A head of grey hair. Newly 62. So short my eyes are nearly level with Angel’s name plaque.

There must’ve been felonious intent written all over me, right?

All at once, I could imagine it. The most devious of heist planners sending someone precisely like me to plead for use of the toilet, playing the old lady card, just to gain access to the vault!

Reflection

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How long before I realize that it makes me truly happy to feed the birds?

How long before I act as though kindness mattered above all else?

How long before I realize that I don’t need (or even want) most of my belongings?

How long before I fully recognize that working on a miniature scale is right for me?


How long until I feel that I have a right to the workings of my imagination, no matter how the cultural dialogue is unfolding (though ignoring the dialogue is impermissable)?

What if I could act as if everything was happening, not according to plan per se, but in its right and true time? In other words, what if all delinquencies were forgiven or rendered irrelevant? How liberating a thought!

** A huge thanks to all the recent lovely and thoughtful comments. Thank you. It really means a lot to me. Thank you, again.

How it goes

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Ever have a day when everything changes, but nothing does, really?

It was cold when I drove K to the train at 6:30 this morning and still cold when I headed up to Salem an hour later. A desperate call. Abandoned coffee.

Two nurses showed up. First, the usual business of taking vitals and checking in. They know my sister. They know me.

But then, for the third time in five weeks the question arose: should my sister go to the hospital?

She didn’t feel well, was sleepy and lethargic. Breathing labored. Wanted to know if I was wearing a tuxedo.

The talk went ’round. Her leg would need antibiotics and if she stayed home, she would need more care. A lot more care. Time to switch to hospice.

She said ‘no’ to the hospital. She signed the pink form: Do not resuscitate. Do not intubate. No C-pap or IV nutrition. No admission to a hospital. No dialysis.

Now my sister was chatty and engaged, her relief palpable. The change in her attitude made me think she’d made the right decision and perhaps that it was overdue.

Later, yet another capable nurse arrived to explain how the new care plan would work. I ran to Stop and Shop for drugs and lunch.

I drove home in silence.

Most likely I’ll tag this post ‘private’ in the near future, but it helps to put it down and to share briefly.

Friday before the snow

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My sister is cheered. The hospital turkey burger was delicious. They’ve dropped talk of rehab. Maybe a Monday release?

I’m relieved too. The earlier call had been spiked with overheard hostility. Taking on the entire staff, she was, refusing PT, objecting to turkey with no mayo.

I boarded the cat yesterday after a full morning of cleaning my sister’s apartment. Maddy the Tuxedo is in the very building where we adopted Jack all those years ago, poor little ballsy Jack whose first act as a family member was to piss all over my elder son’s ankle. At the time it seemed a bit of an outrage. Now I wonder if he wasn’t marking C as his own.

Dog people — what do you make of that?

A pewter sky portends snow. They’re saying some amount, then freezing rain. I’m wishing I’d wrapped our arbor vitae. Maybe tomorrow? I could use yards and yards of fabric from my stash, making the precaution double as a ‘fabric installation’. Then again, I might do nothing.

Meanwhile, I have friends to thank for getting through what at times feels like an ordeal. Thank you.

In closing let me say, I think I finally believe the twitter prognosticators who say the shoe is about to drop. What an avalanche of bad news for the poor fucking fool at the top!