Talking About Death

The other day, I was emptying crumbs from our toaster, when it occurred to me I’d never shown either of my kids how to do this simple chore. My 17-year-old daughter was in the dining room at the time, so I carried the toaster in there to demonstrate, while it was fresh on my mind.

“I have something I need to show you,” I told her. “In case I die, you need to know how to do this.” I then gave a brief lesson on sliding in and out the crumb tray, with emphasis on the importance of replacing it as soon as it’s emptied. My son was in the living room, and I gave a repeat performance for him.

When I was finished, my daughter said, “That’s it? If you die, that’s what we need to know?”

I considered for a minute and answered, “I should probably show you how to check the oil level in the car, too. And the tire pressure. Also, there’s a drip pan under the refrigerator.”

I don’t expect to die any time soon, but you never can tell. I have a friend who has stage IV cancer. She has a son not much older than my daughter. This brings home to me that parents aren’t always around to see their children move on all the way to adulthood. Her son seems incredibly responsible for his age. But every parent I know questions whether she/he has done enough to prepare their offspring for the realities of life. Every so often, a detail comes to my attention – the crumb tray in the toaster – and I think, “What else have I forgotten to teach them?”Of course, they’ll need to know about house and car maintenance even if I live to be 120. But I have death on my mind lately.

So does my mom, it seems. She’s starting to talk about it. I try my best to listen and let her say whatever she feels the need to say. Ever practical, she speaks of it the same way I do – “I want to make sure So-and-So gets the turquoise necklace…Do you have the paperwork on my pre-paid funeral?…” as if she wants to make sure she’s going to die in a responsible manner. She doesn’t usually go on at length.

I find it tempting to say something dismissive, like “Who knows, you might outlive me!” But what mother wants to think about that. She’s already lost two children. She doesn’t want to outlive any more of us. Or I could say, “But I’m planning your 100th birthday party!” But I don’t, because we both know she won’t live to 100. I want her to. I wish I could believe she’d live for another decade or more. It’s not beyond reason to hope she has three or four more years. But it could be shorter. Her heart is not in good shape, and she has lupus. I remember my grandmother speaking of her own death as she become older and more feeble. I believe it’s a need people have as they see their time approaching; they need the acknowledgment of their reality. I don’t know if I understand it, but I do believe this, because I’ve seen it enough times now – people who can see the end in sight need to be able to say so.

Five years ago, at my dad’s funeral, I had a terrible moment. My parents both come from large families, so I had several aunts and uncles present. As I looked at them all gathered together in the pews, I saw my future flash before me, and it was line of funerals. Indeed, it is coming to pass. I attend more funerals than I used to. The youngest of my dad’s siblings is the only one left of her original birth family. One of my mom’s sisters passed away last year. Their generation is going. Approximately once a week, I dream that my mother dies while I’m with her. Then I wake up and check my phone for messages, and lie awake for a while waiting, until it doesn’t ring for long enough that I can say to myself, “Okay, not ESP, only anxiety.”

I’m having to make a place in my life for death. But what I’ve come to see, since my terrible revelation at my dad’s funeral, is the balance. There are more funerals. Death is happening all around all of the time. But it is part of life. The rest of life still happens. I’m still planting petunias in my yard. My kids are still creating groan-worthy puns, strawberries in season still taste wonderful, my friend is still living, my mom is still living. All of us here on Earth are both living and dying. Some are just getting to the dying part sooner than others. I get to speak with my mom every day. She finds things to enjoy each day – a bird magazine, her dessert, my son showing up at the nursing home to play the piano for her, the flowers people send on occasion.

Maybe there’s something she’s teaching me right now, something she wants to make sure I know. Maybe it’s this: death is going to happen in its own time. Face this truth and then keep living until you die. Maybe that’s it.

Another Driver in the House

My daughter turned 17 earlier this week, and obtained her driver’s license today. I hope this will be more of a relief than a worry to me. She’s not a wild kid. My worry would be more how she’d handle other stupid acts by others. But you have to let them out into the world at some point.

In fact, I pushed her a little. I’ve always tried to think of myself as a mom who didn’t try to rush my kids. Though I have had to give nudges now and then. But I figured forward progress was forward progress; they didn’t have to be fastest or first. At times it’s seemed as if I were pulling one or the other of the kids along by baby steps. But now that I’ve taken on a lot of responsibility for my mom, I feel more as if I’ve abandoned baby steps and I’m giving them each a big shove on the back toward independence, because I need to.

I need my daughter to drive to take over some errands from me, or at least to get herself where she needs to go on occasion without pulling me away from something else. I hate to admit it, but my entire plan for getting my son home each day from summer school has been this: my daughter gets her driver’s license. I’m not sure what I would have done otherwise. His classes will let out during a time my husband and I are both at work.

I remember how nerve-wracking it was the first few times I rode shotgun after my daughter got her learner’s permit. At the time, I thought nothing could be much scarier. But now I know seeing her drive off by herself will cause me every bit as much anxiety.

It’ll be fine, I’m sure. After a while it will start to seem routine, her driving. And I’ll start to relax. Then it will be time for my son to get his permit…

Happy Everything

Today, we went to my Mom’s nursing home for a combined celebration of Mother’s Day (my mom and me) and two birthdays (my two kids.) My son is 14 years old today. My daughter will be 17 in two days. Looking for words that would fit on a cake, I settled for “Happy Everything.” And it’s how I feel right now.

Despite the pressures, stress, too-long to-do list, I want to celebrate this time while I have them all here. I see this as a transitional time in my life. Realistically, five years from now, my kids will likely be gone from home and my mom will no longer be living. I hope she will be, but it’s doubtful. Maybe I feel overwhelmed at times with all of their needs, but soon enough I’ll be empty nesting in a big way.

This is the first year in a long time – I can’t remember how long – I’ve been able to spend Mother’s Day with my own mom. And I get to celebrate the presence in my life of two other people I love more than the world.

Happy Everything!

Challenging Week

It’s been a challenging week. Events included having composed an entire 878 word blog post on Wednesday only to delete the whole thing accidentally before publishing it. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! There’s a reason Munch’s “Scream” painting goes for so much money.

On Monday, our van went into the shop for an investigation of the “service engine soon” message on the dash. It could have been worse. Any time I think the words “engine” and “auto shop” in the same sentence, I brace myself for $1,000 or more on the next credit card bill. But we got away with $330 this time.

Tuesday, I took leave from work to accompany my mom to an appointment with an ophthalmologist. Her primary care physician comes to the nursing home, but this appointment required transportation. As I’ve written before, I can’t take my mom on my own without help. Fortunately enough, the nursing home provides van transport for doctor’s appointments, and allows a family member to ride along. Highlights of Tuesday included a nurse forgetting my mom was about to leave and putting a laxative in her morning juice, the van driver taking us to the wrong clinic and leaving us there, requiring frantic phone calls and resulting in us showing up late at the correct place, filling out an intake form that was the equivalent of writing a 400-page biography, and (harking back to the laxative) three different visits to the clinic bathroom – an approximately ten-minute ordeal each time. I arrived at the nursing home at 8:20 a.m., and by the time I got back home after everything, it was right around 1:00. Here’s the lesson I took away from it. If you’re accompanying an elderly relative to a doctor’s appointment, clear your calendar for the entire day.

On Wednesday I was informed I did not receive the adjustment in my work hours I had requested. I had misinterpreted something my supervisor said to mean that it was likely to happen, so this was a disappointment. It’s not a huge tragedy, but the change would have made my life a little easier. Still, I’m glad to have a job.

On Thursday, I discovered my son is on the verge of flunking one of his classes, after the teacher finally posted weeks’ worth of scores, including many assignments that were never handed in. Six of his seven teachers are pretty organized and communicate in a timely manner. This one? Not so much. My kid has an auditory processing disorder, which means he spends his days trying to figure out how much of the conversation he missed. He can learn all of the material, no problem. But he often misses instructions, so doesn’t know what the assignment was. He also can’t listen and do something else at the same time – e.g. take notes. Plus, the inability to filter sounds is highly distracting, the practical effect being that he’s interrupted in his work about 10 times as often as I would be. He learns quickly, but works slowly. He has a 504 plan in place to address these issues, but I suspect this particular teacher is one who forgets to follow it. I check his grades on-line frequently, and in most classes I can pretty well help him catch up because I’ll know if he missed an assignment. But when nothing is posted forever, then suddenly 20 assignments, there’s no sorting it out.

Yesterday featured many emails and phone calls with the school, after I started out asking for a time he could meet with the teacher to make a plan for catching up. I offered to bring him in early, have him stay late, have him come to her class during his Study Hall time, whatever time would work for her. I know it’s dangerous to try to judge someone’s tone in email communication, but there was no mistaking the absolute anger in her response, which boiled down to her telling me he’s had all the time he needed and she didn’t have extra to spend on him. This is the part that’s hardest for me as a mom – seeing adults who become furious with my kid, convinced he’s being difficult on purpose, when he’s just really struggling. It strikes to the center of my heart and sends my mind to dark places of worry about his future. How will his bosses see him? Will his heart be broken by some girl who can’t understand? Yet, I have to do my best to maintain my composure and try to defuse the teacher bomb. In the end, I involved the counselor who is my son’s 504 case manager. Thank goodness for her. My kid’s going to stay late two days next week, making up work.

Meanwhile, I had the epiphany that this same teacher is the one he would have for the architecture class he requested next year, and maybe it wouldn’t be a good thing. He loves architecture, but…Today is the last day to change course requests for next school year. So add in a search through other course options and a long discussion with my son – who is now set to take “Introduction to Business” – and associated request change paperwork.

Six of his seven teachers this year have been okay, and that’s a good ratio. A couple I would even rate as stellar. One in particular seems to have a very good relationship with my son. I tell myself to remember this, it keeps my mind wide of the dark places.

And we have ants. But I’m dealing.

Breathing. Breathing. Breathing. Tomorrow’s another day. I’ve met this week’s challenges. I can meet next week’s. Ohm.

When the Sandwiching is Helpful

Were my kids completely grown and gone, I don’t know how I would have managed things last Friday. Sometimes, being in the sandwich generation means juggling priorities and trying to do too many things for too many people at the same time. Other times, it means you have a helpful teen on hand when you need one.

My daughter is 16, almost 17. She’s homeschooling this year, so her schedule is flexible. Good thing for all of us, as this meant she could go with me when I took my mom to get her new non-driver’s state ID. She moved here from another state, thus the need for a new photo ID. I both emailed and called the Missouri Department of Motor Vehicles in advance, desperate to find someone who would tell me of a way I could get my mother’s non-driver’s license without having to bring her in. There is no way.

So off we went, my daughter and I, to fetch my mom and take her to the driver’s license office. It took two people to help Mom into and out of the car. Then one person had to walk with her and her walker to make sure she didn’t lose her balance or her way, while the other carried everything. I accompanied, my daughter filled the role of pack-horse. She also ran ahead to open doors for us, and parked the car in a legitimate space after my mom was out right next to the door (our disability hang tag is in the works, but not here yet.)

So, yeah, having the teens still at home can ease the workload on occasion. The kids are all right.

Unexpected Collection

Here’s an unexpected side effect of being the primary contact for someone in a nursing home – I now have a collection of vases.

People keep sending my mom flowers. Which is lovely. It makes her room more pleasant and she knows people care.

But once the flowers are wilted, I’m left to take away the vase. I’m not sure what to do with them. I only need so many vases at home. I’m thinking I might cut some peonies from my yard once they’re bloomed and take a vase of them to the nurse’s station for the folks who take care of Mom. And the others…can go in a garage sale. Or something.

The Watchprint on My Face Might Mean Something

It turns out I can’t indefinitely survive on 6 hours or fewer of sleep per night. My body told me so today. In my desire to be a good mother, a good daughter, a good wife, a good worker, a good writer, a responsible homeowner, and someone who takes time for a modicum of self-care, without dropping the ball, I hit on a plan to get an acceptable percentage of my to-do list accomplished. Give up sleep. Not completely, mind you. I just…cut back. These are all things I want to do. But on occasion I have moments when I feel the horses are getting away from me and I’m not sure if I can hold on. Now I discover lack of sleep does not help you get a grip.

I work a split shift on Mondays – mornings and evenings. This afternoon, after getting off work and picking up my son from school, I came home with the idea I’d hop on the internet and find the forms for getting one of those disabled hang tags, so I can use it when I need to take my mom somewhere. I was sitting on the sofa, feet up, leaning my head on one arm, while I scrolled around on the trackpad with the other hand. Or so I thought, until I woke up 90 minutes later, drooling on the upholstery, with the imprint of my wristwatch embedded in my left cheek. By this time, I had to hurry to get ready for my second work shift. Nevertheless, I spent precious minutes in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to figure out how the erase the wristwatch impression from my face, eventually deciding I’d have to hope it faded on its own before any library patrons saw me close up.

I had a busy evening, and only a few times found a chance to worry about whether my face looked partially hole-punched or fret over the lack of progress on the hang tag. On the up side, I remembered what it felt like not to be tired. I could focus. I could find a greeting smile for my face without much dredging. I felt good. Not merely functional, but actually good. Wow! Sleep. I might have to try it more often.

The Battle of the Grandmas

My kids’ two grandmothers aren’t competitive with each other. In fact, my husband and I each believe we have the greatest mother-in-law ever. But secretly, as much as I love my mother-in-law (and I really do, I adore her), I harbor some competitive notions of wanting my kids to see my mom as being just as cool as their other grandma. I want to believe my family is interesting, too.

Here’s the thing. My mom was on the older end of the giving birth spectrum when I was born. My mother-in-law was pretty young when my husband was born. Also, my mother has had lupus for several years. My mother-in-law is not yet retired and, get this, owns a bowling alley. A bowling alley with a game room – air hockey, video games, the works. How could a visit to grandma be any cooler? My kids even get to go behind the scenes and watch the pin-setters work if they want to.

I tell the children about when my mom used to bowl. Okay, she never owned her own alley. But she owned her own shoes and ball. She was even on TV once, on “Bowling for Dollars.” However, they never witnessed it. To them, it’s as if I’m talking about a different person all together. I worry that their main memories of my mom will be ones of boredom, sitting by reading their books while I help her clip her nails.

She does try to take an interest in what’s important to them. She asks about their hobbies and what books they’re reading. But, it’s not as if she’s been able to entertain in any real way.

So I was very happy today when my 16-year-old daughter wanted to accompany me to the nursing home to visit her grandma. She took along pictures of her new pet – a hedgehog, and they had a great discussion about it. Score one for Team Maternal Grandma.

Legitimate?

Today I saw my mother’s birth certificate for the first time. She was born in Arkansas in the 1920s. Birth certificates from that time and place contain a lot of information: parents ages and occupations, how many previous children the mother has birthed, whether this was a single birth or twins or triplets. Oh, and a box that asks “Legitimate?” It was a great relief to discover my mother is a real, legitimate person, and not a fabrication of some sort.

Wowza! I’m trying to imagine the feelings I would have going through life with a birth certificate marked “Legitimate? – No.” Imagine producing this over and over throughout your life. Or being the mother who has to show up for school enrollment with her child registered officially for life as “not legitimate.” Ouch.

I suppose this is one of those things that was not so good about the good old days.

The Big Adventure

My birthday is today, but I celebrated yesterday. I dragged my husband and kids, plus my daughter’s bff, out to see “The Hunger Games.” This was followed by an ambitious plan to spring my mother from the nursing home for a couple of hours to go eat at IHOP.

I was excited to get to spend my birthday with her. I can’t remember the last time that happened. She seemed excited to be able to go out with us. Yet, I had a lot of fear, too. Unhelpful thoughts presented themselves again and again: “What if she falls? What if, while I’m responsible for her, I accidentally let her fall? What if she can’t get into our van? What if she can get in, but not out?” It’s like learning how to handle a baby. “What if I drop it?”

We took a step-stool, since it is a big step up into the van. This was useless. We eventually figured out the best way for Mom to get up into the seat was to turn around with her back to it, and kind of scooch up with my help. At one point, she did think she was going to fall, and called out. But I had her. It was a relief to realize I really had her and I was capable of making sure she didn’t fall in the process of getting seated. I kept a continual body check going during the entire process. For the second time, I found myself glad that I’ve put on a few pounds. (The first time was when I read that women who gain weight in their forties have lower rates of osteoporosis.) Even if my Mom had started to tilt out, she’d only fall against me, and she wouldn’t budge me. At this point, she weighs a slight 110 pounds or so. And I weigh…more than that.

So, it all worked. We got Mom into the van, out of the van, into the restaurant, and we had a birthday dinner – three generations of us. My kids came through, carrying my tote bag for me while I helped their grandma, stepping ahead to hold doors open, and other little helpful things.

By the time Mom was back to her room, I could tell she was pretty worn out. But she seemed very please, too, as was I. We did it! And she didn’t fall.