mama_kestrel

Okay, this is take 5 on figuring out how to start this. That's how amorphous and generally scattered my thoughts are.

It's done. Mom is now a permanent resident at the facility she was getting rehab in. I finally framed the choice very simply: I could have her home but unsafe, or safe but not at home. The two did not coincide any longer.

She's been moved to a different, larger room, with a view out over the large park that borders the nursing home property. The social services director promised that she would do her best to get mom a room with a good view, and she did. This is an excellent place, probably the best in the area. They don't take outside Medicaid placements; the only way this could happen is the way that it did, with mom coming in for rehab and reaching a plateau before she regained her previous level of function. She could walk, but only with a spotter in addition to her walker, and she simply can't stand up on her own. It takes two people to get her to her feet, and there's only one of me. Making the house wheelchair accessible would have taken months and a full downstairs remodel. The 1953 doorways and halls simply aren't wide enough.

I talk to her almost every day, and her best friend calls every other day. But that isn't always enough to keep her oriented. She forgot that our son's fiancée lives with us, and has for a couple of years now, though as my beloved husband pointed out, at least she remembers who his fiancée is.

And I'm slowly wrapping my head around it. I don't have to be on high alert all the time. I'm not solely, or even primarily, responsible for her care and well-being any more. I'm still her advocate. The folks at the facility have spoken to me so often they know my voice when I call. On the one hand, I feel like I ought to have tried harder to find a way to make bringing her home work. But on the other hand, it's a relief. My head knows that doesn't make me a bad daughter. My heart is proving more difficult to convince.

Warning: this is an unabashed whinge.

( Read more... )

I have, as I've commented before, an interesting relationship with electronics. Computers generally get along with me, probably because they aren't in close physical contact with me for extended periods. I can't wear watches since they became almost universally battery-operated, because I fry batteries that are supposed to last a year in a matter of weeks. I usually end up replacing a cell phone while it's still under warranty because it forgets how to do some necessary function. Even restaurant shake machines tend to clog or otherwise malfunction if I try to order a shake. (I consider that the universe's way of reminding me that no matter how good the shake tastes, it will cause issues about 2 hours after I drink it. My husband, seeing that particular manifestation of my anti-tech field, started calling me "shake-machine bane.")

Now I can add a computer controlled visual field testing machine. My ophthalmologist wants to check that. She tried a month ago, only to find that the computer had crashed, and no test was possible. So we rescheduled for today, and off I went. The machine was working this morning, but when I sat down? The control display flashed and then turned sideways. The tech got the manual and fixed that. Then half the screen vanished. She rebooted. Screen comes back. I get my head into the device...and the "start" button disappears. Long story short, they called the repair person while I was still there, and will call me as soon as the thing is fixed.

I didn't tell them I had minimal faith in it staying fixed once I return. Too much explanation. My husband suggests I buy the visual field machine a shake. I've heard worse ideas.

Today and tomorrow, dialecticdreamer is holding her "Feathering the Nest" prompt call. Give her a prompt, get a ficlet. This is all about comfort reading. Details are on her page.

Go and play; it's nice in there!

Last week my son walked into my room and woke me up. He'd been on FacePlant, and seen something that put him in shock. I'd never seen such an expression on his face.

He had just read that a good friend of ours had chosen to end her own life.

I hugged him hard until he was ready to let go, and told him to come talk to me when he was ready. That is another story, not to be told here.

Other friends called or messaged, asking if I was okay. "What a shock" wrote one. "Such a horrible surprise" said another. But it wasn't. Not to me. The only shock was that it was that day, and no surprise at all.

The friend in question had been my housemate in college. Many such friendships drift apart over the years after, but we didn't. I knew what was going on in her life. I knew how bleak her perception of the world had become.

She had tried to suicide in July or August 2019, posting her farewell note on FacePlant; no fewer than 8 of her friends called the local P.D. to check on her; a couple called her husband to let him know. One friend, who was local, drove over when no one answered the phone. We remembered her as she had been, and thought - hoped - that if we could hold that mirror up for her long enough, she might be able to see herself again. It wasn't that I didn't think she had every right to make that choice; she did. (That was not a popular position to take.) But I, at least, hoped that with time and support, she might find herself again.

A bunch of us went to OVFF (filk con) in October, and another friend cornered me, worried about her. I told her that we were going to lose N.; that what she had taken from the experience of being stopped wasn't that we cared, but that she had made mistakes in executing her plan. N was at the con, but didn't sing - didn't even bring her guitar along. One of her songs was up for an award; she insisted that the only reason anyone would have voted for it was pity. I sat and talked to her for several hours, as did other people, but it wasn't enough. Nothing anyone else could give her was enough. To me, at least it was horrifyingly obvious.

Her funeral was yesterday. I went; it was a four hour drive and required a night in a hotel, which I hadn't done since Covid hit. I've been insanely cautious since this first started, but this trip was necessary. My almost Daughter-in-Law took care of my mom so that I could go. The funeral was outside, but social distance didn't really happen; we were masked, but needed the comfort of each other. N, who thought she had few friends, had 100 people come to her funeral, some from as far away as California. She had thought her husband was ashamed of her; the first thing he said, trying to talk about her, was that it was easy to be proud of her. She was an author, a musician, a baking instructor - the list goes on. Before depression took hold of her, she was full of joy and a wicked sense of humor.

I had been concerned because I knew what the Orthodox attitude toward suicide had been in 1930. My grandfather's oldest sister had killed herself at age 19. She was not buried in the Jewish cemetery; she was buried outside the fence, to one side of the gate. Because she had taken her own life, she was not buried in consecrated ground. There was and is no marker for her. I never saw my grandfather say kaddish for her. I had to push to get anyone to tell me her name; essentially, she was erased. I didn't want that for N.

But the rabbi addressed the issue squarely, saying that a person who commits a sin under coercion is automatically forgiven, and that coercion can be internal in the form of intolerable pain. As far as he was concerned, N had been driven to that point, not that she had chosen to go there. So she was buried with full ritual, inside the cemetery. I was grateful. He did a good job with the whole funeral, but that in particular was well done.

The friend I'd spoken to at OVFF came up to me as soon as I arrived, burying her (masked) face in my shoulder. "You were right" she said. "It sucks that you were right." And it does.

I've been debating whether to say anything about what's going on in my life, but I could use some good thoughts for my mom.

She's developed bullous pemphigoid. (Do not google unless you have a strong stomach; the images are horrible.) It's an autoimmune disorder that generally appears in people over 80. (She's 86.) Basically what's happening is that her immune system is attacking the layer of cells that attach the epidermis to the dermis. That causes blisters. Lots and lots of blisters. Worse yet, she's on blood thinners - something about the 3 previous strokes. They can treat to prevent the strokes, or treat the skin condition with extended heavy duty steroids, but not both at once. And she itches. I put prescription cortisone cream all over her torso and arms twice daily, with antibiotic ointment on the open areas where the blisters have broken, and it barely makes a dent. So she's miserable.

That would be enough, but I'm also watching her get weaker by the day, and no one knows exactly why. She's barely eating, even when I make her favorite treats. She used to be able to stand for the few minutes treatment and wound care takes; now she can't, and I have to do it in stages. I was helping her get her pants on today; I pulled them up to her hips but couldn't get them all the way up. She almost fell over pulling them up the last 6 inches; I had to support her while she did it. She's probably sleeping 16 hours a day.

Her doctors are doing their best. We have a weekly video appointment with the family doc. She sees the dermatologist every 2 weeks, and they're wonderful about answering questions I ask between times. If she needs something in the morning, I generally have it by afternoon. I don't know how seriously they'd take her if she were trying to speak for herself, but they certainly take me seriously, and that's all I really need.

When this first turned up, I went and looked up everything I could get my hands on, including articles my physician daughter had to access for me. All of them said that the mortality rate for this was pretty high. I can see where there's a huge danger of sepsis, and I've been watching the open areas for infection like a hawk. But the numbers for sepsis and the overall mortality numbers don't add up. I'm starting to wonder if that isn't because even when there's no infection, already elderly patients simply get worn out. I suppose I'll get to find that out over the next while. So if anyone has energy to spare for Mom? I'd appreciate it. She needs more than I have to give.

Oyez, oyez! (Oy, vey!) dialecticdreamer is hosting Magpie Monday over on her blog., with a theme of "getting better, slowly. That can mean any number of things - recovering from injury or illness, learning a new skill, or whatever else your imagination can come up with. Leave her a prompt, get a ficlet. Boost signal, get a longer ficlet. It's always interesting to see how she'll interpret what you come up with. Go thou and have fun!

This house was built in stages. Stage one was a little 2 bedroom bungalow built in 1953, the year my parents got married. On a slab, no basement, no attic storage space. I don't know if it had a garage. If it did, it was probably detached and small, like the garages of the houses nearby that are still little 2 or 3 bedroom bungalows. Stage 2 remodeled the bungalow thoroughly. The erstwhile living room became the dining room, a half bath went in, the kitchen was expanded to three times its original size, a large living room with fireplace added on, leading into an attached 2 car garage with laundry area. I know it had the laundry area because the connections and faucets are still there. It probably doubled the square footage of the house. The owners planned ahead, too; they put in the necessary support beams for a second floor when the first floor was expanded. For stage 3 they went up, because they couldn't go back any further. They turned the two original bedrooms into one big master suite with its own bath, added an upstairs family room, three more bedrooms (one of which is essentially a second master bedroom) and another full bath. It's a perfect multi-generational home, which is why we bought it. The original part of the house is still one story; the second floor addition is all above the living room and garage.

One of the results of that construction history is that it has 2 complete, separate heating and air systems. (It also has separate water heaters.) One (relatively small) covers the single story part of the house. The other covers the 2 story part of the house.

January 2019 the furnace for the larger part of the house flat-out died. We replaced it and did the AC at the same time, as they'd have had to yank the furnace to put the AC unit in had we done it later. Better all at once, but still - ouch! I thought at the time that probably meant that the other system's days were numbered, as they were the same age, about 30 years old.

Yep. Yesterday I turned on our AC, as it was about 80 F here and I melt easily. It hummed nicely. This afternoon the compressor is no longer humming. It started making the most horrible metal-on-metal clank and scrape sounds. I thought the neighbors were power-washing their house. They thought I was using power tools. Then they went to take out the garbage, realized what it actually was, and called to tell me. Merciful heavens, what a racket! So the AC is turned off (which I'd have been doing anyway; the temperature is dropping again), and tomorrow I call the repair company. I am fully expecting to be told the thing has died, and that we need to replace it. Not looking forward to it, but expecting it. At least those folks are considered essential, and can come out. And I will have masks to hand them, if they don't bring their own.

I'm not ignoring anyone. I've read my messages. I've also managed to get sick. NOT Covid, nobody need panic, but pretty much all I can do right now is sleep. I just wish I knew how I caught something when none of us have left the house in the last three weeks!

And Kestrel's head is going back under her wing....

I should be baking for a family reunion that's supposed to take place in Chicago weekend after next. I have my hotel reservations, but somehow baking hasn't happened. I can't make it "real in my head" that this event is happening, which makes baking for it feel like a pointless exercise. There is indeed discussion of cancelling in light of Covid-19; the people who are organizing will make that call sometime in the next week. So there may be a good reason I can't bring it into focus, but meanwhile the rational part of my brain is most unhappy at the lack of action.

The fiber fair I attend annually the first weekend in April, also in Chicago, has already been cancelled. I knew who the organizers were the first time I went and saw the banner saying "YarnCon". While this will undoubtedly save me money (I need more yarn like a hole in the head), I'm concerned for the vendors for whom this is a huge part of their annual income. The big problem is that yarn, like fabric, is one of those things which it's impossible to judge without touching. I can see that it's pretty, but is it soft? Squishy? Smooth or fluffy? Does it set off my contact allergies? I thought for years that I was allergic to wool; had the rashes from trying to wear it to prove it. Turns out I'm allergic to the processing chemicals used in commercial wool. Artisan wool yarn, for the most part, I do just fine with. When the farmer that raised the sheep is also the one who shears it, cleans the wool, spins it and dyes it, I can wear it. Mind you, it's expensive, so I make smaller projects than I otherwise would. I do not grudge the price at all, though. There's a lot of labor and skill in it.

And I envy those of my friends who can put a movie on and watch it all the way through in one sitting. I can't. Mom invariably comes in and needs something, or doesn't notice that there is sound coming from the television and starts talking or turns on one of her YouTube painting tutorials. Moving to another room isn't really a viable option either. I usually pause and take care of the first couple of things, but after that I just give up for that moment. It's very like having a small child who wants/needs attention. The inability to claim a block of uninterrupted time for any purpose is frustrating, but it's not an aspect of care-giving that I've ever seen mentioned. Maybe because it's so small, it feels petty to be grouchy about it. But petty or not, I'm grumpy about it.

My daughter-in-law-to-be got her driver's license last week, tried to take my son out for dinner to celebrate, and promptly misjudged an oncoming driver's speed, started to turn left, and totaled the car. Thank all deities, everyone in both cars got out and walked away under their own power. The cars did their jobs; they protected the contents. Front and passenger side airbags deployed, the front axle was broken, and something broke the windshield - but what broke the glass was not my son's head, and aside from some spectacular bruises, the kids themselves are fine. I'd called to get her added to our insurance as soon as she passed her test. She wrecked the car five hours later. That's got to be some kind of record.

And the dishes are calling my name. I suppose I'd better answer.