Caring For Mary (2 page)

I didn’t know my grandparents on my mother’s side. We lived far away, and she barely spoke of them to me. She was not particularly close to her siblings. She went thirty years without speaking to her brother. When her favorite sister died, Mom reunited with Phil, bringing him to her neck of the woods as though they had never separated. When I stated the obvious, she denied ever having less than love for him. Putting the separation on him was a lie; my mother cut people out of her life all the time for the smallest reasons. My father was an only child. I knew his parents. My parental grandmother cared for me when I was little, and I loved her. My mother did not!

My teen years were tough on my mother and me. I was savvy about Mother’s hypocritical ways—and they drove me mad. She would not reason on matters with me. She stuck out her tongue, spoke to me sarcastically, and told me that no matter how much I knew, she would always know more than I did! When I asked her why, she said, “I am a chief and you are an Indian—that’s why!”

On a peaceful day, I said, “Please don’t use the chief’s Indians on me, Mom; it drives me crazy.”

She couldn’t wait till the next upheaval to lance me with her infamous line. It seemed more powerful because she knew it lit me up. That was how she handled her troubled fifteen-year-old daughter! I became a storm cloud of resentment and anger. I married at seventeen with the clear realization that I had to get away from her or I would be harmed for life
.
I had two children in two years; smart huh?

She was not a bad mother—she simply didn’t much care for me. I have said all of my adult life that she loved me but didn’t like me. Her heart was my sister’s possession—in spite of Tizzy’s years of drug abuse, wild adventures, school mayhem, and constant disobedience toward my parents. She said that I had sibling rivalry and jealously toward my younger sister. Was that a joke? Denial is not a river in Egypt.

My older brother—the product of my mother’s first union—lived with us. She was widowed when Frank was six months old. My brother is autistic. My mother always has been embarrassed by Frank’s illness as though it was her personal failing. Regarding the fruit of
her
womb, I did no wrong. I was simply her flesh—never wrong, never unlikable. The world was always dirty and ignorant, as they were not her flesh. That truth was always undone when I would do a small thing such as not compliment her looks, food, house, art, or books; disagree with her; or do anything that she found important that I didn’t. It was the way of a narcissist.

Things soon started to go
seriously off track for us
.
My eldest was in college. My next was serving in the army, and three boys were home bouncing off the walls. Popi had become very ill and died after a year of hospitals and ill-fated surgeries. We were all bereft. She quit her job, Tiz moved away, and our declining patience started to show. Mom and I had two rows that had caused us not to speak for several weeks. She will be going to her grave silent to those who have crossed her. Both times this happened between us, Popi begged me to call and ask forgiveness. I did, but the resentment was palpable. Now our natural buffer and peacemaker was dead! One nasty, angry daughter and one woman with whom you can
never
disagree!

That’s how it has been since my father’s passing. We just don’t get along. We love—but do not like—each other.

In 2008, Mom started to forget things here and there. The forgetfulness was infuriating, and—being the hardhead that I am—it took me much time to realize that this was not directed at me. It took two years for us to realize that she was gone. Dementia is easy to hide if the one with the malady has all her life hidden her true self from the world. Tiz came home and we cleaned Mom’s house of years of insane gathering. We researched insurance companies’ rules and responsibilities. There was no way I would ever put my mother in a nursing home. I had promised her that many times over the years. Tiz and I were told by my mother’s doctor that we were ridiculous for not putting her in an institution. My husband thought Nick could help us. I hope it is clear that Mom and I could never survive together. He has been a gift from God.

My mother no longer remembers me; she thinks I am a friend of Nick’s. They relocated to Florida, where it is cheaper to live. Their house is beautiful, the weather is warm, and the love given to my mom is immeasurable.

I believe in the Resurrection promised in the Bible by our King Jesus Christ. I know that when I meet my parents again—and they are restored and our imperfections gone—that I will be able to look them both in the eyes and say I did my best. I did what Jehovah required of me. I provided the best I could for my mom.

Getting Started
 

M
eds may well be the hardest part of the journey because they are critical in my case. Timing is everything, and the daily routine cannot be ignored.

Mary suffers from colitis, diverticulitis, high blood pressure, and anxiety. She is also sensitive to nearly everything she eats. Learning to keep the meds down was a trick in itself.

I eventually figured out that all forms of fiber upset her stomach. This would cause her to vomit her meds or have diarrhea. It was a protein and starch diet for her. Since her favorite snack was anything with sugar, I had to hunt down something sweet that wouldn’t pack the pounds on her. Flavored mini rice cakes were the way to go. They are low in everything, and she thinks of them as a treat.

Mary also suffers from an insidious cough. This cough is so wet it sounds like pneumonia. The few times we made the trek to the hospital, I had to assure the doctors that her left lung always manifested like pneumonia and to ignore it. This was not easy to do as a layman. I finally got her primary physician to make a note in her chart that she
had a bad left lung.

I discovered that she was allergic to dairy products. When she stopped eating them, the cough slowly abated. We had to wait till she was unable to care for herself to get her to stop ice cream—a dietary staple. Speaking of staples, because she could not have roughage, she had stool softeners. More joy there.

Nicholas: Ah, honey, you’re awake.

Mary: I don’t know what I’m doing.

Nicholas: I could tell by the two skirts, two blouses, and one nightgown you put on over your other nightgown. Did you change your undies?

Mary: I think so.

Nicholas: Then where are your dirty ones?

Mary: I don’t know.

Nicholas (after some in-depth search): Could this be them under your pillow?

Mary liked to dress herself because at one time she was the nattiest of her legal secretary sect. She prided herself on looking pretty. We ended up simplifying things: four lovely cold-weather dresses for when she was going somewhere nice, four lightweight mid-calf-length summer skirts with many mix-and-match lightweight tops. Even a colorblind goober like me was easily positioned to keep her as fetching as an eighty-seven-year-old could be. She was cold all the time, but that
is its own chapter.

Lesson Learned:
Know your charge’s meds, the food they like, and routine, routine, routine.

The Poop Chronicles
 

T
he primary problem with Mary dressing herself isn’t the multiple outfits as much as it is the hide-and-seek with dirty underwear. We switched over to adult diapers but called them undies to save a little face—but a little more on this later. It is hard to do when someone is doing the following:

Nicholas (through closed bathroom door): How we doing, honey?

Mary: Not so good, dear.

Nicholas (coming in through a poorly locked door): Let’s see what’s going on, shall we?

Mary: Oh, honey, I’m so embarrassed. I’m nearly naked.

Nicholas: You’re embarrassed about being nearly naked, not about getting poop all over the floor, your feet, slippers, and hands?

Mary: You be nice to me.

Nicholas: I am being nice. I could toss you in the tub headfirst but instead will allow you to disrobe like a lady and step in so we can clean you up.

Mary: Thank you, honey.

Ah, stool softeners. Where do you think we’d be today without them? Probably cleaning up little brown marbles instead of entire bathrooms. It wasn’t that simple, though—we had some tweaking to do to stop the following from ever happening again.

Mary (emerging from her room): Honey, I have a problem.

Nicholas: I can see that. Your jammies are covered with poop from waist to foot. What happened—couldn’t make it to the toilet?

Mary: I don’t know, dear. I just don’t feel good.

Nicholas: Let’s get you on the toilet. (We strip off the jammies—but not quite in time to make a clean landing. Diarrhea squirts everywhere.)

Mary: What’s going on?

Nicholas: You’ve got the squirts, honey.

Mary: I don’t think I like it.

Nicholas: That makes two of us, darling.

She pooped for a while, got in the shower, squirted a little more, and finally stopped. Before we continue—a note about the jammies. Mary had a penchant for removing her undies when going to bed, peeing or pooping the bed, and not knowing why she was filthy in the morning. Beth came up with the button-up footed jammies with the feet cut out. Mary had a problem with the buttons so the undies stayed intact all night, making less of a mess for
moi
.

Back to the softeners. The one extreme was explosive diarrhea. Here’s the other:

Mary: Honey, there’s something wrong.

Nicholas: Yes, dear. There is blood everywhere.

Mary: Why do you think that is?

Nicholas: My guess is you tried to poop and had a blowout. Have you tried pooping?

Mary (embarrassed): Yes.

Nicholas: And?

Mary: I did a little, but the blood came out.

Nicholas: Are you done pooping?

Mary: I think so.

Nicholas: Okay, let’s get in the tub.

Mary: I don’t want to take a shower.

Nicholas: You’re not going to take a shower. You’re going to de-poopify yourself.

Mary: Okay, dear.

Yes, occasionally you have to use harsh language like “de-poopify” to drive your point home. I wish this were the end of the Poop Chronicles, but there is another issue that needs to be addressed.

Nicholas (through the badly locked door): Honey, are you putting your hand in the toilet?

Mary: Don’t listen by the door.

Nicholas: I wasn’t listening. I was passing by and heard splashing. Are you putting your hand in the toilet?

Mary: No.

Nicholas (toilet crashing again): Then why is your hand wet? Why is there poop all over your hand and under your nails?

Mary: You be nice to me.

Nicholas: How exactly am I not being nice to you?

Mary: You shouldn’t be asking me such questions.

Nicholas: And you shouldn’t be lying to me. Are you done?

Mary: Not quite.

Nicholas: Then, honey, use the baby wipes next to the toilet.

Mary: Okay.

Nicholas (just outside the door): Now how we doing, honey?

Mary: Better, I guess. (splash)

Nicholas (enter SWAT guy): Honey, why are you still using your hand?

Mary: I’m not.

Nicholas: But, honey, you are. Look at your hand.

Mary: You can’t tell me what to do.

Nicholas: Okay, clean up when you’re done.

You know, folks, there’s only so much you can do—unless you want to do it yourself. I have placed those darned wipes in her hand, on her lap, and made her swear—but it’s still all about the hand. Eventually I just cleaned up after she cleaned up and had to accept that.

I don’t know where the disconnect happened, but—somewhere along the line—this tiny, pretentious Italian woman convinced herself that wiping her butt with dirty toilet water was okay.

Lesson Learned:
Like with everything else in life, choose your battles.

Bathing
 

B
eth had a theory that old people were somehow afraid of the shower. I am inclined to agree since both Mary and Popi hated to get in there. Moving to Florida helped with Popi a lot because he loved the in-ground pool and was in it several times a week. Mary hated being wet to
any
degree. Whether it was her hands, her face, her sleeve, or a finger, she had to dry it off right away. Getting her in the shower was always
le petite
ordeal. And there are several parts to the event.

Nicholas: Okay, honey, let’s take our shower.

Mary: I don’t need a shower.

Nicholas: Your dirty little poopy pants beg to disagree.

Mary: They’re not that bad.

Nicholas: Honey, the fact that you have to say “they’re not that bad” indicates they are bad enough to warrant a shower. Let’s go.

Mary: But I’m so naked.

Nicholas: Would you rather bathe in your clothes?

Mary (exasperatedly): No.

Nicholas: So, problem solved.

Mary: Oh, honey, it’s cold in here.

Nicholas: Honey, its eighty-two degrees. It’s not cold—
you’re
cold.

Mary: The water is too hot … that’s better

Nicholas: Let’s make sure we wash everything, okay?

Mary: I need a washcloth.

Nicholas: No washcloth, honey—you scrub too hard with it. How are we making out?

Mary: Okay, I guess.

Nicholas: Did you wash your popo and your coocoo?

Mary: Yes. I think I’m done. Oh, honey, it’s cold in here.

Nicholas: It’s 175 degrees in here, honey. Dry your upper body so I can get your shirts on you.

Mary: My upper body?

Nicholas: Yes, honey. No, honey. Your legs are not part of your upper body—your hair, face, neck, arms, tummy, chest,
boobies,
and sides.

Mary: But my back is wet.

Nicholas: That’s why I’m here, honey. Lift your arms.

Mary: I’m cold.

Nicholas: I know, sweetie. Let’s get your shirts on you.