Thinking about all this... Stuff.

People make a lot of assumptions about my life. Most folks don't ask questions about why I am living with my parents or what kind of tasks I have taken on since moving back. They don't ask how I feel or if I am stressed out. They assume that I am busy and that my stress level is maxed out but they are wrong. I do what everyone else does to maintain a home, whether they live alone or with a spouse or significant other or with their children. I clean. I cook. I work in the yard and maintain a garden.

My parents are not yet in a place where they need help bathing or getting dressed or eating. They even do the stairs alone most of the time. But my mom's Alzheimer's has reached a stage in which she struggles to make decisions. It is time-consuming and stressful FOR HER to decide what to wear and what to eat and to remember if she already took a bath or took her pills or ate breakfast. And my dad is not very mobile. He uses a walker. He basically moves from his chair in the family room to a spot on the couch in the living room to his "puzzle room" where he watches sports and puts together puzzles. So I am here to do the day to day. It is different than living alone in my own house but I am no busier than I was before. Maybe people say they know how busy I am as an excuse for no longer asking me to hang out or go out on the weekends. And that's fine. My home is priority right now. That and walking my mean dog. :)

While my to do list is not much different than "before," my worries are very different. Every morning I get up and check on my parents. I worry that one day I will wake up and one of them will have died. That might sound morbid but that's what I worry about. I worry that they will fall down the steps or up the steps or that my mom will not make it to the bathroom in time when she is out in public. I worry that something will happen to my dad and that I will have to get help with my mom. And, I worry that something will happen to my mom and that my dad will slip into an oblivion of sadness. I worry about whether or not they are eating enough or eating well. And on the rare occasion that I do go out, I know they are sitting at home eating cheese and crackers and that makes me feel terrible.

I also worry that I will eventually end up alone, never having found a life-long love, never having had or adopted children, never having found the kind of happinesses that I dreamed about growing up. I worry that I won't be able to handle whatever comes next and I know that I don't want to handle it alone. I worry that when I am in their place, there will be nobody to take care of me. But honestly, that is the LEAST of my worries.

This is a pretty lonely life. I don't regret it now and I never will. I do miss having more personal space and shelves for all of my books and I miss having lots of friends. I miss going out every weekend and catching a ball game a couple of times a week. I miss playing ball. I miss having the kind of job that involved lots of social interaction and celebrity sightings and parties and generally fun and talented people. I suppose all of that is my own fault. But there is not a lot of time to think about all of this... stuff. Because time is short. So I shove the sadness and the loneliness to the side so I can enjoy another Hallmark movie with mom or a baseball game (on TV) with dad or just a sit on the porch for an hour. This is what we are supposed to do, right? I just wish I would have done all the other things I was supposed to do first so I wasn't doing this by myself.

Father's Day

My dad wears many hats. He owns about 25 baseball caps. Five of them are random hats bought by his kids as souvenirs from various trips. The rest of them are hats representing the St. Louis Cardinals, Bass Pro Fishing, and St. Mary's High School (his alma mater). Others wear their hearts on their sleeves. My dad wears his on his head.

He has other interests, of course. He is crazy about my nephew, his only grand child (thanks to me-- the one who has yet to reproduce). If he could have my nephew around 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, he would. He doles out cash every time the kid walks in the door and says, "that's what grandpas are supposed to do." He also gets excited when my nephew calls or when my sister calls. He never used to be a phone guy.

My dad is also a music connoisseur. Most people don't know that he loves opera, big band, and most of all, The Beach Boys. His album collection is RIDICULOUS.

As dad gets older, it is harder for him to do the things he loves and it's kind of up to me to make things happen for him. There is not enough time in the day some times. I wish he had a fishing buddy who would pick him and his walker up at the house and take him to a shady spot at the lake once a week. I also wish he had a friend who would swing by and get him to his monthly luncheons with his high school classmates. Many days, I feel like I fail the man who worked so hard to make sure I had the best education and that I could play ball instead of having a job as a teenager. He guaranteed a childhood for his children because his ended at eleven when he had to go to work in his family's grocery store. I have to do better.

But today, I rolled out the gas grill and seasoned some delightful ribs. I whipped up his favorite twice baked potatoes and I baked a three-layer chocolate cake. All of this to say, "thank you and I love you." My dad is a pretty neat guy. And I am a pretty lucky gal.

Happy Mother's Day

My vivid memories of growing up are very limited. I don't remember a lot about school or hanging out with friends but I have some very strong memories of growing up with my mom. I called her Mother Nature and mother and ma. I don't think I ever called her mommy but that could be my memory failing me once again.

She would lay me up on the kitchen counter so my head would fall into the sink and she would wash my hair, usually twice because it was so oily, and I would fall into a relaxed daze. She pulled a chair up to that same counter and taught me how to crack an egg and eventually how to make pancakes and meatballs and mashed potatoes and chocolate chip cookies. She ironed almost everything, including my dads handkerchiefs, while watching "Another World" and "Days of Our Lives." When I went off to kindergarten for a half day in the mornings, she would pick me up from school, cart me home and let me iron while she folded laundry. I loved watching "Days" with her.

My mom taught me how to keep a home. It was neat as a pin and so clean you could eat off the floors (until we got a dog). She also taught me that every day wouldn't be easy. She cried in front of us, she got angry and would sometimes leave a walk it off and, while others might see that as weakness or maybe even wrong, I know now that she taught me that it was ok to FEEL whatever I felt. Feelings are feelings and nobody can say they are wrong.

I watched my mom with my baby sister (and with many kids that followed as my mom babysat them in our home). She would sit them on her lap, facing her, and she would talk to them and play pat-a-cake, holding their hands and teaching them how to clap and wave and reach to the sky saying, "SO BIG!" Watching her made me want to be a mom more than anything else in life.

She has been married to my dad for almost 50 years. Until a few years ago, she made dinner almost every night and, when my dad was working, she had that dinner on the table the moment he walked in the door. They still hold hands. They kiss each other good night and say "I love you" every single night. They taught me that even though it's hard work, it's possible to love someone "til death."

I am so grateful to have been given my mom as my mom.

Now, we work in the kitchen together. I guide her through a recipe. She can no longer crack the eggs but she is a rock star mixer. I hold her hand as she walks up steps and curbs and distances that feel a little too far for her to make it on her own. There's a little bit more role reversal as every day passes. But I wouldn't change it for anything. I am glad I am here for her like she was for me.

She is my mom. HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY MA!

Waning Focus

Mom's focus is waning.

On Easter Sunday, we sat in the first two rows at my sister's church, a wide but shallow building with extraordinary stained glass and stone-carved scenes hanging on the walls that those who grew up going to Catholic school would know as the Stations of the Cross. It's a fascinating place. Dad sat in front of the rest of us in the handicapped section and we positioned mom on the end of the pew beside me in the second row.

The priest led us in prayers and readings and songs and gave a boisterous homily about something Easter-related in his gravelly baritone voice. I am certain mom did not hear a word he said. She was watching the people around her and scratching at the tiny stain on her pants leg.

When it came time for communion, the Eucharistic minister approached the bench and before she could get the words "the body of Christ" out of her mouth, mom reached up and nervously grabbed the host out of the woman's hand and then returned to casually gazing around the church.

Now, I have to admit that I was bored out of my mind. But mom's inability to focus in large settings has become dramatically worse in recent months. We have to keep an eye on her and say things like, "Come on mom! Walk this way" to keep her attention so we don't lose her.

Mass finally ended and the priest released us as he made the sign of the cross. Mom was too busy trying to see around a plant on the alter to move her hand in a cross motion. Mom's focus is waning which means that the rest of us must be more vigilant than ever.

Baseball and the Brain

My dad is kind of a saint.

The time between mom's repetitions has shortened dramatically and her short-term memory is the worst it has ever been. The other day she asked him three times in a span of about 20 minutes if he wanted to save his leftover Chinese food. She had no idea she already asked. This type of interaction occurs on a daily basis.

This week, baseball began. My mom has always been a huge baseball fan. Before her Alzheimer's really took hold and back when dad was more mobile than he is now, my parents attended about six St. Louis Cardinals games per season. They sat in the bleachers where I had my season tickets. Each visit to the ballpark was quite the production. Donning there Cardinal t-shirts labeled "Meemo" and "Papa Joe," my parents left the house hours before game time so they could park at a nearby (and very expensive) parking lot, grab a couple of hot dogs, and catch a bit of batting practice.

Mom always lugged along a thermal bag with bottled water and often pulled a ridiculously large visor on her head to keep the sun out of her eyes. Dad tugged on one of his many ball caps and once he sat in his seat, he usually didn't move until around the 6th inning when they would pack up and head home, listening to the rest of the game on the radio as the cruised back home along the back roads.

Mom doesn't remember this season's opening day, even though we all watched the game together. She doesn't remember the walk-off win, the first win of the season. There are only three pieces of Cardinal baseball my mom remembers every day: Mike Matheny, Adam Wainwright, and Yadier Molina. The three of them have been around long enough that they are a part of my mom's longer term memory.

Now, mom still enjoys the game of baseball. She will watch every single game, keeping a watchful eye out for Yadi, especially. But every game, she has the same questions. Over and over and over, dad sits beside her and reminds her who Randall Grichuk is and tells her why Jose Oquendo is no longer standing by third base. Sunday, dad "introduced" mom to Dexter Fowler about six times and tonight, he did it all over again.

Dad is much more patient than me. He always has been. But he is especially patient now. Sometimes, dad is kind of a saint. But he loves my mom and she loves her baseball so he does whatever he can to keep their love and her love of baseball alive.

Everything is Preparation

Six years ago at this time, my family was moving my dad into a rehabilitation facility so he could regain his strength and learn to walk again after having a hip replacement. Mom had started showing definitive signs of her Alzheimer's at the same time.

Every morning, I was driving mom to the nursing home to sit with my dad while I went to work. In the evenings, I left work and headed back to the nursing home where we would eat dinner with dad and stay with him until about an hour before bed. When dad was ready for bed, I would drive mom back home, log on to my computer and work until about 11PM before hitting the sack and starting the process all over again.

While it was a difficult transition for all of us, I am grateful for how far we have come since then. To a degree, life is harder for us now. Mom has no real decision-making ability any more, even though she is still largely self-sufficient and dad is using a walker. But I have left my home and I am living with them which is a situation for which I would have never been prepared had we not experienced it a bit back in 2010.

I never fancied myself the kind of person who could take care of my parents but it is my primary duty to ensure they are safe and healthy and able to enjoy the time they have left on this earth.  I am still learning. Every day, I see something else that needs to be changed or cleaned or replaced in the house to make their home more manageable or easy to live in for all three of us. And I am constantly learning how to navigate the challenges that come when the child is, generally, in charge of the parents. I would never want to do 2010 again but it confirms for me that everything is, indeed, preparation for something.

Happy Birthday Dad!

Every morning, I make his coffee and get the newspaper from the porch. He eats an orange and a banana, while he has his one cup of black coffee and reads the front page, the obituaries and Family Circus. Then he heads to the living room to say his rosaries and man the remote. (The remote control is never more than a few inches within his reach.)

Every Saturday, he hands me $10 and his winners. I take them to a convenience store not far from the house where I pick up his lottery tickets for the week.  I also purchase our weekly supply of Diet Dr. Pepper. Panic ensues if I have Saturday morning plans that don't mesh with this weekly errand.

He is a television connoisseur of America's Got Talent, St. Louis Cardinals baseball, Blues hockey and reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. He seeks out new Hallmark movies for my mom and no matter how many times it airs, he will watch Ocean's Eleven EVERY SINGLE TIME it is on TV.

Some days, he will ask for a cheese sandwich for lunch. Other days, he prefers braunschweiger. Always drinks water at dinner. Never helps clean up. Unless there are big pots to wash. Then he will dry but only for my mom. If I am cleaning, I am on my own.

He worked for 56 years before he retired, starting his career at the age of eleven. That's why he never wanted my sister and I to work as teenagers. He broke his back for us so my mom could stay home and we could have fun.

My favorite memories of us when I was little are a little blurry. I don't remember much but I do remember rocking with him in his blue chair and getting up before dawn to go to our grocery store with him. We would leave the house around 4:30 AM and when we got to the store, he would stack potato sacks up in the back room near the heating vent so I could go back to sleep for a while. Then he would let me have the run of the store. People thought he spoiled me but, in my opinion, he was teaching me that I really could DO anything I wanted to do. He never told me something wasn't possible.

He was determined to make sure I went to college. We didn't have the money for it but he knew we could get there if our grades were good enough or if we worked hard playing sports. My sister was the smart one. I played ball. My dad came to every one of my volleyball and basketball games. Even in college, he showed up as often as possible. I can still hear him yelling, "Way to go!" When my sister and I graduated from college, even though it took me a long time, he was so proud.

After he retired, my dad spent his days taking care of my nephew who is his new pride and joy.
Before the walker became a primary assistant in his mobilization, he fished often and one day per month he ate lunch with his friends from high school. Now he mostly stays in the house. Sometimes you will catch him on the front porch in his socks. Putting on shoes seems silly when he isn't going far. If you see him, you should absolutely say hello and, if you have time, stop for a conversation. He would love that.

This month we celebrate his 77th birthday. What a milestone! So many accomplishments behind him. At least 1000 more viewings of Ocean's Eleven in his future.

Happy birthday, Dad!