Calm Before The Storm

Every morning I turn off the phones so I can catch up on the sleep that I missed the night before. Yeah, I know, I live like a bat. However, for the last two months, I've kept my cell phone next to my bed just in case something happened to Mom or Dad.

This morning someone called me, and I didn't dare answer. I turned the sound off, but accidentally left it on vibrate. My cell phone vibrated against the night stand periodically, to remind me that I'd missed a call. While I tried to sleep, my phone must have vibrated at least a dozen times. Every time I heard the vibrations, I felt sick inside, but could not look at my phone. I didn't sleep, but I also didn't get up.

It was just a good friend sending me a good morning text. No emergencies. But every time the phone rings, I feel sick inside. It is like we are all in a state of limbo, waiting for Mom to die. I don't want her to die, I'll miss her terribly. I also hate watching her suffer. My sister told me that Dad called her at 12:30 AM last night to say that Mom had an accident in her bed. Mom would not get in to the bath, or let Dad clean it up, so my brother-in-law had to go clean up her bedroom this morning. It was a huge mess. It is so frustrating because when we send help to the house, Mom and Dad send them away. Mom pitches a giant fit. I know it is because she is afraid. Then Dad gives in, and no one but me or Christy is allowed in to the house.

So do we put her in a care center? If we do, my mom will definitely tantrum out, and will need to be restrained and sedated. When she was hospitalized earlier this year, I had to stay with her round the clock for three days, and even then she kept crying to go home, and was terrified every time a doctor or nurse came in. My wish is that she be sedated at home, where she can die in her own bed. Having moderate medication would calm her enough to allow health care workers to help her. We tried to get hospice to come to their home, but since Mom does not have a terminal illness, she does not qualify for this service. Christy and I are hoping that we can just pay someone to go in every day and make sure Mom is calm, clean, and safe. Dad does not have the physical strength or mental capacity to take care of Mom by himself.

I wish I had the strength to go help her every day. It drives me crazy to be stuck at home. We went to visit her Tuesday evening and I got so dizzy and nauseaus, I almost fainted. Probably from just having surgery. I felt so sad when I had to leave, knowing that time is running out for me and Mom. And yet, at the same time, time is moving in slow motion. I don't get anything done. I'm just stuck in the calm before the storm.

Knee Surgery

Forgive me if there are errors in this post ... I had knee surgery and I'm still goofy. I heard that! Yes, more goofy than usual. The surgery went fine but the anesthesia knocked me over like bowling pins. My oxygen level was not high enough for Recovery to let me go home, so we waited and waited and waited. A physical therapist taught me how to use crutches and to takes steps (so much fun!), and still my oxygen level wouldn't go to a normal range. Finally they let me go home with an oxygen tank. The next day I had to go back to the doctor for another oxygen test, and failed, so I'm still attached to a very long tube that follows me all around the house. Not that I go too far, but it is a challenge going around a large golden retriever who wants his mommy every single second.

We went to the Northrups' home for Thanksgiving dinner instead of taking a trip to Mt. Pleasqnt to visit Rick's parents. I felt extremely guilty but I barely made it across the street. An almost three hour drive one way would have put me in the looney bin (possibly because Rick drives like Mario Andrettie), and because my oxygen "to go" tank did not have enough oxygen to take the trip. Dinner was wonderful. Mindy sang "You Are My Sunshine" for Janice Northrup, who cried because that song reminds her of her dad. It was so cool to be there with such a loving group. They really made us feel like we were family.

Mom is getting worse. Since I had surgery my sister has been going over to help out my parents. There has been a lot of cleanup duties and all I can say is that I picked a good day to have surgery. Our family has what I call the "Hansen Gag". We gag at smells and other gross things. We can't control it, so it can be very embarrassing. Anyway, Monday a social worker is coming over to see how we can still keep Mom at home. Please remember her in your prayers. I miss everyone, but I'll be back to bother you very soon.

Was That Goodbye?

Tonight I took dinner to my parents. Mindy was supposed to go with me, so I gave Rick the night off. Then Mindy got a headache and what she called a "really bad feeling." I waited until last minute to see if she could go with me, but finally went by myself. It was a good thing Mindy didn't go visit Mom and Dad tonight.

I could tell right away that something was wrong with Mom. She wouldn't sit at her usual place at the table. She ate a few nibbles of corn and then just stood by the table, weaving back and forth. She was fretting about something, and her eyelids were puffy, so I wondered if she had been crying earlier, but Dad said they'd had a good day. Mom always, always, washes the dishes after dinner (three plates, three glasses, and our silverware). If I try to help, she shoos me away. When I washed the dishes tonight, she just kept fidgeting around the kitchen.

After dinner Mom disappeared for a few minutes, and then I heard a soft "help me!" I found her collapsed on the stairs. She didn't faint, I think she just missed her footing and fell. I could feel her fragile body wobbling. I held on to her for a few moments, and realized she was too weak to make it any further. I picked up my little mom and carried her to her to her room, and placed her on the bed.

I carried my mother to her bed. I never thought I'd hear myself say such a thing. She was too weak to even lie down by herself. It was so weird. Mom just sat there shaking. I took off her dress, and helped her put on her nightgown. By this time Mom was starting to panic. I'm not sure why she was frightened, but since she was so afraid, I helped her lie down on her pillow. I have to say it again, it was so weird. She couldn't put her legs down. It was like her knees had locked in to place and wouldn't budge. I tried to move her in to a more comfortable position, but she stayed kind of sideways across her bed.

After Mom was settled in bed, Dad called me in to the other room for a minute. He begged me not to take her to the hospital. He called her behavior an episode, and told me that it only happens once in a while. Dad admitted that she really should be in a permanent health-care facility, but he knew it would break her heart. He's right. I promised him that I would stay with her until she was okay, so he relaxed and went downstairs.

Mom kept moving her hands nervously across the sheets, so I turned off the light, and lied down next to her. Sideways, of course. We held hands, and I softly sang her all of her favorite songs. That calmed her down, but every few minutes she would cry. She cried because each of the songs meant something to her. I asked her if she wanted me to stop singing, but she didn't want me to stop. She told me that she loved me and some other sweet mixed up words.

It felt good lying next to my mother. It felt right, holding her hand, and comforting her as one would a frightened child. Mom kept telling me words like love and wonderful and always, but she was not able to say a complete sentence. Still, I knew what she was saying. She was telling me that she loved me. She talked about loving all of us so much. She said it over and over again, and then I would tell her that I loved her. That we all loved her. Then I would sing another song, mostly because I didn't know what else to do.

It is obvious that Mom has no physical strength now. She hardly eats anything. We all know it won't be long now ... I wanted so much to tell her that I'd miss her so very much. But it didn't feel right. I thought it might make her even more frightened. Finally I told her that I was just going to stay by her until she fell asleep. She was okay with that, and closed her eyes. Pretty soon she was breathing deeply, but it didn't sound like normal breathing. I stroked her arm and cried.

I wanted to tell her it was okay to go. At times it got so quiet, I had to check to see if she was still breathing . The strange thing is, I am not afraid to see her die. It will break my heart, but I can see that she is ready to go. It won't be long before she is unable to get out of bed at all, she has so little strength left. We will have to get a home-nurse to help her now, there is nothing more anyone could do for her in a hospital

Tears spilled down my face as I rested beside her. It suddenly occured to me that she would not be able to leave while I was with her. The feeling was so strong within me. Being able to spend some time with her, as she slept in her bed, would have to be enough for me.

She only slept for an hour, and then suddenly sat up. She was incoherent and confused, and tried to stand up. I caught her before she fell again, and asked her what she wanted. It was scary because she didn't know how to tell me, and I had no idea what she wanted me to do.

Finally I figured out that she wanted me to put her slippers on and take her downstairs. I helped her down the stairs, and we found Dad sitting in the living room. Mom took Dad's hand and then told me it was alright for me to go. Dad got a look of panic on his face, and told me not to leave. But I know my mother. I knew she wanted me to leave.

I finally coaxed Dad in to taking Mom back up to bed. She told me again to go home, and that I could come back tomorrow. Poor Dad whispered to me to stay, but Mom would not go to bed until I left, so I made sure she got in to bed safely. As I said goodbye to Dad, I told him that I thought that Mom was trying to say goodbye to me.

"Are you scared, Dad?" I asked. I meant was he afraid that she was trying to saying goodbye. He understood, and said no. My dad knows as well as I do that Mom is ready to go.

As I drove home, I started to cry again. I reached in to my purse to grab a tissue, and fumbled upon a few apples and some candy. Dad must have put the treats in to my bag while I was with Mom. That made me cry even more. Tonight I probably won't be sleeping much. I'm wondering if that was Mom's way of telling me goodbye.

Princess Phoebe

Sometimes

Sometimes
by David Budbill

Sometimes when day after day we have cloudless blue skies,

warm temperatures, colorful trees and brilliant sun, when

it seems like all this will go on forever,

when I harvest vegetables from the garden all day,

then drink tea and doze in the late afternoon sun,

and in the evening one night make pickled beets

and green tomato chutney, the next red tomato chutney,

and the day after that pick the fruits of my arbor

and make grape jam,

when we walk in the woods every evening over fallen leaves,

through yellow light, when nights are cool, and days warm,

when I am so happy I am afraid I might explode or disappear

or somehow be taken away from all this,

at those times when I feel so happy, so good, so alive, so in love

with the world, with my own sensuous, beautiful life, suddenly

I think about all the suffering and pain in the world, the agony

and dying. I think about all those people being tortured, right now,

in my name. But I still feel happy and good, alive and in love with

the world and with my lucky, guilty, sensuous, beautiful life because,

I know in the next minute or tomorrow all this may be

taken from me, and therefore I've got to say, right now,

what I feel and know and see, I've got to say, right now,

how beautiful and sweet this world can be.

Amphibious

Amphibious

by Erin Murphy

My daughter wants to take

a framed oil painting to school,

a nude with loose breasts and a belly

ripe as the full moon. Why? Because

we're studying frogs, she says,

and it's a frog. I cock my head

to consider the angle of the draped arm

but can't get past the female form.

My daughter, though, is swimming

in amphibians, bringing home

scribbled pictures of tadpoles sprouting

splayed feet. At night, she sleeps

in the bedroom I painted pink,

her shelves lined with confectionary

teapots and cups. By day, she wants

to be her brother when she grows up.

Lately, she's morphed into

a creature who'd rather squirm free

than be held. O, how we see what we

want to see. My daughter, looking at

a nude, sees a frog for show-n-tell.
I look at her and see myself.

Sharing The Icebag