The Chronic Malcontent practices mouth breathing

I'm learning Spanish in preparation for moving to the desert. Está nublado y oscuro en mi cabeza hoy. On the dark side: Children deliberately orphaned by the U.S. government, mold spores in my damp kitchen cupboards erasing my neurons, cat barf in the shag rug, the burning of Notre Dame, spring allergies. On the bright side: poacher eaten by lions, a day of 70°F weather, spring flowers. I guess it is true what they say, nothing is ever all good or all bad. We can look for and (usually) find the bright spot in any disaster. Mr. Rogers recommended we look for the helpers. Even when bombs are falling, angels will try to dig you out of the rubble.

Speaking of rubble, the brain of my maternal parental unit continues to disintegrate. I'm resigned to the gradual decline of her capacity as a going human concern. I'm really getting my money's worth on this carnival ride. Unfortunately, like most carnival rides, you can't get off until the car comes to a full stop and the gate designed to keep you from falling to your death unlocks. Then you are free to resume your normal life.

I don't remember what normal is. I've orbited my mother in an increasingly tighter spiral for three years now. First, I helped her shop. Then I shopped for her. Then I took over managing her money and drove her to her appointments. Two years ago, she moved into a care facility. She's stopped playing the piano, reading, and knitting. She no longer turns on the computer to play games. She cannot easily talk on the phone. She can't figure out how to work the remote when somehow the TV power is on but the cable box power is off. The decline from day to day is slight. The decline over two years is obvious. It's like watching a niece grow up. If you only see her at Christmas, it's a shock.

Mom got her toenails trimmed this week. A family friend is a foot care specialist. For a modest amount, she will come out, kneel down in front of your elderly loved one, and clip and grind their toenails into a semblance of submission. I am there to chat and pay the bill. And help Mom to the bathroom when the urge comes on her.

The urge can strike at any moment. One minute she's happily reminiscing and then next moment she's leaping in slow motion from the couch. The urge struck twice during the pedicure. Our friend obligingly moved aside so Mom could shuffle to the bathroom. The first time she navigated the trip there and back successfully. The second time she had a disaster in her pants. When that happens, her brain cells flee to Florida, leaving a paralyzed husk with no capacity for thought. I've seen this episode before so I know what to do.

“You doing okay in there?” I asked, fingers crossed that she got there in time. She never closes the bathroom door: privacy means nothing. Doors are unnecessary obstacles.

“No...” She sat on the toilet, staring at the mess in her pants, at a complete loss.

I quickly shut off all air flow through my nose, rolled up my sleeves, and waded into action. Little globs of poop were on the bathroom floor, on her jeans, and on the trip-hazard rug she insists on putting in front of her toilet.

“Okay. Let's tear these things off.” From observation, I know that the pull-ups tear on the sides. Great idea. The pull-ups can be extricated and dumped without having to take them off over the feet. Brilliant. Holding my breath, I got the offending garment out from between her legs and into the trash can.

I know the drill now. “Shoes off. . . . Okay, jeans off. . . . Okay, stand up.”

I handed her a wad of wet wipes. “Wipe your bum.” She complied. I pointed to the trash can. She dropped the dirty wipes on top of the pull-up. I grabbed two more wipes. “Again,” I commanded.

We repeated the wiping ritual three times before we agreed she was probably clean enough. (I have refused to actually look at my mother's butt for reasons I don't need to explain to you.) I grabbed a new pair of pull-ups and a clean pair of jeans from the closet. “Sit back down there,” I said. She sat on the toilet. I maneuvered the new pull-ups over her feet. I helped her get her legs into a clean pair of jeans. I got her feet back into her shoes. She went back to visit with our friend, who was admiring the photos near the front door. I cleaned up the bathroom, tied off the plastic bag of trash, and put it into another trash can. I folded up the jeans and rug and put them in the laundry basket, briefly wondering if I should somehow rinse them off before discarding the idea as beyond my pay grade.

I washed my hands, still breathing through my mouth. Mom and our friend were chatting. I wrote a check and got Mom situated on the couch.

“I'll see you tonight,” I said and walked our friend out to her car.

“I told my folks you visit your Mom every day,” she said, putting her gear into the trunk. “Everyone thinks you are amazing.”

I wanted to cry but I did that oh, it's nothing, really eye roll and pretended la, la, la, it's all part of the service, as if I wasn't ready to collapse.

Parents clean up their kids' dirty diapers, multiple times a day, for years. My mother did that for me, second in a line of four children. I'm sure she was grossed out from time to time. That was before Pampers, before home diaper cleaning services. I remember seeing her on her knees rinsing my little brother's cloth diapers in the toilet. No wonder childhood was hell. Jeez. Who wouldn't be cranky all the time having to do that thankless chore?

I never wanted children. I never imagined I would be a caregiver, even to the minor extent that I am now called to be. The only training I've had in cleaning up haz mat disasters is scooping cat poop and sponging up barf. I don't know why this is my job, but it is. I do what is in front of me. Just for today, I'm showing up for poop duty. Maybe someday I'll retire to the desert and be able to say siempre hace sol aquí as I sip my iced tea and relax in the shade. Until it's time for someone else to come along behind me and scoop up my poop.

Don't think too much

I visit Mom every evening. Before I go out the door, I do what I can to ensure the place will be standing when I return. Is the heater off? check. Stove off? check. Cat dish not empty? check. I look in the mirror by the door to make sure I'm wearing my driving glasses and my outdoor cap. I look down at my legs to make sure I am wearing outdoor pants. I check my feet to make sure I'm not wearing slippers. You can't be too careful. This is how the mind-crumble begins: wearing computer glasses to drive the car . . . wearing pajamas and slippers to the grocery store. Not good.

Last night Mom was peppy. We watched the millionaires choosing their houses on HGTV. We merrily criticized the host's garish fur coats, admired his dimples, and guessed which house the lucky winners would buy (I always guess wrong). At seven, Mom walked me down the long hall to the back door of her care facility, singing lustily all the way. We are great entertainment: I can't carry a tune and she can't remember the words.

As we neared the back door, we heard the lady in the last room hollering “Help me!”

We've heard this lady before. She's lived there a few weeks. The first time I heard her yelling, I thought it was a man. Back then, I was shocked and confused. I continued  out the door, sticking to the routine, pretending I didn't hear anything. I figured anyone who could yell like that wasn't in imminent danger of dying. When Mom didn't come to the window to give me the peace sign, I went back to the door. I watched through the window and saw Mom talking to Debra the Med-Aide, pointing over her shoulder toward the resident's room. I punched in the door code, wondering if I should get involved. I hovered in the foyer. Mom did not see me. Duty done, she headed down the hall back toward her room, forgetting our peace sign ritual. I thought, this is what she looks like after I drive away.

Debra rolled her eyes as she hustled into the resident's room. As I went out the door, I heard Debra say “We have a lot to do after dinner . . . we get to you as soon as we can.”

Last night we heard the same cry: “Help me!”

We broke off our song. “Where is that coming from?” Mom asked.

“The new lady, at the end of the hall,” I said.

“Help me!”

Mom, ever the helper, started to veer toward the lady's room. I grabbed the back of her embroidered sweatshirt (this one says Hugs are one size fits all across the chest).

“No, better not,” I said. “Insurance and all.”

We looked back down the long hall. No Debra in sight.

“Use your call button,” I called into the open doorway. I did not look into the room. No way was I going to make eye contact. I know what the lady looks like now: enormous, gray-haired, and scowling. I've seen her being wheeled back from dinner. I used to work in a nursing home. I know how hard it is to push a very large angry person in a wheelchair. As I often do at the care facility, I thanked my lucky stars that I didn't have that job anymore.

“Help me!” The tone of the lady's voice reminded me of the tone my cat uses early in the morning when something needs to be addressed, pronto. Empty food dish, pile of barf . . . emergencies only to him. It's the kind of mrowl that makes me want to throw pillows.

“Use your call button!” Mom yelled back. We were at the back door. We looked at each other and shrugged. Oh well. I could see it in her eyes: things aren't great but they could be worse.

Earlier this week, I seriously contemplated renting an apartment and moving my mother in with me. After a few days, I regained my senses. Today I'm back to normal. I wasn't built to be my mother's caregiver. When she runs out of money, if she lives that long, Mom will have to take her chances with Medicaid, just like all the rest of us.

Tonight Mom did not walk me to the back door. She didn't feel like getting up. I understood. I feel that way most of the time.

Taking it as it comes

My mother's insurance company sends a nurse to visit Mom annually. I've sat in on several of these house calls. Yesterday Sherrie arrived around 10:30 am, lugging two big gym bags of gear for a comprehensive medical exam. Mom was sacked out on her flowered couch, mouth open, snoring loudly, but she quickly roused and sat up to greet the visitor. Within thirty seconds, she had grabbed her walker, aiming for the bathroom. As Mom went by, Sherrie handed her a plastic cup and started giving instructions on peeing in the cup. Mom paused, took the cup.

“What do I do with this?” she asked.

“Just put it on the back of the toilet when you are done,” Sherrie said briskly. Mom went into her little bathroom, leaving the door open but the light off. Sherrie turned her back to give Mom privacy. We chatted while Mom did her thing. After a while, Mom did not emerge from the bathroom. I called to her to see how she was doing.

“I don't know what to do now,” Mom said. Sherrie leaped up to help. I thought about letting her do the work, but she hung back when she saw the poop in Mom's pull-ups. Mom was tearing one side of the pull-up. I tore the other side. I stuffed the offending undergarment into the trash can and brought a clean pair. I know the drill now. One step at a time: Shoes off, jeans off, underpants on, stand up, pull up . . . meanwhile Sherrie had spread her gear all over the apartment, blocking the path to the couch. Mom sat on the bed. I clumsily helped her get pants back on. She sat there quietly, feet dangling, waiting for the next cue while Sherrie babbled on about this and that, getting her forms ready, telling me about her own mother (aged 83, also demented, living day-to-day in a care home). Eventually Mom got bored and toppled over sideways on the bed.

Sherrie checked Mom's blood pressure. Next, she checked Mom's feet. She had trouble getting Mom's slip-on Merrells back on. I sat on the couch, changing the batteries in my mother's hearing aids, and pretended not to notice as Mom expressed her discomfort by shouting “Ow!” when Sherrie forced Mom's foot into her shoe. I know that feeling, the desire to appear efficient and helpful that backfires—it's one of my well trod paths to humility.

“Well, now that I'm done abusing your mother . . . ” Sherrie joked. “Here are some things you might want to watch for.”

Sherrie told me dementia is a slow-moving disease. Apparently, dementia patients are more likely to die from falls, pneumonia, or infections. “Your mom could last five more years.” Sherrie was entering data into her notebook, so she almost missed the look of horror on my face. 

“What is going on with you?” she asked. I went over to the bed and put Mom's hearing aids back in place. Red goes in the right ear, blue in the left. Images of future wreckage flitted through my mind.

“Let's talk about this later,” I said. “Testing, testing.”

“Loud and clear,” Mom said, smiling up at me.

By the time the visit was over, Mom and I were both exhausted. Mom sank into the couch to catch a few winks before lunch. I left to run my errands, after which I went home for my own nap. I woke up bleary-eyed and ham-fisted, like a kid who just woke up from a nap but is pretending she has perfect control over all her faculties. I dropped a few things as I prepared my lunch, nothing breakable.

I went back to visit Mom as usual in the evening. She was upright on the couch, watching TV, but not for long. Shortly after I arrived, she drooped and her eyes rolled back in her head. I suggested she might want to rest. She agreed. I helped her get her feet up on the couch and spread her old wool blanket over her legs. She pulled it up to her chest.

“I'm not walking you down” she said sadly. I kissed her forehead, told her I loved her, and walked to the back door alone. Three nights in a row now, she has opted for the couch. I don't know if that means anything except it's hell getting old. As if we didn't already know.