Tag Archives: relationships

#Therapy Pt. l: Old Dog, New Day, New Way

Posted in April by

One of the revelations that came out of the ‘alz-ervention’ a few weeks ago when the family sat down to talk to Miss Cathy was that she expressed an interest in therapy (I immediately went to the window to see if pigs were flying but it was just the blooms off the Cherry Blossoms).

To say I was surprised, shocked and elated (is true) but mostly I was happy that she was
ready to face some of her demons, many of which have nothing to do with Alzheimer’s but the Alz has definitely ‘heightened’ some of the parts of her personality that are….how shall I put this? …..strong (read: annoying as sh*t) but seem to me to be (deeply) rooted in some pain or past that hopefully she is ready to face.

I’m a big advocate of therapy, it’s helped me immeasurably at different times in my life but I also know that sitting across from a stranger, though a professional they may be, is not for everyone and especially someone Miss Cathy’s age (and generation).

And I know that the ‘Greatest Generation’ is not ‘great’ about ‘sharing their feelings’…especially when it involves the kind of navel gazing that my self absorbed generation (the last of the baby boomers-thus aptly named the ‘Me Generation”) is/was all to eager to explore.

We (me) grew up reading “Jonathan Livingston’s Seagull”, ”How to be Your own Best Friend” and “I’m OK, You’re OK”, while our parents still remember reading the WWll mantra “Loose lips, Sink ships” (and internalized that to inhibit introspection apparently).

But, it was because of their stoicism growing up during the depression and thriving after the war(s) that we were able to run around with feathers and flowers in our hair (be it an afro or parted in the middle and worn as long and straight as you could iron it), drink Coke (and later snort it) and ‘try to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony’.

So, giving the differences of how we learned to cope I applaud an older person, specifically my Miss Cathy for embracing self-reflection.

Who says you can’t teach an old dog new ways to contemplate.

Physician, #HealThyself: Pt.lll Dr G, General Practioner/Family Doctor

Posted in April by

I called Dr G a few days after Miss Cathy’s world wind of ‘white coat’ hopping (from ophthalmologist to neurologist to numerous test) to hear him say that no one had called him regarding her condition (quelle surprise!).

“This is the first I’m hearing of it, tell me what’s going on.”

So, I did.

Dr G is her primary care physician. He’s someone that she’s been seeing for well over 30 years. She is very comfortable with him and he with her; after all of these years they have a sort of shorthand when they get together.

I remember him from years ago when I used to visited mom from where I lived in New York and he still looks the same; old, wise and kind. Come to think of it…if he was ‘old’ then and now, thirty (plus) years later he’s ‘older’ still, the how old is it?

The mind reels.

Anyway, he’s one of the last of a dying breed of doctors that ‘might’ actually make a house call if you were in such a need.

Since I’ve been Miss Cathy’s caregiver he’s on time for our appointments (or damn near close to it) professional and compassionate. He always returns a telephone call and follows through with whatever he says he will do for you.

That’s pretty much the ‘gold standard” of a successful working relationship (in any profession) in my opinion-but when a doctor is part of the equation it’s even more important to know that you can count on them to do what they say they’ll do.

I’m not talking about a doctor becoming your bff and calling every time something funny happens on RuPaul’s DragRace (although lets face it-something funny is always happening on RuPaul’s DragRace).

But, even though we all know that doctors are busy and they have responsibilities WE as caregivers and patients are just as busy and we have a responsibility to our health (or the health of a loved one) and that needs to be respected and reciprocated.

And Dr G does all that.

A good doctor is like a the best waiter in a four star restaurant, you know they have other tables to serve besides yours but somehow they appear when you need them, listen to what you want, bring it to you and make you feel as if you’re the only table in the joint.

And that’s’ what I’m looking for from Miss Cathy’s’ ‘team’….I want to feel like we’re the only table in the joint.

The other #”F” word: Pt lll

Posted in April by

Back in 2010 when it was discovered that Miss Cathy had first stage Dementia with an Alzheimer’s diagnosis, I asked Dr Alemayehu, her neurologist what to expect.

He said something to the effect that “each patient is different and their mental faculties diminish differently at varying rates, some deteriorate rapidly while others can remain relatedly stable for years ”. What I remember most clearly was that he sounded about as matter of fact and dry as if he were talking about actuarial tables.

He couldn’t and wouldn’t give me a timetable for progression of the disease (and rightly so). The control freak and planner in me would just have to sit tight.

As my mother used to say, “You can’t set your clock by crazy”.

It was going to be a game of ‘hurry up and wait” (for what who knew and how much care she’d need was a question mark). There’s not much one can do to prepare except avail oneself of books, support groups, websites, et al so that’s what I’ve been doing.

Then, that day not long ago, the clock chimed ‘Koo-coo” and the alarm bells in my head went off, time to put all that ‘book learnin’ and research’ to use.

The slide downward had begun again and it was obvious that the doctor was right; her disease was just on holiday….much like I was.

It’s not like I thought there was a “sell-by” date on Miss Cathy’s sanity but I couldn’t help but be surprised when the time came and things started to change.

I found that I’d started to live day to day much like the characters in the movie “Groundhog Day”, on a calendar that doesn’t change and if/when it does its only toward a future grounded in the past.

I’ve also realized that caregiving is a marathon and not a sprint.

Unlike a disease where you can have a nice hospital stay where friends and family can come visit to feel better about themselves (in-patient treatment for Alzheimer’s is few and far in between-and are usually the result of a fall or some other by-product of the disease) or get an operation for a cure (there isn’t one) or take a pill to put your illness in remission (it doesn’t exist).

So, it’s not about the ‘quick fix’ because there isn’t one, buying a helium “get well soon” balloon is well intended but not what’s needed to tend to your loved one’s well being.

It’s about living close (or in close proximity) and day to day care, teaching the same things over and over, aiding and guiding your loved one through simple tasks that they’ve performed thousands of times before but now are as foreign to them as you will one day become.

It’s also about being available 24/7 for comforting and empathizing, explaining the same questions and correcting the same mistakes again and again, day after day, after day.

So, Miss Cathy and I are joined, hand in hand, walking through the valley of the shadow of decline.

For her, the loved one, the one with Alzheimer’s, her “F” word may be “Forgetting” and, for me, the caregiver, the one that has chosen this journey my “F” word may be “Frustrating”.

But, at the end of a long day, when your loved one is tucked away, and there is peace and quiet in the home, one might just think of the other “F” word……“Faith”…….faith in the knowledge that tomorrow is a new day, and with your loved one, a new chance wipe the slate clean and to start again.

Postscript: Since this posting Miss Cathy has undergone an MRI (which was non conclusive) and is scheduled or an MRA and a Diabetic Retinopathy while her ‘team’ continues to find an answer for her sudden loss of vision.

True Colors

Posted in September by

As this election season kicks into high gear it’s been interesting to see Miss Cathy engaging in the process.

It goes without saying that this lady is gaga for President Obama. She may not always remember what day it is but she remembers the date that the president was inaugurated.

Miss Cathy was the first person I called back on 2008 when our first African-American President was declared. I remember her sounding the happiest I’d heard in a long time, she was (almost) speechless, unusual for her l know, but her joy was that strong.

I can’t imagine how she felt, being someone that had grown up in the Jim Crow South, seeing what she never dared dream possible-at least not in her lifetime.

She was part of a generation of African-Americans who had migrated from the Deep South northward hoping for a better life for themselves and their families, most of whom were largely successful in their endeavors, living their ‘American Dream’ in shades of black and brown, free of the ‘whites only’ reality of their upbringing.

Miss Cathy wasn’t the first in her family to leave home but she was the only one to graduate high school, with no encouragement from her family. It’s not that they didn’t care-they just didn’t understand that education meant opportunity but she did, and she knew hers was somewhere outside of the city limits of Henderson, North Carolina.

She would go on to have a successful career as a correspondence clerk for the Veterans Administration in Washington DC, where she developed a lifelong love of the military and supporting veterans and their families for their sacrifice.

While I knew most of this about her, she told me alot more about her life experiences while we watched the DNC Convention together on TV.

What I didn’t know until I joined her life was how political she is, come to think of it, she hasn’t missed casting a ballot since her diagnosis.

She’s a pretty outspoken voting rights advocate; especially at the local level, she has little patience for people that complain about government but then don’t vote (guess the tree can fall near the apple, too).

She feels that voting is almost a sacred duty, keenly aware of all those that have passed so that she could exercise her constitutional right. And she rails against those (especially minorities) who do not vote; she has one word for them-‘stupid’.

Since the conventions we’ve been talking politics, past and present, sometime deep into the night. Talking with her is an interesting contrast to the shades of grey the candidates are drawing between the class distinctions in our country, redistribution of wealth, race and the role of government in helping people better themselves as well as those who have worked their entire lives helping themselves to their (in my opinion) well deserved social security…….Miss Cathy wasn’t drawn that way-it’s who she is.

The debates are just around the corner. I’m looking forward to watching them with her and hearing her take on the candidate’s views.

I’m sure her commentary will be funny, insightful and as unique as she is, running the gamut from blue to red-beyond just primary colors.

Turkey Hash

Posted in November by

I was in the car driving Miss Cathy over to my brother’s for Thanksgiving; it was quiet so I turned on the radio to pass the time. NPR was in the middle of an interview with an author (I didn’t catch his name or the title of his book) who was from a family of ten children and even though they grew up in great poverty each child went to college, became successful and distinguished themselves in many different fields.

The radio host, Diane Reims asked to what did he attribute his and his siblings’ dedication to education and life accomplishments. The author said that their mother, a woman who had very little schooling herself instilled in them a passion for learning and was the reason they were all so successful.

Upon hearing this I looked at Miss Cathy seated in the backseat through the rearview mirror and said, “Hey, they could be talking about you.”

To which she responded, “Well, where was the daddy?” “Doesn’t he deserve any of the credit?” “Makes me sick how it’s always the mother that gets all the praise.”

“Oh my, the dealer passes”, I thought to myself. Instigating a rant about how fathers don’t get enough credit for their offspring’s success was not my intent. Listening to the author reminded me how much my brother and I owe Miss Cathy. I was just trying to pay the old bird a compliment as we were stuck in traffic on our way to eat a bird of the Butterball variety.

I tried to interrupt to remind her that I trying to give her a compliment but it was too late; she was already in full career. But, like so many conversations I have with her these days you never know what she’s going to say or how long she’s going to stay on topic.

I have learned that her ‘’default’ response is something negative (see exchange above for proof). I took a detour off t Interstate 95 (it can take you from Maine to Florida to see grandma and that’s apparently what everyone was doing that Thanksgiving morning).

The rest of the ride was pleasant; I’d switched to the classical station for the duration of the drive to avoid any further conversation.

Thanksgiving dinner at my brother’s had become a tradition for years after my Pop died as it was the last time the entire family had been together before he died in 1998. We didn’t come over last year because Miss Cathy just didn’t want to leave home so it was nice to all be together again, even if it was just for a couple of days.

As always, my sister-in-law, Suemi set a beautiful table worthy of a photo spread in Food &Wine magazine. We all took our usual places at the table, assigned long ago; Tony and Suemi at the ends, Nile across from me and Zachary across from Miss Cathy with Tony on her right. After the prayer led by my mother we began the meal. The meal started and we’d all begun to fill our plates and bellies with all the traditional goodies in front of us. We were chattering along, nothing memorable or of great consequence, just the typical conversations families engage in when they’re all together for a holiday when all of a sudden Miss Cathy started to sing,” what so proudly we hail from the twilight’s last gleaming”.

When she got to the end of the stanza she wasn’t sure of the next line so I started singing along, feeding her the words, encouraging her to continue. So she sang on, this time louder and with more confidence, her voice clear and surprisingly melodic.

Tony joined in and soon the three of us were singing as the other looked on smiling. Tony nodded for Zach and Nile to join in and Suemi did as well, the entire family singing what we remembered of he Star Spangled Banner:

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro’ the perilous fight
O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming

And the rockers’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air
Gave proof thro’ the night that our flag was still there

O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave

When we finished I led the applause. It was a wonderful, corny, spontaneous movie moment, out of nowhere and out of context. A lot like my life living with Miss Cathy; unexpected and full of surprised-just without the singing usually.

Food for thought

Posted in November by

Food seemed to be a recurring theme this week, specifically the “new” and the “mistaken”.

One of the perks of my part-time job working in catering is the occasional food that I get to bring home, less so these days as I bartend more than serve but I worked an event last Saturday and I was able to bring a few things home to share with Miss Cathy. She always calls these unexpected goodies “a special treat” and lights up like a Christmas tree at the sight of them.

She joined me in the kitchen and settled herself on one of the bar-chairs as I told her that one of the things that I brought for her was a small tin of caviar. Well, the lights went out faster than you could say “ Bah humbug” and she let out a little squeal.

“Oh nooo! I can’t stand that fishy stuff,” she said, making a face like Lucille Ball whenever she found that she’d stepped in it on “I Love Lucy”. “No thanks buddy, you can have that, I don’t want any of it!”

“Caviar,” she mocked, dragging out the syllables as if she were pulling snakes out of a hole, “ it’s suppose to be some expensive delicacy-big deal.”

“Oh, you’ve had it before?” I asked, already knowing the answer to the question.

“You can keep that stinky mess, it smells just as bad as what poor people eat down south, umm, what-is-that-called? Oh yeah, chitlins…it smells just as funky.”

“Umm, okay,” I said, amused, “so, that’s what you think, now answer my question, have you ever eaten caviar-yes or no?”

“No,” came the reply, “and I’m not going to start now, I’m not eating raw fish eggs, that’s what it is right?” “I don’t eat things raw, I don’t like sushi (another word wrestled out of her mouth as if saying it were the same as consuming it) and I don’t like caviar, ut uh!”

Her logic and stubbornness reminded me of a four year old so I treated her like one. For some reason I got a perverse kick out of this exchange and it suddenly became very important to me that she taste the caviar.

“How can you say you don’t like something if you’ve never tries it?” I reasoned as I prepared a cracker with sour cream and topped it of with some of the salty, little black pearls.” “Well, it seems to me that you have to try something at least once before you can render an opinion

“Aww! No I don’t,” came the petulant replay.

I walked the cracker round the table to where she sat and said, “Oh come on, just try it.”

“Let me smell it.” She said by way of negotiating as I lifted the hors d’ oeuvre closer to her mouth.

“Don’t smell it, just take a small bite, then that way you can say you’ve tried it and you don’t like it.”

She scrunched up her face as if she was about to be spoon-fed castor oil but to my surprise she opened her mouth and took a little bite.

“Now, that wasn’t so bad,” I said, pleased with myself that I got her to try something new.” What did that taste like?”

She looked at me and said, “Nothing, I didn’t taste anything but the sour cream.”

I took that as the go-ahead to load up the remainder of the cracker with more caviar. She took another bite and again she was un-impressed.

“See, much ado over nothing.” “Well, now you can say that you’ve tasted caviar and you’ll know what you’re talking about when you dismiss it-and you can stop saying how bad it smells because it doesn’t.”

She shrugged, ready to move on to something more appetizing. She was much happier eating the shrimp and cocktail sauce, it was familiar and more in keeping with what she’d call “a special treat”.

A little later that same night I started to make some dinner for myself. While I was out working Miss Cathy had made salmon cakes (just this side of “not” being burned, loaded with salt and a motley mix of spices, onions and garlic) and peas (with a generous amount of butter). Some of the salmon patties didn’t quite hold their shape so she’d put the cooked excess in a bowl beside the stove. I took one look in the bowl and re-named it “Who-hash” (named for the fantastical food that appears on the banquet table at the end of classic cartoon “The Grinch that stole Christmas”). Despite how it looked it tasted pretty good so I decided to put it over some rice I’d made the day before along with the peas and some diced jalapeno (Miss Cathy’s not the only one that can concoct a very a meal for a very discerning palette).

I left my concoction in the kitchen while I made a phone call in my bedroom to my ex, Chad. As I was saying goodbye I opened my door and heard Miss Cathy say, “Ut oh, I think I picked up the wrong bowl.”

I walked past her door, not taking the time to focus on what she was saying because I was still talking on the phone. It wasn’t until I entered the kitchen that her words made sense to me. I looked on the counter for my bowl and it was gone, next to the microwave sat an identical bowl and when I looked inside it only contained a spoonfull of the “Who-hash”.

I told Chad about the mix-up and promptly got off the phone. I went into Miss Cathy’s bedroom where she was sitting on the side of her bed eating my dinner to straighten out the “hash-up”.

“Why are you eating my dinner?” I queried.

“Oh,” she said putting the fork back into the bowl. ”I thought it was strange that there was so much food in my bowl, it just didn’t look right but I just added some sour cream then I put it in the microwave and started eating it.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said, once again amused by Miss Cathy and food,” you saw the bowl, knew there was something “not” right about it but you took it anyway AND you started eating it knowing that you didn’t make it?”

“It didn’t dawn on you that maybe somebody else, namely me, might have put that together?”

“Well, I knew there was something not right but..”

“…. But, you took it anyway, drowned it in sour cream and started eating it.” I said, finishing her thought as we laughed together.

“Yeah, I guess, but this is too much for me, I don’t think I want all this.”

“Too bad”, I said, teasingly, taking the bowl from her, “you loaded it up with sour cream so now you’re gonna eat it. I’m going to put it in the fridge for you and you can have it tomorrow.”

So, it’s been a very interesting week-food wise, between the caviar and the “who’s” hash.

Happy Birthday

Posted in August by

Miss Cathy’s birthday was on the 23rd of last month; it was a god awful, hot Saturday so I told her that I would take her out for a celebration lunch the following Monday. The week ahead was predicted to be hot, but not the African heat we were experiencing. I know that she doesn’t particularly like going out to restaurants but every now and then she’ll go and she’ll actually enjoy herself. It’s a trade off really-she doesn’t like to go out to eat and I don’t like the places that she picks when we do go.

I know that she likes the “restaurant” Ruby Tuesday (a glorified McDonald’s with table service if you ask me, but hey, she likes the joint) so that’s where I planned to take her. I asked our upstairs neighbor, Ron to join us. He’s more than a neighbor, she considers him one of her many “sons”. For many years while I lived other places he would come down and keep her company, run errands for her and was always there with a gift on Christmas, mother’s or her birthday.

So, he’s a great guy and I’m grateful for him being here for Miss Cathy and although she and I had been getting along it’s always nice to have a “buffer”.

Monday rolled around and I reminded her around 11:30 am on my way out to run a few errands that we were going to lunch soon and she said, “Oh, is that today? I thought it was tomorrow.”

“No,” I said, “it’s today, but we can make it tomorrow if you’d rather go then.”

“No, no”, she said, “today is fine.”

By the time I came back a little before 2:00 pm she was sitting in the living room dressed in a smart summer outfit; black top, black pants, white jacket with black piping and a smart, white summer hat to match. I was in cargo shorts and a tee so I showered and changed into a dress shirt, jeans and seersucker blazer to match her festive attire.

Ron drove so I sat in the back and let the two of them gab in the front seat. I tried not to listen but I couldn’t help but hear them talking, especially how she tended to cut him off and not let the poor guy finish a thought or answer one of her many questions. At one point she said, “It’s awful quiet in the back, jump in whenever you want Ty.”

“I’m just waiting for a pause in the conversation”, I said and went back to looking out the car window (what I was hoping for was a moment of silence but it wasn’t my birthday so no point wishing for that gift).

When we arrived at our destination we discovered that the Ruby Tuesday had moved from that location so we ended up at a Red Lobster nearby after Miss Cathy said that she liked seafood. The Red Lobster, to me, is to seafood what The Olive Garden is to Italian food-a place for people that “don’t know no betta’”.

They’re both places that say they’re “of/for/and about” a particular cuisine (and I use the term “cuisine” broadly) and they have the pictures on the menu to proof it, but anyplace that has to show me the food needs to spend less time in the photo studio and more time in the kitchen.

When we were settled into the booth of the restaurant with our oversized, picture book menus I asked Miss Cathy what looked good to her and she said she wasn’t very hungry, that she’d eaten two hot dogs at home waiting for me to come back from my errands.

I asked her why she ate if she knew she was going out to lunch and she just shrugged. Thankfully it didn’t stop her from ordering or enjoying the time we spent together which was the point after all.

What came to the table was an orgy of food; shrimp, scallops and various other former creatures of the sea, laid out on platters dripping in butter, cream sauce and/or batter dipped. It looked less like seafood and more like a heart attack with biscuits on the side but Ron and I ate with gusto and I asked for a doggy bag for Miss Cathy.

She seemed to have a good time, never at a loss for something to talk about. Back at home she opened birthday cards from family and friends and proudly displayed them in the living room.

She’s seventy-three now, which isn’t old these days (I keep reminding her that “seventy is the new sixty” but she didn’t get that memo, for all intents and purposes she acts more like someone ten years her senior-that’s just who she is, it’s as if one day she decided that she was “old” and that was that).

But, she doesn’t want for much, just to be home and not to have to go anywhere. So, I have to remember that the best gift I can give her is the security of knowing that she’s safe at home where she wants to be and she doesn’t have to worry about going anywhere much or doing anything other than what she wants to do.

Happy Birthday Miss Cathy.

Shake and deflate

Posted in July by

Thursdays seem to be “doctor day” lately, last week we were at the family doctor for a check up and last Thursday, I was waiting with Miss Cathy to see another doctor-only this time it was in an emergency room.

Let me back up a moment and tell you how we got there. Tony called me on Wednesday to tell me that Nile, my niece was in the hospital with a collapsed lung. It was just one of those rare, freaky things that “just happen sometimes” and unfortunately it happened to her. Thank God she was at home taking summer classes and not back at school alone when it happened. I was in shock listening to him tell me about tubes, fluids, punctures, thoracic this ‘n that, trying to make sense of it all. The only thing I could focus on was that he said she was out of danger.

We did the dance of “You don’t have to come, it’s too far” and “Of course I want to be there” two-step that loved ones do with each other when one feels they’ve imposed enough with the news let alone adding to the burden by expecting the other to drop whatever they’re doing to be there and the recipient of the news feels impotent to help but wants to take some kind of action to show they care, even though they know they can’t affect any real change in the situation-so, showing up is usually as good as it gets. The only thing holding me back from leaving right then was the question of what (if anything) to tell Miss Cathy. I told Tony I was going to leave it was up to him and that he should take some time to decide if he wanted to tell her; running the risk of getting her upset by telling her or running the risk of getting her upset later on after the fact-it was pretty much a lose, lose situation.

He decided to call and tell her.

I was in the kitchen making myself some lunch after running errands all morning and taking a yoga class when she came into the kitchen in her nightgown to talk about the news. Her timing couldn’t have been worse because I was already running on fumes so I just couldn’t handle listening to her (not that she didn’t have every right to be upset). I just needed a moment to sit down and digest some food and the news about Nile before I could be any use to her. I felt as if I was being cold or that I was putting her off but I’m learning to take care of myself first (so that I can best be there for her later). It’s kind of like when you’re on an airplane and they instruct you (in case of emergency) to put your oxygen mask on first and then the child’s because you’re no good to them if you’re deprived of air-well, I felt like I needed to put my mask on first.

I could see some disappointment on her face as I told her that I needed just a little time to sit down and eat, then I would come and talk to her about Nile. She acquiesced and went back to her room. Through my open door I could hear her making calls, reaching out to share her pain but no one seemed to be there when she called.

Tony called back to tell me that she seemed to take the news okay and that she didn’t give him any indication to him that she wanted to come to the hospital so I took that as a sign that she might not want to go anywhere. I looked in on her a few times while I was supposedly “taking care of me first” but I couldn’t help it, I just wanted to make sure she was okay. What I saw was that she was restless and she just couldn’t sit still; first she was on the phone (in her nightgown), then when I looked in on her again she was fully clothed, with lipstick and her hat on sitting on the edge of her bed ready to go somewhere, so I asked, ”What’s going on?”

She didn’t answer, she just looked at me. A few minutes later, realizing I wasn’t going to be able to “put my mask on first” I went back into her room but she wasn’t there. I found her sitting on the sofa in the living room (back in her nightgown) looking sad and lost, her hands shaking just a little. Knowing that she’s a very nervous person and upsets easily (even before her diagnosis) I wasn’t surprised but I checked to make sure that she was “just upset” over her granddaughter and not about to have a seizure or a repeat of her disorientation and near collapse of a few weeks ago. I brought in the bowl of soup and toast on a tray that she’d left in the kitchen and sat with her to make sure she didn’t spill anything on herself while she ate, raising the spoon to her mouth with a trembling hand.

After she finished eating I suggested that she lie back down so we walked back into her room and we talked about Nile when she was comfortably under the covers. At the end of our talk she asked, “When do you think we can go to the hospital?” I told her we could go right then, but it would have to be in the next fifteen minutes to beat the impending rush hour traffic on the Beltway. Knowing that she couldn’t get packed and ready in that time frame she agreed that we wait until rush hour was over before making the drive to the Virginia hospital across the Woodrow Wilson Bridge on interstate 95, which is notorious for accidents, delays, construction and traffic congestion (and that’s on a good day). I told her that we should take advantage of the wait by napping because it was probably going to be a long night, so she and I both lay down but neither of us got much of a rest.

Even though she didn’t sleep and was “up” she was very slow getting out of bed. Bt the time she was packed and ready to go it was 8:00pm. As luck would have it, traffic had died down so we were at Mary Washington Hospital in a little over an hour hugging Nile and Tony, Suemi and Zachary, Nile’s brother. They had all been at the hospital since early morning and I could see the concern on their faces, all except Nile, she looked great-considering (and I’m sure the Percoset drip didn’t hurt). With Miss Cathy and me there out little family was complete, Nile being the last addition to the family nineteen years ago. She was remarkably composed and alert, not at all what I expected from someone with a tube sticking out of their side and only one functioning lung. She was sitting up in bed chatting with us, seemingly more concerned for everybody else than herself.

Miss Cathy sat in the chair by the bed holding Nile’s hand as Tony filled us in on her condition, saying that it was still a matter of “wait and see” whether or not surgery was going to be necessary. It was after nine when we got there and we stayed for a few hours, Mary Washington being one of a few hospitals I’d ever been in that had such a liberal policy for visiting patients. But, it was getting late so we ended our visit and drove to Tony’s house, everyone exhausted from the day and anxious to get a little sleep before being back at the hospital in the morning.

By eight am Suemi, Miss Cathy and I were in the kitchen having breakfast; Zachary had to go to work and Tony had decided to take another day off from his job and was already at the hospital. I was sitting in the family room that opened onto the kitchen, Suemi was at the kitchen counter preparing snacks for everyone and Miss Cathy was at the kitchen table with her back to me, talking to her daughter in law. Knowing that she could sit there and talk forever I suggested that she might want to think about getting ready since it would take her awhile and I knew she was anxious to see her granddaughter.

She said, “I think I’ll just sit here and relax for a little while” which I thought was an odd response since all she’d been talking about was getting to the hospital but I shrugged, and decided to fire up my laptop to distract me from overhearing the conversation between the women that I’ve heard many time before. A few moments later I caught something out of the corner of my eye and it was Miss Cathy’s hands that were shaking. I got up to go to her just as the shaking started to take over her body, Suemi saw this happening at the same time and reached her first, cradling mom’s head against her side talking to her soothingly as the shaking became uncontrollably.

No sooner had I reached the sink to get her a glass of water when her eyes started to roll back in her head and she vomited the oatmeal she’d had for breakfast. Suemi said, “Call 911” and I fumbled with their landline, surprised by how quickly the situation had gone from familiar to chaotic, panicking a little myself, before calling the paramedics on my iPhone and regaining my footing. Suemi was brilliant, she was in control and calm and I followed her lead, grateful for once, not be alone to cope with the situation. By the time I’d given the 911 dispatcher the address and told her the situation Miss Cathy had stopped shaking and I could see that she had “come back to herself” (her eyes were newly focused and she was coherent). She seemed out of any immediate danger and said that she didn’t want to go to the hospital but she still wanted the EMS to come. She was understandable upset and started to cry a little, Suemi by her side to comfort her. I knew she was out of danger when she started barking orders that Duke, the dog needed to be put away before the emergency service workers arrived- even with vomit on her nightgown she was still trying to be in control.

We’d cleaned her up as best we could and she was trying to change out of her nightgown into a pair of pants by the time the paramedics arrived (which was under ten minutes). Two paramedics worked on her while a third asked her questions to ascertain her condition and to determine how alert she was. I jumped in when necessary (to correct some misinformation she had given) and I took a mental note that I should always carry my “Mom” notebook (which has all her medical history, prescriptions and all relevant information in it) with me at all times so that I’m better prepared in a situation like this.

When the medic asked her if she wanted to go to the hospital she said “yes” and burst into tears. I went to her this time (Suemi was out in the garage with the dog) and held her close as she sat in the chair crying, saying that she was afraid and embarrassed, her ego de-flated. I told her that I was there, that Suemi was there and nothing was going to harm her. I told her that all the people in the room were there to help her. By this time another team had arrived from an ambulance service and they put her on a gurney and drove her to the local hospital emergency room. I grabbed as much of her stuff as I could and followed in my car, Suemi waving from the open garage door saying she’d be there soon.

We stayed in room 10 of the emergency room for about four hours while they took an EKG and chest x-ray. She’d calmed down considerably and slowly became her usual “Chatty Cathy” self with the nurses. The doctor examined her early on and came back a few hours later with the test results, which confirmed that her episode was anxiety related. Her blood sugar and pressure were understandably elevated so they wanted her to stay for awhile and relax until her levels could stabilize then I could take her home. This would be the third time she was in the emergency room due to a nervous response to a situation; it was obvious that she couldn’t handle stress anymore.

Once we were home I got her comfortably into bed where she napped for the rest of the day. I’d already talked to Suemi in the emergency room about what we needed to do moving forward and later I called Tony at the hospital where he was still waiting to hear from the doctor about Nile’s condition to tell him that Miss Cathy was okay. We all agreed that what happened to mom confirmed what we’d suspected all along. We decided that it was best that we no longer tell her anything that could upset her. She just can’t handle bad news or stressful situations anymore; it’s not good for her health.

While she was resting I washed her soiled clothes, refilled her meds and got back to some our day-to-day routine. Then I lay down for a nap myself and slept like a dead man for four hours, waking up at 7 pm to check in on Miss Cathy and she was sitting up in bed watching television.

Post script: On Saturday afternoon Nile was released from the hospital after her lung had “re-flated” without the need for surgery. Her prognosis is good and she should be able to return to her hectic, active lifestyle as a co-ed in a few weeks, but since this happened to she has a recurrence rate of 30% in her lifetime.

As for Miss Cathy, she woke up on Friday feeling like her old self, “pumped up” as good as new. Her cousin, Mary came to the apartment with her daughter Juanita for a visit and that lifted her spirits but nothing made her happier than finding out on Saturday that Nile was home. I could hear her on the phone talking to Tony offering to come over to “take care” of Nile while she was convalescing-completely oblivious that “she’s” the one in need of care.

Give me my flowers as I live so I can smell them

Posted in June by

I took Miss Cathy to another funeral this morning. They seem to be one of the few things she gets dressed and leaves the apartment for these days. Hey, I’m just glad she’s getting out and “getting some air on her” as she used to say to my brother and me when we were little and she wanted us out of the house (and out of her hair).

It’s a fact of life that as you get old-old people around you start to die. Years ago, I remember asking my Pop about death and dying after so many of his friends crossed over. There was a period of time when it seemed that almost every time I called home he (or they) were going to a funeral. At the time this phenomenon was specific to Pop because he was considerably older than mom so they had friends almost a generation apart.

As a former New Yorker, where going to a shrink is as common as getting your bagel with a “smear”, I was prone to “navel gazing “ and introspection after my time on the couch so I asked him how he “felt” about his peer group passing on. He looked at me as if I wasn’t as smart as he’d given me credit for and said, “Well, how do you think I feel?” “ After your last friend dies all you’re doing is waiting for your turn.”

Now I’m wondering if Miss Cathy is thinking the same thing because the mood has been a little funereal around here. It doesn’t help that the sermon she was listening to yesterday on Sunday morning television was all about “Love, peace and passing on”.

She doesn’t get maudlin and she’s not a very sentimental person but every now and then, she gets reflective-especially around occasions like the one today.

So, yesterday, I was surprised when she stopped me as I walked through the living room, past the reverend and his sermon, on my way out to the balcony to enjoy the cool morning air. She said she wanted to tell me that she never forgot a trip I made in my car from Kansas City a few years ago when I drove nonstop and slept in my car for a few hours before getting here as soon as I could.

She said that it touched her heart that I would show my love for family by dropping everything and doing what I did. I told her it meant alot to me to hear her say that. I started to well up watching her get misty-eyed.

“I believe in letting people know what they mean to me while they’re around to hear it”, she said, “some people wait till it’s time to go to a funereal to let what they feel be known.” “I don’t believe in all that, that’s just a “show”.

Then she looked me in the eyes and said, “Give me my flowers as I live so I can smell them.”