It’s 5:30 a.m. and the phone is ringing again.  Mike is so exhausted he doesn’t hear this time and I don’t hear his sister stirring, either.  This is an answer to prayer because I want them to be able to rest.  I get up to take the early morning shift.

I’m not quick enough and the answering machine is getting it, but I’m not concerned.  It will ring again and as I reach the bottom of the stairs, it starts.  I’m thankful he’s forgotten about the cell phones.  Mike’s is in the bedroom and it’s jolted him awake several times already.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Uh, well…uh, is this Mike?”

“No, Dad.  It’s Donna.”

“Can I talk to Mike?”

“No, Dad.  It’s 5:30 and he’s in bed.  He needs to sleep and I’m not waking him up.”

“Oh.  Uh.  Well, do you have a minute?”

“Yes, Dad,” and I sit on the stairs.  It will be a while.

“I’m completely bewildered.  I can’t find Anne.”

“No, Dad.  She died.”

“Who died.”

“Mom died.”

“My mother?”

“No, Mike’s mother.  Anne.  Your Anne has died.”

“My mother, Anne?”

“No, Dad.  Your wife.”  His mother’s name was not Anne.

“My wife?”

“Yes.”

“How did that happen.”

“Her lungs wore out, Dad.”

“Where was I?”

“You were holding her hand.”

“Here in the house?”

“Yes, Dad, the apartment.  You were holding her hand, I was reading the psalms to her, and Mike was stroking her hair.”

“Did she suffer?”

“No, Dad.  It was peaceful.”

“Why can’t I remember?”

“Your memory has been bad for a few years, now.”  He will accept this from me.  He called Mike a liar last night.

“I can’t remember any of this.” 

“I know.”

“Is Mother with you?”

“No, Dad.  She died.”

“Was there a funeral?”

“No, Dad.  It will be Friday.”

“What day is today?”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“What should I do?”

“Go back to bed, Dad.”

“I found a note here.  Did something happen?”

“Mom’s gone, Dad.”

“I have to go get her.”

“You can’t, Dad.  She’s died.  We’ll have a private viewing today.  Your daughter came to town yesterday and spent the day with you and we’re going to go see Mom one last time.”

“When?”

“At 11 o’clock.”

“Will I go?”

“Yes, Dad.  We’ll come get you.”

“Has there been a funeral?”

“Not yet.”

“Has something happened?”

And on it goes for another five minutes or so.  Suddenly he’s done and hangs up.  

I go to make a cup of coffee and clean up the kitchen a bit.  

The phone rings. ​

​

​Last week, I stopped in at my in-law’s apartment.  The temperature outside was in the 90s but when I went into the apartment, the air conditioning was turned off.  Mom had a sweater on and was bundled up in a blanket.  I don’t know how Dad can stand it.  As we sat visiting, I was sweltering in my shorts and tank top but she couldn’t get warm.  She told me she’s reached the point in life where she will never be warm again.

As we see each other day by day, I don’t really notice these changes.  But when I come into a stifling apartment to find Mom freezing, the reality that she is not doing well is unavoidable.  It gives me a momentary pause - we won’t have them for ever.  It hits me suddenly and I am saddened.

But there are things to do and needs to be met, so I marshal on.  Later, I sit in my studio in a fog, staring out the window.  The fulness of our situation hits me once again and I weep.

Is it really any wonder why I can’t create?

​

First of all, before I get to the main part of this blog, I want to congratulate Shelby, Cindy and Mary for acquiring an etching for their art collection.  There are six more prints left if you are interested.

And now, about Julie...

Mom’s cat is dying.  Julie (the name of said cat) is a rescue.  Mom took her in 18 years ago, add at least a year onto that and the cat has been on this earth for almost 20 years.  That’s a good life for a cat.  Mom is determined the cat will live so for at least a year, Julie has been getting insulin shots twice a day.  Since Dad can’t remember and Mom can’t use the left side of her body, guess who does that?

Actually, Mike does it most of the time.  He gets up early and before work, drives to their apartment and gives the cat her shot.  Then again after dinner.  I fill in when needed.  I think Mike wants to do as much for his parents these days as he can.  He’s always been a caring and thoughtful son, but he knows his time is running out and he wants to make it all count.  He’s wearing himself out in the process.

A couple weeks ago, Julie started having convulsions.  Dad called and one of us took her into the vet.  I don’t remember if it was Mike or me because there have been several vet visits in the past few weeks.  Julie has stopped eating.  Her blood sugar levels have been fluctuating wildly.  Not only does she have diabetes, but now she has congestive heart disease and the medications are making her nauseous.  Mom does not want to face the future without Julie.  Again, I take her to the vet.  Is there anything else we can do? 

Now, in addition to working and elder care, we are going over three times a day to hand feed (read that force feed) the cat with a syringe on the very off chance that with enough food in her, she’ll take her medicine and with the medication her strength will increase so she’ll last another year or more.  Part of me just shakes my head.  The cat is failing, let it go in peace.  But Mom has hope, and hope is important.  I look at how Mom’s life keeps closing in on her.  She can no longer walk, getting out and about isn’t impossible but it’s pretty darn hard.  Most of her friends have died and Dad’s dementia makes it hard for her to form new friendships.  But she does have her cat. 

With that in mind, Mike and I do our best to make the animal as comfortable as possible and pray for the best for all involved.

Postscript:  Sadly, on September 14, Julie died.  Mom is doing her best to deal with yet another loss.

Recently, I met a group of co-workers for breakfast.  One in particular had a need to vent but at the end we all agreed it was not about her, it was her expectations and she needed to let it go.  Less than two hours later, I found myself in a similar situation.  In caregiving, I had certain expectations but people who were more affected had different expectations.  In fact, there were four sets of expectations and three of us had to let ours go.

You would think that with over a dozen years of caregiving experience – my mother with Alzheimer’s, someone’s else’s mother with cancer in hospice care, my husband recovering from injuries, and my in-laws – I would have everything going like a well-oiled machine.  Alas, no.

The truth is, the biggest obstacle to my peace of mind is myself.  When I first stepped into caring for my mother, I was at a critical juncture of my art career.  I’d accrued a long list of shows and awards, had news articles written about me, and had my work mentioned a couple times in an art magazine.  I’d been in some prestigious regional and national shows and had had two person and one person shows in some pretty good galleries.  My main gallery representative was urging me to start focusing on the east coast.

I chose to put that aside with the thought I’d be able to pick it up again in a few years, but as each year passes it’s increasingly obvious that I have to lay down all those dreams and expectations.  If I want the same sort of career I had, I will have to start at the very beginning again.  I don’t know if I can or if I even want to.

Nonetheless, letting go of those expectations is a constant struggle.  It involves a certain amount of grieving as you face the death of a dream.  I’ve been postponing that grief for some years, but I think it’s time to face it head on.  Art has changed significantly for me and it’s time to own that.  Only by letting go can I find my way again.