Sleep and Reading

I haven’t written lately because we’ve been getting to bed so late. My fault. Poor Mary (I’m always saying that!), she’ll want to go to bed and I’ll beg and manipulate her till she agrees to stay up (usually “till the next commercial”). I try to get her to change into her PJ’s in the living room, but that doesn’t usually work. She says it only takes five minutes. Yeah, but that’s five minutes of, say, Sex in the City that I’m missing! And yet, you know what? I detest that feeling of addiction that sacrifices everything so that I won’t miss those five minutes. That’s one of the reasons I hate watching TV—it’s so addicting. (Why isn’t it “addictive”? Or is it?) Plus, watching it alone makes me really lonely. (Hm. I wonder if my frequent use of italics and bold means that I’m a bad writer? It’s just that I hear it in my head a certain way and that the way I want the reader to hear it in his/her head. Some people would probably say that I have to formulate my sentence in just such a way that the reader will hear it that way. Or else they’d say that it’s the reader’s prerogative to hear it the way he/she chooses. I guess that’s also what makes actors’ jobs so interesting—that there are so many different ways to read the same sentence. At least, in English, since German, for example, is so much more monotone. I wonder if the color of the font, much less the style, influences what you write. Hm. Just think how that could affect research papers or writers. Wow—that would be a great question to ask writers. You know what, I’m sure it does influence you. I’m writing this with a beautifully curlicued handwriting in red and I just keep hearing this British voice in my head.)

Ok, back to Mary. Yeah, so then she usually ends up sleeping late the next morning or else she gets up early and then is sleepy all day. That’s really awful of me. But, then, I’m not holding a gun to her head. And sometimes I’m ready to go to bed and she’s not. When I first moved in with her, she always went to bed between nine and nine-thirty. Well, it’s been especially bad that we’ve been getting to bed late because I’ve started reading the third Harry Potter book to her, and if she gets in bed too late, then she doesn’t want me to read to her, or even if I do get to read, she falls asleep on my. I absolutely love reading out loud, so this is one of my favorite times of the day. I’ve gotten into the pattern of reading out of the New Testament after dinner (sometimes after breakfast) and then HP at bedtime. We’ve just gotten through a rather rocky time in the NT—Paul’s letter to the Romans. Long and Boring. And full of lot s of, in my personal opinion, hogwash. All that business about God not being unjust if he decides not to be merciful because if he didn’t have the choice of whether or not to be merciful, his mercy wouldn’t be worth anything. And that business about how the Jews are still Number One, even if they don’t believe. That if a Jew decides to believe, he’s worth more than a Gentile who believes, because the Jews are the Chosen People. Give me a break. If that’s all really God, then he can have it. And I still don’t understand why God had to send Jesus. I mean, wasn’t it like he was admitting that he’d made a mistake? Even the Adam and Eve story makes it sound like God made a mistake. I mean, a perfect creator who makes such a fallible creation… There’s something fishy there. (I’ll have to watch “Oh, God” again—except it’s just too painful to see anything with John Denver in it. His death really broke my heart.) Ok, I understand that Paul was speaking to people of a completely different mindset, who really needed to be convinced that they could share a religious belief, much less a religion. Well, he did finally get some really good stuff in there at the end. That was something worth reading over and over again, but, honestly, I don’t know how so much of the NT has survived this long. Talk about bad writing. And I have to admit that if it were just up to the NT (thus far) to convert me and make a believer out of me…I’m afraid it wouldn’t have done the trick.

Ahem, back to Mary. I’m starting to forget what I’ve told you and what I haven’t. How do writers do it? Geez. Or, gee whiz, as Mary sometimes say—cracks me up. Yes, I think I am absolutely in love with Mary. And the more time I spend with her, the crazier about her I get. I love the way she sticks out her bottom lip when she’s getting ready to take a drink. Or the face she makes when she’s lying in bed and I’m rubbing cream onto her face. Or how she says, “Oh, honey, that feels good,” when I’ve gotten the water temperature for a bad just right or when she puts her feet into bed and feel her bean bag. I love the way she subtly flicks the covers back a bit to see if there’s a beanbag there. I even love the way she says, “Honey, can you take me to the potty?” in the middle of the night. What is it about her? I know her sisters all wonder. But it’s not just me who has fallen under her spell. All the ladies who came here, her doctors, visiting nurses, salespeople, people at the grocery store… they all fall under her spell. And, come on, she’s been married three times… she obviously had a way with men. (Anna and Angie, she says, always said she was boy crazy, although she doesn’t know where they got that from.) Well, as Mom says, it’s a good thing I am so crazy about Mary.

Ok, enough about Mary! I have to get to sleep.

Lazy Day

Today was a lazy day--Mary and I both just stayed in our pj's. I got a migraine last night and it lasted through most of today. Not a good day for me. Alternating nausea and raving hunger. I don't think I even took Mary into the kitchen today. Oh, yeah, I did. For breakfast. I try to get her to do some butt squeezes throughout the day or to get up and walk around a bit. Sometimes she'll stop by the restroom. I tell you, she and I are exact opposites--I've got the world's smallest bladder and she's got the hugest! She can go for hours without peeing. Well, during the day. But sometimes I notice that her "bucket" is a bit wet (I usually give it a couple of pats or even massage it, telling her she needs to get some blood circulating there--I know, I'm crazy). I don't know if she's peed before she got up or perhaps the exursion of getting up did it.

I felt bad for her yesterday. Must have been totally boring. I tried to bake some German bread rolls in the morning--big flop. She was parked in the living room, watching the Macy's Parade. Then I had a pie crust to make. Got her washed up and dressed. I couldn't believe I was able to convince her to wear this really fancy top that Ed and Jan had given her. It came down to her knees, but that doesn't bother her. I also dressed up. I knew Mom would make a big deal. I told her I was trying to keep in practice. I mean, you do need to practice or you forget how. But, truthfully, I would have been more comfortable dressed down. As it was, we didn't make a traditional dinner, so it didn't really seem like Thanksgiving. But poor Mary... I try to give her things to do to help prepare dinner, but Mom's not used to that. She was so bored and tired--and it's always rather cold at Mom's. I finally parked her in front of the boob tube. Mom doesn't have cable, so the choice was more limited. The one program I wanted her to watch had bad reception. Mary preferred the Court TV anyway. That sort of drove Mom and I bananas, hearing them yelling and making fools of themselves. How do people like that live with themselves? And why does anyone want to watch them? It's as bad as the programs on the Fox news channel. There's enough stress and ugliness in the world without that bs!

As we were sitting down, my brother Gus and his wife and son showed up with her aunt. This poor lady has been completely used and abused by her son and grandchildren. Now she's in a nursing home and has a bit of Alzheimer's. She hates it there, naturally. I guess she has nothing left anymore. But she's right, so many of the people in those homes are off their rocker's. Being around them drives the sane ones crazy eventually. And you don't have any freedom or rights. Of course not--it's an institution. It made me feel like Mary was a royal princess, having me to take care of her. I didn't tell the lady that I took care of Mary so she could stay in her own home. This lady doesn't even know why she's in a nursing home. It's such a sad, sad story. I was glad for her that Gus and Pat brought her out for the day, but it kind of put a damper on our evening. Listening to someone carry on about how bad they've got it and having to comiserate with them just brings you down. After dinner, we were all so tired that we plopped down in front of the TV a bit and then I brought Mary on home. My headache had started by then. It was getting cold out and made me realize that I won't be able to take her out much anymore. Too dangerous.

I've asked Mom to come sit with Mary tomorrow so that I can go to the store. I don't have the energy to take her with me. These migraines really take it out of me. Thank goodness I don't have auras. I don't think I could handle it. I'm glad Mom agreed to come.

I talked to my friend Susanne in Germany today. She was surprised when I said that I couldn't go outside for a walk. I have to smile because I think so many people really don't understand. Even leaving Mary alone while I go use the bathroom is a bit scary. I often go while she's going (in the bathroom down the hall) because I know from experience that I can pee faster than she can. I keep her foot rest on her lazy boy up and a blanket on her not just because that's comfortable for her but also because it will then take her longer to get up and I'll probably hear the chair if she takes the foot rest down. I try to keep her walker parked outside of the room so that she doesn't get any ideas about getting up--not that it hasn't stopped her, even once while I was lying, dead to the world, on the couch in the same room--didn't wake up till I heard her fall. But I can't bear to think about my situation like that--that I can't even go outside. That makes me feel like a prisoner. It doesn't feel that way. I like to have the illusion that I can go anywhere and do anything I'd like. Now I really have to smile. Just like my mother all of those years, I just tell myself that I don't want to go anywhere or do anything.

Wild and Crazy

I haven’t written for a while because I’ve been so tired. Pretty pitiful, huh? What do I have to be tired about? It’s not like I’m chasing after a toddler or having to quiet a baby who cries all day. But, listen, Mary was taking a nap the other day and I recognized this feeling. It was something I hadn’t felt for a while and didn’t immediately think to put a name to it, but I recognized it from other times when Mary had taken a long nap (which doesn’t happen too often). It was the wild and exhilarating feeling of freedom. And how did that feeling exhibit itself? I felt wild and crazy, like I could… like I could go do the laundry, wash the kitchen floor, vacuum (no, that would wake her up), bake some bread! What?! Shouldn’t I be fantasizing about… about… I don’t know, something wild and crazy? Something I never get to do? No, I was dreaming about what I never get to do carelessly. No wonder I get tired. I have to keep my eye on Mary all the time. And if I don’t, which I don’t, then there’s this little worry sitting on my shoulders. If I’m downstairs doing the laundry, either I’m constantly listening for sounds of her getting up or, heaven forbid, falling—a sound, unfortunately, that I’ve heard often enough to recognize instantly—or I forget to listen and then have to contend with the guilt of having forgotten. And why shouldn’t I be tired when I often only get to sleep for two hours at a time? Yes, she often, lately, has nights when she gets up to use the potty every two hours.

Sorry, I don’t mean to be complaining. I’m probably just trying to justify to myself why I feel so tired. And I’m also contending with a migraine. I took something for it and it went away, but it’s back. And I know from experience that if I go to sleep with it, I can sleep, but I’ll wake up with it the next morning. And I’m feeling nauseous. That’s something that’ll put anyone in a bad mood. Good thing Mary’s already in bed. Oh, I knew using the computer would probably make it worse. But I hadn’t written for so long…. I wanted to talk about what we’ve been doing. Mary had her second cataract operation yesterday. Now I have to contend with her seeing far away better without her glasses but not being able to read without them. She doesn’t remember that she had an operation. So I have to explain again and again. Hm. That’s enough to give anyone a migraine! No, seriously, I’d love to know what caused this one. Not enough sleep? Soy sauce at dinner? Tension? Sore feet soles? What?!

Alright. This is bad timing. Everyone has bad days. The next time will be better. Promise.

PS—I have to remember to tell you about meals, Harry Potter’s birthday, and Christmas presents.

Getting Out and About

Mary kept asking me on Thursday night what we were going to do the next day. That's quite unusual. I didn't understand if that meant she wanted to do something or she's gotten to expect that we'll be doing something--since I moved back I feel like we've been regular "Run-Around-Sues." I'd ask her what she wanted to do or tell her that I hadn't decided yet. She gave me no inication of why she was asking. Who knows. So the next day, Friday, I asked her if she wanted to go over to Mom's to play Dominoes. She said yeah, why not, so I got her to call Mom: "Angela...Anna...[me prompting] Serena! Can we come over tonight? You know, and play cards? [me prompting] I mean, Dominoes?" I just thought that was so cute to hear her ask that way--can we come over? She must be losing it, cause even a year ago she would have never asked that way. Or agreed so easily.

We were a little late getting there cause I wasted an hour trying to fix a stupid Weight Watchers recipe that I should have known wasn't going to work: Spinach Gnocchi. For one thing, I was missing some of the ingrediants and had to improvise, and for another, gnocchi, by their very nature, are made with potatoes, and this recipe did not call for potatoes anywhere. Plus, it was a bad idea because it made 6 servings of 6 points each. Well, definite fiasco, so I threw a frozen pizza in the oven. Also not helpful for my diet. O je. I really must still be sick (have been feeling odd for the last several days--sort of like I'm catching a cold/flu/bug and yet sort of not)--I only ate three pieces. Mary must have really liked it because she ate two pieces--and I had devided it into six pieces, so they were rather large. Through this diet I have figured out that I eat exactly twice as much as she does.

Well, we only got one game of Dominoes in, which Mary won, the stinker! Then we had to watch Jeopardy, which Mom is addicted to. Those game shows always make me so frustrated. I can't help but yell out the answer, which is as often as not wrong. And I get so nervous for the people on there... I'm a wreck by the time it's over. Then we watched Joan of Arcadia, which I'm sure Mary has never half-way comprehended, which is a shame considering how religious she is. Mom always watches but says she never can understand what they're saying, especially Joan. I chalked that up to old age (she's mid-seventies) but discovered (after I had to admit that not even I could understand Joan) that she had the TV sound set on "music," which made it rather muddy. I hope the new setting helps her. I borrowed their TV/VCR set to take with me to Lexington and bought a new set for them, with the intention of getting it back someday when I have my own place (ha, ha). I like to feel like I'm doing something for them. I just wish I had the money to get them a new dishwasher. (I found out last night that Jan sent Mom a check to finish paying off their car. I can't describe the emotions that this arouses in me. I just want to hug Ed so much for doing that, but of course that's not possible anymore. It just makes me want to start crying all over again. And oddly enough makes me feel even more guilty for not living up to Ed's hopes for me.)

Ok, I've got to get going. I promised Mom we'd be over to pick her up by noon. We're going to Baer's (the fabric store in town--downtown, which makes it extra special). I want to make Mary a robe for Xmas. She's so tiny and yet has those Beisler hips and bucket, as Mary says, so she's impossible to fit. Plus, she loves the light-weight velour of the robe she's got now, which I gave to her (Gina gave it to me--man, I loved it--that was a real sacrifice of love) and which is literally getting threadbare.

Shop Till You Drop

I am a glutton for punishment. I had to take Mary to the eye doctor again today, so I asked Anna and Mom if they wanted to go to the grocery with us afterwards. When I asked Mary what she thought about the idea, she replied that it would be out of the way to go pick them up (they don’t live near each other), so maybe we should just forget it. But you know what? What else do we have but time? That Anna and Mom were out of our way was a pretty lame excuse not to invite them. And you know what else? That was the way Mary always was—taking the path of least resistance. The one that would insure her the least emotional risk. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. I used to kind of think I had a mission here. I was going to help Mary learn how to be generous and get her to interact with the family. Then at some point it occurred to my arrogant little self that maybe I was the one who was supposed to be learning some things. Well, I guess both of us are.

So we went out to Aldi’s. It’s rather far away, so it’s oddly like a special treat for us. Plus, it’s a German store, so it’s really special for me. Although, you know what—now that I start thinking about it, Aldi really isn’t a treat to shop at. Like any store in German is! The same things that stressed me out at Aldi’s in Germany stressed me out here! Searching for a quarter (Deutschmark), the uncertainty about an unknown product brand, the long checkout line, having to load stuff back into the cart as soon as it was rung up, not getting bags for free, having to pack your own groceries. I got used to all that there, but it kind of hit me like a brick today—especially with the added stress of Mom and Anna (Mary stayed in the car.), who are pretty easily confused about things. But…they do have great German coffee and pretty good chocolate and…there is a bit of special nostalgia…

After that experience, we headed over to the Kroger across the way. I made Mary go inside with us. I hate leaving her out in the car. For one thing, I never feel certain that she’ll stay there. Not that she’s ever gotten out, but there’s a first time for everything. Or she might get cold. Or someone might accost her (although I do make sure that she locks the door and almost always get her to unlock it so that she gets some practice so that it might stick). Plus, I think it’s good that she gets involved. But, boy, she’d only had one cup of coffee and that appointment had been early for her, so she was really dragging. Mom and Anna had to look at everything—just like at Aldi’s. I thought I was bad. Now I know where I get it—it’s in my genes. It’s the Grocery Shopping Gene. Mom did my checkout for me—I could tell she was loving every minute of it. Some of her brothers had a grocery store, so maybe that’s it, but in any case, she’s got this fascination with grocery stores. Hm. I don’t know. I understand completely. There’s something about the fact that it’s mostly food, for one thing, which is cool, but then also that the products say so much about people. It’s like a sociological study.

I spent way too much. I always do. I feel so guilty for that, since it’s Mary’s money. But it’s not like she didn’t spend whatever she wanted to on herself before I came along and it’s also not like she doesn’t enjoy most of what I get, and she tells me to get what I want. And how often have I brought food home from Lexington on the weekends. Well, this is one thing I am just not going to think about right now. There are really other things I need to worry about. Like why her financial advisor has never called me back. It’s been a month. Really not very professional. And I so dread having to talk to him! Why is he making it more difficult?!

There and Back

The trip was a success. Aside from the orchard that we wanted to visit not being open and Mary’s nose getting a nasty scratch (thanks to my stupidity) that wouldn’t stop bleeding and Angie and Mom watching everything I ate like a hawk (so that I wouldn’t blow my diet too much), everything went well. There were three little lap dogs and Mitch’s medium-sized dog, so Mary was in seventh heaven. Unfortunately, I was holding one down to her to see when, unbeknownst to me, one of my nephews’ girlfriends came in with another dog. The doggie I was holding saw it though and went ballistic, which I just attributed to being excited about being held by a stranger. It was one of those instances when you know just a split second beforehand that you shouldn’t do something but you do it anyway and then have to pay for the consequences. I’m always hearing this little voice telling me what’s going to happen. I ignored it a few times and had to pay the piper, so I usually listen, but this time… so often it seems like the times I don’t listen are with Mary. Why?! Well, she was a really good sport, but we about went crazy with her picking on it and asking what had happened.

Yes, I managed to not gain any weight—albeit I downed two huge cinnamon rolls (with icing) on Sunday and half of one on Monday and I ate almost a whole bag of (reduced fat) potato chips, plus some other junk food that I’m having amnesia about (I know I ate it, just not what I ate). Ange and Mom kept their eyes on me like vultures the whole time. Yeah, diet vultures. Mom really secretly wanted some of what I was having. I handed her back one chip :-) Angie was just finding a convenient venue for her bitchiness. One time I walked into the living room with a bowl of vanilla ice cream. She gave me her deadpan, thousand-year-old turtle look (the result of glasses that enlarge her eyes and the wrinkliest crocodile skin you’ve ever seen) and lobed a shot, “That’s going to kill you. You’re clogging your arteries.” Just because she’s made it to 87, she thinks she can tell all of us younger people how to live. Ha! Thank God Mary is just “live and let live.” She doesn’t much care what you do as long as you don’t tell her what to do, because, since she’s made it this far doing what she wants, you really don’t have any right telling her what’s good for and what’s not. And believe me, I did try to tell her at first what was good for her. I still do. But I learned to pick my battles. She’s absolutely right that she doesn’t need to eat her potato skins, and she can have as much coffee whenever she wants to have it. But she cannot stay alone and she must take the medicine the doctor prescribes. Anyway, don’t you just love people who feel not only that it is their right but their frigging duty to tell you what to eat and not eat when you’re on a diet?! I mean, hello! It’s my life!

Oh, yeah, this was supposed to be about Mary! Uh… let’s see… You know, I couldn’t believe it—she only woke me up once on Saturday night to use the potty. At home it’s gotten to be every two hours. Man, that is a drag. Literally. I drag the whole next day. I would take her to get her urine checked but, actually, I always have to use the potty, too, so from my standpoint, it’s not that abnormal. But I know it’s not normal for Mary. But, then, she is getting old… O je. I do not want to take her to the doctor’s again… I love her doctor, but we’ve seen way too much of her in the past few months. I don’t think her urine looks particularly cloudy nor is it especially odiferous, so I’m going to keep the jury out on this for a while longer. The bad thing is that Mary never feels anything wrong when she’s got a UTI. No burning. And she may not even have to pee a lot. Well, during the day. But at night… Those bells! I will never be able to hear a jingle bell the same way again. Just like the sound that an alarm clock makes instantly evokes a putrid sensation, so do not those jolly bells.

During the first trip to the potty last night, Mary started the “Whose house is this?” business. I hate that. Especially in the middle of the night. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. Like I’m suddenly in the Twilight Zone. I reacted awfully, telling her in a no-nonsense tone of voice to cut it out, that I didn’t like it when she started that. Of course, I know that she has no idea, but I hope that she’ll at least pretend for my sake that she does. She didn’t. “Well, I tell you one thing, when I get home…” “You are home, Mary! Look around. You’ve lived here for eight years.” “Well, I don’t know, honey. I don’t know where I am.” The next thing I know, she’s asleep, booby-trap in place, and I’m lying awake wondering what I’m doing and where I am. And where I’m going to be when this is all over.

Trip

We're going on a trip tomorrow--I'm so excited! I can't believe that Mary agreed. But we'll have to wait and see cause I've known her many a time to try to back out at the last minute. Since Dad's not going (trying to hurt us because he thinks we want him to go???), Angie says she will go. She said I'm a glutton for punishment. (Big sigh.) That's because she can be such a b_ _ _ h. I sincerely hope she behaves herself. She's usually better if other people are around. And Mom and Mitch, my brother, have this incredibly ability to put everyone around them (excepting my father) in a good mood. They're just fun to be around. Sometimes I wonder if Mitch is aware of this. I mean, seriously, I don't know anyone who doesn't enjoy spending time with him. It's a gift, that's for sure.

I don't know what we'll do. We don't have much practice with visiting. Mom's tried to talk me out of it all week--she was protesting too much. Afraid it might actually happen. Trying to brace herself for it not happening. Dad's not going almost threw us for a loop. Luckily, Fred, another brother, is coming over to paint, so he can keep an eye on Dad. Poor Fred. To be alone with Dad is definitely not something I would have ever wished on him. That's a real sacrifice and will have to be aptly rewarded. Guess I'll be making a butterscotch pie soon. Mm. That'll be hard--giving it away without a single bite. That's my favorite pie, too. And I'm on a diet and Thanksgiving and Christmas are coming up.

Well, back to the trip. There's an orchard near where Mitch lives, so we'll go there. And Mitch will be making his famous pizza and cinnamon rolls. There's always the Dominoes. Have I talked about all this before? Oh, but with can't play Dominoes with Angie there! She has no head for strategy, for one thing. And for the other, she has no attention span. I didn't believe it till I saw it myself. She'll be looking all around her, everywhere but at the game. We'll call her name. No reaction. It's awful. Mary, on the other hand, is all concentration. It's so funny to see the way her mouth goes into a tight line of grim determination. Sometimes she's still pretty out of it. Trying to lay stones down where they don't belong. But other times she'll make an excellent play. That's why Simone, my niece, is absolutely convinced that the whole thing is an act. If only! I always joke that when I play with Mom and Mary, I'm really playing for three :-)

Well, I'm sure that Mitch will come up with something. Even if it's a movie. Angie will fall asleep (at least part of the time) regardless. The important thing is that we're going. It's an undeniable gesture of caring and love. It says, "You are so important to me that I am willing to travel three hours and sleep in an unfamiliar bed just to spend time with you." That doesn't sound like much, but in my family it's a lot.

Oh, get this--I have to put drops in Mary's eye four times a day. There are two different drops and I have to wait five minutes in-between. Half way through the day, she starts making a fuss. How often am I going to do this? The last time this evening, she asked the same thing and I told her the schedule. She swore that she hadn't had any drops in her eye yet today. (Another big sigh.) Sometimes I really wonder if I'm just going to lose it eventually. Her eye seems to start hurting her in the evening. I guess it's from the strain of the day. She starts telling me she has something in her eye. She doesn't know why it's hurting. Or she'll start noticing that she can see better out of the left eye, but she doesn't know why. Sometimes I seriously want to scream. Can I take another operation???

Teasing

I found a renegade sock today! I'm not sure whether it was trying to run away or being held captive--it was in a folded up bottom sheet.

I'm so terrible, I know. On the way to the potty this afternoon, I pointed out to Mary that the door was closed (I was trying to save on the heating bill.) and said there must be someone in there, should we knock? Sure enough, when we got there, she knocked and leaned in to put her ear up to the door to listen. I bust out laughing and opened the door, telling her that I was just teasing her because I have to find some way to amuse myself, spending every day and night with a 93-year-old as my only company. She replied that she tried her best not to bore me too much. God love her!

Sometimes when I ask her if she'd like another cup of coffee (she loves coffee), she say, "Yes, honey! Is there any more out there?" (She tries so hard not to say "yeah." If it does slip out, she usually corrects herself. Like I said--Southern Belle.) Well, I know she means, is there anymore made, but it sounds like she means anymore at all, so I'll tease her and say, no, that was the last that we had. Her expression of disappointment/disgust is priceless! Sometimes I even take it so far as to suggest that we go nextdoor to borrow some. Well, there are Cubans on one side and a widow on the other. We're actually pretty friendly with the widow, but Mary will still reply, "Oh, no, honey. We don't do that." Argh! When I first moved in that really got my goat. This is part of Mary's stingy side. If you borrow something from them, they may want to borrow something from you. Don't give them anything because they may want to give you something and then you'd be beholden to them. Plus, you don't know how clean their kitchen is or whether they lick their fingers --like Angie (or me)! I always joke that it's no wonder that Mary is still alive. The aunts say that you've got to eat a peck of dirt before you die--and Mary's nowhere near a peck!

Horoscope

I couldn't believe this when I read it, so I just have to share it. Here is my horoscope for today:

A financial situation that's been stresing you out eases up considerably. Maybe your favorite aunt slips you some mad money!

I read it to Mary and she just laughed and said, "I guess you hope that'll come true." Hmph! Te funny thing is that Angie offered me $30 yesterday to go shopping with her daughter, but I turned it down. I don't want to take her money--maybe I don't want to owe her anything. Shopping is also not my greatest joy in life. It's an activity that's mostly associated with guilt for me. Some day when I have a well-paying job I'll be able to go shopping without the guilt but till then... I only suffer the guilt when it's really worth it--like for excellent food or cookbooks.

Shaky Mary

Mary’s shaking scares me. I’m afraid she’ll eventually shake so much that she won’t be able to move. I could handle having to feed her and help her drink—although I don’t know if she could handle that. It’s the getting around bit that gets me. Let alone the fear of her not being able to get down the two stairs into the car. Oh, I know I know we can get a ramp if she can’t do the stairs anymore. At least that solves the problem of getting out of the house. It doesn’t solve the problem of getting in to other people’s houses.

But even her inability to get around in the house, even just a bit, is scary. Why? I guess I’m being selfish because I’m thinking of the drain on my energy that it will be. Maybe I need a break. I should just arrange all of this financially, so I’ll be out of this nebulous middle ground of sort of being unemployed and yet in reality working full-time for Mary. I did pay myself a bit last week. I not only feel incredibly guilty about it because Mary doesn’t know and I’m sure that’s illegal—but if I told her she would put up the biggest stink and tell me to put her in a home if I have to and that she doesn’t have the money to pay anyone. She does have the money, though. And my bank account was almost at zero. I’ve been putting everything I buy on my credit card for the last five months, so my minimum payment is sky high now. She has no idea. No idea of what she’s wordlessly demanding of me. And would she do it? Yes, what would she do if the roles were reversed?

I’m also afraid about paying myself because of the rest of the family. People get so weird about money. They become vultures. When Mary dies, they will come out of the woodwork to claim what is “rightfully” theirs. If Anna and Angie have passed away, their children will demand their portion and will want to know what I’ve been doing with Mary’s money—because let me tell you, there may not be much left, especially if she lives another ten years, which I think she could easily do. People who never even sent her a Christmas card or had her telephone number in their address books will be demanding a piece of the pie. It will be ugly. I have no doubt. I’ve seen it happen too many times. People who seem so loving and caring become monsters when someone in the family dies and they see a chance to gain a little. I don’t want to be sued. In the eyes of the law, I don’t doubt that I will be seen as someone trying to take advantage of Mary. It’s always that way. I don’t want to take advantage of Mary, but I don’t want her to take advantage of me either.

All of this because I was thinking of how shaky Mary has become. Hm. Well, money is often in the back of my mind. You can’t help it if you have bills due and your bank account is getting low.

Actually, another thing I hate about the shaking (It’s really jerking.) is the violence of it. She can’t control it. At first I laughed (sometimes I still do) because she would be going along and then all of a sudden, it was like a car whose engine starts to stall and she would go chug, chug, chug, then move on. She calls it dancing. It kills me to see her struggling to get out of a chair and unable because her limbs start flailing. I always tell her to breathe deeply and relax, because that seems to help. I know she gets tired of hearing that, and Lord knows, I get tired of saying it. She’s gotten so that she loses her fork almost every night because her hand jerks suddenly and it flies out of her grasp. It’s actually quite amazing what she can do with her left hand—her right hand being the shakier of the two. That’s part of the wonder of Mary—her flexibility. You know what? If I wonder aloud about something, she will often ask me if I can’t find out about it on the Internet! I’ve shown it to her a few times and when I tried to explain it to her, it really came home to me how much I don’t understand but just accept. She hasn’t lost that ability. A lot of older people just say, “Oh, I can’t understand that,” and give up. No, Mary isn’t a quitter.

Beautiful Sky and Not So Beautiful Apple Pie

Thanks to Mary the sky will never be the same to me. She loves to look at the sky and she's always saying, "The clouds are beautiful," or "The sky is beautiful." After her postoperative doctor's appointment this morning (early for her--9 AM), we drove out to Angie's. As we were driving along, Mary looked out the windshield through her special new sunglasses and said, "The sky is beautiful today. Or this evening. Or this morning. Or whatever it is." I just about died laughing! That she can say something like that and not even bat an eye!

I have to admit that part of the reason we went out to Angie's was that she'd just made an apple pie the day before. I'm on a diet and that sounded so good to me! Plus, I knew it would stroke her ego for us to go all the way out there to visit and eat her pie. And, also, she can't drive anymore and she loves company. Well, we finally got round to eating the pie--I let myself be talked into a huge piece. I should have said something after the first bite. It's that two-facedness from Mom's side of the family! I ate the whole damn piece--and it tasted like it had cyanide (whatever that tastes like) in it! It was so bad! Seriously, it tasted like it had dishwasher soao or bleach in it. Some sort of chemical. I tried eating some chocolate when Ange left the room to cover the taste on my tongue, but it wouldn't go away! I even stopped on the way home and tried to throw up, but it was pretty hard to do that out in the open and all, even though I did have a bag. Finally, when we got home, I had some Coke to try to settle my stomach. I still tasted it and felt it in my stomach, so I managed to get it up. Blech! I tell you, I felt ill all day. And by the evening my stomach and esophogus were still tingling and my tongue was absolutely sore. Mary never noticed anything. She and Angie both admitted that they couldn't even taste the pie. (Angie always says she can't taste anything anymore--just wether it's good or bad.) Maybe Angie really was trying to poison me?! Oh, I know that's wicked of me to think. Mom says it must have been an allergic reaction. Angie said she used a lot of nutmeg. Hmph. Must have been something other than nutmeg, let me tell you. Usually Ange is a great cook. I knew it must have taken her all day to make that pie. She has such horrible osteo and rheumatoid arthritis that she's in constant total pain and has to move very slowly--that's why I couldn't tell her how bad it was. O je! It'll be a while before I'll want to taste any of Angie's cooking again!

Operation Accomplished

The doctor said Mary was a real trooper and that she did great. She, as usual, won all the nurses over. The told me right away when I went back about how she just grabbed her wig and pulled it off, saying she’d set it right later. I think part of her charm is this disarming combination of Southern Belle and down-to-earth Country Folk. She’ll insist, for instance, on wearing her wig out (and usually quite a bit of jewelry, although I seem to have convinced her that a ring on every finger is a bit over the edge), but then if she wants to take it off for some reason, by cracky, it’s off in a flash. But I guess it’s mostly the Southern Belle aspect that people find so charming. There’s just something about a 93-year-old who still insists on being a “lady.” Maybe it’s the notion that she is tough despite her fragile appearance because she hasn’t lowered her standards. Yes, it’s odd that people don’t see it as being snobby or superficial.

Not that she isn’t—or moreover, that she wasn’t. Apparently, there was a time when Mary wouldn’t even drink a cup of coffee at Anna’s. And she always swears she’s never driven anything but a Cadillac. So why is the first behavior appalling and the second one cute?

(Big sigh.) She about drove me crazy today. Her eye irritated her and her vision was blurred and she didn’t know why. I had to keep reminding her that she’d had an operation, and I couldn’t let her out of my sight for very long for fear that she’d rub her eye. Of course, she felt like dog doo because she’d had three hours less sleep than usual. But just like a temperamental child she refused to take a nap. Even when she sat nodding off in front of the TV, she insisted on waiting till 8:00 to go to bed. She’s just so cute—I wish you could see her! I tell her how cute she is all the time. I’m sure she thinks I’m bonkers. She just says, “Aw, honey, I’m not half as cute as you are.”

I remember when I first moved in with Mary. I didn’t think she was so cute then. In fact, we kind of got in each other’s hair. The first Spring Break I got, I went away to a spa here in Kentucky for several days. It cost me a bundle, but it was glorious to have my own little apartment again. This place was great—bedroom, bathroom, kitchen nook and little living room and located on an old farm with a path to walk that went around a lake. I was in heaven. I wrote and wrote and wrote, ate vegetarian and only watched what I wanted to when I wanted to. Lovely! Funny how by the next Spring Break my feelings had changed completely. I took my parents and Mary to the Smokey Mountains and spent every night playing Dominoes for hours because that’s what made Mom and Mary happy. (Mary is a Dominoes addict. Once you get her playing, you practically have to drag her away from the table to get her to quit. We all usually insist on stopping at around midnight—much to Mary’s chagrin, but we have to watch out for her since she doesn’t know her limit. Anna plays Poker with a group of ladies once a week, but I don’t think she loses herself like Mary does.)

You know, when Mary is sick or impaired like this, it really hits home with me why I’m doing this. I can make it sound all noble if I want, but it really all comes down to Grandma. She fell and broke her hip and then died of pneumonia when she was 94. Or something like that. I was nine. She lived down the street from us and we were down there all the time, but something happened in my life the year I was nine. I don’t know how to express it I lost Grandma before she died, and I still feel guilty about that. How must they all feel? I know Mom can’t bear to think about it. Angie says she’s wracked with guilt, but I’m not sure exactly what that’s about. She and Uncle Preacher lived in Grandma’s house, so they had to take care of her. Although I wonder how much care she really needed. She seemed so independent to me, but perhaps she wasn’t. Uncle Preacher got cancer—he was a chain smoker. He had always been such a wonderful man. Distant yet somehow loving. Loving yet somehow distant. He was really bitter about dying. I knew that as a child but I didn’t understand what dying meant. I had no grasp of the notion of time. Really, I didn’t. I didn’t learn to tell time till Gina (1 ½ years older) sat me down and taught me—because it was, in her opinion, high time. How old was I? Eight? Nine? Wow. I remember living in that dimension. That timeless dimension. I saw clocks on the wall at school, but they had no meaning for me. I noticed that we went from one subject to the other at school, but I never knew there was rhyme or reason. Things just happened. The only reason I wanted a watch was because Gina had gotten one at my age. But Gina laid down the law—no idea how to tell time, no watch. Just like she laid down the law with the bicycle basket (white plastic wicker with pink and purple plastic flowers on the front)—no idea how to ride a bicycle, no basket. There was always a price, and the price was always knowledge.

Preach passed away and then Angie got arthritis so bad that her fingers just curled up and were of little use to her. She cried around all the time. Hm. Yeah, something happened in my life when I was nine. I guess that’s when they sent Grandma to Anna’s house. Was she sick before? I don’t know. She crawled out of bed and broke her hip. I remember visiting her in the hospital. I’m sure we did. But I don’t know. The picture in my head doesn’t seem real anymore. It seems like something out of a made-for-TV-movie. I remember hearing that she’d screamed at Dr. Southard not to come in her room, that he was fired, that if he came in, she’d scratch his eyes out. Was I there? Why does it seem like I was? I couldn’t have been there. They all thought that was funny. They still laugh. It was a sign of her spunk. That’s what they think. It was a sign of her pain. That’s what I think. I feel so guilty. You can say I was only nine, only a child, but I let her go. I gave up on her just like everyone else did. We all treated her like a thing. Just like everyone who puts a loved on in a nursing home does. And we can’t do that. We shouldn’t do that. They aren’t things, they’re people. But put them in those homes and they become things. I don’t want Mary to become a thing—even if she’s never done anything in her life to merit not becoming a thing. That’s what Angie and Anna think, you know. They see how selfish and “lucky” Mary was her whole life and can’t believe she as me, someone more dedicated than any of their children, much less grandchildren. Mary who always had money, who never really had to work, who had three husbands, who acted like she was better than everyone else, who never had children.

Oh, well. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be. It’s easy, most of the time, to take care of Mary. But I don’t think I could take care of Angie or Anna. It’s odd.

Shots and Operations, Oh My!

We got our flu shots today—which is quite ironic because it was the first time for Mary and me. If it hadn’t been for all of the hullabaloo about not having enough vaccine, we might not have gotten one at all. It’s true, it’s true—the decrease in supply inflamed a sort of anxiety. I’ve often thought about whether Mary should have a shot, but since she’d never had one, I let it go. I’d never had one either, so it seemed like something rather mysterious and threatening. Mom swears she and Dad always get sick after getting the shot, so that just increased my wariness. However, this year was different because they just kept carrying on about it and carrying on about it in the news, about how the sick and elderly and their caregivers should get a shot—although no one else will be allowed to. So, heck, I gave in to the pressure. Pretty funny, huh? If there hadn’t have been a shortage, Mary and I wouldn’t have gotten a shot! So some other poor sucker will get our flu this year, I guess. Well, I did get the flu last year and it was horrible trying to be ill and take care of Mary at the same time. (It was over Xmas/New Year’s break from school.) I tried to wear something around my mouth whenever I came near her, but it just wasn’t possible all the time. I became hyper-aware of just how much contact I had with her. But guess what? She never so much as sneezed or got a cough from it.

They say only the good die young. I always joke with her that she (and Anna) must be really rotten because they are living so long and are so healthy. Yeah, she must have made a pact with the devil or something. Mary kept talking tonight about how she had bronchial pneumonia and Anna had double pneumonia when they were little. Mom says Grandma expected Anna to die. Those must have been some pretty good prayers she and Grandpa were offering up back then!

Mary’s operation is at 7:15 tomorrow morning. I guess I must just be the queasy sort, but I just can’t bear to think about what they’re going to do to her. And it’s not just one eye but both! Ugh! Mary says she’s not scared—she is really brave but I think it’s mostly from all the luck she’s had. She has no idea what can go wrong. Completely trusts the doctors. Anna started telling her today about what went wrong with her own operation. Great! Lucky Mary’s memory is only “this long,” as Mary says, indicating half of her pinky. She’s really being stinky about this operation. I hope she doesn’t give me any trouble. I won’t be able to deal with it so early in the morning. She was stinky enough about the flu shot today. I was pretty stinky, too, but that had to do with my migraine. I had it before I went to bed and I knew it’d still be there when I woke up, but I didn’t want to take anything because the pills have caffeine in them. Plus you have to eat something before you take them, so they don’t make you overly nervous. I hate to eat right before I go to bed. It makes me ravenous when I wake up. Well, I’m taking it as a good sign that Mary took my advice and went to bed early. Now, if only I can take my advice, too! I took some Tylenol PM (the only sleeping pills I could find). I really hope they don’t’ make me so sleepy that I don’t hear her if she tries to get up during the night.

We watched a bit of a special about a baby polar bear and they kept showing scenes from The Polar Express. I really want to go see it and I’m begging Mary to go with me. I love Christmas and I think it’ll really put us in the right mood. I’d rather wait till we go visit my sister and her two sons, but they will surely have seen it by then. I made sure to mention this trip to Mary today, to get her mentally prepared. She loves day trips but hates to spend the night anywhere. I can understand. It’s hard enough for me to sleep in an unfamiliar bed… One time when we visited, we put the bed against the wall and I slept on the outside, to keep Mary from getting up. I was awoken around 10 AM (I guess I was really tired out from the drive) by Mary lying in bed next to me muttering about being held captive. Another reason to have a bad attitude about going. I know I’m awful for doing it, but I ruthlessly use my sister’s cancer to guilt Mary into going. It even worked to get Angie to go with us once. If only Anna were as easily swayed… That would be a trip to remember!

More Hygiene

Hygiene really is an important area when you’re taking care of someone. I joke that I hate to get wet, but can you imagine being 93? Mary used to take a shower every morning, come rain or come shine. After a fall that chipped her kneecap and then having her second hip replacement, moving around was getting to be a rather risky thing. I tried giving her a shower, but it always made me so nervous. Her shower has a ledge that you have to step over and lots of sharp corners on the door. It’s pretty cramped inside the stall and always a pain to get the chair in and out. I always ended up getting soaked and then getting her out was pretty scary. It was actually a godsend when something went wrong with the shower, causing water to drip from the basement ceiling. (I still haven’t gotten it fixed. Another thing on my “To Do” list.) So we had to start taking baths.

You know, the women who took care of Mary were supposed to help her sponge bathe every morning and then I’d give her a “real” bath in the tub every other weekend when I came home. But I know they were doing their job. She often smelled. But what could I do? That was part of what I hated about the caregivers and why I’m actually relieved to not find a job and to have to keep taking care of her. I felt like my hands were tied with so many things. Well, she doesn’t get a sponge bath every morning—sometimes she just stays in her pajamas all day, but she does get a “real” bath once a week, and she never smells. To give the caregivers a bit of credit, I believe they were leaving her to bathe herself, respecting her privacy. Give me a break! You have to watch her like a hawk when she bathes. Sometimes I get so bored and my mind starts to wander. You might as well start the whole thing over because, believe me, she has no idea what she’s already washed. I’ve gotten in the habit of constantly restating what she has to do or giving her instructions in a steady flow, trying to make it sound like I’m just making idle conversation. For instance, she’s just used the potty. I’ll say, “So, after you’ve washed your hands, we can go have a cup of coffee out on the porch. Doesn’t that sound good?” Am I pandering to her? Babying her? Maybe. I don’t do it all the time. Lots of times I won’t be so sensitive: “Hey, where are you going? Aren’t you going to wash your hands?”

Bathing. I had a major mental break-through as far as Mary was concerned when I first started helping her in the shower. I’d turn the water on and she’d squeal about it being cold. Then it would get a little warmer and she’ll bellow about how hot it was and how it was hurting her. Believe me, it was barely lukewarm. At first, I thought she was just being difficult or something. Then it suddenly hit me like a brick—she was telling the truth and I should listen. When she says she’s cold, she’s really cold. And when she says the water is too hot for her, then it’s too hot for her. It was her bath, not mine! Now I put her chair in the tub and use a big cup to pour water on her. She often complains that she’s cold. I, for my part, am standing there half naked because I’m burning up, about to pass out, actually. I tell her I’m sorry, but what can I do? She has the oddest reaction. She thinks I don’t take her seriously or that I really don’t care. But, seriously, what can I do? Turn the heat up some more? Then I really will pass out! And by the time it’s warm enough, her bath will be over. The last time this happened, she seemed to have an insight that there really wasn’t anything that I could do. Hm. Maybe she’s learning that I’m really telling the truth.

As if giving someone else a bath weren’t a big enough chore, then comes the getting dressed part. I always rub lotion all over her body. She has really dry skin. Her oil glands are probably all dead or something. (This was another thing the ladies, caregivers, didn’t do but that I couldn’t prove. Well, know I am certain because she never has dry skin!) I got out some lacy undies for her the other day and she had the cutest reaction. She asked me if it was Sunday! I asked why, were those her Sundy-undies? We had a good laugh about that. We do generally laugh a lot. Like when I put her gait belt on her and she doesn’t have a bra on (say she’s in her pajamas) and I’ll say, “Move ‘em or lose ‘em,” meaning her boobs. She’ll say something like, “Oh, we don’t want to lose them. Not yet anyway. Even if we can’t use ‘em anymore.” I think it used to shock her to have to lift her boobs up. Heck, now I lift them myself to make sure she’s dried under there—dampness can lead to a yeast infection. And she’s gotten quite used to me wiping her “bucket” with a wet wipe—I know she can’t reach it as well as she used to and it’s important that she stay clean. Yes, I do spoil her, if this is what could be referred to as spoiling. Well, I’m sure the aunts would say it falls under the bigger umbrella of spoiling. Angie still swears that if I hadn’t started doing all this stuff for Mary, that she’s still be able to do it for herself. Humph! She’s just jealous. I do try to not do everything, but it’s so hard! It takes so much more time (or so it seems) when Mary does things herself. For instance, I don’t pull her knee-highs all the way up, so that she has to finish the job. And I have found a happy medium in putting her bra on. She always had this interesting, actually pretty clever, maneuver whereby she’d put it around her inside out and hook it in the front and then twist it around and pull it up. She started putting it on so that when she pulled it up, it was inside out, so I started hooking it for her in the back but with it on her inside out so that she still had to pull it up. I tried getting her to put it on and then I’d hook it, but I could tell she hated it. She had to position her boobs in there and move them all around. Not up her alley. Not lady-like at all!

The worst part about getting her dressed is putting on the shoes. She had a pair she could slip on, but they were so old and worn out, so I got her (after at least half a year of trying) to wear another pair. Well, these fit snugger, so we have to use a shoehorn. I don’t think she ever used one because she doesn’t take to it. I’ve finally figured out that after I get the front part of her foot into the shoe, I have to slip the shoehorn in and tell her to bend her knee in order to slip the foot in. Let me tell you, we’ve been through much agony trying to figure that simple procedure out! In any case, when it’s all over, she inevitably says, “Ok, honey,” in this tone of voice that implies, “I’ve finally gotten so you can get out of my way now.” Argh!

Can you tell that I’ve never had children? I don’t know how parents do it? All that bathing and dressing! But at least they know that the child will grow up and eventually take over. With Mary, things won’t be getting any better or easier.

Taking Care of Business

“Do you want to brush your teeth?” I ask her, half hoping she’ll say no. “Yes, honey, but I don’t have a toothbrush here.” Oh, no. Please don’t start that. “What do you mean? Of course you have one. There it is.” I point to her toothbrush. “Oh, that one. Yes, I forgot, I guess.” I hope it ends there, because I really don’t want to hear about her not knowing where she is or thinking she’s not in her own home. That always wigs me out. Like I’m suddenly in the Twilight Zone. The toothbrush thing is new. I wonder what’s caused it. Maybe it’s because we’re brushing less.

I have to admit I’m not real gung ho about hygiene. I know that sounds awful. I’m embarrassed to admit it—but I bet there are a lot of people like me out there who just don’t admit it. I do take care of things, but perhaps just not as religiously or as joyfully as others. I hate to get wet, for one thing. I hate having wet hair. I hate taking the time to brush my teeth, much less to floss. I never can remember to put on deodorant—because I don’t smell. At least, I can’t smell me. So getting another person to do these things, especially a reluctant 93-year-old who just feels too tired to mess with it, is not exactly up my alley. Luckily, Mary has taught me a thing or two. For instance, she always swishes with some water after she eats and she flosses while she watches TV. (I’ve started doing it while she’s on the potty!) As a result, she still has most of her teeth. She always says, “Your eyes and your teeth are precious.”

She also always washes her hands before she eats or deals with food, and she never puts her fingers in her mouth when she’s cooking. Oddly enough, although she rarely blows her nose, she does dab at it constantly and keeps her tissues tucked everywhere from up her sleeves to in her pockets to in the cushions of all the chairs she sits in. Maybe that’s why she insists on washing her hands so much!

Well, I’m quite tuckered out today and we’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow. (Every time we go out, when we return Mary will say, “Well, we’ve had a big day today.” Sometimes when we pull in the garage she’ll say, “Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.” I don’t know where she got that.) We’re going to Lexington to have lunch with some of my friends from there whom I haven’t seen for a few months. She loves to take day trips. I also want to get some tea (Ceylon) from a nice place there. I can’t wait to have some good tea again!

PS--I didn't put a hot "bean bag" in Mary's bed recently and her reaction was so hilarious! She put her feet under her covers so expectantly and then... the most incredible cresfallen look! Like a child who comes rushing into the living room on Christmas morning to find no presents under the tree. "Oh, I ain't got no bean bag!" she exclaimed with the most perfect innocence. I felt so awful. Like I'd betrayed her or something. I joked that I didn't want to spoil her too much, but her disappointment was so sincere, I'll definitely have to try to make sure that she's got a hot one when she gets into bed.

Caregiver Stress

What an awful day! I learned a hard lesson--I wrote a blog offline and then lost it when I tried to sign on. Of course, I'll never recapture what I wrote. Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe I wrote some things that I shouldn't have. Guess I'm a little superstitious. :-) It's that good Catholic upbringing.

I must be sick; I felt terrible all day. I was really depressed and finally gave in and cried, but it wasn't that healthy, healing crying. Instead I felt worse afterwards and kept breaking into tears the rest of the day. I broke my diet and ate three candy bars, hoping maybe that would make me feel better. It made me feel worse. I couldn't eat anything the rest of the day, so Mary had to eat lunch and dinner alone. Plus, I didn't really attend to her at all, so she was kind of alone all day. I felt even worse about that.

What’s wrong with me? Am I depressed? Do I spend too much time taking care of Mary and not enough time taking care of me? Is the problem that I haven’t found a job yet? That I feel so worthless because I have two Masters degrees and can’t find a job? That I put so much hope in this presidential election after being so disappointed by the last one? Well, if it’s any consolation, at least almost half of America agrees with me. At least my mom voted the same way I did this time. That’s a victory—to finally wrest her from my father’s power over her in the political arena. And no, I didn’t put any pressure on her to vote my way. I didn’t even ask who she was going to vote for until after the fact. She thinks I’m a bit wacko that I’m so upset about it, but I don’t see how people can not be. Oh well. Enough of politics. Everyone is surely sick to death of that.

Back to Mary. I took her to the eye doctor yesterday. He said she has cataracts. She’s complained quite often over the last few months about not being able to see as well as she used to. Now she suddenly says she’s fine. Yes, I feel sick about this, too. What do I do? I don’t want her to be operated on and have something go wrong. Anna had a cataract operation and now one of her eyes is permanently damaged. The thought of someone sticking a needle into Mary’s eye and scraping her lens out and then inserting a new one… It makes my skin crawl. What to do? Who can I turn to? How did I get this responsibility? Is this doctor just trying to make money off of her? I was there when the assistant asked her to read the letter chart and she couldn’t make very many of the letters out. Now when I ask her to read the paper to me or what’s on the TV screen, she does just fine. I just want to scream! Her appointment is set for next Tuesday morning. Will she put up a fight? What if she puts all of her trust in me and something goes wrong?

An odd thing happened this morning. She’d die if she knew I was telling anyone. When I went to help her pull up her panties and pajama bottoms after using the potty right after she got up, I couldn’t find her panties. I’d just seen her wipe, so I couldn’t believe my first suspicion, which turned out to be right. She hadn’t gotten her panties down and just peed right through them. She couldn’t believe it, either. I made lightly of it—the last thing I want is for her to be embarrassed about something like that. I joked about how she hadn’t had her coffee yet and wasn’t awake yet.

She wanted to sit out on the porch today, but I got her to move into the living room and parked her in her lazy boy in front of the TV all day. Another thing to feel guilty about. I just couldn’t stand to see her sitting out there, staring out he window. Better to see her staring at the TV. Some days she’s really interested in the newspaper, but sometimes she barely glances at it. Odd how uninterested in the election she was. Is it because she can’t understand what they’re talking about or because she figures she won’t be around for the next one? I doubt if it’s the latter. That’s too deep for Mary and she swears she never thinks about how long she’s going to live.

One of her favorite sayings (in various situations) is that she doesn’t care about anything. She never gets upset—because she just doesn’t care. She’s such a diplomatic person. Doesn’t hold a grudge. Other people’s annoying habits don’t bother her in the least. She just laughs them off. Not like me in the least. She’s told me several times (when, despite herself, I did manage to perturb her a bit) that she’d never want to be married to someone who gets so upset about things. Of course, when you’re having menstrual cramps and a migraine and feeling sick to your stomach and trying to get a fashion-conscious 93-year-old who thinks her pant legs are too wide but doesn’t have any other pants that fit her 100-pound, 4-foot frame with 40-inch hips to an 8 AM doctor’s appointment, it’s hard not to lose your temper. The horrible thing is that I never know when I’m going to lose my temper or when something’s going to come out with that nasty tone of voice. That’s part of the problem. I say something that isn’t in and of itself bad, but the voice sounds like it’s coming from some evil demon. They all say what an angel I am and how God will prepare a special place in heaven for me for everything I do—argh! That makes me want to scream, too. I always reply that I’ve done enough bad stuff to compensate for any good I do.