The Curious Case of Helen Kinzbach

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.  I hadn't thought about that film much since it came out in 2008 until now.  Benjamin was born a baby in an old man's body.  At the age of 7, he was the size of a small child but looked like a bald, bespectacled 80-year-old man. Throughout his life, his body grew younger and younger while his mind became older and older.  By the end of the story, he was an infant.  It was then that he died.

Helen Cute-as-a-Button 1926.

It occurred to me that The Curious Case of Benjamin Button film should be included as an essential element in the School of Dealing with Aging Parents.  We are born without the ability to feed ourselves.  We have no bladder or bowel control.  Our babbling makes absolutely no sense.  But, we are wrapped in such adorable, giggling packages that people stop to smile at us as we ride in the seats of grocery carts.  "Isn't hers just precious!  Oh, look!  I see 2 toofies!"

At the end of life, the same exact process begins.  Same exact.  But, because the person is wrapped in a wrinkly, withered body that sometimes smells a bit odd, no one stops a 95-year-old's wheelchair in the grocery store and kneels and exclaims, "Oh, he's just precious!  I see 3 toofies!  He looks just like YOU!  Mmmmm!  Don't you just love that old man smell?!"

Nope.  We overlook the aged as they return to "childlike behaviors."  Demanding meals at 8:00, noon, and 5:00, they seem unyielding.  My mother's 90-year-old friend, Leonard, doesn't like Mexican food.  He migrated to Texas from Baltimore when he was in his 80's.  The love of Mexican food wasn't expected of a Marylander.  In Texas, we are hard-wired to salivate when we smell a pan of piping hot, cheesy enchiladas.  Leonard orders from the child's menu at Mexican restaurants.  While we inhale our tacos and burritos, he happily feasts on chicken nuggets and French fries.  I don't know if this is a new behavior for him that can be attributed to the aging process or if he has always been a bit of a picky eater, but Leonard doesn't really like complex dishes like casseroles.  He likes to have the chicken separate from the rice which is separate from the broccoli.  

I raised 3 sons.  I well remember spooning tiny portions of individual items into the sections of their plastic Sesame Street dinner plates.  The boys were well into their twenties before they officially enjoyed eating "mixed up" or "foreign" foods.  They still don't exactly devour my Thanksgiving dressing or green bean casserole, but they politely enjoy portions of each on that special day every year.  Update:  My youngest son reported that he LOVES my Thanksgiving dressing.  He further told me that one of his brothers also loves it.  Good to know.

Nowadays as I sit watching my mother scoop at peas on her plate and coming up with an empty spoon, it reminds me of watching a toddler learn how to operate an eating utensil.  An upside-down fork yields little to no harvest of green beans.  I find myself micromanaging the process just like I did so long ago for my little boys.  "Here, Mom," I say taking the fork from her small wrinkled hand, "let me cut that chicken up for you so it will be easier to eat."  I cut the chicken and stab the first bite.  Sometimes, I gently transfer the fork back to her hand so that she can feed herself.  Other times, I almost make "choo choo" noises as I hold the bite up to her lips.  Either way - she doesn't complain.

There were times in my life with Meems that she drove me absolutely cuh-ray-zee.  There were times when she made me mad.  There were times when she wasn't happy with me either.  She needed a lot of attention, and  I was impatient and pretty focused on my own happiness.  When Meems turned 80, I took myself by the shoulders and said to myself, "Self, Meems is 80-years-old now.  All bets are off when it comes to the words that she says and the things that she does.  From now on, you are going to give her pure, godly GRACE.  GRACE, I tell ya!"  That little self-talk was life changing.

Helen Cute-as-a-Button 2016.

So, as Mom's dementia makes her more childlike, and her sleep pattern shifts back to that of a newborn, I think of her as my child...so much so that just the other day when I was making an appointment for her I told the receptionist that I was Helen Kinzbach's mother.  My "child" needs 24-hour care.  She cannot be left alone - ever.  She likes to have her meals served at regular times with snacks in between.  She will happily tell you that her bedtime is 7:00.  No more staying up until 1:00 AM on a school night to finish sewing my homecoming dress.  Her needs are simple and few:  roll her to the meal table, roll her to bingo, roll her to "Fun 'n' Fitness," roll her to Laughter Yoga (yes, it's a real thing).

Someday I'm going to invent a wheelchair that has a little movie screen suspended over the head of the elderly passenger.  A loop of a lifetime of photos and videos would play 24/7.  The display would communicate to the world the true identity of the aged, seemingly "used up" traveler.  Pictures of babes in arms, weddings, homemade homecoming dresses, adventurous travels, and lifelong occupations would scroll across the screen intermingled with videos of high board swan dives, grandbabies being rocked to sleep, and flowerbed tours.  The stories would be told.  Hidden identities would be revealed.  

There was a man with advanced Alzheimer's in the memory care unit Mom lived in before moving to Wedgewood South.  He couldn't feed himself.  His loud words were garbled.  He sat slumped in his wheelchair.  On the outside, he didn't seem so great.  But, great he was.  He was a war hero from the Greatest Generation.  I can't remember his rank, but it was something like a general with some stars.  He was a big deal.  The adult diapers he wore belied his history of bravery and leadership.  He had returned to the situation into which he had been born - total helplessness.  

The Curious Case of Helen Kinzbach is a sweet tale about a childlike 91-year-old woman who could swim a mile when she was in her 60's and explored nature while carrying her own camping gear in a heavy backpack until she was in her 70's and worked in her flower beds in sweltering Central Texas summer heat during her early 80's.  That little wheelchair-bound lady over in the corner sleeping with her head slumped down to her chest once lived fully alive.

Kneel and speak.  Ask questions.  Listen.  Honor these senior citizens.  And, give them lots and lots of grace.  We will ALL need to be given grace in the years to come.

Amen.

I love hearing your stories!  Keep 'em coming on the Finding the Funny Facebook page or down below in the comments section!!!

  

Showin' Up

There are days when Meems is alert and chatty.  There are days when her eyelids are so heavy she cannot lift them for more than a few seconds.  She actually fell asleep one morning while she was drinking coffee.  The Sleepy Coffee Spill story is now a part of her limited catalog of "And To Think" stories.  "And to think, I fell asleep while I was drinking hot coffee at breakfast!"  

We call these days Sleepy Days.  They are becoming more and more frequent.

During my Sleepy Day visits, I enjoy sitting quietly by her side drinking in her sweet softness and the peace that surrounds her.  My heart almost bursts with love for this woman.  My mother.  Momma.  Mimi.  Meems.  During those moments of stillness, I slip down a rabbit hole of fascination.  What is it about this tiny sleeping woman with Kleenex billowing from her left sleeve?  Why am I so attached to this particular human being out of all the human beings on Planet Earth?  Shared genetics do not necessarily produce the deep feeling of love that I feel as I watch her slow, deep breaths.

During one recent Sleepy Day visit, I had an epiphany. 

my mother showed up.

She was the little church lady that attended Sunday School and sang in the choir every Sunday.  She never taught a single Sunday School lesson.  She never sang an offertory solo.  She was just THERE.

band concerts, drill team performances, piano recitals, dance recitals, PTA programs, parades.

She wasn't just THERE.  She was THERE taking pictures.

funerals, weddings, Methodist Missions banquets, pot luck dinners, ice cream socials.

She was THERE.

If Helen Kinzbach ever brought you a warm loaf of Mimi Bread (so named by my sons) when you were ill or sad or appreciated or just because you always bragged on her bread, please step forward and place a dollar on the table.  Let's see...how many dollars are piled up there?  Tens of tens of tens.  Her love of Jesus was deeply kneaded by her tiny hands into the individual yeasty fibers of each loaf.

She was THERE with crusty, tender, warm, sweet bread.

I was pregnant with our second child when our firstborn was a just learning to walk.  Morning sickness turned into bouts of nausea throughout the day.  The mere mention of vomit would send me running in search of my little plastic trash can.  On one particular day as I was piddling around in the kitchen while Jonathan was sitting in his high chair playing with his food, I thought I heard the sound of water hitting the floor.  I turned towards the sound.  My eyes opened wide and my jaw dropped in disbelief.  It wasn't a leaking pipe.  It was a leaking diaper.  My precious son smiling with a circle of Cheerio balanced between his front teeth had exploded. I can hardly type the words to tell you about the volume and odor of...  Ugh.  I'm making myself gag right now.  Mothers of the World, you get the idea.

I raced to the bathroom and ran warm water into the tub.  Then, I gulped in a deep breath and held it as I ran to the kitchen to extricate Jonathan from the obliterated high chair.  Tears were running down my cheeks.  Oh, misery, thy name is Diarrhea!  I held Jonathan away from my body like a dead cat as I ran towards the bathroom.  I stripped off his clothes and diaper and rolled them up into a bath towel gagging and crying all the while.

Once I got him bathed, powdered and in fresh clothes, I carried him to my bedroom.  I placed him on the bed and crawled up next to him crying.  I felt so overwhelmed.  I could not face the mess in the kitchen nor the bathroom.  Life was just too much for me all in the span of about 10 minutes of one day with one poopy toddler.  So, what did I do?  I picked up the phone and called Mom.

She came.  The journey from Waco to my house in Mesquite took about 2 hours.  She arrived with a packed bag in 2 hours and 15 minutes.  I was still crying and gagging.  And, kinda hungry.  Mom took charge.  She cleaned up every glop of poop and washed the poopy clothes.  Soon the piney freshness of clean floated throughout my tiny house.  Then, she brought me a sandwich and a glass of sweet tea on a tray with a carefully folded napkin and a bloom of azalea plucked from my flowerbed and tucked into a tiny vase.

On that Sleepy Day sitting there gazing at my mother, I felt a huge lump rise up in my throat.  That petite, wrinkled bundle of slumber seems like no one special to the casual observer.  

Oh, she's special, my friend.  She lived a lifetime of showing up.  She honored people and God by showing up.  And, I had the privilege of watching her legacy of showing up unfold.  

Thanks, Sleepy One, for being there for me and mine, your church family, and your friends.  Your warm loaves of bread, your willingness to serve, and your STRONG STOMACH will be my beacons as I journey forward in life.  Well, not so much the strong stomach.

Postscript:  

Look at the picture above.  See the 5 plates on the wall?  If you're thinking that there must have been 6 plates hanging there, you would be right.  Last fall, one of the plates fell and broke into several pieces.  A caregiver gave my mother the cross for Christmas and placed it where the plate once hung.  A younger me would have twitched at the mere site of the skewed symmetry.  Today's me kinda loves it.  Everything on that wall screams "Helen Kinzbach!"  Gardening.  Fine china.  Jesus.

Remind me someday to tell you about the framed embroidery in the picture that reads, "I'd rather be in my garden."  It's a sweet, sweet story.

Trump's Bum and a Sack for Leftovers

"Mom, are you watching the inaugural parade?"

Just because she was sitting a few feet from the TV that happened to be blaring the parade didn't necessarily mean that she was watching the parade if you know what I mean.

"Yes.  But, they haven't shown any pictures of the president with his pants pulled down."

That is exactly what she said.

"No, they have not shown any pictures of President Trump with his pants pulled down."

That, by the way, was exactly my response.  I just go with it.  Just GO with it.

"Well.  I don't think that we should have elected a man that pulls his pants down in public and shows his bottom."

"Yeah.  That's probably right.  Showing your bottom in public is a bad idea."

"He pulled down his pants and had a paper sack tied around his backside."

What thuh?!  I was hesitant, nay...afraid, to ask the question, but I just couldn't stand the suspense.

"Why did he have a paper sack tied around his backside?!"

"For leftovers."

What?  Who is this woman?  I.  Just.  Where did she get this idea?  She's been telling me about Trump "mooning" for a while now.  The paper sack is new.  It's a nice little addition to the story.

Every time I visit, I do a little something to gauge her mental status.  The Trump's Bum with a Leftover Sack conspiracy has me thrown for a loop. I ask questions.  "Mom, what are your grandson's names?"  Check.  "Who's your favorite daughter?"  She answers, "You're my favorite living daughter."  Well done, Grasshopper.

Yesterday, during the Mr. Pants Down Parade, I came up with an idea to further investigate her mental status.  I deliberately put my feet on the arm of her pretty little loveseat.  Slowly, her head turned from the TV.  She looked at my tennis shoes for a minute then said, "Are those your feet on my couch?"

Lest you worry that she thought that they were Donald Trump's feet, you need to know that my mom had some hard and fast rules in her home.  We were to never sit on a bed because it ruins the bedspread.  We were to NEVER put our feet on the furniture.  Feet belong on the floor at all times.

"Are your feet on my couch?" roughly translates "Git yer stinkin' feet offa my couch, ya moron!"  Yup.  That's my mom.  I quickly put my feet on the floor.

As for you, President Trump, keep your pants on.  Little Miss Moral Compass is watching you.

"I'm Almost 100"

On Monday, January 9, 2017, Helen Katheryn Williams Kinzbach celebrated her 91st birthday.  Since mid-summer she has been reminding us that she wanted Alan's White Chocolate Cake with White Chocolate Icing for her birthday.  "That can be my present."

Background:  During the 3rd month of our marriage, Alan decided to surprise me by making my birthday cake all by himself.  Bless his heart.  He made up some excuse to run over to my mom's house to help her with something knowing that I wouldn't ask to join him because I wouldn't want to get involved in whatever hair-brained project she had roped him into.  [My blog confession about being a bad daughter can be found here:  The Purfict Dotter]    Anyhoo.  Alan spent an entire afternoon - he is a very slow and meticulous baker - making his now famous White Chocolate Cake with White Chocolate Icing.  The recipe came from  Southern Sideboards, a cookbook that we received as a wedding gift.  It's listed in the index as "Chocolate Cake, White."  I spent about 30 minutes searching for the "after" pictures taken that March 3rd afternoon by Mom to document the mayhem of ingredients, measuring cups and mixing bowls strewn across the countertops and the numerous open cabinet doors.  [To this day, Alan leaves cabinet doors open in the kitchen when he fetches a dinner plate or a sauce pan.]

The recipe comes with not one, but two icing choices.
I.  Don't.  Know.  I guess Edna couldn't decide.

Alan and my mother were so proud of my 23rd birthday cake.  They thought that it was delicious.  "Best cake ever."  I, on the other hand, am not a fan of white chocolate.  The cake is dense with chopped pecans and coconut flakes inside and toasted almonds on top.  And, truth be told, it's not much to look at.  I prefer light, fluffy white cakes with rich milk chocolate buttercream frosting topped with "Happy Birthday, Carolyn" written in elaborate cursive.  But, on that particular evening, I smiled and made appropriately appreciative nom-nom noises.  When my birthday rolled around the next year, I confessed my love of white cakes with chocolate icing.  But, Mom?  She's been having "Chocolate Cake, White" on her birthday for years.

So, on Monday, January 8, 2017, Alan, Leonard, Granddaughter Kelly and I gathered with Meems and her Wedgewood South Assisted Living buddies in the dining room to have a cake party during lunch.  The "Chocolate Cake, White" was a hit!  Mom barely touched her Shepherd's Pie but licked her cake plate clean.

Her pick for dinner that evening was Abuelo's, a local Mexican restaurant, for her favorite meal:  one cheese enchilada, a scoop of guacamole and "you get a margarita, and we'll share it."

At dinner, Alan thought that we should sing Happy Birthday to Mom one more time.  So we all leaned towards her and quietly sang.  Leonard, her BFF, always tacks on a verse at the end.  He has one volume when it comes to singing - loud.  We call it a "joyful noise." 

How old are you now?

How old are you now?

Toooooo-day is your biiiiirth-daaaay!

How old are you now?

Mom had been rather quiet during dinner.  Mostly, she sat there with a faraway look in her eyes.  She seemed sleepy tired.  She answered most of our questions with "I don't know."  "Mom, do you remember any of your teacher's names?"  "No."  It was as if her brain had already settled in for a long winter's nap. 

After Leonard sang the extra verse of the birthday song, I turned to Mom and said, "Mom, Leonard just sang a question to you.  Are you going to sing an answer to him?"  She sat quietly looking off into the distance at nothing.  Then, very softly, almost imperceptibly, she sang.

I am ninety-one.

I am ninety-one.

I'm almost one hundred.

But now, I'm ninety-one.

We were stunned by her clever reply after the hour of sparse responses.  We laughed and praised her quick wit.

As we were leaving the restaurant, we stopped at the entrance to say goodbye to Leonard who was to be driven home by Alan.  There were hugs and "happy birthdays."  Then, out of the blue mom said, "Mrs. Higgins."  "What, Mom?" I asked.  "Mrs. Higgins...[long pause]...She was my teacher."  I was so proud and happy for her.  The answer to the question asked during dinner had finally bubbled up from somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of her memory.  Oh, happy day!

She is ninety-one.

She is ninety-one.

She re - mem - bered Mrs. Hig - gins.

And, impressed us a ton!

Happy Birthday, Meems.  You make Mrs. Higgins and me proud.

Feliz Blah-Blah-Blah

I had hoped that this one detail of Christmas Past had slipped out of Meems' memory forevermore.  But, NOOOOOOOOOO.  She started asking for it a couple of weeks ago.  I tried to bluff.  "I'm not sure where that is.  You know how it is when you move!  Things just get put in weird places!"  "Well," she'd reply, "I hope you find it."

The conversation would start fresh in a few minutes.  "Have you seen my hat?"  I'd repeat, "I'm not sure where that is.  You know how it is when you move!  Things just get put in weird places!"

Then it would spread from my heart and consume my whole being...

Guilt!

Guilt!

Guilt!

Even though I hadn't actually SEEN the hat in a year, I had a pretty good idea where it was.  This morning, I lugged a stepladder upstairs and pulled down the 3 remaining boxes of Meems' Christmas treasures.  It was in the third and final box.  Dang it.  Oops!  I meant to say, "Praise Jesus!"  I brightened at the thought that the old hat had lost its magic powers.  It hasn't. 

It's in perfect shape.  So, today I will present the hat to Meems when I go for my daily visit.  To the staff of Wedgewood South Assisted Living Center:  My apologies.  This hat will drive you crazy.  This hat will also light up 90 YO Meems' face.  She will grin from ear to ear.

Here it is.  The hat.  Feliz Blah-Blah-Blah to you, my friend.

Is That My Christmas Tree?

Meem's assisted living facility is decorated so beautifully for Christmas.  Little elves tiptoed in and made magic happen just after Thanksgiving.  Magic, I'm tellin' ya.  Magic.  About once a week during my visits with Meems, we take a Tour de Trees.  This is what happens...

Meems:  Is that my Christmas tree?
["My" means the tree from her house in Waco]
Me:  Kinda.  You have to share it with everyone else.
Meems:  Good.

Meems:  Is that my Christmas tree?
Me:  It sure looks like your tree, but I
think that your tree was shorter.
Meems:  That's right.

Meems:  Is that my Christmas tree?
Me:  Ummmmm.  Maybe.
Meems:  It sure looks like it.
[aforementioned Waco tree was NOT as snowman tree]

Meems:  Is that my Christmas tree?
Me:  I don't remember your tree having so
many legs sticking out of it.

Meems:  Is that my Christmas tree?
Me:  You know, it just might be...
Meems:  It looks like mine.
[The Waco tree did have some blue ornaments...]
Me:  It sure does look like it might be yours!

These exchanges remind me of the children's book by P.D. Eastman, "Are You My Mother?"  Some days when Meems is so sleepy she can't keep her eyes open for more than 15 seconds, I want to ask, "Are you my mother?"  The mother who worked hard from dawn 'til dark-thirty grading papers, cutting out a pants suit pattern, and raking leaves?  Or, when she can't remember the names of any of her friends from Waco?  Are you my mother?  There was a time when she could list everyone she saw at church and what each lady wore and who wore it best.   Or, when she doesn't know what time of day it is.  Are you my mother?  In days gone by, she could guess the time within about 15 minutes by observing the sky and the rumblings in her tummy.  

When she gives me little love pats while she hugs me, I know.  When she tells me that I was the "hardest" baby she gave birth to and that she felt better the second I was born, I know.  When her face lights up with a smile.  I know.  When she tells me that I need to find the store that is selling ladies' boots for $7 and asks me to buy a pair for her and a pair for myself, I know.  (There is no Lubbock store selling boots for $7.)

I wish that the assisted living elves could recreate her Waco Christmas tree with all of its pretty pinks and soft blues and pale greens and the one green pickle ornament.  I'd roll her little wheelchair up really close to its boughs, turn on some Bing Crosby Christmas tunes, and let her soak in the beauty of her memories.  Yes.  That's your Christmas tree.  Yes.  That's my mother.  Magic.

Meems' Hit Parade

As I mentioned in my last post, I have a Spotify playlist on my phone titled "Mom's Favorites."   To keep her brain juicy and active, I will from time to time ask her to name great songs that she remembers.  Sometimes she draws a blank.  Other times, a random tune pops into her head, and I immediately add it to the list.

Here's a little Casey Kasem countdown for your afternoon entertainment.

Starting with #10...

10.  You Made Me Love You (I Didn't Want To Do It)

This song reminds me of the story she tells about dating a Filipino after the war.  I call him Phil Ipino.  He played in a dance band.  Her daddy told her that she could marry Phil, but that he (her dad) would have to get a 2nd job to support them.  She has told this story all of my life.  The main character became a Filipino a couple of years ago.  Until then, he was a regular old guy.  Hmmm.  She dated a Filipino right after WWII in Nachitodoches, TX.  I'll bet.

9.  Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree (With Anyone Else But Me)

I downloaded the Glenn Miller version with the long big band intro.  My favorite part - "No-No-No-No!"  I had never really listened to the lyrics before.  Now that I've heard the song about 27 times, I have fallen in love with it.  It's a song about being separated by war and the fear that your guy will fall in love with some cute, blonde German chick.  "You're on your own where there is no phone, and I can't keep tabs on you!"  I wonder what present-day lyrics would read.  I doubt that there would be mention of sitting under any kind of fruit tree.  "No-No-No-No!"

8.  Mi Mancherai (randomly picked) - Andrea Bocelli

She wanted a song by that blind guy with the pretty voice.

7.  Edelweiss (From The Sound of Music)

I added this one.  She likes show tunes.  I love Christopher Plummer.

6.  I Could Have Danced All Night (From My Fair Lady)

I thought that she would recognize it.  She didn't.  She kept asking me if it was a song from Wicked.

5.  Popular (From Wicked)

She is a huge fan of Wicked.  She thinks that this song is HEEEE-larious.  I sing "But, not quite as popular as MEEEEEEEEMS!" at the end.  She likes that.

4.  My Strongest Suit (From Aida)

She and I saw Elton John's Aida on Broadway years ago.  This song has very funny, clever lyrics.  Again, she thinks this song is HEEEE-larious.

Now We're Getting to the Good Stuff...

3.  Always - Deanna Durbin

Meems sang this at a friend's wedding.  That's one life event that is forever forged in her memory.

2.  When the Lights Go On Again - Vera Lynn

"When the lights go on again all over the world, and the boys are home again all over the world..."  Meems sang this at her high school graduation in 1940.  Her big brother, Jimmy, was away fighting that war.  According to Mom, "ALL the boys were gone."  One of her teachers told her that her voice sounded just like Deanna Durbin's which would by today's standards would have been Barbra Streisand or Celine Dion.  Another forged memory.

Here it is, folks!  

Meems' numero uno (for no apparent reason) request!

1.  76 Six Trombones (From The Music Man)

I. Have. No. Idea.  I didn't grow up hearing Mom belting out, "Double bell euphoniums and big bassoons!  EACH BASSOON!  Having his BIG FAT SAY!"  But every single time, I get out my phone and ask her for requests from her playlist she murmurs, "76 Trombones."  That is, until yesterday when I tried to authenticate this request by videoing her.

Actually, 76 Trombones digs down to a memory planted deeply within her cerebrum.  My sister.  "Kathy sure loved the silver trombone I bought her."  My little blonde-headed sister with a smile that glinted silver with braces chose to play the trombone when she joined the band way back in Junior High.  After a couple of years of playing with a rented trombone, Mom decided that Kathy was serious about tromboning.  Our little mother saved up her school teacher salary and bought Kathy a silver trombone.  They were both so proud of it.  I hated that thing.  Its belches echoed loudly throughout our tiny house.  

However, I do wish I still had that trombone.  I'd take it to Wedgewood South every afternoon and let Meems hold it in her lap.  We'd listen to 76 Trombones, and she'd smile and smile.  

8:00, 12:00, and 5:00

4:10 PM.  Nearly Suppertime.

I go by to see Meems every afternoon between 3 and 4.  At Wedgewood South, they have special activities at 2 in the afternoon, so I wait until the afternoon lull for my visit.  

Sometimes we sit in the large common area and watch "Deal or No Deal."  My "depression child" mother always advises the contestants to take the first lowball deal that is offered.  "But Mom!  There might be a million bucks in the case he selected!  He can't settle for $8500!"  "Eighty-five hundred dollars is better than nothing," she murmurs.

Other days we go sit out in the shade of the porch so that Mom can feel the breeze on her pink cheeks and hear the birds trilling in the trees.  I made a playlist of Mom's favorite tunes on my phone.  I won't tell you what her numero uno favorite is.  There is a whole other blog coming with that amusing tidbit.  We sing.  We reminisce.

Before long, Meems reaches over to her left wrist and holds her watch face up close to her eyes.  "Is it almost dinnertime?" she'll ask.  A quick glance at my watch reveals that she has more than an hour until chow time.  "Nope!  You've got lots of time to enjoy my presence!"  "Well.  I don't like to be late.  I like to be there early."  I tease her by telling her that the commute from the porch to the dinner table is all of about 30 seconds long.  "We can leave in 59 minutes and have time to spare!"  She quiets for a bit.

Two minutes later.  "Is it almost dinnertime?"

The funny thing is, she's not asking because she's hungry.  In fact, the caregivers have to encourage her to "take 3 more bites" before she can have her dessert.  It's not about being hungry.  It's about predictability.  Five minutes after the meal is over, she will not be able to remember what she ate.  Not even what she had for dessert.  Sometimes when I'm with her at meal time, she'll ask me mid-meal if she's eating  breakfast or dinner.  The fact that there is a hunk of meat loaf suspended in midair on her fork does not provide the slightest context clue that she might be in the middle of supper.

She does know this.  "We eat at 8:00, 12:00 and 5:00."  Every time she tells me this as if it's news hot off the press, I feel a twinge of comfort knowing that she still has a bit of a time table in her mind.  That simple bit of awareness means that part of my mom is still in there.  She can still sing most of the national anthem and she knows what time meals are served.  

If she's showing off, she can tell you that they have "Fun and Fitness" in the mornings and a fun activity in the afternoon.  I felt especially proud one day when she was able to tell me that she had to be at the "movies" (aka chapel) at 2:00 because they were going to watch a movie about a dolphin with no tail.  AND, they got FREE popcorn and a coke at the movie!

I remember when my boys had to learn our home address in kindergarten.  I made up a chant.  "Fifty SIX oh FIVE Eighty FOURTH..Street."  I was so proud when each boy learned that tidbit of useful information.  I get that same feeling of pride when Mom remembers the tail-less dolphin and the times for meals.  I almost jumped with joy last week when she recited my home phone number for no apparent reason.  And, like so long ago with my little boys she felt pretty proud, too.

At the end of my visit when I start to say goodbye, I know exactly what she's going to ask.  "Will you roll me to the table?"  "But, Mom, wouldn't you rather sit by the TV?  It's about 50 minutes until supper."  "No.  I don't like to be late."  So, I roll her to the table and lock the wheels of her wheelchair.  Slowly, she brings the terry cloth bib Wilshire Place so thoughtfully provides around her neck and gently presses the velcro together.  I give her lots of hugs and kisses before asking, "When are you going to see me again?"  "Tomorrow!" she replies beaming.  "That's right!  Tomorrow!"

Then, I walk towards the door.  I usually take one more look back at her.  She's facing a wall.  Her tablemates won't be wheeled in for a long while.  She's totally content to stare at nothing or simply cat nap.  The lump in my throat almost chokes me every time.  

She's content.  She knows what time meals are served.  She can call me at home and sing the national anthem to me anytime she pleases.  She still enjoys movies, popcorn and Coke.  I feel honored to still have time with her here on earth.

The Purse

Her favorite.  "It goes with everything." 

No matter how many times I've explained to Meems that Wedgewood South is an "all-inclusive resort" that doesn't allow tipping, she just feels better if she has her purse with her at all times.  Every now and then, she thinks she's eating in a school cafeteria and feels compelled to give $1.25 to the lunch lady.  The purse.  It's common for women with dementia to hold on to this last vestige of identity.  And, the contents of those purses fascinate me.

A toddler fills her purse with small toys and gummy bears and, perhaps, a TV remote.  During the twilight years as the mind begins to dim, purses tend to become more and more empty except for the occasional random penny coated with lint, an ancient gum wrapper, or a wadded piece of Kleenex.  The tug of the weight of a handbag resting in the crook of an arm provides security and identity to  both toddler and senior alike.  But for an elderly lady with days upon days filled with the feeling that something is missing, a handbag becomes more of a lovey or a pacifier.

One of the ladies that lives in the "all-inclusive" resort with Meems dresses immaculately.  Coordinating blouses and pants, sometimes with a nice jacket, are her trademarks.  She wears rather large clip-on earrings that are ornate and colorful.  Same earrings every day.  I've heard tell that the small purse that she carries daily is totally and completely empty.  She regularly takes up her purse and wanders the facility asking "Is this where I live?" and "Can you show me which apartment is mine?"  

About a month ago, a broken hip left her wheelchair bound.  Her purse, now nestled next to her lap, has become her constant companion like a lap dog.  Same neat, matchy-matchy clothing.  Same earbobs.

Meems' near empty purse has a hollow echo.  I can tell you with 97% absolute certainty what you would find in it on any given day:  2-3 wadded up pieces of Kleenex, her huge plastic dark glasses that she wears over her regular glasses, a tube of coral lipstick, and, in the matching coin purse that came with the bag, quarters.  Lots and lots of quarters.  If you've already guessed that she likes to sit out on the porch on sunny days, feels undressed without lip color and has a constantly runny nose, you are very astute.  I'll bet the quarters have you baffled.

Bingo Winnings

At Wedgewood South, Bingos and Blackouts are rewarded with quarters.  My mother is very good at Bingo.  She can't even read the numbers on the cards, and she's good at Bingo.  Her coin purse is heavy with her winnings.  Every week or two, I put the quarters in a baggie and bring them home for safe keeping.  I stack them in 4's so that I can keep a tally of her earnings in my mind at all times.  She's up to $15.  Really, she's up to about $20.  I gave my niece, Kelly, about 20 quarters a while back to use as laundry money.  "Mom!  You're up to $20 in Bingo winnings!"  That always gets a triumphant smile.

The 3% of uncertainty regarding what else might be in her purse is reserved for any random thing that she happens to absently throw in her bag like a few checkers used to cover the giant numbers on the Bingo cards or a used dinner napkin or a "Happy Fourth of July!" card she received in the mail.  It is those unexpected treasures that make my heart smile.

At the age of 90, if the building catches on fire, Kleenex, king-sized dark glasses, a tube of coral lipstick, a few quarters and a couple of red checkers will be all she needs to navigate the world.  Life is easy.  Life is simple.  I've got her back.  My purse, thank goodness, is pretty full.

A Soft Place to Fall

I stop by to check on Meems every day.  Most days I find her parked in front of the TV in the common room sleeping.  Sometimes, she's asleep in front of a window.  Macular degeneration has robbed her of idle pleasures like watching Lifetime movies and working jigsaw puzzles.  Sleep makes hours go by.

She can't see who I am until I'm right next to her.  I tap her leg gently and lean my face towards hers.  Her eyes slowly open, and then, her face slowly blossoms into the most beautiful smile.  Melts my heart every time.

"You came to see me, " she'll say.  

"Yep.  I was missing you, so I came by for a hug," I'll say.

"I'm glad you're here," she'll say.

"Me, too," I'll say.

These visits with my sweet, tender mother who gives love pats while she hugs have become my soft place to fall.  Life is very uncomplicated in her world.  My world swirls with emails, phone calls, and people.  Her world is quiet and peaceful.

I pull her wheelchair up close to my chair so that we can hold hands during my visit or she can pat on me.  She tells me a bit about her day.  Bingo.  Fun and Fitness.  Someone came and played the piano.  For my mother who once lived life in technicolor, the pace of her new residence is perfect.  The clock ticks slowly.  Meals are served at 8AM, noon, and 5PM.  

"It's almost dinnertime," she'll say.  

"It's only 4 o'clock," I'll say.

"I like to get there early," she'll say, "Will you roll me to the table before you leave?"

Sitting there at her place at the table for an hour is comforting to her.  Breaks my heart a little bit every time.  But, she is content.  

Every day she says, "They take good care of me here." And, that makes me feel content.  They brush her hair.  They help her apply her favorite coral lipstick.  They spritz her with perfume.

Grateful doesn't even begin to describe how I feel.

I consider this time with her an undeserved blessing from God.  Many of my friends have lost their parents.  Some are dealing unpleasant issues involved in caring for aging parents.  And, the issues are many.  Among my many blessings is the fact that she has aged with a sweet disposition.  My dad was a whole different story.  His passing was like a huge burden lifted off my shoulders.  He was unhappy all day every day and very vocal about his circumstances.  I've learned that a good disposition is a gift you give to your children.

Gosh, I'm making myself cry right now.  Guess I'd better head over to Meems' for some huggin' and pattin'.  Come join me.  However, I must give you fair warning.  You will leave her presence feeling sleepy and relaxed.  Very, very sleepy.  Tenderly relaxed.

Death by Catfish

Imagine, if you will, a tiny grandmother.  A tiny grandmother ready for bedtime at 7PM all snug in her nylon coral nightgown, matching coral slippers and favorite well-worn cornflower blue bathrobe with a missing belt loop.  On this particular evening you can hear the soft shh-shh-shh of her slippers as the sweet grandmother, still perfumed with roses from showering with 10-year-old "good soap," crosses the linoleum towards the cozy sitting area of her kitchen with its pale yellow painted 1970's wood paneling to settle in for the evening. 

In this little kitchen haven there is a prissy yellow floral loveseat - covered, mind you, with white throws purchased not for warmth, but instead, but specifically for the protection of the fabric of the prissy yellow floral loveseat.  There are rules, people.  One simply does not sit on the actual fabric of a couch or chair.  Fabric-sitting is a special honor bestowed on guests over the age of 18 who are NOT consuming messy food items or red beverages.   This "lovelyseat" is flanked on either side by white wicker armchairs with matching yellow floral seat cushions (protected by pink bath towels) and pillows.

This tiny grandmother sits not on the custom, decorator furniture.  Noooooo.  Instead, she heads toward her TV chair, a random, uncomfortable by the lowest standards, wicker armchair proudly purchased half-price on the 3rd day of some estate sale.  The Hobby Lobby floral chair pad situated on the stepchild chair doesn't match the other neatly covered furniture in the room.  It bears no pink towel protection.  Half-price Hobby Lobby pillows don't get no respect.

The TV chair is placed strategically 2 feet in front of the boxy 32" Sony Trinitron.  It is here that the dainty grandmother with waning eyesight sits leaning slightly forward intent on the glowing screen.  Is she watching HGTV or something on the food channel?  

Nope.  RIVER MONSTERS.  This tiny grandmother, Meems, is an avid fan.

Meems has an ever-dwindling repertoire of bits of stories, and she interjects them randomly into casual conversation.  Her lastest include:  "Stop Light Winker" (a tale of love that began with a wink from a stranger), "Bear Attacks: Is Playing Dead the Best Defense?" and, "Death by Catfish."

The "Death by Catfish" Tale in its Entirety and I Quote

There was a girl going to school in her canoe, and a catfish knocked the canoe over and ate her.  Some catfish can eat people.  I saw it on TV.

The End

Sample Catfish-Infested Conversation:

Person:  It sure has been windy the past few days.

Other Person:  Yeah, it sure has.  I think that a cold front is moving in.

Person:  Really?  When is...

Meems (interrupting):  There was a girl going to school in her canoe, and a catfish knocked the canoe over and ate her.  Some catfish can eat people.  I saw it on TV.

Just the other day when I was visiting Meems, a caregiver stopped me to inquire about man-eating catfish.  Meems' ears pricked up, and she took it from there.  "There was a girl going to school in her canoe, and a catfish knocked the canoe over and ate her.  Some catfish can eat people.  I saw it on TV."

This morning at 4:45 I woke up thinking about the girl, the canoe and the catfish.  So, I rolled out of my warm bed and headed to the computer to google up some truth.  I found this:  GIANT MAN-EATING CATFISH FINALLY CAUGHT IN MEKONG RIVER.  Take a look.  There are pictures.  Then, scroll down to the bottom of that page.  Note the click-bait: ISRAEL: CASE OF VIRGINAL CONCEPTION BAFFLES DOCTORS AND SCIENTISTS;  REMAINS OF NAZI OFFICER FOUND INSIDE 100 YEAR OLD GIANT CATFISH; and BRAZIL: FAN KILLED BY POLICE FOR BRINGING PEPSI BOTTLE TO WORLD CUP GAME.  It all sounds pretty legit.

I know what you're mumbling.  I already did.  Snopes says nope.  No man-eating catfish.  No girl-in-canoe-eating catfish.  I imagine that the girl in the canoe was munching on fried catfish and choked on a bone.  The end.