No Time for Tea

She asked me to join them for tea.  My mother and father were seated at the round table in their attached apartment, napkins folded neatly, two plates placed in front of them, two cups ready to be filled with the hot liquid, and a small plate of home-baked cookies placed in the center of the table.
My father was less than enthusiastic about drinking tea, but humored my mother with her daily ritual out of love and devotion to her.  I, however, didn't exhibit the same loyalty to the practice of stopping everything to imbibe in a cup of steaming hot Lipton (my mother's personal favorite.)

"No thanks, not today," I told her.  "I need to get back to work."  I held the borrowed cup of flour in my hand ready to go back downstairs...back to my own kitchen in my own home even though their apartment was merely a doorway away from my kitchen.  I needed to finish the cooking and get the dinner started before I returned to my work projects.  Within 15 minutes I would be back at work, talking to clients, answering emails, adding notes to my files.  There was no time for chit-chat with my parents, no time to spend idly sipping tea, tasting Mom's cookies, and hearing about how she thriftily used the stale grape nuts cereal to add extra crunch.

"Well at least take a taste of my new recipe," she insisted as she held out a cookie on a napkin.

Reluctantly, I took a small nibble already detecting that once again, she had left out a critical ingredient.   The expected sweet taste was missing.  The cookie tasted like a dog biscuit.
Mom was becoming forgetful.  Her baking skills were diminished by her inability to focus.  It was begining to happen too often and I knew that soon, she might have to give up cooking altogether.  For now, my father didn't seem to notice and the two of them continued to dine in their kitchen upstairs, contented with the bland fare, perhaps remembering that Mom used to be a great baker and convincing themselves that she still was.

"Well?" She asked expectantly. "What do you think?"

"They're good," I lied rushing back downstairs.  I knew that a plateful would be delivered to us within a few hours for us to 'enjoy' at our leisure.

I left the door ajar and could hear my parents talking quietly together.  They were planning what they would watch on TV that night.  I heard discussion about eating leftovers from the night before for dinner.  Mom asked if Dad had remembered to take his pills.  There was just simple, every day, unimportant conversation and yet it spoke of the normalcy, the simplicity, the harmony and the beauty of living together so many years.

That was about two months before my father passed away.  He had Alzheimer's, a bad heart, and prostate cancer.  We didn't know at the time that he was terminally ill.  We were told that he still had lots of time left.  He was still cogent, conversant, (almost) self-sufficient, pleasant to be around.  Oh there were tell-tale signs of course!  He began mixing colors...outragious blends of maroon and orange.  He lost things.  He forgot things.  He got confused.  But still he smiled, joked, and lovingly indulged my mother and her need to sweeten each day with her baked confections.

When I think back to those days, my care giving duties were minimal.  They took care of each other in ways I never could. Their 61 years of marriage were enough to sustain them even when they began to need supervision and more care than they could provide themselves. I used to laugh about their antics, their signs of aging that were both frustrating and endearing.  They were both hard of hearing, distracted, slowing in oh so many ways.  But they smiled and laughed, remained positve and upbeat.  They loved each other like no others and set a phenomenal example for all of us to follow and emulate.  To look back at those days, to remember how they were together and with us, I feel the bittersweet lump in my throat.  It isn't regret.  It isn't guilt.  It's something else.  Maybe just a yearning to experience them once more...just for a moment...to go back to that time when I innocently believed they would live forever.

The lost opportunity to sit with my parents, to enjoy 15 minutes of relaxing, talking, remembering, listening and experiencing the activity of doing nothing more than enjoying each other's company weighs more heavily on me today.  I had a dream...a message in my sleep that alerted me to the fact that I am allowing time to slip through my fingers.  How do I stop this?  How do I seize all opportunities to cherish each waking minute.  I thought about my time caring for my parents as a difficulty, a diversion from doing my own work and exploring my own interests.  Yet now I appreciate the richness of the experience. It allowed me the time to spend with them. It gave me irreplaceable memories.

It has been 17 years since my father passed away, and one month since my mother joined him. Today I am free to do as I please without the responsibilities of caregiving.  However, the joy of having them nearby, of reaching out to touch their arms, to trace the lines on their faces, to feel the warmth of their skin, lingers in my mind and heart.  They will always be a part of me. I just wish...OH how I wish I had a chance to sit and have just one more cup of tea at their little kitchen table, hear their laughter, see their smiles, and taste the wonderfully awful grapenuts cookies.

In the words of Dylan Thomas: 'Do Not Go Gentle...'

I cannot believe that it is December again.  I am not ready for another holiday season and yet, before I know it, it will be over.  I feel like if I blink it will be Spring.  It speaks to the importance I MUST place on each moment.  I have allowed the moments to slip by.  How else can I explain this year?  The days...often filled with frustration, stress, worry and exhaustion have raced by.  Wasn't it Easter just yesterday?  Wasn't I celebrating the arrival of 2017 a moment ago?

Ah, sadly, my mother is slipping away all too quickly.  How do I slow the days down?  How do I hold her last moments (so infrequent) of lucid thought?  I looked back to a year ago.  I wrote about the hectic days, the craziness that precedes Christmas.  At that time my mother was receiving hospice care.  We thought that she was experiencing her last days.  Suddenly, she bounced back -- a full recovery!  It was a Christmas miracle of sorts.  I worried that at any moment she could take a turn for the worse and lapse back into the comatose state she was in that prompted a call to hospice in the first place. But days and weeks turned into months.  My productivity slackened as I spent more time with her, watching, caring, administering, but mostly just sitting.  Her interest in everything had waned.  Her communication was minimized and her comprehension was severely limited. So why didn't the days drag?  Why is it that the less I did the faster the days seemed to fly by?  Isn't that counter-intuitive?

I have gone over and over this past year's events; the conversations with friends, the dinners with family members, the laughter and good times, the deep discussions, and playful moments with my spouse.  I thought about the entertaining we did, the tea parties, the small dinner parties, the funny moments with Mom and the not-so-funny moments that Alzheimer's brings as well.  None of it...NONE of it was more than a moment ago, I tell you.  What a nasty trick the Universe plays on us.  The older we get and the less time we have, the less time it takes to get there.  I am suddenly reminded of the poem by Dylan Thomas which made no sense to me when I was a young girl studying famous poets. The lines resonate with me now: 'Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.'  Well, I am raging indeed!  I am raging for my mother who cannot speak to it herself.  I am raging for myself as I witness the limited time ticking away.  I am raging for all of those people who helplessly witness lost time with loved ones and wish that they could harness the minutes to hold them for just a while longer.  

Tonight as I go to sleep I will focus on the minutes.  I will treasure each second, each breath with a new-found appreciation.  And tomorrow, as I awaken to a new day, I will promise myself to enjoy the time that I sit with my mother doing absolutely nothing but sharing space and air together.  She may not think about it, nor remember it, but I will do so for both of us.  I will look at her gnarled arthritic hands, her face lined with years of expression, from love, disapproval, smiles and frowns, joy and sorrow. I will look at her silky white hair lying limp and thin on her pink scalp.  I will apply lotion to her wrinkled skin hanging with uncertain direction off of delicate bones. I will marvel that a person of 98 years is still able to be as mobile, as agile while she lifts her legs to assist me in putting on her socks.  Her questions, her comments, as limited as they may be will register in my brain and store in my memory.  "Who am I?" I will ask her.  She will answer one of her many ways.  "Are you my neighbor?  Are you my mother? Are you my friend?"  I will smile. "Yes, I am," I will agree to whatever she chooses to define me.  I will take it in, all of it, because it will be a day from now or a year from now that I will look back and rage against the diminishing moments..."Where did the time go?"

Franticly Finding Fulfillment

You haven't heard from me in a while. It isn't because I haven't been writing but I have taken a break from writing about my mother and her progressing Alzheimer's.  I had to stop focusing on it and find time to explore other things, to find my happiness and joy.  There is so much to do, so much to experience.  I wake up each morning and dispense with my care giving duties as quickly as possible.  My brain is abuzz with all of the possibilities of the day.  I want to bake something for tea time.  I think about what I will invent...what sweet treat will bring a smile to my mother's face.  This excites me but then I also want to get my other 'have-tos' out of the way so I can write.  I NEED to write.  I breathe to write.  This is my passion, my love, my delight, my fulfillment.  But...   

I try to write about something else.  Yes!  I finish a dark thriller and am pleased with the result considering how distracted I am.  I write something quick and humorous.  It's alright, not brilliant.  I share deep thoughts that seem sad and unfocused.  I look deep within my psyche and explore my motivations.  They ARE sad and unfocused!  Oh!  It's excusable of course.  Just look at our world! What a mess.  The news is filled with ugliness.  People are in crisis, wars continue, stress and worry is rampant.  There are riots, murders, disasters.  I am being dragged into the darkness and sinking into its angry depths.

I try to claw my way out but there are a hundred interruptions.  I am never far from my mother's side.  I do not let the housework and business affairs deter me from my course.  The time is precious.  Each minute must not be wasted.  I am working, busy, frenzied with one eye on every motion, every expression on my mother's face.  Without realizing it the day is half over and I have only managed to write a few sentences while the sweet treat remains as notes on a scrap of paper by my mixer.  I am playing a game of Beat the Clock knowing full-well that my goals are unrealistic.  By the time the lunch dishes are washed and put away it strikes me that I am too tired to bake something.  I take a break intended to last just a few minutes but becomes an hour of listless time-wasting.  I watch a travel log with my mother and know that I will never get done.  

Lost hours, days, months.  Oh how precious time can be!

I shrug and engage in inner dialogue.  These days are the days to devote to other things, to moments that create memories.  Okay then.  How to do that and maintain some balance, some joy, some personal fulfillment?  I make a mental list: take 15 minutes of quality time with Mom.  Write down 5 happy thoughts...life affirming thoughts.  Do something productive that I have put off, like cleaning out a disorganized drawer, sewing on a few buttons,  straightening a closet.  Call or write a friend to maintain that human connection with the outside world.  Finish my day with at least a half hour of quality time with my husband: thank him for being supportive, kind, patient, helpful, steady, loving, and present.  

I feel a calm overtake me.  The brain slows and contentment begins to spread.  I am becoming centered and focused.  I realize that life without a plan is unsettling.  I begin the new day with a smile, a purpose and joy.

We All Have Buttons!

I haven't written anything in a while.  There are two reasons.  The first is that I have been on a mental vacation (meaning I was suffering from writer's block and needed to take time away from my laptop to reorganize my thinking) and the other is that I was feeling overwhelmed by negative thinking and needed an attitude adjustment.

Yesterday I finally emerged from the other side of the dark cloud and feel like I can finally talk about what has gotten me down.  Obviously it goes without saying that having to care for someone with Alzheimer's is going to create some negativity but this was much worse than I had previously experienced!  I realized that all of the soul-searching and self-realization had scraped away the layers upon layers of emotions, experiences, and memories to get to the core of my emotions, thus leaving me emotionally vulnerable and raw.  My mother was doing and saying the same things she had always done but now, suddenly she was pressing all of my buttons and causing huge reactions within me.  I was bristling over and sensitive to the very things I was willing to ignore or brush off a few weeks earlier.  I was angry over things that shouldn't have bothered me but a small comment would elicit a memory and a resentment, an embarrassment or a frustration from my childhood -- something I would have repressed at the time because I was always the good little girl, the perfect daughter, the well-behaved, well-performing child.  My mother and father expected me to be perfect and so I was!  I didn't realize the toll it took until just recently.  Inside of the perfect facade was a rebellious child just screaming to get out. The other day, Mom said something and without warning it caused an internal revolution.  I was so angry, so upset, so uncontrollably miserable I had to walk out of the room to allow my 'grown-up' to take over and steady me.  Taking five deep breaths I began to meditate and engaged in an activity, that one thing that I know works well: I focused on the deepest part of my being -- that part of me that is what I consider my core.  It is my essence...the 'Me' that has no  emotion or memory, the living being that is who I was on the day I was born, the Me that knows nothing of anger, fear, rage, frustration, impatience or happiness, joy, fondness...no positives and no negatives.  It is  my energetic self.  When I reach down and find that part of me I notice something amazing.  There is something there even though I feel like I am floating and feeling nothing, I am aware of a feeling that washes over me.  It is WONDERFUL!  What is it?  I call it love.  It is pure, simple, and beautiful.  It is self-love, other love, universal love, God love.  It is now, and it is eternal.  It goes hand-in-hand with mindfulness and leads to an inner peace and a certain connectivity with everyone and everything.  (Does this sound too New Age, too Old World Hippie WooWoo?)  Well all I can say is, "Try it!"  It works wonderfully.

I am sitting at my laptop smiling and calm right now. I know that something is bound to happen to set me off again but for now I am in that loving place, that calm connected place.  There is nothing better.  My mother doesn't realize or notice the changes in my attitude but as I move through the day I am painfully aware of those times when I am short or brusque with her.  I am so much happier when I can speak kindly, gently, and patiently.  Thank Goodness I have the opportunity to perform this simple exercise that makes so much difference. 

The Last Christmas Cookie

The Last Christmas Cookie

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I finished washing the dishes and putting the crystal away.  I wiped away the spills and crumbs from our New Year's Day celebration and thought about the holiday season.  There was a bittersweet quality to my memories.  It had been a busy, chaotic season.  So often I had thought about my mother's condition as I kept striving to create a memorable holiday.  I had cooked, baked, decorated, planned, wrapped, shopped and cleaned.  I had cared for Mom, saw to her needs, and adhered to her schedule.  It was incredibly stressful.  Her Alzheimer's disease was progressing to the point that I often had to stop what I was doing to take care of issues I had not even imagined earlier.  She required constant supervision while awake. I called it the 'Shiny Object Syndrome'.  Mom was attracted to anything new and different.  She touched, tasted, and took anything that interested her.  If I turned my back something might go missing or worse; something might end up with a thumbprint in the middle or a nibbled corner.  It didn't matter how many cookies she sampled, she would forget and look for more.  Trying to put together holiday treats, gifts, and preparing for parties and entertaining was beyond difficult.  As I thought back about the events of the past month my eye caught a plate I had missed.  It held one cookie.  I was about to toss it in the trash, filled with resolve to remove sugar from my diet when I stopped myself.  It was the last of the Christmas cookies and the symbolic meaning didn't escape my notice.  To me the cookie represented the joy of the season, the memories created, the laughter, camaraderie,  cheer.  Within its tiny circumference was a world of emotions: the happiness and the reminder that the Holidays were over. 

 I thought back to Christmas Day.  We had gathered at my daughter and son-in-law's home to enjoy another wonderful Christmas. I looked around the room filled with loving, smiling faces.  There were our two children, our two grandchildren, our son's girlfriend, our son-in-law, our family dog, and my mother.  It had been difficult thinking about how to get Mom there.  How would we pack all the food, the presents, the dog and five people in one car?  We decided that we would take two cars.  Problem solved!  Now another issue: could Mom navigate her walker around the house?  Could she manage to last the entire day and evening?  Would she be safe?  How would she deal with the car ride?  I was glad that it all worked out regardless of how closely I watched Mom, how I fretted about her dropping something, breaking something, doing something socially unacceptable.  I carefully regarded her choices of foods knowing full-well that she was incapable of making choices and might easily overeat, become sick, and end a lovely day with a quick exit for home.  I monitored her movements, her needs, her facial expressions to determine what she might require, what she wanted, and where she was thinking of going.  I was reminded of those days long gone when the children were babies and visiting was a chore as I supervised, disciplined, corrected, and worried over each action and reaction.  Once again I was thrown in the roll of mother to my own mother.  Yes, she was now a child -- a two-year-old.  

At the end of the day, as I helped Mom into her nightgown and under the covers, I asked her if she had enjoyed the day.  "Oh yes!" she replied.  I reminded her of who she had visited, what she had eaten, and the gifts she was given.  She smiled happily and burrowed beneath the blankets already closing her eyes.  I could see that she was tired.  Her mind had fallen asleep hours earlier.  Now it was time for her body to catch up.  I sat down with my husband, Skip and talked about the day.  I remembered to text our daughter to let her know that we had gotten home safely.  She replied that they were watching movies of old Christmas celebrations from other years when my father was still alive.  Part of me was unhappy to miss that but another was relieved.  I knew that watching old videos would only serve to remind me of how quickly things change...how soon our lives move from child, to adult, to elderly, then (all too often) back to child.  I immediately grew sad.  I thought about those fun times when my parents (even younger than Skip and I were now) would drive to our home to be with us and the children on Christmas Day.  Now, my father was no longer with us and hadn't been for some time.  Soon, Mom would also be gone.  She was still healthy and physically doing well but I had been warned that as Alzheimer's progressed her body would begin to shut down.  Was this her last year with us?  Was this the last family gathering with her?  I wondered how many bonus days we could enjoy.  I found myself thinking forward.  In June, Mom would turn 98 years old.  Would she still be with us?  I grew more and more saddened as I thought of the events that were so important to us...those events that brought us together in celebration.  Now, even if we still had Mom with us, it would be stressful, less satisfying, more work, riskier to take Mom out. 

People have often remarked when they see me with Mom that they wish that their parents were still with them.  I  think of that now.  How I wish that my mother...the mother who once was, could still be 'with' us.  The following  morning as I greeted Mom upon her awakening, I asked her if she had enjoyed herself the previous day.  She gave a blank expression.  I reminded her of the gathering for Christmas.  She replied that she didn't remember.  We talked about the food and the gifts and still there was no spark of memory.  I felt a lump growing in my throat.  I suppressed the tears.  Mom was not 'with' us on Christmas Day.  Sadly, Mom would not be with us for our birthdays, for holidays, for family celebrations, for events.  She would never be 'with' us again.  Yet, we could see her, touch her, hear her voice for now...for another day, another, week, month, year.  There was no telling how long.  I  told myself to cherish each second regardless of the stress, the worry, the bother.  

It is now the beginning of the new year.  I used to look forward with excitement and high expectations, but now I dread it for it brings forth a silent testament of how quickly things are changing...moving towards yet another change, another loss, another sadness.  I thought about this.  My attitude had definitely shifted.  It was like looking at the crumbs from the last Christmas cookie.  A season had ended and for the moment there seemed  little to anticipate with optimism. In fact, I noticed an insidious pessimism creeping and permeating my emotional well-being..  I realized that if not checked immediately it would soon become a debilitating depression.  

It was time to shift my focus.  That last Christmas cookie didn't only represent the end of a year and a wonderful, fun-filled season but the promise of more to follow. I would be baking more cookies before I knew it.  There would be more parties, more gatherings, more fun.  I thought about the saying, "When one door closes another opens" and felt a growing curiosity.  What might it be?  What did the new year hold for all of us?  I made a promise to myself that I would remember to celebrate the minutes and hours of the day, enjoying the moments and not miss a thing.  Even as I was thinking this, I noticed my mother walking over to the counter for the third time in ten minutes.  She had forgotten she had already eaten her lunch and now she was sitting down looking for something edible.  She picked up an unlit holiday candle encased in a decorative glass.  It had been left within her reach and now she tilted it to her lips trying  to drink the contents.  When nothing came out she took her fingers and poked at it aggressively.  I watched in amazement.  I almost corrected her but thought that I would let it play itself out.  She tried again and again to taste the contents of the glass.  Finally, I called to her.  "It's a candle,  Mom.  You don't drink it."

"I know," she answered a little indignantly. 

 I could be angry and frustrated by this or I could find the beauty of the moment because it became something memorable...perversely funny.  Perhaps because I didn't want to cry, I managed to find the humor.  I made the choice.  I couldn't help myself.  Her indignant expression made me laugh. I took the candle from her and placed it back on the counter.  There was no question; she would try it again.  There was so much to fret about...or to cherish and remember.  Just like a Christmas cookie, I would consume it and enjoy it.  It was a fleeting moment but just like the myriad little things that occurred day after day,  I would dutifully record this and hold it as a part of my Christmas memories.

Circles

Circles

She holds the crystal ball within her withering hands.

What do you see,  I ask.

She gazes intensely and then shakes her head slowly.

I see nothing, she replies.

I understand.

Her age...her dementia...only sees the past

And refuses to look to the future.

There is none. 

Her mind does not think beyond the moment.

Yet, I wonder, do any of us see what has been laid out for us?

Look deeper, I encourage.

I hope, I dream, I wish that she could look to the future.

Could she, would she look forward to a time of transition?

Might she think about those who await her in her afterlife?

Does she still believe?

Carefully I remove the orb and place it in its golden sparkling stand.

It glows magically and I imagine that I can see what my mother can no longer visualize.

There he is...my father. 

He is smiling and beckoning lovingly.

There are my grandparents all with arms outstretched.

Siblings long departed wave and surround her.

They call to her, my mother, who walks upright with a spring in her step.

She is no longer silent, unsmiling, confused.

She has found the memories she had forgotten.

Suddenly she sees and knows -- from birth to death,

Her life has been so full.  She remembers it all.

The childhood filled with love.

The friends, the activities, the struggles of the great depression.

The soul mate who met her so young, so innocent, so ready to give her heart away.

A life well-lived through wars, hardship, births, deaths, joys and sorrows.

Achievements and honors, pride and laughter; these are the things she remembers.

A full circle, contained within an orb.

An embodiment of a life, full to brimming.