Fading

Mom’s light is fading. I think I’ve really known this for awhile now, but it became clear last night when I talked to her hospice nurse, Roxie. Roxie has always cut straight to the truth and I appreciate that about her. She has told me every little thing that I need to know about Mom’s health and she is literally an angel on earth, along with her partners that see to Mom when she’s not available. I have felt completely supported this whole season of Mom’s life and that goes a long way, my friends. It has made my life so much easier, and Mom’s so much more comfortable. I highly recommend hospice care to anyone facing a life-ending diagnosis, and the earlier the better.

For a few weeks now Mom has been mostly asleep. She’s been eating, but also aspirating her food. This means that she has trouble swallowing, and that a lot of her food is going into her lungs instead of her stomach. The signs of aspiration include a wet cough while eating, and afterwards, taking a long time to swallow, and runny eyes and nose while eating. The other day while I was there, her nose was running so bad while I tried to feed her and tears leaked from her eyes. She will open her eyes sometimes, but I’m not even sure she can still see. She does not focus on anything when her eyes are open. They mostly stay shut, even while eating. Her food has been modified to be like baby food – mashed up and mixed to a consistency that’s easier for her to swallow, but she is beginning to show a lack of interest in eating at all.

The body changes slowly with this disease. Mom doesn’t need a lot of calories. She’s completely immobile. But she does need protein to stay alive, and without eating it in her food, she isn’t getting enough. She has a sore on her bottom that isn’t healing, and won’t heal because she doesn’t have enough protein in her body to heal anything. This sore has been around a long time, and it doesn’t matter if they turn her from side to side, lay her down, sit her up or whatever – that sore isn’t going away.

She is retaining fluid. Her body can’t absorb fluid or expel it like it should. Which leads to random swelling. If she lays on her left side, then the left side of her body will be swollen, and same if she lays on her right side. Her hand has been swollen for a while now and we don’t know why, along with this hard swollen mass she has in her chest. X-rays were done and show nothing. Her body just can’t cope anymore. Lifting her by the arms has her grimacing but other than that she is very comfortable.

My brother will be here today. Perfect timing Roxie told me. Alarm bells ring and I know what that means. I talk to Tony, and I tell Baby Girl. She pulls a long face and says she wants to go see Granny with me today, but then she is quickly back to watching youtube videos and rejecting her bedtime. I believe she let go long ago, and while it will still be hard for her to say a final goodbye, it won’t cause any trauma like it did with Grandpa. As brave and strong as she is, she still won’t really talk about Grandpa. She says that’s her memories, and they’re special, and she doesn’t want to talk about him with anyone else. Especially not with her counselor, which is a shame but I can’t force her to do so. And while she love Granny dearly, she was forced to confront her mortality many months back.

I text my brother to let him know what we’ll be facing when he gets here. “I’ll be ready” he says. I know I won’t be.

I text some friends. They shower me with love and care.

She is fading. She will be made comfortable. Soon she’ll be dancing with my Dad in the Glory land. And I’ll truly have to live on without her.

Put Your Jeans On

I put my jeans on yesterday. I don’t wear them too often now – it’s mainly sweatpants, riding pants or leggings. To be honest the leggings often double as riding pants, and in fact are actually work out pants. But I don’t work out anymore. The thing is, I want to be comfortable. I want to be able to sit down or drive or work at my desk, or do housework without the jeans digging into my belly. I haven’t felt comfortable in my jeans in a long time.

But this isn’t about fat, or weight loss, or anything else regarding the belly-digging waistband of jeans. This is about feeling different.

I had lunch with a friend yesterday. Wearing my sweatpants as usual. Didn’t think anything of it, as I am generally pretty comfortable in whatever I wear, physically and mentally. I don’t worry about what other people think. We talked a lot about things going on in our lives, and about her “life coach” and how she wishes I would contact her and make a “vision board” for myself. See, my friend knows how lost I’ve felt these past few years. How I can’t even see my way past yesterday. How bereft without my anchors – my parents – and all the loss and trauma that has followed me around such as losing both of my house cats and then Bruno’s injury, so shortly after my Dad’s death. How it kills me to go visit my Mom, kills me to see her this way, and nothing I can do to fix it, except to just keep going, keep loving her, keep being there.

My friend knows how I haven’t felt like riding because my body hurts so much. How I ride anyway and then berate myself for not being able to do as much as I used to do, when I was younger and in less pain. How I hate that I physically can’t ride as well/as long as before. And how there’s just so much else that I have to do that my own body definitely doesn’t take any type of priority. 9 acres and 11 horses, one of the them being confined to a stall, is a lot for any two people to handle. On top of teaching lessons, other jobs, going to horseshows and taking care of Baby Girl and going to visit my Mom – well, it’s just a lot. And somewhere in all of that I lost my way a little bit. I just keep going because that’s what you do – you just pull your boot straps up a little tighter and you keep going, day by day, hour by hour.

Back to the jeans.

Yesterday when I got home I put my jeans on and went to the barn. My barn is a wreck right now. With Bruno being stall bound, and just STUFF everywhere, I just haven’t had the energy or motivation to do anything about it. Usually (like most horse people) I would rather clean my barn than my house. But not lately. Yesterday was a lovely, warm day. Unprecedented weather for January. And something about that weather and those jeans combined – well I got to work. Unfortunately I didn’t have much time to work before the first lesson showed up, but it felt good to be working in my barn. It felt good to be wearing jeans and paddock boots instead of sweatpants and tennis shoes. It felt good not to worry about that waist-digging and to sweep, and clean and throw shit away. It felt good to talk to Bruno while I worked. I was happy to clean his stall and fill up his water buckets. I considered re-staining some of my jump standards and made plans for what I will do today. It felt good to know that tomorrow I could work in the barn the entire day and speak to no one but Bruno and feel my parents there with me but not have to feel sad about it. It felt good to feel good.

There’s just something about jeans and paddock boots to make a person feel right again. Something that whispers “hey you are still YOU and what’s more, you are YOUER than YOU when you wear these jeans so buck up and get to work.” The sun shining and no wind makes my heart happy. If it was summer I would mow some paddocks. I would rent a dumpster and do a huge barn clean out. I would rearrange the tack room. I would feel like ME again. And while I wait for summer I will paint some jump standards and I will sweep the barn and maybe organize the trailers. Maybe I’ll even vacuum them out. Maybe I’ll work so hard that I’ll forget the miseries, and I’ll forget that I’m bored and hungry. Maybe I’ll feel so good and do so much that I’ll be proud of me again. Satisfied with life. Satisfied with a little bit of sunshine and some dirt on my hands and shavings in my boots.

And all because of those jeans.

Don’t Forget

Mom sleeps a lot. In fact she is asleep most of the time. Alzheimer’s has stolen everything from her, and has stolen her from me and my Baby Girl. When I go to see her now, she doesn’t even open her eyes. She is lost in a world that I cannot find a door into. Mom, I say, hey Mom, can you hear me? She opens her eyes slightly with the squeak of the bed as I sit down. But she doesn’t look at me. Hi Mom, hi – can you see me? Her eyes don’t focus and almost immediately they start to close again. I sit for awhile and watch a show on her TV. I put the Christmas decorations away.

Is there something wrong I wonder? I ask one of the lovely ladies when they think I should be coming to see her. Is there a time of day that she is more awake? They ponder but can’t really come up with an answer for me. She is asleep most of the time they tell me, but she’ll still eat. Even with her eyes closed, she’ll open her mouth for food. I wonder at this – the human body is designed to keep us alive. Why has her brain capitulated in every other regard? I think to myself that I don’t believe Mom will pass away due to anything other than her heart stopping. I don’t think she’s going to stop eating and starve to death, or that she’ll choke on her food and end up with pneumonia. I pray that it doesn’t come to that. My best scenario is that her brain will simply tell her heart to stop beating, and that it will be a peaceful transition. I also realize, that this of course means that the chances of me being with her at that time are slim. But I would rather have her go peacefully than with suffering due to hunger or pain. Even if I have to sacrifice being there in her final moment. Even though I know that they would not let her suffer. Pain will not come for her if the nurses can help it. I would still rather just have her slip away in her sleep – wouldn’t we all?

I read today about a new drug that is coming. That is being expedited by the FDA to hopefully be out in about 6 months. It has shown a 27% reduction in the advancement of Alzheimer’s over an 18 month study. It is meant for those who have been diagnosed early. It is based on the amyloid plaque hypothesis of Alzheimer’s – that amyloid plaques build up in the brain killing brain cells which leads to Alzheimer’s and death. Many studies have shown little to no effect of such type drugs and many companies have switched their research to gene therapy. All admirable and worthwhile research. I don’t care who gets it right, but I would rather NOT KNOW if I’m going to wind up in my Mom’s position. However, that being said, I do think I will know quickly if I am starting to show symptoms and will be first in line for any drug that will slow down the process.

If such a drug had existed at the time would my Mom have taken it? Would she have jumped on board? If we had caught on early enough – if she had let us find out what was wrong sooner – would a drug like this have slowed down the process? Would she have wanted this? I wonder. She absolutely HATED knowing she had Alzheimer’s. She HATED knowing what was going to happen and that she would be rendered helpless and dependent in the end. She called herself “stupid” and cried when she couldn’t make words come out of her mouth. She could not understand that it was the disease causing her distress, or at least she refused to believe it. I still don’t understand to the day why she couldn’t/wouldn’t be more gentle with herself. Let herself have grace. Let herself accept what was happening so that we could have tried harder to do something. So I wonder if she would even have tried.

The best she let me do was to put her on Prevagen, which is a supplement made from Jellyfish that is supposed to do wonders for your memory, and to have her eat hardened coconut oil every morning. (I couldn’t have done that – I hate coconut! But she was willing so we did it.) Eventually as memory failed the pills and oil became ignored… forgotten and discarded in the fridge. She wouldn’t let my Dad do her pills for her until it was so late that she questioned why Dad was forcing her to take anything at all. She was very suspicious and it took a lot of convincing to get her to take her pills. I still believe that if someone had put her on an antidepressant early enough, she would have been a happier person those two years. However, considering how difficult it was to get her to a doctor at all, getting her to take an antidepressant was, while not the least of our concerns, was simply not a priority.

I won’t post a picture of Mom now. Y’all have seen her slipped to the side of her wheelchair asleep and unaware. It’s only worse from there so Mom’s visual privacy will be honored by me. She wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see her this way, I know. At least I know she is comfortable. She is peaceful. She is unaware of my pain and heartbreak. My Baby Girl still loves her Granny, and still remembers her as she was. May this be forever true for her. I do not want her to forget.

Please don’t forget.

Erased

Things happen fast. Especially bad things. In the blink of an eye it’s gone, never to return.

The other day Tony was saying how fast his parents have deteriorated. I said to him “Babe, they are in their 80’s! It’s to be expected.” And he said “just a month ago she was driving. Now I’m taking them to Walmart and the post office.” I answered “I could say that a week ago my Dad was having a conversation with me. Then he died. Four years ago my Mom was standing in this very living room, helping me hang ornaments on the tree. Four years ago doesn’t seem to be a very long time. Especially when it feels like yesterday.” He acknowledged this with a heavy sigh. He knew it was coming – to be helping his parents to this extent. But he didn’t get to ease into it. One bad infection later and here we are.

I am finally at peace with what happened to my Dad. I know he is at peace, and that is all I need. I think that, even though it seemed to happen so quickly, it really was a long time coming in his opinion. I remember him remarking that he thought he only had a short time left, and he wanted to hire his caregiver back to make his life easier. So of course we did it. I never wanted to hear him talk that way, though, so I didn’t pay any attention. I should have. I was in complete denial the entire last couple years of his life. I wanted him to live. I needed him to live.

But I needed him to be at peace more. Now he is.

It’s not quite the same thing with my Mom, but the end result will be. I need her to be at peace. I want her to be at peace. And happy again. Smiling, dancing with Dad, seeing her own parents, waiting for me. Knowing that I will finally be ok without her.

Four years ago. Four years and a lifetime ago, but yet yesterday. She was in my living room. Standing, talking, laughing, smiling, patting my hand when I cried over a broken ornament. Baby Girl only four years old. Only four. Oh if only the hands of time could have waited a little longer. Slowly, steadily, my Mom as I knew her has been erased. It started with no longer being able to write a check or follow a recipe. Maybe it was when she stopped reading at night. Could have been when she no longer played games on her phone. Then the ability to know the time and weather. Gone. The ability to dress herself appropriately. Vanished. Knowing where the trash can was. Her bedroom, her bathroom, the toilet. Silently disappeared.

Finally the acknowledgement that I just couldn’t do it. The best thing for her was a care home. Choosing the wrong one at first combined with Covid-19 …. losing nine months of aptitude with my Mom. Overriding guilt and depression. Hospital stays for her, all alone, where she couldn’t communicate. Me being on the phone endlessly with nurses trying to explain and worried sick because I wasn’t allowed to be there. Watching the tears roll down her cheeks when I could be there, knowing there were many more when I wasn’t. Seeing the bruises and swelling from her falls. Her teeth getting knocked out, or falling out and nothing I can do. Trying the dentist with complete failure because Mom was terrified.

Hoping I was doing everything I could for her and feeling like a failure. Her ability to cope, her ability to use the bathroom, walk in a straight line without help, communicate appropriately. All slowly, slowly slipping away. Just slipping away.

And then all of a sudden here we are four years later. Mom no longer communicates at all. She sits. Or lies in her recliner or her bed. Still and silent. No more tears. No more pain. No more unhappiness. No more awareness. She doesn’t recognize me. She sleeps continuously. I go to see her and I hold her hand but that is all I can do now. As far as I can tell she doesn’t know if I am there or not. The silence kills me. Talk to me Mom. I miss you.

Erased.

In Good Hands

Mom is deteriorating. When I go to see her now she is mostly asleep, whether she’s in her wheelchair, her recliner, or her bed. She stares off to the left and I have to get down on eye level to have any hope of her looking at me, even briefly.

When I get there, I touch her shoulder and get down to see her face and I say Hi, Mom quietly. She doesn’t look at me. But her eyes flutter and I wonder if she knows it’s me. I am doubting more and more every time that I go that she knows me at all. She no longer reaches for my face, or holds my hand – except for the grip with her fingers – like a baby will do when something gets close to it’s hand. She’ll hold on then, until you let go, but I think it’s just a reaction – not something she is consciously doing. Hi, Mom, I say again. Will you look at me today? Her eyes flutter but still she doesn’t move her head, or her eyes.

Mom, I say, I’ve had such a crazy week. And I tell her all about it. She never responds, or moves, but I keep searching her face, keep talking, keep trying. She’ll cough every once in awhile and it is guttural – she is definitely aspirating when she eats and drinks because her cough always sounds very wet. Her chest is a mass of bruises and her caregiver Nikki and I wonder why. Maybe she’s scratching herself? Maybe it’s the coughing? Something is causing her chest to have these deep red bruises and we can’t figure it out. Mom’s skin is tissue paper thin, so pretty much any contact with anything will make her bruise.

I am feeding Mom her breakfast today and I can tell it’s oatmeal with peanut butter in it. Trying to get those calories in. I bring her a chocolate donut, which used to be her favorite, but she makes a funny face when I give it to her and I can tell she doesn’t want it. She opens her mouth anytime the spoon gets close to her lips – just like a very young baby. She can still eat, but the swallowing seems to be taking longer. She can still drink through a straw. The entire time I am feeding her she just sits, staring straight ahead. I sigh and I lean in close to give her a hug. She smells like lavender. She’s just had a shower and she’s clean and fresh. Her hair is still damp. Every few weeks I buy her special shampoo, body wash, and lotion. It’s about all I can still do for her. She doesn’t need anything else. She’s got a high necked sweater on today because it’s so cold and she looks cozy and comfortable. I know that they’ll settle her into her recliner as soon as she’s done eating and Mom will doze for the rest of the morning.

I love the way these ladies look after my Mom. I am absolutely assured that when I’m not there they are treating her just like they would their own Mom. They all love her deeply and call her Susie and try to make her smile. Kirstin comes by while I am feeding Mom and gives her some medication. She leans in close and says “I love you” and Mom gives her a huge smile. I am astounded! Mom! I say, pretending to be outraged, how can you give Kirstin a smile and not me?! We both laugh. I tell Nikki that Mom smiled big at Kirstin but not me and she says “yeah she does that to me, too. It pisses me off.” She’s joking of course, and we are both bemused. What is is about Kirstin that Mom likes, I wonder? Maybe just that she sees her almost every day? There is no telling, but I’m glad that someone can still make her smile.

I haven’t been going to see Mom as much. It’s heartbreaking for me to see her sleeping all the time. I know she’s clean and comfortable. I know she’s being well taken care of. I know she doesn’t miss me when I’m not there. I have absolutely no concerns about her standard of care. And because of that, I have started to feel less guilty about how often I make it out there. Because, as much as I hate it, life does go on and I am slowly adjusting to life without my Mom. There is always so much to do every day, and guilt just doesn’t fit in to my life anymore. She’s on my mind every day, and I am absolutely certain that some part of her knows that. What is the point of me sitting there while she sleeps? She doesn’t know I’m there, only I know. So I sit for about thirty minutes, I organize things in her room and I check my phone. But other than that, there’s not much to do, and the guilt now has transferred to all the other stuff that is waiting for me. So I leave. I’ll be back soon I whisper. You’ll be ok? I always ask but she has stopped answering.

Y’all, my Mom is in good hands. I could not ask for more. If you ever have to deal with a loved one that has Alzheimer’s, the very best thing you can do for them is to find a place for them where they are LOVED. Where they are cherished. Where you can let that guilt go, and live your life to the fullest in between visits. I can do this, and I am grateful.

The Art of Teaching, Part 2

As the second group of kids comes noisily in I steady myself for the next hour and a half of what is supposed to be math but really feels more like babysitting and crowd control. I notice that there are a lot of spanish speaking kids in this group and I’m a little worried, but I soon realize that they all speak English just fine. They are loud, yes, but a little more inclined to work. They are definitely more interested in learning and slightly more respectful. I even get a few minutes at the board where they are all quiet and I think hey! I’m getting the hang of this. However, chaos soon returns with them ALL eager to take a turn at the board. This group manages to do the first two worksheets a bit quicker than the first group and I pointedly ignore the word problems on the bottom of the page. I just feel like it’s too much to take on and I’m not at all inclined to try it with them with the possibility of a language barrier hindering us. I hand out the third packet, which is supposed to be done with a partner but somehow ends up with several kids all working together in different areas of the room. No one is left by themselves, however, so I let the failure to follow instructions slide. As long as they’re working, I’m happy.

As their time comes to an end I realize it’s raining outside and they will not be going outside for recess. I wonder what happens in this scenario. I soon find out. The groups switch around again and I get the third group for a half hour recess INSIDE the classroom. I think I was at least hoping for the gym. The boys begin to play an indoor game of catch with a hat, of all things, and devise a game where whoever catches the hat has to leave the group until the last person remains and that person is then out. I watch idly and am impressed with a rather tall kid with long hair that I take to be a girl. (I was wrong!)

After recess they all exit the room for lunch and I breathe a sigh of relief for the thought of thirty minutes to myself. I try for the restroom but it’s full of girls so I decide I can wait. I eat my peanut butter sandwich silently and text Tony. He asks if I’ve wanted to throttle any of them yet and I laugh. It’s just hard, I tell him. A lot of noise and activity for a person who enjoys silence. I should be used to kids, but the fact is I’m better with one on one instruction and of course, HORSES. Not children. I have already started counting down – you only have four hours left. Three hours left. Two and a half hours. Two hours and four minutes.

The third group comes in and right off the bat I mistakenly say “her” regarding the kid with the long, shiny, dark hair and I am QUICKLY corrected by everyone but the boy himself. Geez! They say, every sub does that! Well, I reply, you have long hair and I don’t know any of your names. An easy mistake. I refuse to be embarrassed. This set of kids is very bright. They get through the first worksheet in record time. I know we only have an hour before the Veteran’s Day assembly we will all attend, presented by the fourth grade music class. So we persevere and get through the second worksheet, again with ignoring the word problems on the bottom of the page. I am just about to hand out the third packet when the Vice Principal starts to call for dismissal to the gym for the assembly.

We all troop down to the gym and I am gratefully uninvolved in seating or disciplining anyone. I am anxious for a glance of my own Baby Girl, so that I can remember that I do, in fact, like kids. The third grade has been on a field trip that day and are late in on the game. They finally arrive and I see her little blond head almost right away. She is scanning the area and finally her eyes light on mine and she grins and waves. I feel something run through me and I think it’s just relief. Oh yeah, my gut says, there she is. She’s ok, so you’re ok too.

The noise in the gym is INSANE. I squeeze myself as close to the back wall as I can and wonder how long this thing is going to last. I half want it to last until it’s time for dismissal but I also don’t want to stand on that hard floor for that long. My feet are already aching and I shift from side to side trying to find some relief. Finally the music teacher calls everyone to order and we are thus subjected to a motley of songs God Blessing the USA and all the military. One song has a bunch of kids with drums and I’m just wondering what the beat is supposed to be because this surely isn’t it. Several girls are meant to be giving solos but try as I might I hear nothing at all. I couldn’t even tell who was meant to be singing. I find myself tear up a time or two as I witness the veterans in the audience and think of my Dad, who I am missing a lot this day. But I quickly rein it in, it won’t do for anyone to see my emotional side here.

Thankfully, the program ends after about half an hour and we all troop back to the classrooms. I get the homeroom kids back and we are not halfway in the door before one boy shoves another and a fight starts to break out. Hey! I say, cut that out! And they briefly move away from each other. However, the two boys are determined to let the other know who is boss and it doesn’t take long for them to be back at it. I know I am not supposed to leave the room so I take a kid and tell him to go get the teacher next door. She comes straight in and sees the conflict- what the heck boys?! She asks. She pulls them all out into the hall and I am grateful. There is a few minutes of peace as the remainder of the kids have free time until the bell rings. Wow, I think to myself. A scuffle on my very first day! And a kid that went missing! How eventful!

At dismissal the teacher from next door tells me that I can leave straight away, that they’ve all “got this.” I don’t wait around and argue – I am out! I practically run for the office and to find my kid. As I turn in my badge the receptionist asks “how was it?” Oh it was fine, I say. No problems.

I’m not lying. It could have been worse. I have a huge respect for teachers, and all the staff that make a school go round. I am tempted to say this isn’t for me, but I’m not a quitter. I’ll be back. With more information and armed with an attitude and maybe a little something something in my lunch box. (That’s a joke).

The Art of Teaching, Part 1

The morning started out like any other – getting Baby Girl ready for school. But this morning, I was making a lunch for myself as well. This would be my first day in over 12 years to be a substitute teacher. Before I met Tony I had subbed in the Aubrey school district and was fairly traumatized by the experience. But I think to myself that THIS TIME it will be different. I have a kid of my own, I know how they think, I am more patient now. This time I will like it.

We arrive at the elementary school only for me to be told I am not on the schedule. Almost elated, I say that I can go home if I’m not needed. They finally figure out that somehow I have been assigned to the High School. No, I say, I specifically signed up for 5th grade math. I’m not going to the High School. No worries they say! We actually do need a 5th grade math teacher so we’ll just fill you right in here. What happens to the job at the High School then I ask? The receptionist says Ah! We get a little selfish about subs – you’re here so they’ll just have to cover that class. She says it with a little grin and a shrug, not at all concerned. Truthfully I am not that concerned either, there’s no way I’m going to the High School so I take my ID badge as they explain it is a bi-lingual class. But not to worry! The kids will help you. Most of them speak english anyway. MOST of them? Gulp. Turns out spanish speaking students were the least of my problems. There’s another lady behind me waiting to be helped and through this whole process the look on her face tells me that I am clearly insane. She looks terrified FOR me. I wonder what my face looks like.

I get down the hall just in time for the first bell to ring, I haven’t even read the instructions! And the key to the door is very tricky. I am not panicking, I am not panicking, I say to myself. I can do this! Hear me roar! As the kids come in and drop their binders everywhere I try to quickly scan the instructions left for me, there are three worksheets to do, two of which we are to do together on some sort of new fangled computer whiteboard screen which I have no idea how to use. At least I can do the math I discover with some relief. What would the sub do who had no idea? I figure the kids will know how to do the whiteboard, and they do. Only every single one of them is jumping over themselves ready to show me.

One girl comes in and with her arms outstretched tries to give me a hug. This theme continues throughout the day. The second time it happens I say, No thank you, I don’t need a hug. The third time I say Wow you really like hugs don’t you? And the fourth time I just cave and freeze until it’s over. She’s a flighty sort of girl, very tall and kind of not there. There’s plenty of boys that are obviously going to give me some trouble and one girl that is falling over herself to be my helper. She asks me to put a bow in her hair. I see that there is the largest knot in the back of her head. She says it just stays there all the time. I wonder to myself about her home life. I wonder about that knot the entire rest of the day.

The noise in the room is cacophonous. I raise my voice and tell them all to take their seats. I am half expecting one of the boys to raise his chair and say “Where should I take it?” They have specials first thing, which will give me a chance to figure out what to do for the day. I walk them down to the gym and gratefully leave them there. I have an hour of peace to kill. I sit down and carefully read through everything. Apparently these classes act as “pods” and there are three classes in a pod. They switch from one subject to another through the day. So I will have three different sets of kids – the first set was my “homeroom” kids – and I will have to teach math for an hour and a half per set. I look at the math worksheets more carefully. The first two we are to do together on the whiteboard computer thing. Now wouldn’t it be nice if they all sat quietly in their seats and raised their hands respectfully and answered the math problems whilst working diligently? Baby Girl and I read the Little House on the Prairie books and there is a lot these kids could learn from the way kids behaved back then.

When I get them back and we begin, that picture of saintly behavior quickly fades to black as I get a bunch of raucous kids kicking chairs, tapping feet, falling out of chairs, doing artwork, passing notes, getting up, falling down, softly singing annoying songs and doing everything short of actual spitballs. There is one girl that you can immediately tell is drama. I don’t know how it starts but all of a sudden she wails “MY PARENTS ARE LEAVING ME” and is bawling at her desk while another student scoffs and says something unintelligible to which the girl turns around and screams “YOU DON’T KNOW, YOU DON’T KNOW ABOUT MY HOME LIFE.” Just at that moment the vice principal opens the door. Wow, she says, looks like I came at just the right moment. I have no doubt that the girl is dramatizing and looking for attention, but she is in tears, so the assistant principal takes her and her work down to her office for awhile. I am not sad to see her go. The other kids take no notice and simply go back to their level of noise and activity they were previously at.

It takes FOREVER to do these problems. I am not sure what the purpose of doing them together is, as some of the kids are bright and quick and bored while others are struggling. It seems it would be easier to move around the room offering help where needed? But again, that would assume a level of quiet and diligence that is sadly lacking. To get their attention I try turning the lights off and just having the computer screen to see by (which is light enough) and I tell them that if they can be quiet I will leave the lights off. It fails miserably. Some of the kids, of course, are pleased with the lights off and try to make the others shut up. To no avail. It is a lost cause. These kids could do with a little more “sit downs” and “shut ups” in their lives. Then again, maybe they are all angels for their regular teacher but I doubt it.

By the time we get to the third worksheet which they are supposed to do with a partner and on their own I am sweating and ready to quit. My brain has had enough with the noise. I am sharp tongued and thisshort of lashing out. One boy takes himself off to a corner to pout when he gets a question incorrect on the board and I have to call someone else up to do it. Another boy sits on the floor in front of the computer screen the entire lesson. That boy plays catch with his water bottle and I finally snatch it away in exasperation. Every single one of them asks me if they can go to the bathroom. The boy who had been pouting asks if he can go wash his hands, as they are all sticky. How?!??!? I don’t ask, just sigh and say yes. That same boy is found to be climbing the walls in the boys bathroom about 15 mins later. His worksheet has somehow found it’s way to the learning lab. I have to call down to the office for someone to go find him, as he has disappeared from my classroom.

It would be funny…. might be funny…. in hindsight…

By the time this section of math is over and we change classes, I am wondering if it can get any more difficult. This group has not impressed me, but I have impressed me – I managed to keep them all alive and the lost boy was found so I feel it’s a win? I pop open a Diet Coke and take a huge swig wishing it was just a tad bit stronger…..

Stay tuned for part 2.

Waiting for Christmas

I can’t shake this feeling lately. Of a huge let down, a monstrous feeling of gloom. It is sneaking its way into everything I do, everything I feel and everything I eat. It could be that I’m missing my Dad more than usual. It could be that I’m hyper aware that my Mom doesn’t have much time left. It could be mom guilt, exhaustion, stress about finances, worry about Bruno, it could be just about anything.

But I think, I really think, it’s just that I’m realizing how very alone I am.

Yes, yes, I know God is always with me, and believe me without Him I would’ve drowned a long time ago. And yes, I have a great husband who adores me most of the time and doesn’t let on when he doesn’t. He’s a smart man. I have a daughter that has true joy in her heart and has the strongest will around. She has a precious heart, as her counselor says. I have friends, GREAT friends. Friends who listen, who walk with me, who care deeply and who will send me crazy meme’s when I need a laugh.

I have the ability to write about my feelings. An outlet that saves me constantly. An outlet that gives me the space to explore how I feel and what I need. And you, my readers, tend to give me heartfelt feedback and enjoy what I write which always gives me a lift. I mostly write for myself, but who doesn’t appreciate a compliment?

Because I have these terrible feelings right now, all I can do is wait it out. There is no magic cure. The ever-present awareness of my Mom’s disease is a scourge to me. I am powerless and helpless, no amount of my love can save her. No amount of her love for me can remove it. She would have done anything to avoid this, I know. Is it a sin to say I wish she was free? I wish she was dancing in heaven with my Dad, free of pain and free of the mental anguish. My mental anguish – she literally knows nothing anymore. I hate this for her. So much that I often feel nauseous just thinking about it.

And so I wait.

I’m waiting for Christmas. A time of cheer and goodwill. Fairy lights and brightly wrapped gifts. Giving and love and high spirits. I need me a good Christmas party to go to. To bake cookies and shit. To spend time, without feelings of guilt, with my daughter. To know that it’s ok to RELAX and enjoy the season. To make fudge, to make presents. To listen to Christmas music that makes my stepdaughter cringe, but which Baby Girl loves. To sing Jingle Bells at Baby Girl’s request until I want to throw up. To laugh, but NOT to cry.

I don’t know what this season will bring. I am afraid of it, but also very much looking forward to it. I don’t know the future outcome of Bruno’s injury. I don’t know the answers to stress about finances, or if I will ever conquer the desire to eat my feelings. Mostly, I don’t know where my Mom will be in ten weeks.

I am waiting. Waiting for joy again. It will come. And peace will come with it.

The Bathroom

When does something you dreamed about become something that happened? And when does something that happened turn into a dream? What if you don’t know anymore which is which, and what is what, but you can’t stop thinking about it.

Years ago, I was maybe in college, my Mom and I were driving somewhere. Mom really had to go to the bathroom but we were on a very long bridge and the traffic was backed up. She started to panic because she was sure she couldn’t hold it. I was very concerned about her panic – and I tried to tell her it was ok – if she had to wet her pants then she did and we would just deal with it. I could run in somewhere and buy new stuff I told her, even a towel. But by this time she was crying and in full on panic mode, gripping the steering wheel with anger and fear. I remember the desperation in that car. I remember the traffic, and I remember how desperately I wanted to help her and that there was nothing I could do. I do not remember if she lost the battle of holding it in. I don’t remember how the story ended. I just remember the reality of that situation and the panic and tears. I do know that she always carried toilet paper and a change of clothes in the car from then on. Always – up until the day I cleaned her car out they were in there in a Ziploc baggie.

Did this really happen? Was the scene on the bridge real? I can’t tell you. I feel like it was. The Ziploc baggie forever taking space in her car is evidence that it happened. But I could have dreamed this particular situation. I no longer know what is real and what isn’t. If I could have spared Mom this terrible day I would have – did I dream it based on her terror? It feels so real, even today.

Mom always had a bathroom obsession. Any store we went in the first thing to do was to find the bathroom. Not just to know where it was, but to go in and use it. Anytime we left the house she had to go to the bathroom a dozen times before we could leave. She’d clutch her stomach and say, “I just don’t know … my stomach is so upset.” I would try and be patient but eventually I would get annoyed. I think she knew this because she would snap “I’ll be ready in a minute.” Or she’d huff and puff and say, “I think we can leave now.” And I would say nothing. I wouldn’t point out that we could always stop at a store, or that she knew where every bathroom was in the thirty-mile radius of the house. (I wasn’t that dumb – she would have killed me.)

But she knew anyway. She knew that I was annoyed. She knew that her fear wasn’t justified – other than the time on the bridge *real or imagined – she never had an accident in the car. Still, she was very afraid of leaving the house. She loved going out and going shopping with me, but until we left the house it was an ordeal every time. Once we were in the car she would usually relax.

Mom had a “witching hour.” If we didn’t leave town by 4:00 she would start getting twitchy. She would lose focus and get snappy. We used to joke about it. If I was trying to make a decision (or a joke) and she “clicked” her tongue and shifted from one foot to the other I knew my time was up. We’d better get going I’d say, witching hour is here! And then to make dinner after that was just too much. She was never a late afternoon/evening person. In the evenings she just wanted to sit and drink beer and read, later this turned into watching TV when reading was no longer easy for her.

But I digress, back to the bathroom thing. In later years getting Mom to leave the house was near impossible. She would never go to any doctor appointments – you couldn’t get her to follow through on anything. She would get so distressed about leaving the house that my Dad would just cancel the appointment. I know now that she was comfortable in her house, and that she couldn’t compensate outside of it.

How long has she had dementia? She was always so smart and sharp. But somewhere along the way, and I don’t think she was as old as I originally thought she was when it started, somewhere along the way she started to falter. The witching hour? Early on sundowning maybe? Witching hour used to be about 6 or 7 pm but as she got older that time moved up to 5 pm, then 4. It even applied to me – if I was at a show and we didn’t leave until 5 or 6 pm she would always say in dismay “it’s SOO late!” Like she really felt for me. I remember leaving a show once about this time and her saying this to me as I called her on the way out – I answered by saying how I didn’t mind, this was my job and some days it was just like this. She just couldn’t fathom it. Even though she used to work at a bookstore until 11 pm and drive home at midnight. Those days were long behind us.

Leaving the house? Like I said, she couldn’t compensate outside of her comfort zone. She needed to know where everything was to feel safe. The bathroom thing got worse as she got older, too. She had to be SURE she knew where it was at all times. Even if I was with her, she was still uncomfortable. Going out by herself, which she used to love to do, slowly dwindled to never as well.

When should I have picked up on all the signs? When should I have known? It really doesn’t matter because I could never convince her to do anything she didn’t want to do. My Dad couldn’t either, though he was more successful that I was, just by virtue of always being in the house with her. But as the years went on she was less and less likely to leave the house, and less and less likely to let anyone in her house either. Even if I had known, even if I had an early diagnosis, there was precious little I would have been able to do about it. She wasn’t a woman to let others make decisions for her. I convinced her to take the Prevagen, which is a supplement made from jellyfish and supposed to be really good for memory loss, but as soon as her memory really started to go, so did the Prevagen. She resented Dad telling her to take her pills. She resented him even more when he did the pill tray for her and put them in front of her every day.

But losing the ability to go to the bathroom on her own has to have been the most excruciating detail for my Mom. I think about the dream I had, or the scene on the bridge and I wonder… was it real?

Does it matter?

We’re Gonna Talk About Bruno (Pt 2)

I can’t settle to anything all day. I try to work to keep my mind off of Bruno and what is happening at the hospital. I paint Baby Girl’s wall a dark navy – we’ve skimmed it smooth and are going to add wolf stickers to it. I wander around the house and jump at the slightest noise from my phone. My heart is in my throat and I’m nervous. I feel ill just looking at the paddock and not seeing him in it (a feeling that has yet to go away – I can’t even look at that paddock).

Right after we leave the hospital Dr. Alli sends me the radiograph and it is just as bad, if not worse, than the one I glimpsed at Weems. Also I don’t want it to go unnoticed that the two surgeons names are Dr. Alli and Dr. Tony. Weird! At 1:15 I can’t handle it anymore and I text Dr. Alli. Any updates? I ask. She answers “We are getting some special equipment sterilized now so that we can start first thing in the morning. I will touch base with you tomorrow morning and let you know we are going to surgery, etc. But he is definitely good to go first thing in the morning, he is bright and eating and doing well with the splint.” I am very relieved and I tell her so. The fact that they are planning so well means that they are very hopeful. Dr. Tony had told me when we were there that Bruno had a 50/50 chance of being ok again. Possibly a jumping pony again (I’m not holding my breath for this outcome, but wouldn’t THAT be a miracle?!). He looked at Baby Girl with her pony and said “I’m going to do everything I can for them.” Bless his heart.

The next morning I text Dr. Alli as soon as I think it is a reasonable time to do so. I am very nervous, I tell her. I understand, she says. “This is a big deal but we have the tools to give him the best shot.” At 8:17 they are prepping for surgery. I hear nothing further for the rest of the morning. At 12:30 I am jumping out of my skin. Baby Girl has gone to school and her teacher (bless her heart) is taking my texts and passing them along to Baby Girl like she’s her own child. Baby Girl has been sad all day, she tells me at noon. She says she’ll give her a squeeze after lunch and let her know that Bruno is still in surgery.

Around 1 pm Tony and I stop by the clinic on our way to Whitesboro to pick up my car (it needed a new windshield). I have to tell you that the receptionist at Mid South Equine is first rate. The kindest person, as everyone there has been. She immediately goes back to check on Bruno when I tell her I just can’t wait a second longer to know how he’s doing. She comes back and says that I really don’t want to go back there, but that he’s doing well, handling the anesthesia well and everything is going as expected. I start to breath again but I also kind of DO want to go back there. I’m surprised they would even let me. But in the end she convinces me that I don’t – that it’s too hard to see when it’s your own pony.

At 1:47 I get the text I’ve been waiting on all day. He’s out of surgery and in recovery. Dr. Tony tells me later that Bruno was a total champ and sweetheart except when he was waking up and wanting to stand – he was ANGRY and lashing out at that point. Poor baby. I just can’t imagine what he was going through. The two surgeons and several vet techs had to help him get up so he wouldn’t damage what had been done. Dr. Tony held his head while Dr. Alli held his tail and finally he’s standing. I text Baby Girl’s teacher and she responds back that Baby Girl is so happy at the news. Such a relief. This was the hardest part – the standing up after surgery. And we’ve made it.

My miracle bionic wonder pony is in his stall eating from a hay bag when Baby Girl and I arrive after school and lessons. She has been an emotional wreck and I know seeing Bruno will help her calm down. We bring him carrots and as soon as I say “hey Bubby!” as we turn the corner towards his stall he lets out the loudest, longest whinny. He shakes his head up and down a thousand times like he’s trying to tell us how much he’s been through and how much he missed us. He is not yet putting weight on his leg, but it’s only been a few hours and it must be incredibly painful. Baby Girl loves and loves on him and he “hugs” her back numerous times but mostly just searches both of us everywhere for more carrots. He licks our hands and tells us all about it.

He is tied up to a tie line that runs across the stall. This is to keep him from laying down. You can tell it annoys him, but it’s going to be this way for about two months so he’s going to have to get used to it. We adjust his water buckets higher so that he can play in them like he likes to do. When we get home I order a hanging ball toy that you can put hay and treats in and I also order a hanging salt lick. Hopefully these things will help him stay occupied during this long haul of a recovery.

I ask Dr. Tony if standing up without being able to lay down for two months will have any negative effect on him. He says no, he’ll be ok. By the next morning after surgery Bruno is putting weight on his leg. He crosses his left foot over then drags his right leg where he wants it to be. Dr. Alli sends me the picture of the x-ray taken after the surgery. The plates and screws and pins go from just above his knee all the way up to his shoulder. The entire radius is covered. You can see a black line where the two seperate pieces were put back together. It will take up to six months for the bones to grow back enough for that space to fill in. He will more than likely remain at the hospital for at least six – eight weeks. The cast will be changed as needed, but as long as he’s continuing to put weight on it that means he is doing well. Of course he’s on plenty of antibiotics to prevent infection and bute as well. So far he hasn’t needed any calming meds.

He is super alert, bright eyed and sweet as can be when we go to see him Thursday night. He searches us for carrots but we forgot them on the counter in the kitchen. I feel terrible about this. He does seem a bit more tired, but it is late and boy, I’m tired too. The surgeons are both cautiously optimistic. I ask about the long term. It’s basically a day by day thing right now they tell me. We will just have to wait and see. But the fact that he’s bearing weight on it is a good thing. He’s a little champ and they are both rooting for him. Baby Girl is able to sign his (new) cast Thursday night and that is fun for her. They added a more supportive over-layer cast on Thursday that is hard like a human cast. When we are there we see him stretch his front legs out like a dog and I am horrified. Bruno! I say, not the best idea Bubbie!! Please don’t do that again.

For the next few months we have to pray that nothing gets infected and that it all heals like it is supposed to. The surgeons reiterate how lucky he was. Dr. Alli points out that he was smart enough not to flail around and panic when he got hurt. That if the bone had gone through the skin he would not be here today. Because the risk of infection would have just been too high. That if he were a larger pony or horse he would not be here. That the risk of this kind of surgery on a larger horse is just too much. The weight bearing structures just wouldn’t be able to handle it. We WERE lucky and I am all too aware. Praise God, I think over and over to myself. I don’t know why Bruno had to get hurt at all, but Praise God that he is still alive. Because I need one more pony in my pastures that doesn’t have a job – just kidding y’all! There’s got to be a little humor here somewhere.

Please keep praying for him. And for Baby Girl. We’re not out of the woods yet. There is a long way to go. I will keep everyone updated whenever there is news and I thank all of you for your love and support!