Tag: Community

Literally. I’m finally back drawing again. I’ve finished two small pieces and working on a third. Nothing worth framing, but I’m pretty happy with them for the most part. I’m working with watercolor pencils, that’s new for me, so it’s a little slow going, but I like it. I keep stopping to play with them on scratch paper to see what they’ll do in any given circumstance. Now, that’s not time efficient, but it sure is fun.

The thing is, I have about 40 of these Derwent Inktense pencils, and they have different properties than regular watercolor pencils, they get wet once and then they set permanently. Regular watercolor pencils can be reworked, so not only can I play back and forth with these things almost endlessly in different combinations; I have to plan out how I need to use them in a picture. My regular pencils are only student quality, so that means more binder than pigment, and it sometimes seems like no matter how much of them I lay down the water wants to pick it right back up, so yeah, I’m playing around on scratch paper…a lot.

But I did finish something, finally!

Not museum quality, but I’m okay with that. More than okay, I’m happy, and I’m on to the next picture~

Cleetus is sick. This doesn’t happen often, but when it does I feel confident in stating that he is, in fact, the sickest man on earth. He needs lots and lots of TLC, I don’t shirk from this, it’s my job. It’s not so much the moaning and groaning, that’s a given in this situation, it’s not the “rub this” or “fetch me a cold compress” either. It’s the pissy ungratefulness that bellows out of the man in response to my prompt and tender fucking administering of care. I mean I expect him to be a big baby, he doesn’t need to be a wanker on top of it. I keep trying to tell myself that he can’t help it, but a little voice inside me keeps whispering, “He could, he doesn’t want to.”

That’s really not fair of me, I know. He takes care of me 95% of the time, and he’s good to me in more ways than I can count. Plus the poor bugger has no paid sick time, so that’s a damn good reason to be cranky, I’m down with that. No pay for two days so far and now the question of another no pay day or go in still feeling like shit. I am not down with being on the receiving end of said crankiness. Still, it comes with the job. What does gastritis last? A week? Two? Oh, fuck it, shoot me now.

But–seriously, when he is miserable like this it is contagious. I have a computer chair that has been inadequate since the day I bought it months ago. The tilt lever lets go on it’s own whenever it damn well pleases, and even though I carefully checked the weight limit on the damn thing and I’m well under, it let’s me down in small increments with a little bump/hiss like a whispering insult. Yesterday the tilt let go and I jammed my toe on a chair leg so hard that it turned purple. When I got done cussing I readjusted the height up and sat back down. I don’t think it was an hour before it started-bump/hiss: you’re fat-bump/hiss-you’re fat-bump/hiss-you’re fat—dammitalltohell!!!!

I’m not generally a cranky person. Cynical and sarcastic, yes, dry, even, but not cranky. I need this shit to be over. I need Cleetus to get well yesterday, but that’s not going to happen. What’s going to happen is he’s going to go in to work tonight because the doctor wrote: able to return to work Wednesday, even though he clearly isn’t, and because we need the money and the job. And I realize I’d feel a whole lot better about this whole deal if he could just lay down and be sick until he’s better without worrying about this bullshit. But…no.

I had all these plans to make this summer awesome. Of course, with Mom dying the month of June kind of sucked, but that couldn’t be helped. Here we are halfway through July and where the ever-loving fuck is the sun? I don’t want to sound like a big old whining baby, but at this point, I am, so that’s what’s coming out. I need sunshine, damn it!

The fire pit I was so happy about? Never been lit. Not once. The only weekend evening we had where it might have been feasible we had non-fire pit style company. Every other weekend night has been raining or just done raining. I wouldn’t mind that, but the kids sure do. And I wanted the damn thing to sit around it with them! Roast marshmallows, make s’mores, you know–like that.

My cheesy soft-sided above ground pool? I’ve been in it a whopping three times, with Cleetus fighting mightily against the green the entire six weeks so far. I have found that nothing busts my stress like floating around in my little circle of bliss, but can I do that? NO! I would do it if it were hot and not sunny, but it’s not even that, and that keeps the water too cool.

Sidewalk chalk, beanbags, bubbles, outdoor crafts–all a giant bust, and I am not happy. I am so not fucking happy. This is the third shitty summer in a row, and each one has been shittier than the last. I blame the climate change denialists. The rest of the country is baking and here in the northeast? Summer? What summer? Sure, with the rising sea levels I may eventually have beach front property, but not the sort of temperatures I would need to enjoy it. Fuck.me.running.

Mom died the Sunday before last at ten in the morning, after spending one last night beside my Dad. After her second hospital stay it was clear that her kidneys would continue to fail, so we brought her home, where she wanted to be. We called hospice in. They were there every day and on call 24/7. They told us what great care we were taking of her, I’m grateful for that.

When she first came home she had a brief rally, there was no more anger, no paranoia. She smiled at Cleetus when we went in late night to move her and he brushed the hair back off her forehead. That made me incredibly happy. People got to come see her, but a few missed that window, that brief few days that she spoke, and smiled, they only saw mom in a semi-conscience state, but they did get to talk to her, and I’m sure she heard them.

The night before she died Dad and I were both in the room with her, talking softly to her and telling her it was all going to be all right, that we would be okay, and I saw tears roll down her face. I said, “Dad, look.” That was the only time she ever cried. I knew then that it wouldn’t be long. I felt certain that it was her only way of saying goodbye.

At poker that night I told Jon what had happened and what I thought it meant. I said, “You can go up there, Jonny, if you want, but…don’t feel like you have to. You can choose to let that memory of her coming to visit us here at the poker table be your last memory of her. Her smiling, and happy, and loving us all.” He said that was exactly what he wanted and I’m so glad he did, because by that point seeing his Mom Mom that way would have broken his heart, and it wasn’t necessary. By ten the next morning she was gone.

She was laid to rest in a beautiful, and historic churchyard, in a sunny spot by the treeline. I’ve been overwhelmed By people sharing memories of Mom. People who know well what we’ve lost, who she was before that terrible disease got a hold of her. How generous, how kind, and how much fun she was, all of that and more.

There’s a terrible emptiness in the house now. I keep expecting her to come up behind my chair. We’ve been starting to sort through and give away, her care supplies have been donated, her clothes, well, there’s a lot, but we’ll get there. Me and Dad are both sleeping too much, and not enough. Not enough at night, and too much during the day. Memories wash over me and I find myself crying at the damnedest things, but that’s okay, I tell myself, give it time. Mom is home in the sky now, she’s free.

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Things around chez triv have been so stressful lately, but I have been looking forward to school letting out for the summer. I love it when the kids are home. Just having it be sunny enough to get out to the pool with them is the best part of my day. Cleetus breaks out the boom box and puts some music on, and we play and float around our tiny corner of low rent paradise, and for that little while life feels fine.

The camp chair set with attached umbrella that we’ve been using for a couple of years gave up the ghost last year, forcing me to by actual chairs and a real umbrella this year. Before you get too excited, let me tell you the chairs were bought for less than 20 bucks a piece at a big box store, but they’re adirondack style, and they’re a pretty color. And I’m pretty happy with the cheapie umbrella stand table and umbrella too. It’s no huge HGTV makeover, but it’s a big step up here at chez triv.

But that’s not the best part. Last year we used an old smokey joe grill as a tiny fire pit, and we enjoyed it, but I thought it was kinda dodgy and not entirely safe. I didn’t know how much I wanted to do that again, but I pretty much blew the budget on the chairs and umbrella. Well, what do you think I found in my yard this morning?

That’s right, Cleetus went out to the big box and got us a fire pit! It’s the very basic model, and I am clear over the moon. Because guess who’s going to be roasting marshmallows with her kids this Sunday night?

Mom was in the hospital for four days, then a week ago Sunday she was released, now I just got a call that her blood work shows she’s back in renal failure. I’m not surprised. Now we’re waiting on a call back to see if she’s going back in the hospital. I don’t know how much more my dad can take.

We’ve have been doing everything we can for her. She hasn’t been fully awake for weeks. Yet she’ll eat a little, we’ve been getting her to drink plenty, but it’s not enough. And she’s starting to clamp her mouth shut. It’s the blood pressure med they say. She’s on her third one. Well, shit. What’s worse, the blood pressure being high or kidney failure? I see my mom dying. Dad still thinks she’s coming back. I wish it could be true, but I have a really hard time believing it.

At this point I’m praying that it could be over for her. She would never want this. Even if she could snap back, snap back to what? Dad is trying desperately shout her back, he can’t let go.

They just called back. I need to call the ambulance to come get her.

Shit.

When the phone call with the results from mom’s blood tests came we were looking for an elevated white count, but her white count was fine. The nurse practitioner told me that mom’s creatinine level had gone from 1.6 to over 3 and that she wanted to touch base with mom’s doctor and get back to me. Before I even sat the phone back in it’s cradle it rang; it was mom’s doctor telling me that she thought mom was in kidney failure and needed to get to the ER.

I call the ambulance, I call my sister, I text my other sisters. I have to call my mom’s one surviving sister. I don’t want to, this is her baby sister, it’s hard. I’m going to her 90th birthday party at the end of this month and I thought I’d be going with mom, but that’s not going to happen.

The ambulance pulls up and I walk out to direct them up the steps. The neighbors from across the street, Marv and Gloria, are detouring from their route to their car to come over to me. Will she be all right? They didn’t know it was that bad. Of course they’re concerned–she was in the hospital having my childhood playmate Butchie at the same time mom had me. There’s not that many old timers left on the street, but another one is waiting for me at her door as I come back to my porch after Gloria’s hug. I fill her in and she asks how my dad is holding up, tells me she’s worried about him. I assure her that I’m looking after him too.

The EMTs bring mom down the steps in a chair-like contraption and she is smiling. I tell her that she looks like a queen, she smiles even wider. They stop at the bottom, so I lean in and give her a kiss, tell her I love her, that the hospital will get her fixed up and she’s going to be okay. Then they take my mom away. My dad goes in the ambulance with her. Sissy will meet them there. I want to go, it feels like somebody is physically squeezing my heart when that ambulance pulls away without me, but I can’t go. My kids will be home soon, and Cleetus needs to leave for work.

I sit and wait for the phone call. When it comes I’m not surprised that they want to keep her. She doesn’t need dialysis, they can treat her, they can keep her hydrated, it will be for the best, I know this is true. Still, I’m worried. Will they let dad stay with her? Will she be scared? Is it just for one night? I don’t know. I wish I was there.

Every evening I wait for the phone calls that will tell me who will be coming the next day. The aide, the PT, the nurse, and now that mom’s on palliative care, the nurse practitioner will be making house calls as well. The nurse and the physical therapist are always the same, but the aides have been different every time so far, I jot down their names along with the time window they give me.

The bedroom has been cleared of a washbasket and a storage tote, to make room for a commode and a chair or two for visitors. I tell my boys to please keep the downstairs presentable. Yeah, I know they all come to look after mom, don’t give a hoot about the house, have seen plenty worse, go straight up the steps…I know all that. I also know that the mom who raised me would want them to walk into a decent looking house. It might seem silly, but there’s not much I can do for her now, and I know she would want it.

I’m trying to keep a sense of normalcy for the boys, but I wonder to myself–what is normal for them? Their mommom has been anything but for the past year. But she’s been here, talked to them, liked them, loved them, and now she’s not. She’s mostly unresponsive in her room. If this had happened a year ago I think it might have devastated Baboo, he was her boy, her buddy, but in the past year her aggression has been so scary to both boys, I don’t think they know how to feel now. We’ll figure it out.

Me, I feel like I’m living a waking dream, I try to keep busy, but I can’t seem to concentrate on the book I started. I made some earrings, I made a cake, I play games, I make the appointments, I make hamburger gravy for the second time this week because mom can still mange to eat that. Will this be weeks? Months? There’s no telling at this point. I worry about dad, he doesn’t call me to help when he should, I give him hell, but it doesn’t matter. Am I going to have to start following him around? Listening for movement in that room? He can’t keep trying to change her by himself, he is going to be 80 years old and that shit is totally unnecessary.

For now things are okay. We have help coming in, and family showing up, people I can call if I need to. I keep telling myself I’ll be okay, I’ll get through this, I’ve done this before. But it wasn’t my mom. I used to tell her that I knew I wasn’t her favorite…but that’s okay, she’s still mine.

My mom has turned a page and started the final chapter in the story that is her life. We treated the UTI and the infection cleared, but she didn’t bounce back. Gone are the outbursts and table slamming, the frequently repeated queries, and worst of all, the fits of giggles I could send her into just by making a face at my dad. She’s quiet now, barely speaks at all, when she’s awake.

The home health nurse was in today, we need to make the decision of weather to keep her upstairs in her own bed or get a hospital bed for downstairs. We had one for my grandmother, but there were so many more people going in and out then. Nobody but immediate family here now, so I think maybe she’d prefer her own bed, and I believe dad wants her there too.

The physical therapist is coming to evaluate tomorrow, we’ll be getting a visit from a social worker, and home health aides will be coming three times a week to help with her care. It’s all very nice, it’s appreciated, my dad was so impressed with how nice the nurse was, how gentle she was with mom, that mom smiled at her. That’s all we want now. Mom as happy and comfortable as she can be.

No matter how ready you think you are, life can show you that you’re really not. I knew this was coming, I just always thought it would be gradual, like the entire length of this horrible disease up to this point, not at all like it’s happening. It’s as if somebody flipped a switch or turned a page and here we are.

I can only pray that this chapter doesn’t drag on unmercifully. And that she never has a day of pain.

It’s bad enough to lose your mom mentally to dementia, for her to not know you’re her daughter, for her to not know your kids that she used to love so much, but now she’s starting to fail physically. The UTI that a few years ago wouldn’t have made her miss a beat, damn near landed her a stay in the hospital last week. It did land us in the ER for five hours, and she’s still not steady on her feet.

I knew something was very wrong, but I wasn’t sure what. It started with her becoming increasingly shaky and being very quiet. Quiet is not like her. I told my father that we had to get her seen, that she wasn’t drinking enough, that she was having trouble even feeding herself. He seemed hesitant, not sure what to do, so I called my sister Sissy for back up. Sissy came and we carried our mother down thee steps and out to the car and straight to the ER. All the while me promising her that it would be all right, that I would not leave her.

They came to the car and took her right back, and I was able to stay with her the entire time. They wrapped her in warm blankets, took blood, and started hooking mom up-this she did not like. I held her hand through almost all of it, and that was good because she really wanted to pull that IV. I kept telling her that it would just be for a little while, that if all went well we’d go home soon. Her eyes, it was all in there, the fear and the trust, and I told myself how bad I would hate me if they decided to keep her.

But we were lucky, half-way through the IV fluids she started to perk up a bit. She told me my sister’s ass was fat. There’s the feisty mommy I’ve grown used to! The doctor ordered an IV antibiotic and some potassium drink. He told us that they could keep her, and as my sister and I both shook our heads no, he said he felt that since it was not life threatening and that being in a strange place would be more upsetting than beneficial, we could take her home so long as we strictly followed up on his orders. Of course we would. I said, “See that? I told you we would get you fixed up and back home.” She smiled at me finally.

We were able to walk her up the steps by the time she got home, but it’s been up and down since then. Saturday morning she seemed well on the mend when she went out for follow up blood work, but by that evening she was again having trouble walking and feeding herself. We wheeled her to the steps in a computer chair and Cleetus got behind her and carried her up, my dad reached for her arm and she snapped, “Don’t you fucking touch me!” I stood there trying to reconcile how she was being carried by the man she’s been kicking out of the house every chance she gets for the past year and slapping away help from the man she loves.

But there’s no real reconciling of any of this, the not knowing what we’re going to face day to day, my fathers’ initial inability to act, the helpless despair in his eyes as he told me he maybe could have carried her, that he used to be able to just whisk her up and carry her anywhere…none of it, there’s just the dull ache of inevitable acceptance. I tell him, “Dad, I know, but you just can’t risk it now, Cleetus is plenty strong, he doesn’t mind, let him help.”

There’s a stairlft in our future. And probably a transport chair. I can’t have her isolated to that bedroom if she doesn’t have to be.