When I was a pre-schooler, I very clearly remember the "I Can Read" book about Chester, the Wild Horse. I loved that story and pretty much learned to read just by learning it by rote. Forty-five years late, I can still tell you that the beginning of the story is "Chester was a wild horse. He lived out west with the other wild horses." How many times did my mother have to read me that story? Countless, I'm certain. She can still recite those opening lines as well. So as she struggles with the exhaustion born of the cancer and the mild confusion that comes from her dosage of pain killers and anti-anxiety medication, she easily becomes confused by recalling such mundane details as the day of the week. My response has been consistent--today is Sunday. Today I went to church because today is Sunday. Today there was no mail delivery because today is Sunday. Today is Sunday. Tomorrow her hospice nurse will be here because he always comes on Monday, the day after Sunday. Tomorrow I will be going to work in the morning, because I always go to work on Monday morning. I will go because the day after Sunday (which is today, today is Sunday) is Monday and I go to work the day after Sunday.
Living with my mother is bittersweet. Cleaning her home--doing the things she no longer is able--reminds me of all the times I was a teenager not wanting to clean my room or pick up my clothes. Being fully responsible for the meal planning, purchasing, preparation and clean-up is a far cry from helping her with these chores...whether as a teenager because she was a working mother or at holiday times because she was such a gracious hostess. The weight of responsibility is different than when I was raising my children. They were healthy, thank God, and meals were taken for granted. Now I watch my mom and wonder how much of what I have prepared is being gobbled by the menacing cancer cells and not feeding healthy tissue. That her appetite is back and she is no longer losing weight at a phenomenal rate is a blessed relief, but for how long will this be the case?
She apologizes for her lapses in judgement, her confusion, her tendency to lash out at those who would offer assistance when all she wants is to be healthy and whole. All she wants is to be able to get up off the couch as easily and without thought or effort as any other adult. All she wants to do is to be able to open a bottle of wine and pour herself a glass without threat of falling or someone asking if she can have the wine or if it interferes with her medication. My response is repetitious. This is not you, Mom. This is the cancer. I love you. I will always love you. I hate the cancer. I hate what it is doing. You are NOT the cancer. How many times will say this in the future? Probably infinity amount, as many small children like to say.
Tomorrow is Monday. Tomorrow the hospice nurse will be here. Tomorrow Debbie, the home companion will be here. I will be at work. I will come back to my mother's home, and I will remind my mother that it is Monday and Debbie is not her enemy. I will remind myself that the enemy is cancer, but I will not allow the cancer to destroy my relationship with my mother.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Introductions
Hi all;
Chances are, if you are checking out this blog, you know one of my email addresses. I have several, and they are all alike--just different domain names at the end. Yes, I am the person behind "dibasketcase". The name came from my 90's obsession with Longaberger baskets. That led to a temporary crafting obsession with making baskets. And let's face it...to the tempestuous years of raising my two daughters. (Girls--I love you very much, but you sent me over the edge more than once!)
It's difficult for me to believe I have landed so smack dab in the middle of middle age! In my mind, I am still the confused kid still out of high school, unsure about college and having no clue how to answer the question "Where do you see yourself in 10 years?" In my mind, I am still the young professional wife--a part of the couple that was considered a "DONK" (Dog owners, no kids--which of course precedes the having kids.) I am still the hot shot YOUNG professional social worker working in the field of adoption and brazenly ready to tackle becoming a "special needs adoption" parent.
But those years are done. I'm still a dog owner...but they have gotten smaller over the years. Presently I have Schnickers--who is supposedly a Schnoodle. Schnoodle, Poodle...yeah right. Basically he is a fat poodle mutt. He's 7 years old and weighs about 25 pounds. Far cry from my Labrador days! Then to go even farther down the scale, I have Finn--a "poochi". He is the result of a poodle and chihuahua union and my being at a pet store adoption day at the wrong time. I wasn't looking for a another dog, but he stole my heart.
I am no longer married. I have been officially divorced since November 2006. It's been so long there is no more sting of rejection and pain of betrayal...although I certainly have no desire to have a conversation with the woman who took my place. On the positive side, I have a great "significant other" (I hate being middle aged and having a boyfriend.) Together we have gone from infatuation to deep feelings to love and a tested love. We weathered a significant break up and have found our way back to one another. The future is still a little unclear, but there is light on the path.
I still work in the field of adoption, but added child therapist to my resume. I love working with kids, but don't miss the psychotic head banging, arm biting ones. Now I am doing home studies for very respectable adults who were born during the years I graduated from high school and attended college.
Why this is surprising, I don't know. After all, those two "special needs" adoptees are now ADULTS (for crying out loud) and I am a grandmother. Of four.
The biggest issue in my life at the present time (and why I can still proudly wear the label of "basketcase" is my mom. One year ago at this time, my mother was in Arizona and having issues with breathing and dizziness. Her original diagnosis was "ear wax". We weren't even close with that one. One Sunday morning the paramedics took her to the emergency room and she found herself in the heart hospital with a diagnosis of atrial fib. This led to more tests and a bronchoscopy, during which the surgeon found "nodules". After returning to Indiana and her family physician telling her she probably had TB, it was found the "nodules" were actually masses which were actually tumors which were malignant cancer.
So one year later, here we are. I am living at my mom's house because it really isn't safe for her to be alone. My "boyfriend" is living at my house to take care of Finn and Schnickers. My sister and I have hired a companion to help with Mom when I have to work. This is not going well.
So here I am. It's 2013, I am 49 years old, and I am a basket case. This blog is my attempt at journaling and to let those of you are interested in the question "what's up?" know the answer.
Feel free to follow along and remember--your prayers are always welcome.
Dibasketcase
Chances are, if you are checking out this blog, you know one of my email addresses. I have several, and they are all alike--just different domain names at the end. Yes, I am the person behind "dibasketcase". The name came from my 90's obsession with Longaberger baskets. That led to a temporary crafting obsession with making baskets. And let's face it...to the tempestuous years of raising my two daughters. (Girls--I love you very much, but you sent me over the edge more than once!)
It's difficult for me to believe I have landed so smack dab in the middle of middle age! In my mind, I am still the confused kid still out of high school, unsure about college and having no clue how to answer the question "Where do you see yourself in 10 years?" In my mind, I am still the young professional wife--a part of the couple that was considered a "DONK" (Dog owners, no kids--which of course precedes the having kids.) I am still the hot shot YOUNG professional social worker working in the field of adoption and brazenly ready to tackle becoming a "special needs adoption" parent.
But those years are done. I'm still a dog owner...but they have gotten smaller over the years. Presently I have Schnickers--who is supposedly a Schnoodle. Schnoodle, Poodle...yeah right. Basically he is a fat poodle mutt. He's 7 years old and weighs about 25 pounds. Far cry from my Labrador days! Then to go even farther down the scale, I have Finn--a "poochi". He is the result of a poodle and chihuahua union and my being at a pet store adoption day at the wrong time. I wasn't looking for a another dog, but he stole my heart.
I am no longer married. I have been officially divorced since November 2006. It's been so long there is no more sting of rejection and pain of betrayal...although I certainly have no desire to have a conversation with the woman who took my place. On the positive side, I have a great "significant other" (I hate being middle aged and having a boyfriend.) Together we have gone from infatuation to deep feelings to love and a tested love. We weathered a significant break up and have found our way back to one another. The future is still a little unclear, but there is light on the path.
I still work in the field of adoption, but added child therapist to my resume. I love working with kids, but don't miss the psychotic head banging, arm biting ones. Now I am doing home studies for very respectable adults who were born during the years I graduated from high school and attended college.
Why this is surprising, I don't know. After all, those two "special needs" adoptees are now ADULTS (for crying out loud) and I am a grandmother. Of four.
The biggest issue in my life at the present time (and why I can still proudly wear the label of "basketcase" is my mom. One year ago at this time, my mother was in Arizona and having issues with breathing and dizziness. Her original diagnosis was "ear wax". We weren't even close with that one. One Sunday morning the paramedics took her to the emergency room and she found herself in the heart hospital with a diagnosis of atrial fib. This led to more tests and a bronchoscopy, during which the surgeon found "nodules". After returning to Indiana and her family physician telling her she probably had TB, it was found the "nodules" were actually masses which were actually tumors which were malignant cancer.
So one year later, here we are. I am living at my mom's house because it really isn't safe for her to be alone. My "boyfriend" is living at my house to take care of Finn and Schnickers. My sister and I have hired a companion to help with Mom when I have to work. This is not going well.
So here I am. It's 2013, I am 49 years old, and I am a basket case. This blog is my attempt at journaling and to let those of you are interested in the question "what's up?" know the answer.
Feel free to follow along and remember--your prayers are always welcome.
Dibasketcase
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