In light of recent events, most of which include having my mother live with me for more than a week while she waits for her room in the retirement home to be ready, I’ve been thinking about the saying: “Be nice to your kids – they may be looking after you one day.” And the conclusion I’ve come to is, depending on your nature, chances are it’s not going to matter whether or not they were nice to you. You’ll probably do it anyway.
I moved out of my mother’s home at the tender age of sixteen because I couldn’t stand living with her anymore. We’ve never been what you could call friends – she’s of the old school way of thinking that she’s not my friend, she’s my mother. She said so many times when I was a kid. In more recent times, when she has come to stay with me and the kids it’s been hell – she can’t communicate with Alex and he takes advantage of the fact that she can’t effectively explain to him why he shouldn’t do the annoying things he does: he laughs at her when she’s angry. I, usually, end up breaking up the fight as I might between two siblings.
And yet despite all this, I find myself calm now. I have more patience than I’ve ever had. She’s going through a transition in her life that is probably irreversible – going from living alone for the past 30 years, on and off, to going into a place that is scary in that it’s an unknown entity.
It’s funny the things I’ve found myself being able to handle when put to the test. Whether or not my mother and I have ever been able to get along, let alone live together, is put aside – it’s become irrelevant. The more difficult and challenging things get, the more I’m able to cope with. I just take it one step at a time.
I would wish what I’m going through right now on anyone – and yet I wouldn’t. Yes, it’s hard. But it’s teaching me something – that whatever I may have to deal with, my nature will allow me to deal.
Still, it doesn’t hurt to be nice to your kids. And while you’re at it, help them to discover their true nature.
It must be incredibly frustrating to lose one’s memory. We’ve all been there. It’s like when you’re having a pleasant conversation with a friend and something happens to distract you, and when you turn back to continue talking, you can’t remember what you were discussing.
For my mother, at almost 84 years of age, it’s gone far beyond. It started with the memory, then progressed to logic. For instance, last weekend I came down the stairs to find her trying to drag Alex into the next room by the hand. When I asked her what she was doing, she said he’d been bugging the hell out of her, screaming in her ear but now she was trying to get him into the next room to hook him up to his feeding pump.
“It doesn’t matter what I do,” she said. “I try ignoring him, but whenever I walk away he follows me.”
“So, why are you trying to drag him?” I asked.
“Because when I ask him, he won’t come with me,” she answered. “He won’t do anything I ask him.”
“So just walk away… he’ll follow you…”
I waited for her to get it, but she didn’t–not even when she walked into the room where his feeding pump was, and he followed her.
Most of the time, all I can do is roll my eyes.
Now, however, she’s in the hospital with pneumonia. They’re talking about letting her out on Wednesday, but her memory has begun to get so bad that she can’t remember what day it is. Not a good combination when she has meds to take.
I’m going to have to seriously start looking into retirement homes, before I end up in the hospital, sick with stress. That I’m going to have to figure out a way to look after her is precisely why I wanted to have more than one child: I didn’t expect two of them would probably never be independent, let alone unable to help with my care when I get to my mother’s age. Government and community run home care is going to be an even worse state than it is now; I’m at the tail end of the baby boom, and resources and funds will surely be depleted.
Now, where was I? Oh yes. Memory. If I leave my mother on her own I’m afraid she’ll under- or over-medicate herself. Just last weekend, she forgot it was still Saturday and she took Sunday’s pills as well. She needs supervision. There’s no way Alex would let her get a moment’s rest here – so what do I do? I’m only one person. I can ask my friend, John, to help out, but he has a life and a job. I need a babysitter for my mother.
Why is Mickey Mouse Clubhouse playing on my television screen?
Because it’s a snow day.
Why is it a snow day?
Because the plows haven’t been out yet, so the buses aren’t running.
Why haven’t the plows been out? This is Canada!! We get snow!!!
Purportedly, the town I’m in hasn’t seen a real winter in five years. I haven’t been here that long, but I can say that out of three green Christmases I’ve experienced in my lifetime, two have been here in the last four years. So, okay. I get it. They probably didn’t budget for a real winter here this year.
But come on! The equipment is there – I’ve seen it. It came by yesterday. The staff has been hired … look out the window, city snow removal people! There are kids who really REALLY want to go to school! I can tell by the completely-absorbed-in-tv-and-computer-look on my little darling’s face that he can’t wait…
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I’m my own worst enemy in a few different ways, but none more than the fact that I have a hard time asking for help. Actually, let me be a little more specific: I’m okay asking for small favours, but if I think I might put anyone else out of their way, I usually do whatever it is that needs to be done myself.
I think this is a common problem with many people. For some it’s because they wish to be independent, and there’s nothing wrong with that – unless it gets to the point where they are stretching themselves too thin. Then there are the jobs to be done that are so complicated that it takes longer to explain how to do them than to do it ourselves. That, too, is an understandable reason not to ask for help.
Then there are people who are already stretched too thin, like me. When I think about asking someone else to help me, I tend to put myself in their shoes, which makes me ask myself, what if they were asking me to do this task? Being over-worked and overwhelmed already, I might think it a burden to be asked to do more. Consequently, many times I don’t ask for help.
I’m learning though. Since the father of my kids moved away, I’ve had an average of only one weekend out of every three without the kids. I do, however, have a very good friend who constantly offers to help me out, and most of the time I say yes. Although he says he doesn’t feel taken for granted, I still feel bad for not doing more for him in return. Again, there’s the ‘stretched-too-thin’ thing pulling me mentally if not physically in every direction.
I’d like to say a very public ‘thank you’ here to him, for all that he does for me. Thank you, John. I truly don’t know what I’d do without you. I know you say I should feel free to ask when I need help … know that I’m doing my best. And next time I stomp down the stairs in a very bitchy mood, know it’s only my own shortcomings – it’s not you, it’s me.
Back to addressing the rest of the people reading this.
I’m sure there are other people out there with problems asking for help. Do you try to overcome it? Have you succeeded? If so, how? I’d love some feedback on this.
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In the warmth of my living room, watching through the window as the snow flakes drift into fifties-style wannabe hairdos and watching my son play Wii Fit in his underwear, I realize how good I actually have it. Modern conveniences have given us such luxury. I mean, what if I was sitting, on a rock, in a cave right now (on my laptop of course, with full internet capabilities) worrying about whether or not I could scrounge up enough wood for the fire, wondering how far I’d have to walk because I’ve depleted the local fauna. I’d really be bitching to you over the web, wouldn’t I?
But no. I’m sitting in a warm living room, on a couch, with a kid giggling his head off every time his character jumps off the side of a floating platform to its flailing demise. Nothing bothers this kid of mine. He’ll play happily, as active as ever, while a machine pumps formula directly into his stomach as though this were the most natural thing in the world. I wonder if he’d still think so if we were sitting in a cave, watching the snow fall. Of course the machine would still be around. If I can have internet, he can have his feeding pump, right? And the manufactured formula that keeps him alive with all its non-yummy nutrients that don’t bother him in the slightest because he never tastes them.
All we’d be missing is the warmth. And the Wii.
Modern technology, I tell you. We could live without it.
1. It’s never too late to join in, since the “Jot it” part of JusJoJan means that anything you jot down, anywhere (it doesn’t have to be a post) counts as a “Jot.” If it makes it to WordPress that day, great! If it waits a week to get from the sticky note to your screen, no problem!
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There are days when I wish I could just run away – escape even for an hour. To drink a cup of coffee without being interrupted, or to close my eyes and hear nothing but the snow falling.
It’s both a blessing and a curse having a child who enjoys going to the hospital. Obviously it’s nice not to have to fight with Alex every time he gets sick – he gets sick a lot. He enjoys the attention he gets there; he loves to charm nurses and doctors alike, and to him, it’s an adventure. The downside is, he’ll pretend to be sicker than he is and then beg me to take him to see a doctor. And what better way, at this time of year, to actually catch something nasty, than sitting for hours in an emergency waiting room?
Last night he almost managed to convince me that he’d aspirated food into his lungs again. He complained of pain in his chest, that he was feverish, (he wasn’t) and he was just plain miserable, the same as he was on Christmas Eve. I suspected he might have been exhibiting symptoms from the flu shot he received the day before yesterday, so I decided to call Telehealth Ontario, a service we have here so that we can talk to a nurse, so see if our symptoms are worth taking to the emergency room.
The nurse asked me all the protocol questions before she would talk to me about Alex – is he responsive, is he in pain etc etc. I answered as honestly as I could. Yes, he was complaining of chest pain, yes he was turning blue around his lips (I explained he always does whenever he’s upset – it’s due to his heart condition) but no, he doesn’t have a fever. Finally she asked me a question that was relevant. When did he last eat? It was three hours ago. She told me that if he’d aspirated, the symptoms of that would have shown up earlier.
So while I was relieved, she was telling me to call 911 and have an ambulance take him to the hospital because of his blueness and his chest pain.
Why didn’t I? It was the sparkle in his eye that told me all he really wanted to do was visit his beloved nurses. Today there’s not a thing wrong with him.
Yesterday I had to take my son, Alex, to the doctor to get a note for school. It wasn’t for a high-risk field trip; it wasn’t because of some strange sort of disease the school needed to be assured he was free from – nothing like that.
I needed a note to say that he was allowed to eat. The first conversation on the phone with the doctor’s secretary went something like this:
Me: Hi. I need an appointment to get a doctor’s note.
Secretary: Okay, what is it for?
Me: Well, you see, the nurse at his school won’t let him eat until he has an all-clear from the doctor.
Secretary: Soooo, when was the last time he went to school?
Me: Today.
Secretary: How long has it been since the school didn’t allow him to eat.
Me: It’s been about a week.
Secretary: ….
Me: So can I get an appointment soon? Or…
Secretary: I don’t understand.
Me: Neither do I.
All of this, of course, came about because he aspirated (inhaled and had lodged in his right lung) a piece of food on Christmas Eve. For the most part he is tube fed, but the school wants to make sure it’s safe for him to eat before they’ll let him do so.
So today I went to the doctor. That conversation went as follows:
Doctor: Sooo… what do you want me to write?
Me: Just say he can eat. OH, and drink. I don’t want to have to bother you again in case they decide that’s against the rules as well.
Doctor: And he’s been fine when he eats at home, right?
Me: As fine as he’s ever been.
Doctor: Oookay.
(She starts typing.)
Me: I guess this isn’t something you write a note for every day, eh?
Doctor: Err, no.
Today, Alex went to school with the note in his backpack. After not being allowed to eat with the other kids for a week, he’s a happy camper.
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It was 5:37pm last night. I had just finished my dinner and settled Alex in front of the computer. I breezed into the kitchen to retrieve a glass of wine (because that’s how I move about my house – if I’m not breezing, I’m flitting. Unless I’m tired, in which case I trudge) when the lights flickered and …poof!
I said a bad word. Then I put my wine glass down on the counter and went back to get a screaming Alex out of the computer room. (Yes, I have a computer room. It used to be a bedroom, but six bedrooms seemed to be overkill.)
After I felt around for the barbecue lighter in the cupboard, and lit a couple of candles, I checked out my front window. Exactly what I thought: no rain, no snow, no wind … no reason for a power outage. But there I was on a dark street but for the soft glow shining through my neighbour’s curtains – they too had lit candles.
When I looked out my back window on the other hand, my back door neighbour’s house was lit up like a Christmas tree. I could see them looking out of their back window and I could imagine them saying, Oh look, that entire street is out of power! Then they probably poured themselves a nice steaming cup of coffee from their electrically charged coffeemaker and proceeded to laugh at my powerless plight.
Meanwhile, Alex was getting restless. You should have played a game with him! you’re all saying to yourselves. But I had other fish to fry. Or would have, had my stove been working. My cell phone was fully functional however. My next door neighbour seemed to be in a panic, texting me things like OMG and The power’s out! I asked her if she was okay, and if she’d like to come over but she assured me she was fine. Oddly enough, she texted me for the entire hour and a half that the power was out and then abandoned me to other pursuits as soon as it came back on. (If you’re reading this, Nancy, you’re the best neighbour I’ve ever had! Let’s do coffee soon!)
Forgotten by Nancy, I found my other son, Chris emerging from his room where had surely been shivering under the covers – he hates the dark. He announced that although the lights were back on, he would forgo his shower and take it in the morning instead.
You never know when the power’s going to go out, after all.
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I’m at a crossroads, of sorts, in regards to my son, Alex, and his behaviour. Keeping in mind that it’s 5:46am and I’ve had two hours of sleep all night, I’m writing this here as both a way to get it in black and white so I can see the problem from a different perspective, and to put the conundrum out there in hopes that someone else has gone through something similar. My hopes aren’t too high.
First, the history: To say that Alex has a hard time making decisions is a gross understatement. When trying to choose, for instance, between staying home to play a game or come with me to the grocery store, he’ll change his mind at least a dozen times. He’ll get dressed and then completely undressed; he’ll whine, cry, scratch his head a lot – it’s utter torture. I have, however, reduced it from a half hour ordeal to, “I’m leaving, if you want to come with me, be ready before I walk out the door.” As a result the process now only takes five minutes.
He also suffers with the occasional insomnia, and for the past week he’s been combining the lack of decision-making skills with lack of sleep. The fact that there are two single beds in his room has never been a problem before. When my mother comes to visit on the weekends, she sleeps in his room and he’s quite happy with that deal. Only for a week now he can’t decide which bed he wants to sleep in. At approximately 2:30 every morning since before New Year’s Eve, he’s been doing the whining, crying, head-scratching routine. It’s torture for both of us, and it goes on for a couple of hours each night. I tried hanging a calendar in his room and striking up a deal with him that he sleeps one month in one bed and the next in the other. That worked for one night – coincidentally it was the same night he didn’t have a choice because Nanny was in the other bed.
So. I’m faced with a dilemma. Do I go to all the trouble of taking the extra bed out of his room?
On the surface it seems to be the logical thing to do.
Except: there is still the communication barrier thing going on. Not being completely fluent in my own son’s language – American Sign Language – I never really completely know if he understands the consequences of his actions before they happen. It’s always that one word I’m missing: “If you don’t get ready now, I’m leaving without you.” I will temporarily lose from my addled brain the sign for ‘without.’ Or, “If you don’t stay in one bed all night, I’m going to move the other bed out.” Is he getting that I’m going to move the bed? Or does he think I’m going to let him sleep in another room? Even if I turn the sentence around and keep it positive, I have the same problem. Aside from sleeping in his room, which is exactly what he wants me to do and will ensure that I’ll never sleep in my own bed again, I can’t keep him in bed at night. In the past I’ve been able to demonstrate what I mean. Like during the period when he decided to turn the television on in his room at 2am. I tried to explain to him that if he didn’t leave it off I’d take it out of the room, and when that didn’t work, I took it out of the room. He got it after that. Moving a bed, box spring and mattress down four flights of stairs is a rather more difficult undertaking.
So, my next thought was, tip the bed on its side and leave it where it is. Only that would be an all new brand of hell for my little darling and his OCD.
I know I need to ask his school for help. At this point his teacher is already practically living my life for me in regards to making sure he does as he’s told at home. They, unlike me, know how to explain things to him in no uncertain terms. It’s easy to see how vacations from school become nightmares at home.
Before you ask, there is no support for hearing parents to learn sign language for their Deaf children in the area.
Oh, and I just found out there’s no school today because of flash freezing. Oh joy.
Any suggestions, hugs, or paid-in-full Caribbean vacations can be left in the comment box and will be gratefully received.
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