tears

MH and I were watching a DVD of James Taylor and Carole King, live at the Troubadour.  The music was beautiful, and their friendship was evident and warm.  So many powerful memories of my college years came gushing over me, and I could feel tears welling in my eyes.
MH reached over, touched a tear as it came out of my eye, and said, "I see the needles coming out of your head.  Me too."

Death Cafe

I am two months into the local Death Cafe.  I'd heard of the movement, but assumed it was a Portland or Austin thing...no way.  It's at the Bohemian Grange Hall!  The idea started in England (same place where Hospice started...are the Brits more touchy-feely than I imagine?) One of the "rules" is that tea and cake be served at all meetings.  Another is that it is monitored to stay on track and not turn into a support group, grief therapy, or educational workshop. It is discussion-driven and casual.  The subjects, under the singular and taboo umbrella of Death, are as varied as the attendees, and are always interesting.
My take-away has been the same thing both times...if I am to have a "good death", I need to start paying attention to my life.  And the connections I make now and as my life unfolds. And the work I do. And the intention with which I do it. And my relationships...and how I nurture them. A tall order indeed.

Language

This is a tough one.  MH talks to me...with me...in English, but her words are not often connected to one another.  As an English major, I am interested in the building of her sentences.  She corrects her grammar when it is wrong...although I would have no idea of the wrong-ness. She tries various forms of a word to get a feel for which is correct within the sentence, when actually none of them make sense.  The words she chooses are close in weight or tone to the ones that would fit the sentence, which is fascinating to me.  Tall=thick=deep.  I cannot imitate her, because she talks so quickly, and with certainty.  It is her own language, and there is a sense of it I am gaining, but proificiency seems far down the road.  Once last week, when she was telling me a story, we both laughed at the same thing, and laughed much harder than usual...we shared something fabulous....but I had no idea what it was.  Still, it felt wonderful.  I do not understand her jokes, but it is clear to me that she has a good sense of humor.  There is a casual quality about her that I like, and the ease with which we spend time together is growing.

I have always been so connected to language...to literature, to poetry, to songwriting.  To foreign languages.  My interaction with M leaves me both with a sense of lack and intrigue. I am tired when I get home after just 4 hours.  The concentration is intense.  She demands it.  She deserves it.  She appreciates it.  I truely feel that.  She knows I am not just elder-sitting her.  It takes about 20 minutes for me to settle into her cadence, and off we go about our day together.

memory is/memory isn't

I read an article, but did not reference it, for some reason.  I took an entire page of notes, and these are the lines that have stayed with me;

Memory isn't just about remembering, and memory loss isn't just about forgetting.  Memory is responsible for creating continuity, meaning, and cohererance both for ourselves and for those around us.
Memory isn't just a mechanism that records events; it's an internal clock responsible for the impression of moving forward in time.

connection without memory

Two days after Mom died, my partner of 4 years announced that he had a new lover, had been with her for a month, and had been waiting for the right time to tell me.  My first life-crisis for which I could not call Mom....the anger has not yet eased on that particular ripple-effect...

At work, IB noticed, and continues to notice, that I am struggling.  She is AWARE of me like few are, a reminder that dementia effects memory, but not the ability to understand and connect emotionally. She does not remember that my Mom has died.  SHe does not remember that my partner has betrayed me.  But every morning, she wakes up and asks me how I'm doing, and holds my hand with concern and tenderness...she doesn't know why, but she definitely knows that I am hurting.

My boss seems to think that I am not checking myself enough...that IB worries about me, and I need to get it together.  I disagree.   I am finding that for IB to reach out to me, to wrap me in her arms and hold me like a child are things that she is good at....VERY good at, and it gives her the motherly feeling that she still holds deep in her body's memory.  It gives her a sense of purpose, of balancing, of caring for me just as I care for her...our relationship has become deeper and has found a new dynamic.  We get through the shit of life together, and I love her all the more for it.  At a time when I am so despaerately missing my mother, she has those same qualities and is happy to step into the role.

Perhaps I am not very professional.  I don't know...I'm still so new in this business...but to make deeper connections late in life cannot be a bad thing, can it?  KS has the same effect on me....when I go to visit him, he asks about my life, wanting to know how I am dealing with my heartache...maybe it feels good to talk about something outside of swallowing, toileting, and where he may end up.  Maybe it feels good for him to extend himself to another...isn't that, after all, one way to be "of use" in this world?  It is a constant concern with seniors to not feel needed anymore.  He knows it helps me to see him, to have him hug me...after all, I am missing my Dad as well, and KS is Dad's contemporary in many ways...it was the initial link we shared.

We do not grow out of needing parenting.  After our parents are gone, others step in to fill that gap...they step in voluntarily.  I say go for it.

tomorrow

Don't wake up tomorrow, Mom....please go in your sleep.  You're ready.  We're ready.  Just let go....and know that we send you off with love and tenderness.

IB went crashing to the floor just as I was coming in the door this morning.  It was my first ambulance call.  In between the getting up of her and the examining of her by MR, I got a call from Shan to see if I could have one last talk with Mom.  I could hear her making noises to me as I told her over and over that I loved her and thanked her for being such a good and supportive mother all those years.  Just a few minutes after that, KS's daughter texted to say he was being transferred to a bigger hospital...spitting up blood, and getting weaker.  Then back to IB, my lovely Capricorn the Goat.  Back on schedule by 10am, sore and tired.

I spent some time with SN at LMR, walked the familiar woods and sat at  my grandparents' table....good to be quiet and social at once.
Back home, a soaking in the tub, followed by a couple hours in bed with a book...nap...nap...up again, a snack, and soon to bed.  I am learning to find the balance that cargiving requires.

I hope no calls come until morning....slip off tonight, Mom...Milt will meet you half-way...

Bearing Witness

So much of what I do for a living is about bearing witness.