Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Catching up
Yesterday wasn't terribly busy but it was involved. While my mother slept I sorted through paperwork. While she was up I spent a lot of time at her side, her faithful dog, keeping her company. She was neither in the best nor worst of moods yesterday. I was copacetic. I decided to move her Friday doctor's appointment in Mesa to Monday since she finishes the course of antibiotics on Saturday. She tends toward motion sickness as a passenger in a car and the one eventuality I don't want to confront is that the Augmentin, on top of the trip, will cause vomiting episodes since on the day of her appointment we'll be in the car a lot. I'm going to secure a hotel room although I'm not expecting that we'll spend the night. It'll be a place for her to rest between the appointment and the possibility of seeing friends and/or family.
I had a minor epiphany yesterday. A local friend, one I haven't visited in awhile and who instituted the book club to which I belong (and in which I haven't participated in some months) emailed me in response to my assurance that we wouldn't be attending the upcoming book club meeting. I had mentioned that I thought I'd be putting both the book club and reading, in general, on the list of "things to do when my mother dies". I've gotten so used to mentioning this list to people when they ask me if I participate in activities in which they know I'm interested that I didn't realize I'd never mentioned it to her. Her response included concern that I sounded "depressed".
No, I assured her, I'm not depressed (and I'm not), just realistic. I went on to tell her, "...don't worry. I'm fine. My mother's fine...Somehow, underneath it all, I have this feeling that if I don't do this [caring for my mother] the way I am geared to doing everything, with intense focus and concentration, that it won't be 'me' doing it and I'll lose out all the way around on the amazing gifts this experience has to offer. It's kind of like being a dedicated monk in a strict monastery. You know that, even as you sometimes grate against the discipline, it is, spiritually, the most effective thing you can do, for yourself and everyone else."
I wrote this "off the top of my head", without much conscious thought. After sending it I realized how appropriate it is to me that I described my caregiving of my mother as analogous to the experience of a monk. While there are times when I yearn for a break, the fundament of this experience is that it suits me precisely because I am geared toward periodic, intense isolation and concentrated focus on what I'm doing. I remember many times when my life has seemed much too busy for me, not enough time to think, not enough time to focus; times when I've fantasized about being a life-long scholar or living in a monastery-like situation for awhile in order to soak myself in isolation and focus. When I'm bothered, as I was yesterday, that my mother isn't "getting out enough" or has days when she really doesn't want to do much of anything, it doesn't bother me on my behalf, it bothers me on hers. As well, being suited as I am for isolation, I am more often likely to see the focus required of intense needs caregiving as an opportunity rather than a burden.
At any rate, after realizing this, I petitioned my mother about how she felt about our extremely calm, peaceful life; the lack of obvious social activity, etc.
"Oh," she said, "I like it. I don't like it when people are at me to do this or that. You used to do that, too. I'm glad you've settled down."
Yeow! "Don't you miss getting out, people watching?"
"I get out enough," she said. "It's too cold, right now. Everyone's wrapped up in coats and hurrying to get back home. We'll get out again."
I've worried, too, that her recent episodes of deciding that she needs to determine where she'll be teaching next year are happening because she's restless for movement. I've suggested several times that we consider surveying the local "Grandparents in the Classroom" program, wherein older people are recruited to do things like read to kids, listen to them read, etc. She has turned down this suggestion every time for a variety of reasons, all of which make sense considering where she is, now, in her life (when I think about it from her perspective and not from mine). It's not fear that keeps her from wanting to do this, of that I'm sure.
So, anyway, I feel a bit better. I expect I'll still worry that it's 'too easy' for my mother to settle into habits that suit me, but, you know, maybe she's been this way all along and I'm only now discovering from where I inherited my love of solitude. I thought this trait of mine was a family fluke, but maybe I got it from her. She likes someone besides her in the home but, overall, she prefers to be "on her own".
Time to peek in on her again and see where she is in her progidious sleep cycle.
I had a minor epiphany yesterday. A local friend, one I haven't visited in awhile and who instituted the book club to which I belong (and in which I haven't participated in some months) emailed me in response to my assurance that we wouldn't be attending the upcoming book club meeting. I had mentioned that I thought I'd be putting both the book club and reading, in general, on the list of "things to do when my mother dies". I've gotten so used to mentioning this list to people when they ask me if I participate in activities in which they know I'm interested that I didn't realize I'd never mentioned it to her. Her response included concern that I sounded "depressed".
No, I assured her, I'm not depressed (and I'm not), just realistic. I went on to tell her, "...don't worry. I'm fine. My mother's fine...Somehow, underneath it all, I have this feeling that if I don't do this [caring for my mother] the way I am geared to doing everything, with intense focus and concentration, that it won't be 'me' doing it and I'll lose out all the way around on the amazing gifts this experience has to offer. It's kind of like being a dedicated monk in a strict monastery. You know that, even as you sometimes grate against the discipline, it is, spiritually, the most effective thing you can do, for yourself and everyone else."
I wrote this "off the top of my head", without much conscious thought. After sending it I realized how appropriate it is to me that I described my caregiving of my mother as analogous to the experience of a monk. While there are times when I yearn for a break, the fundament of this experience is that it suits me precisely because I am geared toward periodic, intense isolation and concentrated focus on what I'm doing. I remember many times when my life has seemed much too busy for me, not enough time to think, not enough time to focus; times when I've fantasized about being a life-long scholar or living in a monastery-like situation for awhile in order to soak myself in isolation and focus. When I'm bothered, as I was yesterday, that my mother isn't "getting out enough" or has days when she really doesn't want to do much of anything, it doesn't bother me on my behalf, it bothers me on hers. As well, being suited as I am for isolation, I am more often likely to see the focus required of intense needs caregiving as an opportunity rather than a burden.
At any rate, after realizing this, I petitioned my mother about how she felt about our extremely calm, peaceful life; the lack of obvious social activity, etc.
"Oh," she said, "I like it. I don't like it when people are at me to do this or that. You used to do that, too. I'm glad you've settled down."
Yeow! "Don't you miss getting out, people watching?"
"I get out enough," she said. "It's too cold, right now. Everyone's wrapped up in coats and hurrying to get back home. We'll get out again."
I've worried, too, that her recent episodes of deciding that she needs to determine where she'll be teaching next year are happening because she's restless for movement. I've suggested several times that we consider surveying the local "Grandparents in the Classroom" program, wherein older people are recruited to do things like read to kids, listen to them read, etc. She has turned down this suggestion every time for a variety of reasons, all of which make sense considering where she is, now, in her life (when I think about it from her perspective and not from mine). It's not fear that keeps her from wanting to do this, of that I'm sure.
So, anyway, I feel a bit better. I expect I'll still worry that it's 'too easy' for my mother to settle into habits that suit me, but, you know, maybe she's been this way all along and I'm only now discovering from where I inherited my love of solitude. I thought this trait of mine was a family fluke, but maybe I got it from her. She likes someone besides her in the home but, overall, she prefers to be "on her own".
Time to peek in on her again and see where she is in her progidious sleep cycle.
