Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Stream of Consciousness Reverie, Tonight
Mom and I watched Gallipoli tonight. Although I love Peter Weir movies, even the "bad" ones. Despite the user review featured at the link I provided, Gallipoli is very far from one of his "bad" ones. Mosquito Coast comes to mind, for my money, and I stay out of discussions of another Weir film that's often considered "bad", The Last Wave, which I saw when it first came out, have seen several times since and by which I continue to be haunted. There are some of his movies I have yet to see, and this was, until tonight, one of them. I started watching it while Mom was napping late this afternoon. I was maybe fifteen minutes into it when she awoke. I thought I put it on pause but apparently put it on slow rewind, so that when she entered the living room the movie was inching backwards through the opening credits. She asked about it, I told her it was "a war movie" (although I consider this description inaccurate; it is a movie about the urge to war but not a classic war movie) by one of my favorite directors but if she didn't want to see it I'd put off watching it until she was asleep. She was game and became immediately engrossed. I was surprised and pleased since the first 15 minutes had sold me on the movie and I was disappointed that her nap had lasted only a half hour. There were a couple of things about the movie that were particularly startling:
I persevered, though, paused the movie once to tell her that I intended to see the movie through, I was too caught up in it to stop and reminded her, when she tried to go to bed, that she had to stay up until 2130 in order to take her 3rd dose of iron. he made it to the end. The final scene was a horrific take on the first scene. When the action stopped as Archy Hamilton, one of two featured runners, was shot by the Turkish military, her interest was renewed and she asked me to backtrack the movie so she could view the final moments and appreciate the connection.
Earlier today a local friend of mine called for a catching up conversation. She mentioned this journal, which she occasionally accesses "to see if I'm still alive", which she always says with a chuckle. She writes, some, not a lot and only privately and mentioned that she feels this journal is "too repetitive. You only need to mention things once," she said. "The repetition dulls a lot of what you write in there."
"It's a journal," I told her, "not a commercial effort. The repetition is important to me. I can go back and see how many times or under what circumstances certain behaviors occur, in both Mom and me."
"But it's boring," she said. "It'll never be published."
"Well," I said, "it is published, as I write it. And, anyway, it's not meant for a publishing company, it would have no value to me if it was. It's meant to be a blow by blow description of what I'm doing and what I'm thinking and feeling while I'm doing it."
As this subject dropped by the wayside and we continued talking I realized that, aside from this journal's therapeutic value to me, the striking amount of repetition is an extraordinarily accurate portrayal of the life of a caregiver to An Ancient One. So much of what I do is repetitive, sometimes absurdly so. Curiously, I have a taste for repetitive tasks: Needlepoint, for instance. One of my (on hold at this time) passions is creating art needlepoint. The canvasses I create require intense repetition of stitches for weeks at a time. One of the pleasures I derive from creating and stitching these canvasses is the one-stitch-at-a-time focus...making sure each stitch glows with its individuality within its hundreds of thousands of siblings. I now wonder if this is part of what makes me suited to taking care of my mother. I have occasional moments, it's true, when I think I cannot bear to repeat another, "drink water, Mom", or "scrub, scrub, scrub," but for the most part each repetition is like an individual stitch in the overall canvas of her life and mine. Each occurs at a different time, each exacts unique attention, each begs to be done well. As I apply the mental technique I use when I needlepoint to the creation of my mother's and my life together I often have the same excited anticipation of the finished work that comes over me when I'm involved in the creation of a canvas. When I finish a canvas it is common for me to stare at it in awe and think, "Wow, I did this? This came out of me? I had no idea I was capable of this!" At the "end" of any particular "episode" of caregiving I often have the same reaction. I wonder what my reaction will be when I am at a point where the entire canvas of my mother's Ancient years is completed, when she has offered up the final skein and I have used it to stitch over last bare grid.
- Weir back-sounded some of the running segments with bits of Jean Michel Jarre's Oxygene, one of my favorite synthesized thematic collections of music;
- During one of the scenes before the final slaughter at the hands of the Turkish military, Frank Dunne (Mel Gibson) rifles through a care package from home full of stuff he can't use, comments snidely about the contents, one of his mates berates him, "It's the thought that counts, Frank," and Frank responds, "It would count a bit more if they could bloody well think." I paused the movie, pointed excitedly at the screen and exclaimed, "See, Mom, I'm not the only one who thinks that, and not the first!" She doesn't agree with my feeling that, if all you can say about a gift is that it's the thought that counts the giver wasn't thinking. She's thinks it's rude of me to assert this.
I realized this bit of specific wisdom when my mother and I began conjoined housekeeping. Although she is often a spectacular gift choose/giver (I've gotten some of my best, most surprising gifts from her) she also has a marked tendency, if she doesn't know a person, to think that anything will do and not "waste the mental energy" figuring out something appropriate. The year I thought of this little gem of wisdom was a year when we were both well aware that MPBIL's parents were trying hard to stick to a healthy diet and my mother wanted to get them a Hickory Farms box for Christmas. "It'll be a nice change," she insisted.
"Mom," I corrected, "it won't if they aren't going to eat it and I can guarantee you they won't."
"It's the thought that counts."
That's when I came up with, "If all you can say about a gift is that it's the thought that counts, the giver wasn't thinking." I continued, "Mom, no one likes to get a gift that they're going to end up giving or throwing away."
"I suppose you're right," Mom responded, still unconvinced.
That year we got them a dried fruit plate augmented with low fat cheeses and water crackers.
I persevered, though, paused the movie once to tell her that I intended to see the movie through, I was too caught up in it to stop and reminded her, when she tried to go to bed, that she had to stay up until 2130 in order to take her 3rd dose of iron. he made it to the end. The final scene was a horrific take on the first scene. When the action stopped as Archy Hamilton, one of two featured runners, was shot by the Turkish military, her interest was renewed and she asked me to backtrack the movie so she could view the final moments and appreciate the connection.
Earlier today a local friend of mine called for a catching up conversation. She mentioned this journal, which she occasionally accesses "to see if I'm still alive", which she always says with a chuckle. She writes, some, not a lot and only privately and mentioned that she feels this journal is "too repetitive. You only need to mention things once," she said. "The repetition dulls a lot of what you write in there."
"It's a journal," I told her, "not a commercial effort. The repetition is important to me. I can go back and see how many times or under what circumstances certain behaviors occur, in both Mom and me."
"But it's boring," she said. "It'll never be published."
"Well," I said, "it is published, as I write it. And, anyway, it's not meant for a publishing company, it would have no value to me if it was. It's meant to be a blow by blow description of what I'm doing and what I'm thinking and feeling while I'm doing it."
As this subject dropped by the wayside and we continued talking I realized that, aside from this journal's therapeutic value to me, the striking amount of repetition is an extraordinarily accurate portrayal of the life of a caregiver to An Ancient One. So much of what I do is repetitive, sometimes absurdly so. Curiously, I have a taste for repetitive tasks: Needlepoint, for instance. One of my (on hold at this time) passions is creating art needlepoint. The canvasses I create require intense repetition of stitches for weeks at a time. One of the pleasures I derive from creating and stitching these canvasses is the one-stitch-at-a-time focus...making sure each stitch glows with its individuality within its hundreds of thousands of siblings. I now wonder if this is part of what makes me suited to taking care of my mother. I have occasional moments, it's true, when I think I cannot bear to repeat another, "drink water, Mom", or "scrub, scrub, scrub," but for the most part each repetition is like an individual stitch in the overall canvas of her life and mine. Each occurs at a different time, each exacts unique attention, each begs to be done well. As I apply the mental technique I use when I needlepoint to the creation of my mother's and my life together I often have the same excited anticipation of the finished work that comes over me when I'm involved in the creation of a canvas. When I finish a canvas it is common for me to stare at it in awe and think, "Wow, I did this? This came out of me? I had no idea I was capable of this!" At the "end" of any particular "episode" of caregiving I often have the same reaction. I wonder what my reaction will be when I am at a point where the entire canvas of my mother's Ancient years is completed, when she has offered up the final skein and I have used it to stitch over last bare grid.
