July 31st

It's been awhile, so I am behind on my musings. For now, two blonde moments from the Great White North (GWN) prior to my mission.

I had an ankle to xray, a strapping young lad at that. I did the films, which have to be manually developed. Away I went. The door to the darkroom was difficult to close, requiring a fair amount of force. But I did it. Fed the exposed films into the machine, refilled the cassettes, then realized that I had locked myself in the darkroom. The door would not open. Let me tell you, how the F-sharps were flying as I hurled myself against the door with my uninjured shoulder, each one a little louder than the last. On my last attempt, the door opened in just as I was throwing my last bit of energy towards it. I had been trying to open the door... out. And it was my poor patient, with a huge grin, who rescued me.

My departure day. No check in required, I was flying the bush plane, the airport was just a formality. As my driver and I were waiting for the plane to land (where's Tattoo?), I sipped my tea from my non-drip cup, and dripped tea all over my white shirt. After a quick glance around, I zipped to my duffel in the back of the pick up. Picked out a relatively clean shirt. Then opened the doors of the front and the back of the cab so that the other waiting locals wouldn't see much as I changed shirts. The driver, if he wished, would see quite a bit. And that's when he said, "Um, there's a washroom inside, you can change there." The airport was open. I don't think I will be forgotten there soon.

My friends on Facebook, pardon for the repeat. For the rest of you, to laugh at yourself is to enjoy life to the fullest.

Salud!

Slice of Life: Happy Birthday Helen - March 26th

My Mom turned 87 on the 19th of March, still in the hospital, creeping ever so slowly towards death. We decided to have a small celebration, considering that we thought she wasn't going be here by this point. My Mom was a great cook before she decided to hang up those apron strings, "I'm too old", but her cakes were second to none. In light of many bedside conversations about the "old" days when she baked cakes for church functions and her lady prayer partners, she spoke of her Springtime Chiffon Cake as being one of her favourite cakes, and it certainly is one of mine. So I dragged out my handy dandy Kitchen Aid stand mixer, and made her the cake, a light, 3-tiered lemony concoction, filled with lemon curd and frosted with an ethereal mixture of whipped cream and some more lemon curd, and a blanket of shredded coconut. It is a divine cake. My first mistake was in the choice of baking pans. It needs to be baked in an ungreased angel pan, which I didn't have. I have a non-stick pan, which if you grease, then flour, gives the eggy batter something to cling to. However, try to invert that after baking so that you keep the height, and you will have a disaster. So I cooled the thing in the pan, which resulted in a flattened cake with a waist line where it collapsed. Undaunted, I made the lemon curd, and of course for whatever reason, I could not find the instructions. I remembered the "decrease" by 1/2" pertaining to water, so that's what I did, decreased the water from 2 cups to 1 cup, and after it was cool and congealed, found the recipe, which said to decrease the water by 1/2 cup. Out with the boiling water, and the hand blender, but then I had a runnier curd that wouldn't firm up the same way as if I had added the correct amount of water in the first place. When I folded the required amount into the whipped cream, it was a bit soft, but no matter. I filled, frosted, and coconut-ed the cake, and other than being a a bit vertically challenged, it looked beautiful. The cream icing sagged a wee bit, but it nicely settled into the waist, where the cake would settle on me. I took it and a bottle of the wine my Mom has been drinking for years, unopened, from her fridge, to the hospital. I figured we really needed to celebrate. We even had an extra guest, the lady in the bed next door, on the other side of the curtain. She was no bother, really. She was dead.
After a swig of the Banrock Station non-oaked Chardonnay, my Mom decided it wasn't her wine. I showed her the bottle, of course partook of it myself, but, "I don't care what it says on the bottle, it's not my wine." Okay. Then for the cake. "This isn't like my cake." Well, anything of hers that I have ever tried to make is never 100% like hers. For one thing, she frequently tweaked recipes, and would neglect, not on purpose, to tell me about the tweaks. However, being a veteran cake baker, I knew her changes to this one. So, wanting to hear what I hadn't done, I asked.
"It's not chocolate."
And so the Hurricane blows on, sometimes a Category 5, other times just a tropical storm. Bless her little 87 year old heart.

January 18th

Dying sucks. Try dying with dementia of any type, deafness and cancer. Try being one of those looking after said person. For all involved, it isn't pretty.
God has reversed my Mom's train, and trust me, I don't wish her dead. I think He and I might just be involved in a bit of a shoving match, and hey, it's God, you have to let Him win.
In the meantime, I have been forbidden to:
a) Bring in a pillow from home. Her pillow. After she complained of neck pain - she has osteoporosis. I gave her one of those u-shaped neck pillows, but that combined with plastic pillows makes her feel too hot. Hence the suggestion of bringing her one of her pillows, met with a "They won't like it!" - who's they? and "DON'T YOU DARE!!!!"  Apparently I have been forcing her to be, oh, comfortable, and that doesn't seem to sit well, as if being uncomfortable will make her die faster as is her wish. So of course I ignored her wish after a week, brought in her feather pillow from when she got married in 1955, and she exclaimed "It is sooo soft!"
And now she cradles it around her neck. All the time.
b) Order TV for her. "DON'T YOU DARE!!!"Well, this one I've heeded, but when her few friends and neighbours come in and admonish her for not having it, it makes you feel badly. But she would notice a TV if I brought it in, unlike the pillow, even if I gave her headphones to go with it. So at the moment, the seemingly neglectful family is heeding that wish. But there is only so much of the Young and the Restless you can discuss without her actually watching it. As she proclaimed to the Bean, the storylines are "S-H-*-T".
c)Ask for a walker for her. I haven't totally lost on that one as I have resources, like her doctor, although I have been forbidden to "PUT THE BUG IN THEIR EAR." Make no mistake, the cancer is going to get her, or the heart or something else. She is not dying fast enough to be on the palliative floor, and she is losing condition. Because she is palliative, no one makes her do anything, but such has been our dance and relationship through the beginnings of dementia. I am now the bad cop, making her do what she can even though she doesn't want to do it. Anyhow, an e-mail to her doctor will start the ball rolling.
d) Take concerns to the nurses. "DON'T YOU DARE!" Yeah, well she loses big time on this, because you can't out nurse me. I will never stand for sloppy nursing. And it doesn't matter her wishes here. I'm paving the way for when we are old and decrepit. I have reminded them that we will be her age sometime, with the fallen bladders, the funky bowels, brains that seem to be on the Enterprise, far, far away, and the ears that seem to ignore all. That's why you treat the elders well, because that is how you you want to be respected. Someday.
On the other hand, she knows I am going insane being here for so long. I love my Credit Valley friends, I don't love my Credit Valley work, so now I have her blessing to go back to work that I love.
In the meantime, I will take her to the bathroom, flush the toilet, get her ice, put the garbage can up, put the rails up, put the oxygen back on, take the ears out, put the pillow on the feet, and turn the lights out. One day, forever....

The Slice of Life: New Year's Edition - January 3rd

My musings for the end of this year, not to be repeated in subsequent years, the bad stuff, por favor.
1. Prayers, answered. Mom much better. Patience, tested. I don't mean this in a bad way. It just means my Mom is as close to back to normal as she is going to get, which means she is driving me crazy. She looks much better than in the preceding months before her hospitalization, and except for the oxygen tubes in her nose, and her telling you, you would never know she is sick.
My first major clue occurred during a bathroom run. Ever the helpful daughter, I assisted her to the pot. While waiting outside the door, I heard her crackly voice: "I NEED A DRINK OF WATER!" To which I replied, "WHEN I GET YOU BACK TO BED, I'LL GET YOU SOME WATER."
"I NEED IT NOW!" Now, I looked up in the mirror there, and noticed that the waitress hat was not on, in fact, I was sporting a jaunty set of reindeer antlers. So I repeated : "WHEN I GET YOU BACK TO BED!" "BUT I'M DYING!" "NOT RIGHT NOW YOU AREN'T! WHEN YOU ARE FINISHED.""I'M FINISHED THEN." And so we toddled back to bed, she had her water and a gentle lecture from me as can only be done when someone wasn't wearing her hearing aids: "I WILL DO ANYTHING FOR YOU, BUT BREAKFAST AND DRINKS IN THE LOO IS NOT ONE OF THEM." Conversations need to be kept short and to the point during a scream fest.
Fast forward to the day after Boxing Day. I hadn't been over since Christmas Eve, due to the dreaded Christmas cold, so imagine my surprise over the past two days to find a new steadiness to her gait. She's taking purposeful steps now to the bathroom, nary a shuffle in site, no bouncing off the walls and door jambs, no swaying at a whisper. In fact, I think if she could guarantee she would use a walker, she might even be able to go alone. Shaking my head, I remember her ward room days when she was assisted by me and a walker, she would zoom the walker into the middle of the room on the way back, and stagger to her bed. And of course, I remember her deluxe rollator that sits on the opposite side of her 12 foot living room, where she can't reach it.
So I rearranged her back in bed, and she told me "The volunteer fed me." Her ears were in, she wasn't yelling quite so loudly.
"And what do you mean the volunteer fed you?" I had visions of them opening up her tray, setting her up.
"She fed me with a spoon."
"She did what?"
"She fed me with a spoon."
Holy jaw breaking because it hit the floor! I was speechless, and apparently trolling for flies. For most old folks that I've dealt with, eating independently is one of the last things they want to give up. They shake, rattle and roll, miss their mouths sometimes, but feeding oneself is a basic need for most of them. You can assist with the occasional mouthful to make sure some of it actually gets in. My Mom? No shaking, no weakness, nada.
And I said nothing.
The next conversation had to do with comfort. Because of her osteoporosis, she has a hard time getting comfortable in bed. I bought her one of those u-shaped airline neck pillows, which she finds is comfortable, but it gets hot. No surprise with the plastic pillows propping her up. So I asked her if I could bring in one of her pillows from home. I figured a breathing cloth pillow behind her might cool things off a bit. She said she didn't think the hospital would like it if I brought in things like that from home. No amount of explanations would convince her otherwise, so I said I would ask the doctor, because apparently I am just a nurse, and then I was forbidden to ask the doctor. The end. She is definitely much better. God has reversed the train.
2. Babies make everything better. I was told by the Queen Mum that the Humvee was not to visit her in the hospital, in case she had something contagious. Like cancer is. So ignoring her as usual, just because it was Christmas, or slightly after due to our illnesses and not hers, the Bean and the Humvee and I went to visit. And my Mom positively lit up. The Humvee cooed and smiled and laughed, the Bean declared whoever owned this baby must surely want him back. It was a bonus day, proving again there is a Santa.
3. In keeping with my Mom's tour, I help her to the bathroom every visit I make. She declares that the nurses don't come fast enough, and then are too fast in dealing with her once they do come. So I take my time getting her off the pot, helping her pull her bloomers up, wash her hands and pad on back to bed. The one thing she always does is pull the call bell in the bathroom when she is done even if I am there. I don't discourage it because it is easier just to have her yank it all the time than for her to hit and miss when I am not there. So she pulls the bell, and I am there helping her when her day nurse comes in, saying she would help my Mom. Normally the Old Girl prefers me, but this time, she actually pushed me forcefully out of the bathroom, announcing that she'd rather this nurse help her as she was more efficient than me. Apparently I must have been wearing the Nurse Ratched hat.
In other news:
1. Granola bars with Nyquil chasers make a fine Christmas dinner indeed. And like the 24 pound turkey, there is enough to go on for days.
2. In keeping with the festivities of the season, Nyquil comes in red and green, pretty much the only Christmas decorating I did around here.
3. The warm, weather has turned the out house into a do it yourself bidet, stated one of my best friend's nephews. Thank you very much for that visual.
4. Euchre, gin, the card game! - wine and friends make a great New Year's night. If only I could remember it. Or how I got soot under the arm of my Tilley shirt. Or the bruise on my arm. Or where I put my toothbrush. Or...
5. New Year's revolutions, or, next on my Bucket List: My travel plans are a bit on hold for now, other than for work. In the desire to screw up my knee worse than it is, and only because it is feeling a bit better, I think I am going to try skiing. Once. This all Canadian polar girl has never downhill skied in her life. I will only ever go up in that chair lift once, and down the bunny hill, upright, I hope, once. Right up there with the zip line - never ever to be done, ever again. Yup. We'll see.
And that's all for now. I wish everyone a Happy New Year, filled with wild and wonderful things, and above all, filled with joy in the midst of anything bad. I refuse anything less for myself.

Aging

So this is how my day went. I was about to put my watch back on after my shower, but decided not to because I hadn't filled the air with all of my hair product. That usually leaves a sticky film on everyone and everything within 50 feet. These days, I seem to forget little things, like where the heck did I put my watch 5 minutes ago, in the broom closet I live in. On top of my bed is the usual repository and after tearing it and the half dozen pillows apart, I still couldn't find it. I was trying to get out to see my Mom, and this time I would remember to take my handy dandy iPhone with me, so I would know the time. Having forgotten my wallet at home the day before, I would also take that with me, you know, just in case. If only I could find that too.
No problem in finding the f-sharps as I tore the rest of the apartment apart. My heart was in my boots when I remembered (!) that I had needed some info from it for my computer yesterday, and I had left it on the La Z Girl. And it wasn't on, in or under that. I also remembered gathering up newspapers the day before and taking them and a bunch of other recycling, down to the recycling room. And good Lord, could that be where my wallet met its end? Then I remembered St. Anthony and whipped off a quick prayer to him, for my wallet and my watch. On a whim, I checked out the newly started recycling bag, and there was the wallet, in with that day's newspaper. I was still kind of bummed out about the watch, but I thought to leave well enough alone, then rolled up my sleeves as I usually do and found the damned watch on my wrist.
Finding my car in the hospital parking lot should be so easy. I used to be the navigator in the family. The Ex Boy needed a map, I just needed intuition, and it never failed me. Which is why I am divorced. Nowadays, I think I would need a map to get out of a paper bag, never mind a GPS to find my car in any parking lot other than my own underground. Every day I visit my Mom, every day I take a mental note of where I parked my car, and every day I walk out of the hospital with absolutely no clue as to where it is. I haven't had to resort to firing off the panic button, yet.
The girls went out for dinner last night, in the big mall close to where I live, that I know like the back of my hand. I even checked the map at the entrance, the kind that says "You are here" and that the resto was over there. With great confidence I slogged my way through the army of Christmas shoppers for 10 minutes, until without a doubt I knew I was going the wrong way.
But really, the thing that made feel really old was this: reading glasses with lights on the temples, like headlights so you can read menus etc. in dimly lit places. I actually, seriously, considered buying them. Then I shook my head. Makes me wonder why restaurants are always so dimly lit, do we all have ugly dates? When I was young, I was near sighted, as I got older, the presbyopia set in.  Now I can't see who I am eating with. Already can't hear them. By the time I have myself geared up for all these deficits, I will look like R2D2 with all the bells and whistles. Woohoo, look out world, here I come!
And now I am heading out to play "Where's Waldo?' with my car.

December 12th

I dusted off my antlers yesterday. For those of you who don't know, I have a pair of antlers or a Santa hat for every working day in December up until Christmas. I used to wear them at Credit Valley Hospital, but being up north upon occasion at Christmas has its own deterrents. Now with my Ma the way she is, a little break from the mundane is what is needed.
Yesterday I wore the antlers that light up and sing. I think Credit Valley folks and indeed the folks in Mississauga where I live are a much happier bunch. Etobicoke, where my Mom is, not so much.  Maybe they don't celebrate Christmas as much there - the Toronto area is very multicultural. Yet I could see some people stifling smiles, as if  only I thought antlers were "normal"  and they didn't want to hurt my feelings. Perhaps they thought  I had escaped from my room. Well I guess the flip flops and short sleeves at the zero Celsius mark with snow and ice don't help, but hey, I do sport a polar fleece vest.
And the other thing is, I sing. In one reserve in Manitoba, where I have been a few times, I am the "Singing Nurse". I never said I sing well. I think  that I would clean up on "Name That Tune". In less than 7 notes. The rest of the lyrics are simple: "Lalalalala!" So now I sing Christmas songs or Spanish songs of any type from the parking lot to my Mom's room, and then some. There seems to be no joy in that Mudville. I think everyone in Etobicoke needs a yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum. And maybe some antlers.

December 9th

I haven't made it back to the far reaches of Winterpeg and beyond. This time, the Old Girl is truly sick. She now resides on the palliative care ward at her local hospital.  Fortunately for all of us, I know her doctor very well, back from the days when I worked as a palliative nurse. She couldn't be in better hands.
Which is not to say she is quite at death's door. She's still a Category 1 or two hurricane. If the garbage can isn't placed between the runners of her overbed table, with the table running parallel to her bed and the can near her side rail just so, you hear about it. So does the rest of the floor. Never mind you were trying to insert or remove a chair in the area so that you could yell a little more quietly into her ear. The food is lousy, that goes without saying, but when the doctor asks her how she is, the answer is always "Terrible," and when they ask her why, she says the food is horrible. One doctor asked her to give him something he could fix. She thought for a moment, and said she wasn't sleeping well. Then he fixed it.
Her hearing loss makes communication enough of a challenge  that they could use her on the Amazing Race if they came to Toronto and she was still around. Roadblock: One of you must make this old lady repeat this sentence correctly, and she will hand you your next clue: HAND ME THE NEXT CLUE. NO, NOT THE BAND IS BLUE!! THE NEXT CLUE. NOT TEA FOR TWO!! CLUE!! C-L-U-E!! PHIL, uh sorry, Phil? We'll take the four hour penalty please.
 Coupled with the non-desire to use her hearing aids, the visits are either really really loud, or relatively quiet except for the barked order of "Put the garbage can back. No, not there, there! THERE!!!" I jam her ears in anyway, and then the visit is punctuated every few minutes by "Take these out. I can't sleep with them in." I tell her I will do it before I go home. She just asks even more. Hmmm, maybe I'm not taking the hint.
She's refusing a hairwash by the nurses, giving all those oil rich nations a run for their refineries. She wouldn't let me do her hair either, since apparently I don't know how to put her curlers in. Come to think of it, I don't. Maureen, her home hairdresser to the rescue, so we will be all spiffy on Saturday. I still say when the going gets tough, the tough go to the hairdresser. Which is where I am headed to next week.
So that's how it goes. You win some, you lose some. I told one friend that I don't miss the Ex Boy one iota. But at the end of the day, The Bean has her Ian, my brother has his wife, and I would give anything to melt into the arms of my significant other, should he exist, for 30 seconds.
Thanks to all my wonderful friends and family for your prayers and support, and as usual, I will keep you posted. Our visits always end with "I love you" and that is the one gift we have been given. And I intend on taking every opportunity I can.