Oatmeal for the Soul
I hear her feet softly shuffle towards my door. I close my eyes and pretend I am still asleep even though I’ve been awake in dreamy contemplation for the last hour. My thoughts often float to my husband as the cold of the morning chills me and I allow myself a moment of warm reflection on the life I put on hold before flipping my internal switch to autopilot.
She slowly opens the door and asks if I’m awake. “Can you help me get dressed?”. Some mornings, she decides to let me rest and waits in the living room in silence. I feel her anxious helplessness stick to me like a dense fog. Each morning, each day, it’s the same. I look at the icon of St. Anthony I have hanging on the wall facing my bed and will myself to start another day.
As I splash water on my face I stare at myself for a few seconds in the mirror. The eyes look back at me like a hungry beggar haunted by past lives. “Who will you choose to be today?” says the inner moderator. Will I locate my compassion or will I choose to wallow in frustration? It’s so strange to be here but at the same time there is a mystical knowing that I am right where I am supposed to be.
Oatmeal.
Oatmeal is what I make her everyday. “Are you making my oatmeal?”. It’s cooking, Mom. “Will you put raisins in it?” Yes, I always do. “Walnuts? Banana?” Yes. I serve it up in an intricately decorated bowl of china blue and white. I like to treat her like she is special. Her meals seem to provide the only sense of normalcy she has left. A glass of water and her medication sit beside her on the table: The medication that contributes to her sense of detachment and purple patched skin. Is there a better treatment available? Yes, I think there is.
I quickly make my coffee and sit down at the kitchen table knowing the time I have to enjoy my morning drink is limited. My brother will usually take a seat at the table and we begin conversing about the latest “news” or fear-porn and propaganda. Before I realize it, my mother has escaped into her bedroom in silent retreat. The world disturbs her and her fragile constitution withers like a plant that has been poisoned.
I understand. I don’t like this world either. Ironically, she feels a need to watch the bad news on television and says the noise comforts her. It drives me mad – the television. For I know what follows in its wake. Mom will become afraid and have me check the doors (again) and ask if the title to her home can be stolen by hackers because the world is a dangerous place.
As I sip my coffee she finishes her breakfast.
She asks me to pick up her dish and put the dinner tray away. I do so and sit back down in the kitchen. A moment later, she asks if I’m ready to get her dressed. I tell her that I am still drinking my coffee and to give me ten minutes. She agrees. Two minutes later she asks again… So, I give in and off we go.
There are days when her brain refuses to engage. She sits on the bed and asks me what she is supposed to do next. Her mind befuddled and seemingly disconnected. “Your pajama bottoms, Mom, take those off”. Too often, it’s as if her body and her spirit, once entwined, no longer communicate. I try to imagine how she feels. There is a great emptiness and capitulation to rendering all decision making to others. This makes providing care both easier and harder at the same time. She operates on fear. Fear for her children. Fear for our future. Fear of me leaving. Fear of dying. There is nothing else that occupies her thoughts. There are no more interests or hobbies. No more desires.
My view of St. Anthony each morning…
I step through the routine of getting her dressed and as I wipe her body clean my love for her washes over me.
Her suffering is plain to see. The indignity of her naked vulnerability cannot be denied. Her back frozen in a permanent hunch as her head hangs forward as one trying to finish a race. I take care to coordinate her clothes in an attempt to maintain a sense of dignity and respect. Her hair, still quite full, is combed to the side in a stylish wave. We finish the morning ablutions and she heads out to the old red couch. It is here that she spends the better part of the day.
When the weather is good I take her out on walks through the old neighborhood. This is about the only thing I can say with certainty that she enjoys. She seems to relax a bit as she rolls along propelled by the strength of my reserves for that day. We both enjoy this time together and I try to change up our walking patterns to stimulate conversation and avert boredom.
Our return home is an uphill climb. I have less energy at this point as I force my body to push the wheelchair up the hill. It’s the home stretch and we have no choice but to keep going. My heart translates the physical stress on my body and assures me of one thing… Going home, the home we shall all return to one day, is an uphill climb that will require every ounce of our strength until it is spent. As I push my mother forward I am humbled by the thought that I agreed to do this. I agreed to get her to the finish line.
As I prepare the evening meal, serve it, and clean up, I am fairly done in by then.
But with the completion of dinner comes the evening and this is when Mom’s restlessness peaks. She does not want to be alone. If I try to take time for myself she will find me and ask me to sit with her in the living room as she stares straight through the television. She obsessively looks at the clock and asks me what time it is… holding out until the hour of sleep arrives.
I do my best to appease her loneliness but I simply can’t last very long sitting like a jack-in-the-box ready to jump out of my skin as Steve Harvey asks a Family Feud contestant “Name something you lick but don’t bite?”. I know what you’re thinking… ice cream, of course. That’s entertainment folks. Inserted in between this quality entertainment ad nauseam is the pharma-pill-for-every-ill song and dance routines.
I gave up television 30 years ago and seeing/hearing it every day since I’ve been here has caused a strange Tourette’s symptom to surface. Insults and curses pop out of my mouth whenever a spellcas… uh, newscaster spews their lies, uh, lines. Perhaps their sponsors in Big Pharma have a pill for my symptoms. I should ask my doctor right away.
The saga continues next week… As always, thanks for reading 🙂
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Keep up your strength!