I haven't talked to my mom for three weeks, which is probably the longest I've gone in *years*. My sisters are taking the brunt of the mom business, along with our new crew of ladies from Tonga. They are decidedly less distressed by her behavior than our #1 caregiver. This probably stems from her having known and loved the person that my mom was for much of their time together. Now we have the angry bitey, slapping, name-calling lady. Without spending time over there it's hard for me to know when's a good time or whether there ever is one. Should I call? Today I did, but nobody answered.
This week's activities have included last minute shopping for butt cream, heading out to the storage space for more towels because my mom is being bathed in bed and there's a lot of water involved, getting medication for her and rushing it to her (with specific instructions from my sister), finding more bed pads and this and that. I'm not allowed into mom's building because I tested positive for Covid less than 10 days ago. It's a thing.
Speaking of which, Covid is no joke (still). I find myself exhausted after doing just a few tasks in the morning. Today we did a group project, rehousing a few dozen pastel paintings that were handed off by a friend who was retiring. That felt satisfying and chunky, bringing a definable project to a good stopping point. Then I went into the warehouse again to go through the remains of my friend's office belongings and help the Facilities folks make heads and tails of it. His lawyer needs an inventory of his stuff in order to share it with his heir. It's so sad.
I had already said I was going to work from home for the rest of the day but powered through my warehouse duties, using a two-drawer pedestal file as a seat and using his pens and paper to leave notes for others, indicating what I thought should be done with his flat files, art supplies, drafting table. A lot of the artists I know have a bit of a piggly way about them, but this guy pretty much tied everything up in a bow before he went. Pancreatic cancer gave him some lead time, and over the last few years he gradually divested of his DVDs, CDs and finally his historical photographs, which he organized and put in cloud storage for us. His memorial was last weekend. I miss him.
By the time I got home I was spent. It feels silly to be three weeks out from Covid and be tired, drippy and to feel the need to clear my throat a hundred times a day. That's what I thought until I started talking to people. A person in my caregiver support group had exactly the same throat clearing thing I have. She sounded just like me! And people have opened up to me about their fatigue when I've shared my embarrassment about my own.
In the meantime, I've been listening to Suleika Jaouad's memoir and thinking about her journey with illness. It's given me a lot to think about -- about people's lack of agency in their illnesses. My mom continues to feel it. She tells people she wants to die, but she also wants to see what's outside of her door. She has the people in her neighborhood that she likes or dislikes (never too old to hate, apparently!) and she wants to watch movies with the group.
One last thing. Yesterday when I was dropping off supplies, I saw a favorite old krone in the lobby. We'll call her V. She always sits by the door, and was using a wheelchair yesterday. She's feisty. There was another white haired old lady in a wheelchair, also in the lobby. All of a sudden they had a faceoff, which I've seen happen in memory care. Two old people lock eyes and then they start calling each other out. I can't recall what they were shouting at each other but it was something like "Shut up!" and the other person would yell back "Shut up!" and there were a few back and forths and they had to be given a talking to by the concierge. It was awesome. Absolutely made my day.
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