Just as my husband, Peter, and I were making our final plans to spend a few open-ended months in Tucson without concern of a return date (a semi-retirement for him — my work is portable), just as I was incredulously saying, “OMG! This is incredible! We can go and come as we please. Can you believe it??”
Just as I bellowed from the deepest part of my soul, “Freedom!” a la Mel Gibson in Braveheart (I forgive you, Mel, for your lame-brained remarks), my fully independent, still living on her own, 95-year-young mother fell, not once — but twice — and…
…The world of elder care came crashing down upon us.
Peter and I rushed to the hospital where we found my mom — whose name is, by the way, Harriet — behind the emergency room curtain, lying lonely on the hospital bed. I asked, “Are you all right?”
Harriet replied in her usual witty and wry style, “Things could be worse… and they will be.”
We laughed. “Things could be worse… and they will be” is one of my mother’s signature sayings.
When I was five, Jimmy S. tripped me. (Intentionally?) My chin cracked open (I have the scar to prove it), and by the time I made my way home, my pretty-in-plaid kindergarten dress was bloodied up.
Mom said in a somewhat playful yet serious tone, “Ohhhh. Things could be worse.” She followed this with a sympathetic smile and a half-chuckle. “And they will be.”
When my 6-year-old neighbor decided to practice his barber skills on my favorite doll, Patty Playpal, and cut off her long locks much to my distress, my mom once again said, “Things could be worse… and they will be.”
So mom fell, not once but twice, and “things” surely could have been worse. Her elbow was fractured; the crown of her head was cracked open just a tad, leaving a small gash; and she was pretty much a bruised-up mess. But she did not break her hip, no surgery was needed and she still has all her marbles, which was a very good thing.
Naively, I thought, “A few weeks of rehab and life will return to normal.” Boy-oh-boy was I wrong! The words, “Things could be worse… and they will be” have taken on new meaning.
As the weeks passed, it became abundantly clear that we were looking at a “new and lesser normal,” and that the day had arrived. My mom, 95.5 years young, who had lived happily in her Long Beach apartment for 31 years, was not going home.
Elder care is a minefield of logistics and a roller coaster of emotions. As I stated, our scenario is not the worst ever, but nevertheless it is madly overwhelming.
Madly is defined as wildly, fiercely. Its synonyms include absurdly, crazily, dementedly, desperately, exceedingly, frantically, frenziedly, hastily, irrationally, passionately, psychotically, senselessly, unreasonably, violently… Eldercare is all that and more.
One way I have been channeling my emotions, processing the daily happenings and seeing the opportunity in this journey (Yes, there’s plenty of opportunity here for personal growth, including but not limited to surrender, compassion and humor) is to fast and furiously send emails to my real and “chosen” family.
These missives, which ranged from “three-tissue reads” to “side-splitting belly laughs,” have proven to be an enormously therapeutic tool (for me), and the information and entertainment factor useful and even enjoyable for the family, which brings me here — to this page, and to YOU!
I know there are plenty of “us” caretakers out there, and we are stressed! According to a recent study from the American Psychological Association, 55 percent of us caretakers are just “plain” stressed, and 22 percent are “extremely” stressed.
It is my intention to share my journey on these pages and to keep it real, which means telling the entire truth, not just the more sane and happier slices of it. I think the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God, is necessary here.
This isn’t about me. True — writing to you all is a most excellent way for me to empty my mind and vent about the happenings in my life; but I am merely one of the very many boomers who are currently navigating (or will be soon enough) the strange, alien, frustrating and frankly, insane world of elder care. Skimping on the truth wouldn’t be helpful or fair.
So… Here “we” go. I am reaching out to you for support and at the same time offering support. I am hopeful that you will seize this opportunity to empty your mind, tell your truth — comment below — so that we can, together, face this bittersweet time and help prepare those who are to follow.
Keep an eye out for my next post, when “delirium” hits Harriet and these pages! Oy Vey!!
Janice Taylor
The Elder Care Blues
represents a new chapter in the Life of Janice Taylor a.k.a. Our Lady of Weight Loss
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