Don't let the past remind us of what we are not now
I've been thinking about Judy a lot lately. Judy's been dead for about four and a half years now and I've mostly been numb-nostalgic about it the whole time. The past couple of weeks though she's been refusing to leave my mind. Judy Blue Eyes came on the radio the other day, but I was already thinking about her.
For those who are new, in 2008 I was hired by a friend to take care of Suzie, the family dog, while her mom (Judy) was in the hospital and later a mobility rehab center. Everyone else lived out of town and I was a student with part-time dog sitting gigs. Suzie and I spent some quality time together watching movies and going for walks, fighting over whether the laundry belonged strewn across the floor and furniture, and mostly becoming friends.
I would learn later that while Suzie and I were having fun, Judy was suffering through difficult physical therapy and living at a rehab center she absolutely hated. A rehab center which treated her as if she were an ornery dementia patient needing to be subdued and controlled. The very same rehab center that my mom is scheduled to be transferred to this week.
When Judy was finally released from rehab I was asked if the house/pet sitting gig could continue as super-part-time care giver role. I would just need to check in on Judy once a day for an hour or so. It seemed simple enough but I was nervous about it. I'm not good with people. I'd only ever met her once, surrounded by a bunch of people, moving my sister and friends into their respective dorms some six years earlier. I think I was polite but honestly I couldn't remember if we did more than acknowledge each other's presence in the room.
Despite my reservations I agreed to the job, and I'm glad I did. Judy had an easy routine and a fun personality. She knew when people were bullshitting her and it was fun to watch her call them out. We had similar tastes in TV and movies, so sometimes our hour would turn into a few hours. And on days where I had a lot going on, she was cool with rushing the necessities and pushing me out in fifteen minutes.
Judy was stubborn and I was a push over. She was a shut in, trapped on her couch with the exception of carefully scheduled bathroom breaks. She declined my offers to take her out on my walks with Suzie, or even to help her out to simply sit on the porch. We worked out a way of taking care of her gardening by having me take pictures of where everything was and she'd point to where it should be.
It became routine that I'd get there, bring in the mail, refill the small wine bottle by the couch (later it was a wine bottle and a jar of vodka), distribute her evening medications, put her Lean Cuisine meal in the microwave, and help her to the bathroom. While she was in the bathroom I'd straighten out the bedding on the couch and feed the dog. I'd help her back from the bathroom and serve her dinner before taking the dog for a walk. When I returned I'd lift her legs onto the couch for her, and sit down so we could go through the mail. If she was too tired, we'd save the mail for another day.
Sometimes, rarely, she'd feel up to doing her physical therapy exercises. The instructions were for her to lift her legs up and down fifteen times each, then out to the side and hold for a count, then back, there were also kicks and bike pedaling movements. The way Judy did them was to have me lift her legs up and down, to have me hold them to the side and do the pedaling for her. She insisted that was the only way they would get done, and the exercises were only to keep the blood circulating and promote flexibility.
Judy was a nurse. She was a good nurse. She could tell when I was sick from sound of my voice or the way I was walking. She knew what she was doing with her own health. She had Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue, and they threw in some Parkinson's for good measure. She was depressed, and thanks to the hip surgery (or was it knee?) she had one leg about three inches shorter than the other.
Others could debate for centuries whether she was physically capable of recovery, or at least of vaguely improving mobility and quality of life, but in Judy's mind the answer was a dead set NO. It couldn't be done. That was her life, she'd come to accept it and everyone else would too.
There were professional care givers who came during the day. They would do more important things like grocery shopping, bathing, laundry, etc. Though after a while they caught on that the wine and the vodka were not doctor approved and were not acceptable side dishes to Judy's variety show of meds. My routine then involved twice weekly trips to the store to purchase alcohol on my way to Judy's.
I was paid to do what she wants, not to babysit and lecture. I did what she asked and I didn't push on the things that were ill advised.
Judy died on Super Bowl Sunday in 2012. Her kidneys decided they no longer wanted to take the abuse and they went out in glorious protest. She knew it would happen. In fact, she called and invited her kids home to watch the show. In a way, I helped her do it. I didn't stop her, I even provided the tools.
I'd like to say "it's what she wanted" or "it's for the best" but really that's a bunch of shit because what she wanted was to be healthy and physically active. She just knew that was never going to happen and she went with plan B.
It's been four and a half years and it's happening again. It's my own mom this time and her poison of choice is diabetes. All of you who know my mom know her as strong, in control, and even mean. That's all true... in regards to everyone and everything that isn't her own health.
Last year my mom finally went and got her terrible potato feet checked out. There was a bone protruding from the bottom of one foot and she could no longer ignore it. It was quickly diagnosed as Charcot Foot (both feet) and she was given six months before she'd lose ability to walk and need to make some decisions on how to progress.
After uncle John died she did some serious soul searching and started a new diet. She managed to keep her blood sugar low (good low, not just low for her) for a couple of months. Then grandma died and it all went to shit. We were back to "200 is really low for me" and "yeah but 450 is normal." You know what happens to diabetics who don't keep their BGL around 130? They don't heal, they become infected.
She suffered a heart attack at work and was taken for another stint surgery. They determined that half her heart is dead (insert jokes here) and wanted to reevaluate in a month or so. There were various foot surgeries in between which, surprise, weren't healing. Then the second heart surgery revealed that it was further blocked than they thought and they don't want to even try reopening it.
While she was there for the second heart surgery, her unhealing foot wounds picked up a MRSA infection. She was back to the hospital four days later. The infection was in her "good" (bad) leg, the one without the bone sticking out (which at this point had already been shaved off in one of the various surgeries but whatever, there was still a huge hole). The infection grew worse and threatened her life. They removed her foot instead, half way up to the knee.
She's been in the hospital, in a Scottsdale rehab, and back in the hospital for the past six weeks. The hospital monitors her food and glucose levels way more reliably than the rehab facility was, but she doesn't like them because they are mean and inattentive. The return to the hospital was because the amputation incision became infected (at least not MRSA this time) due to not healing as a result of constantly high blood sugar.
I don't get daily calls like my dad and sister do. Calls asking for McDonald's tea (and while you're there a happy meal and don't forget the cookies) or "better food than they have here" (read: Whataburger). Maybe it's because I was sick with horrible con crud for over a month there, but maybe it's also because I've shown to be a little less of a push over over the last few years. I'm not going to get into the debacle that was helping my grandma manipulate me and enabling her to be an enabler... there's another blog about that somewhere you can go read.
My typically strong and scary mother has been a crap shoot of emotions for the past month and a half. It ranges from clear headed and demanding, to needy and emotional, to scared and anxious, and even some times a bit delirious and incoherent.
I don't handle unpredictability well and it's already really difficult for me to chance a visit. I'm supposed to be preparing the house for when she comes back, but should I be raising the couch up on bricks and straightening the bedding? Should I provide her daily "wine and vodka" (sugar and carbs)? I'm supposed to be her live in care giver, but what does that mean?
I can't lift her without her help. I can't be here 24/7. I'm not going to help her kill herself. I've been there and I'm not going back.
For those who are new, in 2008 I was hired by a friend to take care of Suzie, the family dog, while her mom (Judy) was in the hospital and later a mobility rehab center. Everyone else lived out of town and I was a student with part-time dog sitting gigs. Suzie and I spent some quality time together watching movies and going for walks, fighting over whether the laundry belonged strewn across the floor and furniture, and mostly becoming friends.
I would learn later that while Suzie and I were having fun, Judy was suffering through difficult physical therapy and living at a rehab center she absolutely hated. A rehab center which treated her as if she were an ornery dementia patient needing to be subdued and controlled. The very same rehab center that my mom is scheduled to be transferred to this week.
When Judy was finally released from rehab I was asked if the house/pet sitting gig could continue as super-part-time care giver role. I would just need to check in on Judy once a day for an hour or so. It seemed simple enough but I was nervous about it. I'm not good with people. I'd only ever met her once, surrounded by a bunch of people, moving my sister and friends into their respective dorms some six years earlier. I think I was polite but honestly I couldn't remember if we did more than acknowledge each other's presence in the room.
Despite my reservations I agreed to the job, and I'm glad I did. Judy had an easy routine and a fun personality. She knew when people were bullshitting her and it was fun to watch her call them out. We had similar tastes in TV and movies, so sometimes our hour would turn into a few hours. And on days where I had a lot going on, she was cool with rushing the necessities and pushing me out in fifteen minutes.
Judy was stubborn and I was a push over. She was a shut in, trapped on her couch with the exception of carefully scheduled bathroom breaks. She declined my offers to take her out on my walks with Suzie, or even to help her out to simply sit on the porch. We worked out a way of taking care of her gardening by having me take pictures of where everything was and she'd point to where it should be.
It became routine that I'd get there, bring in the mail, refill the small wine bottle by the couch (later it was a wine bottle and a jar of vodka), distribute her evening medications, put her Lean Cuisine meal in the microwave, and help her to the bathroom. While she was in the bathroom I'd straighten out the bedding on the couch and feed the dog. I'd help her back from the bathroom and serve her dinner before taking the dog for a walk. When I returned I'd lift her legs onto the couch for her, and sit down so we could go through the mail. If she was too tired, we'd save the mail for another day.
Sometimes, rarely, she'd feel up to doing her physical therapy exercises. The instructions were for her to lift her legs up and down fifteen times each, then out to the side and hold for a count, then back, there were also kicks and bike pedaling movements. The way Judy did them was to have me lift her legs up and down, to have me hold them to the side and do the pedaling for her. She insisted that was the only way they would get done, and the exercises were only to keep the blood circulating and promote flexibility.
Judy was a nurse. She was a good nurse. She could tell when I was sick from sound of my voice or the way I was walking. She knew what she was doing with her own health. She had Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue, and they threw in some Parkinson's for good measure. She was depressed, and thanks to the hip surgery (or was it knee?) she had one leg about three inches shorter than the other.
Others could debate for centuries whether she was physically capable of recovery, or at least of vaguely improving mobility and quality of life, but in Judy's mind the answer was a dead set NO. It couldn't be done. That was her life, she'd come to accept it and everyone else would too.
There were professional care givers who came during the day. They would do more important things like grocery shopping, bathing, laundry, etc. Though after a while they caught on that the wine and the vodka were not doctor approved and were not acceptable side dishes to Judy's variety show of meds. My routine then involved twice weekly trips to the store to purchase alcohol on my way to Judy's.
I was paid to do what she wants, not to babysit and lecture. I did what she asked and I didn't push on the things that were ill advised.
Judy died on Super Bowl Sunday in 2012. Her kidneys decided they no longer wanted to take the abuse and they went out in glorious protest. She knew it would happen. In fact, she called and invited her kids home to watch the show. In a way, I helped her do it. I didn't stop her, I even provided the tools.
I'd like to say "it's what she wanted" or "it's for the best" but really that's a bunch of shit because what she wanted was to be healthy and physically active. She just knew that was never going to happen and she went with plan B.
It's been four and a half years and it's happening again. It's my own mom this time and her poison of choice is diabetes. All of you who know my mom know her as strong, in control, and even mean. That's all true... in regards to everyone and everything that isn't her own health.
Last year my mom finally went and got her terrible potato feet checked out. There was a bone protruding from the bottom of one foot and she could no longer ignore it. It was quickly diagnosed as Charcot Foot (both feet) and she was given six months before she'd lose ability to walk and need to make some decisions on how to progress.
After uncle John died she did some serious soul searching and started a new diet. She managed to keep her blood sugar low (good low, not just low for her) for a couple of months. Then grandma died and it all went to shit. We were back to "200 is really low for me" and "yeah but 450 is normal." You know what happens to diabetics who don't keep their BGL around 130? They don't heal, they become infected.
She suffered a heart attack at work and was taken for another stint surgery. They determined that half her heart is dead (insert jokes here) and wanted to reevaluate in a month or so. There were various foot surgeries in between which, surprise, weren't healing. Then the second heart surgery revealed that it was further blocked than they thought and they don't want to even try reopening it.
While she was there for the second heart surgery, her unhealing foot wounds picked up a MRSA infection. She was back to the hospital four days later. The infection was in her "good" (bad) leg, the one without the bone sticking out (which at this point had already been shaved off in one of the various surgeries but whatever, there was still a huge hole). The infection grew worse and threatened her life. They removed her foot instead, half way up to the knee.
She's been in the hospital, in a Scottsdale rehab, and back in the hospital for the past six weeks. The hospital monitors her food and glucose levels way more reliably than the rehab facility was, but she doesn't like them because they are mean and inattentive. The return to the hospital was because the amputation incision became infected (at least not MRSA this time) due to not healing as a result of constantly high blood sugar.
I don't get daily calls like my dad and sister do. Calls asking for McDonald's tea (and while you're there a happy meal and don't forget the cookies) or "better food than they have here" (read: Whataburger). Maybe it's because I was sick with horrible con crud for over a month there, but maybe it's also because I've shown to be a little less of a push over over the last few years. I'm not going to get into the debacle that was helping my grandma manipulate me and enabling her to be an enabler... there's another blog about that somewhere you can go read.
My typically strong and scary mother has been a crap shoot of emotions for the past month and a half. It ranges from clear headed and demanding, to needy and emotional, to scared and anxious, and even some times a bit delirious and incoherent.
I don't handle unpredictability well and it's already really difficult for me to chance a visit. I'm supposed to be preparing the house for when she comes back, but should I be raising the couch up on bricks and straightening the bedding? Should I provide her daily "wine and vodka" (sugar and carbs)? I'm supposed to be her live in care giver, but what does that mean?
I can't lift her without her help. I can't be here 24/7. I'm not going to help her kill herself. I've been there and I'm not going back.