~Monday Blessings~

~It's finally Spring here in the midwest! New little shoots of spring flowers are poking their heads through the cold ground.

~The snow has melted.

~Birds are singing...and the robins are back.

~I had the snowtires taken off my car on Saturday!!!

~I'm working on Mother's Day orders in the studio.

~It's 'almost' warm enough for capris and sandals!

~Amish Katie comes tomorrow to help in the studio.

~The Spring air smells so good......like God is right there ready to turn all the gray, empty trees to lush shades of green.

~Life is good!

I'm off to the studio this morning...then Rosie and I are off to visit Mom for lunch.
Have a beautiful April Week wherever you are in this world~

~FingerPrint Friday~

There's a song by Stephen Curtis Chapman that goes:

I can see the fingerprints of God

When I look at you.

I can see the fingerprints of God

And I know it's true.

You're a masterpiece

That all creation quietly applauds

And you're covered with the fingerprints of God.

I see God’s Fingerprints whenever I look at my Mom. All over her. He’s with her on this horrific journey through alzheimer’s. It’s comforting to know she’s not alone.

Today, for my birthday, I’m taking her roses, with this letter:

It’s my birthday, Mom. Thank you for giving birth to me. Thank you for being such a good mother. You taught me so well. I am proud of the kind of mother I am to my boys. And it’s all because of you.

Thank you for all the sacrifices you made. For all the late nights you stayed up sewing ‘special’ outfits for me to wear to school the next day. Thank you for doing people’s alterations late into the night to pay for Girl Scout fees, skating lessons, piano lessons. Your ‘sewing lessons’ helped me create and sell my Ragamuffin dolls. They helped put two boys through college. Thank you for that, Mom. Thank you for teaching me that all things are possible with hard work and determination.

Thank you for teaching me the importance of family.

I pray that you know how much it all means to me.

I love you, Mom.

Carol

xoxoxoxox

Pop on over to Beki's blog to read more Fingerprint Fridays~

Dear Mom......

Thanksgiving has come and gone. You couldn't join us this year. You said it was "too hard". We missed you. I know this is all so hard for you. It breaks my heart. You can't walk anymore. Your legs are too weak to hold you up. But your brain doesn't remember that, so you keep trying. And keep falling.

The kids were here all weekend. I'm so glad they all came to see you. Ella's eyes light up when she sees you. You got to see Jackie's pregnant belly....and looked at Amy's sparkly engagement ring again. I know it was all overwhelming for you, but I'm happy we were all there with you. I will remember it for a long time.

You have no short-term memory now. Only very long-term. And only sometimes. I am so thankful you still know who I am. And I believe you know Ella and Jackson, too. At least I think you do.

My shows are finally done for the year. I'll have lots more time to visit now. Remember how you used to help me with them, Mom? Remember that cold Ohio Mart that we wore long-underwear and mittens it was so bitter out? Long-ago memories.

Hospice has come in to help now, Mom. I know you don't understand exactly what is happening. I'm not sure I do, either. I just know that they are angels. All of them. They give you lots of extra attention; bought you a new, padded wheelchair, and a new, lower-to-the-ground hospital bed. They brought special padding to put next to it so that when you fall, it's not as hard.

I know you can't understand any of this. It's just not fair.

Just know that you have a family who loves you dearly, Mom. And we are here for you. Always.

With Love,

Carol

Related posts: Black Abyss
My Mother's Smile

~Balancing Act, Part I~

Anyone who has their own business knows how difficult it is to balance work and home life. Add that to having your office/studio at home....and the balancing act becomes even more challenging. The 'drive' and discipline needed for the business to become successful is daunting. THEN add in an 89-year-old mother with alzheimer's and you have a balancing act that just simply doesn't 'balance' at all. In fact....it falls with loud thuds on a daily basis, although I continously struggle to keep everything in its place. It has me in tears and/or laughter most everyday. It's the only way I can keep any sort of sanity.

Mom's declining in the WORST possible way: she's rapidly losing her mind. There. I've said it. It's horrific to watch. I cannot imagine the terror of what it must be to like living in her body right now, and no matter how I try to understand what it is like there in her brain....looking out on a world that no longer makes any sense to her....I cannot imagine it.

She started a whole new phase in June: leaving. Yes...complete with her 'necessities' of life all tied up in a pillow case....neatly tied at the top with a sock. I can imagine that to her, this was her only way 'out' of the hell she is in. And so....the staff found her several yards from the assisted living facility, almost to the woods at the edge of the property having fallen on her knees. This poor, frail, pain-ridden woman who can hardly walk. Escaped. Frightening. When asked where she was going, her only reply was, "I don't know".

And so, the assisted living facility required that we provide paid, evening 'sitters'....to keep her safe. Yup....my job to make sure the hours were covered. And when there was no one to 'hire'.....it is me and/or my husband. Another 'job' to add to the already way-too-long list. Another emotionally draining task. Another step with mom as her disease worsens.

This week we will move her to a room in the alzheimer's area of the facility. A 'locked' area for people, like mom, that are 'flight risks'. Relieving....but sad and scary for mom, who I am sure will become panicked and angry at yet another part of her life she will be unable to understand. Another 'terror' for her to endure. Although we will set up her room (an exact replica, space-wise) as her present one, can you imagine the nightmare of wheeling yourself out of your room, as you've always known it, into a totally 'different' hallway? It brings me to tears whenever I think about it.

I thank God every day that we found Mom such a wonderful facility as this one. We tried caring for her here for a long time. It was a nightmare-beyond-belief. And so, for now, this is the only way to try to balance this part of my life.

Part II, Wednesday.

~Mother's Day 2009~

Dearest Mom,

When I was little, I never imagined you’d grow old. Ever. After all…you were my mom: fearless, beautiful, smart. Sparkling and smiling. Strong.

You made me feel safe. And loved. Even when you were mad at me. I’m trying so hard to make you feel that way now.

It’s frightening to step into your room, not knowing ‘who’ I’ll find. Will it be the woman whose eyes twinkle when she sees me standing there….or the one who is scared and confused and begging me to tell her where she is and how she got there? Will I find the woman who has forgotten that her own mother passed away over 30 years ago, and asks why my father hasn’t been there to see her lately or the one who inquires about how the doll-making is coming along?

You were always so patient with me. And I’m trying so hard to be patient with you….when you can’t walk very quickly, or when you call and tell me you’ve been “waiting by the door for hours” for me, when we really had no plans to go anywhere. You get mad…and tell me, “We did SO. You just forgot, young lady”. It breaks my heart.

I try so hard to put myself in your shoes. To know the fear in your heart when you can’t remember where your home is....or the belief that you are “stuck at work and everyone’s left” and you have no way home. I can’t imagine the terror. I see it in your eyes whenever I try to reassure you that you are not at work…that you’ve been retired for over 30 years and that you ARE home. Safe. And loved. I can tell you feel anything but.

And now…shingles. Oh, Mom…..I am SO sorry this is happening to you. I have to admit that I’m mad at God right now. REALLY mad. I know I shouldn’t be…..but I am. Why God…WHY?

And so….this Mother’s Day…I can’t even send this to you, because I don’t want you to read this and see how bad things really are, and that you are suffering from Alzheimer's Disease. Reading that would make the horror worse for you than it already is.

Just know that I love you with all my heart. And that I am here. Whenever you need me. Always. Just like you were for me.

Love,

Your Daughter Carol

~This, too, Shall Pass~

I always find myself closer to God during difficult times. I first realized this during my senior year of college. Kneeling in a dark, musty confessional, I confessed to a priest that I was guilty of not being as close to God as I should have been. Hey...I was a Dean's List college senior carrying 21 hours & finishing up my student teaching, a Resident Advisor on a dormitory floor of 40 freshman girls, and working part-time. Yup...I wasn't praying as much as I could have been. The priest said something that set me on my heels: "The fact that you are worried that you're not as close to God as you should be, tells me you are MUCH closer to Him than you think." I've never forgotten that. He was totally spot-on.

As I travel through these difficult days with my Mom, I find I am leaning on Him for dear life. Is there any other choice? Faith is easy in good times. It's brutally hard in bad times. But those are the times I am the closest to God. He's the last thing I think of when I fall off to sleep, and the first thought I have before I open my eyes. I wake up many times throughout the nite, and pray that He is holding my Mom...and us....in the arms. She can't do this alone. Neither can we.

Mom is still in the hospital. Her delusions continue. She imagines she is at work. Everyone's left and she has no way home. She says someone's stolen her purse, and she has no money. This scene is played over and over. There are no phones, so to make calls, patients have to convince someone at the nurse's station to call for them. They try to control the frequency of these calls, and as you can imagine, they have many more important tasks to perform in the busy geriatric unit. But she convinces them to let her 'call her daughter' whenever she can. These phone calls are heart-wrenching. They asked me if I wanted them to stop the calls. I told them, "Absolutely not". Can you imagine how you would feel 'locked' in with no way to reach your loved ones?? And so, whenever the phone rings, I find myself praying that it's not Mom. Sad. Very sad.

The unit is locked. No one in or out without a code. No phones, tvs, no cords, strings, foods outside the dining room. You have to 'check' eveything in when you enter. They ignore the patients' questions. Many of them babble incessantly. It's like a white-walled prison. A giant padded 'cell'. Depressing for sure. We've all agreed that any of us would go crazy if we had to stay there as a patient.

But Mom's already in her own kind of 'prison'. There's a monster raging inside her that the doctors have yet been able to calm down. They've tried 3 medications so far. They haven't worked. She is still in this fantasy-hell. She begs to be taken 'home' every time we visit. Visiting hours are limited: 6-8:30 each evening. By 7:00, Mom is exhausted. Exhausted from the delusions. From the begging. From the monster. It's pointless to try to visit with her after that hour.

We did get a smile from her on Sunday: We brought her a Frostie!

And so....we continue on, fervantly praying that today is the day they will figure out how to help her calm the monster. It's been 7 days. Will they succeed? And what happens to this dear woman if they don't? Will she ever be able to go back to the assisted living facility she knows as 'home'? What if she can't?

At certain moments of the day or night....these questions become monumental, depressing unknowns. Eating is near impossible. And when I do....it comes right back up, so what's the sense? Praying is the only calm. The rock. God is here. I know He will make things okay. I just wish He'd hurry.

**Thank you all for your prayers, your comments, emails......for your support. We are so so grateful for them***

~Dancing On Ice~

Mom had been doing so well....until last week. Wednesday nite I received a phone call from her. She was all out of breath. She was looking for her mother. Frantically. To say good-nite to her. My grandmother died 32 years ago. I had to tell her that. Her reply: "Stop it, Carol! WHERE is she? Is she with you?".

And the dance begins again. That dreaded two-step. The one where you're no longer on the familiar dance floor. You're on ice. Cracked ice. In bare feet. Cold. Uncomfortable. Uncharted territory that is becoming way too familiar.

I was able to settle her down that nite. For about 5 minutes, after which time she said to me in her best, 'motherly' voice, "Carol....I have to get off the phone now and go find Mom. I need to say good-nite to her". sigh. I had failed.

Friday nite I got a call from the head nurse. Mom was frantic. Even after been given a Xanax. "Carol....I'm still at work. Everyone's gone. I missed the bus. I have no money. What am I going to do?".

Nothing calmed her. She wanted to go "home". I packed a very ill husband into the pre-heated car, and headed to her assisted living facility. She was finally calm....but insisted on my taking her "home". After a long while of trying to get her to remember we had sold her house 3 years ago ("I KNOW that Carol"), I couldn't get her to tell me where she meant when she said, "home". She didn't want to come to my house....she wanted to go 'home'.

Can you imagine the terror you would feel, when no one around you understood what you wanted? The heartbreak of feeling that even your own daughter didn't understand....didn't meet your needs?

This continued through the weekend. There were many moments when I questioned whether she meant 'home' to heaven. I don't think so. But then again, maybe that's what she wants. To go 'home' and away from this hell.

For right now, we are all there with her. Trying to help her navigate the ice. Depressing? Yes. Heartbreaking? Yeah. But it's her life right now. And mine. I thank God each day when I walk into my studio, turn on the lights, and create. Escape. Live. It drives me into a world that is safe. And free of pain. At least for a little while. Until the phone rings again.