It's Not Over Yet

Mom and her brothers: Al, Ray, Mom, and Art

I was just at the point where I thought, “I don’t know if I really have anything left to post to the blog.” Maybe at anniversaries, but I had nothing more to say. I’m not one of those bloggers who writes daily or weekly or even monthly “columns” of useful or interesting information. I pretty much write what I hope will be helpful to me. It’s not exactly, or maybe not only that I’m being self-serving. It’s really just all I think I have to offer.

Then two weeks ago today, I got a phone call from my Aunt Marian. Marian is the wife of my mom’s younger brother, Art. As soon as I saw the name on the caller i.d., I knew why she was calling. Uncle Art had died at 4 that morning. He’d been in the hospital or a nursing home since December. She didn’t know what they would consider the cause of death; he had Parkinson’s, and a number of other health issues. His latest problems were all respiratory.

I expressed my condolences, thanked Marian for calling, and asked her to call me back once the arrangements were made. I wasn’t seriously considering attending the funeral, but I did want to know the details.

The thing is, I did not expect that the news of Art’s death would affect me the way it did. Even though on some level I was expecting it, I was stunned. The news affected me rather strongly. It sent me deep inside, which I guess is really me withdrawing into myself while I try to process something. I’m still not sure why I had such a strong reaction. Art was the youngest of the four Leininger children, 2 years younger than Mom. Al and Ray (first and second respectively in birth order) had died years ago. I believe Ray’s wife Geneva has also died, but Al’s wife Analie is still alive, and of course, Art’s wife Marian. And yet, Art was the last of the Leininger children in that generation. In some ways, I guess, it is the ending of an era.

Mom did not stay particularly close to her brothers during the time we kids were growing up. Art and Marian, along with their kids John and Kris, were by far the ones we saw most often. Even with them, I think my dad was more of the driving force to spend time with them. We liked Uncle Art and his family. Uncles Al and Ray, the rarely seen, were much crabbier, I thought, and scarier.

The evening after I received Marian’s call, I sent an email to my siblings, letting them know. I told them Marian would be getting back to me with additional information. Two or three days went by, and I heard nothing back from Marian or my siblings. I couldn’t believe they were just going to not respond. Then Marian called again. During all the arrangements, she had forgotten if she was supposed to call me back or not. She asked if she could email the information to me, which I was fine with. Then we actually had a nice chat. My last few (and infrequent) encounters with Art and Marian over the phone while Mom was staying with us were on the strange side. In fact, I think I’ve always thought Marian a little odd, and Art seemed to be growing more so. But first when I talked to Marian last year to tell them Mom died, and now again with Art’s death, she seemed surprisingly fine—not odd, even likable. It was refreshing to have this talk with her.

The next day, the email with Art’s funeral information arrived, and I forwarded it to my siblings. Lo and behold, they each wrote back. Paranoid? Me? Well, perhaps just a touch over-sensitive.

The day after Marian first called me with the news about Art, I was already over the initial shock. I still don’t fully know what that was about. But as soon as you think, I have nothing more to write, look what happens. Not always a death, I’m assuming, because I do actually have another entry I want to write when I get the time, which is Mom-related but not death-related. So here’s to Uncle Art, and I hope to write again soon.

Next

Now that I am no longer caring for Mom, the obvious question is, what does this blog become? The title states its original reason for being. I wanted a place to write about and share what I was going through while trying to care for my mother as she was slowly dying of Alzheimer's. Now that she is gone, the answer seems clear--for now, at least. Now this is about grief. This is so much about grief that I thought it was too much, and I didn't post what I wanted to post in September. Let me take care of that now.

Two years ago, around Thanksgiving, one of our three cats suddenly became very, very sick. We first realized it on a Wednesday afternoon. We called the vet's office, described her symptoms, and they said we needed to bring her in right away. But here's the thing. It was our day with our granddaughters; Avri and Kiana were over. They were 2 and 4 at the time. And Mom had just gotten home from day care. There was no way one of us could handle all 3 of them. So we waited until Thursday, and Jeanne took her in while I was at school. They kept her over night, on IV fluids. We almost lost her. But she was a strong cat, our Juno, and she recovered. We had to give her subcutaneous fluids (think of kitty dialysis with an IV bag); I think we started with either every day or every other day. Eventually, we got her down to once a week, but she had kidney failure, so this was a rest-of-her-life thing. And pills, which I think she hated more than getting stuck with a needle and pumped full of fluids until she looked like a camel. But Juno was strong; the vet said she had never seen a cat recover as well as Juno did.

Then this September, she developed pancreatitis. She was throwing up, couldn't eat or drink, and eventually started an almost constant oozing of blood and runny stool. It was a mess. We became regulars at the vet's office, even stopping at her house a few times to pick up meds. But nothing worked, and on September 16, we took her in one last time. The vet took one look at her, and said, "She's ready. She's in pain, and she wants to go." We'd said most of our goodbyes at home, including having the other cats and the dog having one last moment with her. But said our final goodbyes, and the vet administered the shot. Our baby was gone.

I didn't feel I could write about Juno's death when it happened, not because I didn't want to, but because I felt that it was too much. Too much what, I'm not sure. Too much death, not enough balance. I am not a morose person, but sometimes I think this blog is. So why am I writing this now? I'm struggling (more on that in a later post), and I think I've found a new direction for the blog (sort of), and first things first. Juno is gone, euthanized 3 weeks before her 1th birthday. Her sister Selu is meowing at me as I write this, telling me to go to bed so she can go to bed with me. Sounds like a good idea, but first, my little Juno tribute.

The 3 girls in their youth

Juno

Juno and Selu, sisters, in one last photo

Trying to think positively

Mom smiling, 5/29/08 1:30 a.m.

It happened rarely enough even a year ago to make it a picture-worthy occasion.

I feel like this blog, though I seldom write to it, is too often negative. Perhaps I've been inspired by Julie & Julia, but I can't help but wonder why anyone would want to read this. And maybe that's not why I'm writing this--it's not my 'stated' reason--but still . . . . If it didn't matter if no one reads this, I would just be writing in my journal. By the way, I don't write in my journal at all anymore, and haven't for years, so I guess I'm not doing too badly by this blog.

Anyway, I've decided to try to write about the positives of caring for Mom. Unfortunately, at her stage of the disease, those are few and far between. This morning, for example, Mom smiled when we woke her up. She smiles now about once every 3 or 4 months. The neurologist says she has lost the ability to smile. But this morning, she looked just a little like she was smiling, and when I spoke to her with my own big smile, the left corner of her mouth turned up just a little more. Enough to qualify as a real smile. But not enough to see in a picture.

After Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, back in '96 as far as we can tell, she did well for quite a while. Once it became more and more apparent that she couldn't live alone much longer, Jeanne and I asked her to come live with us, not because of obligation, but because we loved her, and enjoyed her company, and we wanted to do this for her. When the time came that she did indeed need to move in with us, it was still sometimes hard to tell how advanced the disease was. We still talked, and laughed; she even voted in the 2004 election via absentee ballot. We asked her if she wanted to, and she said yes, as long as we didn't tell her who to vote for. We watched the Kerry-Bush debates, discussed them, and let her come to her own conclusions. She had definite opinions. Then I helped her fill out the ballot and mailed it in. She didn't like to order her own meals at a restaurant anymore, but she always took voting pretty seriously. That was a decision she still wanted to make.

Her disease has advanced slowly, which allowed for some quality time in those first couple of years living with us. But she no longer has that quality of life. She rarely responds even to our granddaughters or the dog, and they used to be the light of her life. Mom is enduring more than she's really living.

Jeanne and I did, as alluded to earlier, see Julie & Julia earlier this week. It's a wonderful film, and Meryl Streep is an absolute delight as Child. Afterward, I couldn't help but think, "Mom would have liked this movie. Unless, of course, it would have made her feel inadequate about her cooking." Mom was a great cook, but did not try anything remotely Julia Child-ish. Confidence--about anything--was not her strong suit. Her most elaborate dish was Beef Wellington, which my dad insisted she learn how to make after having it at a hospital fundraiser. She made it every year for Christmas until too many of us became vegetarian to make it worthwhile. She may have watched Julia on occasion; she liked her, though her favorite cooking show was "The Galloping Gourmet." Still, I believe she watched these shows for entertainment. She was interested in their cooking at the spectator level, not the aspiring gourmet chef level. At least Mom still likes to eat. And believe me, the quality of the food matters. She's not picky, but if she doesn't like it, she won't eat it. There are some aspects of quality of life that still matter to her.