This is my first post on my blog.  I did not realize it at the time that I did not need a different page for the post.  Therefore I am cleaning up the site and taking off the page Blog page.  Just makes it easy to keep track of the posts too.  Therefore I am keeping the post title “Blog” just because.

 

Looking back, my life had changed quite a few years before.  I was not accepted as the Good Daughter then…I had moved too far away.  I was a convenience.

Living in the assisted living building was “too hard,”  “too many old people,”  “too many silly rules.” for my mother.  After so many phone calls (from my sister and my mom) I had not realized my caregiving had started…long distance.  With the realization that her current living situation was not working, someone suggested (still not sure who that was) that my mother would live with me during the winter and my sister during the summer months.

My mother, sister and I enter an agreement.  It lasted just a few years and it was an interesting arrangement.  Six months really was not that long.  But as the months grew those last few months of each year seemed longer.

Having my mother as a “room mate” was not what I expected.  For those six months I tried to continue seeing my friends, but I was also my mothers social “mate.”  Taking her shopping, eating out, going to movies, etc.  I was balancing two worlds.  My close friends were great and they understood.  But it was hard.  One time I came home to her and my boyfriend – they were in the mist of rearranging my living room to their satisfaction…not mine.  She was now “arranging” my life.

We had our times, but she was entering my domain…my home…my world.  And on top of that, my mother and I saw a different world.  Mine was logical.  Hers was not.  We were opposites which made it even harder.  The Good Daughter was back east…I could never be that person.  Our chatter was what was wrong, not just chatter like she had with my sister.

I never thought of what it was like for her.  I just kept looking towards the end of the six months and then freedom!  But from her world…she was lost.  I was the only one she knew at first.  She had no car, no independence.  Her world was gone.  Everything that was hers was packed in a few suitcases.  If she had any items from her “home” they were items she passed to my sister or me.  Her possessions in someone else’s home.  She was in a strange place with a daughter of convenience.  She had no idea how to talk to me…so she went to what she knew….being a mother.  And in our relationship…that was to tell me what to do and when.  She too counted the days.

There is always two sides to the story.  We tend to become “doers.”  As we immerse ourselves in these duties we lose site or ourselves and the one(s) that we are trying to help.  It may have been a bit easier if I had just stepped back and looked at it from my mothers point of view.  Of course, if you had told me that then, I may have punched you.  But now, I do see it.  My mother was at that time in her life of loss.  She was homeless in her world.  She was just passing through ours.  Although I had bought her a bed, it was a twin.  She was use to a double.  I decorated her room.  It was my decorations and colors…not hers.  Her world was becoming smaller and smaller.  I did not see it.  I was just a convenience.

 

Today is Santa Lucia Day in the Scandinavian Household. That is the traditional Scandinavian Household. The girl with the lighted candles on her head brings back tons of pageants, Christmas cookies and breads. The Church would be glowing in candle light. The snow gently falling. The Christmas music playing the Lucia song as the audience hush or speaking in quite whispers anticipation for the excitement of the event, waiting for Lucia to walk down the aisle. A collective “ahh” as Lucia appeared slowly walking down to the sound of the music. Somehow, beyond my understanding it was a rite of passage for a girl to wear that crown of candles, walk down an aisle and stand for at least an hour and then back up the aisle without fainting, falling, or dropping a candle. Talk about child endangerment. It was all part of the celebration.

We are gearing up for the festivities by going to Ingebritsen’s (Swedish meat store in Minneapolis) for the mixings of this holiday meal preparation. Funny, we even talk about how we can get most of the items at our local grocery store. But somehow, it would not be the same if we didn’t jam into a crowed meat market, with the smell of the meat and the push of egger customers. Can you believe they sell a 1000 lbs of meatball mixture a day during this time! There we were, fighting over the last loaf of Swedish Limpa (a dark rye bread with fruit), ordering our meat, sausage, cheese. Standing in the same location that our mother and father stood tons of years ago.

We crave those traditions as we grow older. It was not a sense of losing our mother that would push us to have her make the meatballs or put on a Lucia Fest….it was remembering. Of course, my mother loved to do this. She felt important to us, she was needed. Only she could do that. And we knew that and we celebrated that with her. Meatballs, rice pudding, valling (a rice porridge), Swedish coffee bread. But as we grew older, making our own memories with our own families, my mother was losing hers. Not to memory failure , but because her family had grown up and moved away.

When my mother came out to stay with me for the winters our first holidays were interesting. Because I was single there were no other people to please or work in their traditions. My mother assumed that we would do what our family had done all her life…except there was only the two of us. First of all was buying a tree. First compromise…artificial tree. We were in a warm climate and it would be a waste of money to buy a fresh tree. An easy compromise for both of us. My mother convince me to let her pay for half of the tree. For years she would loved to tell people that she owned the top half of the tree. And for Christmas that year, she bought me a set of Christmas Dishes.   And so our traditions started.

Our celebrations were limited. No Lucia Fest in the area. No snow. No cold. But we did find a great drive for lighted houses and we did enjoy making the food together. We had our Christmas meal and Santa even had presents from family across the miles to open. My mother loved pretty wrapped presents. Although she was not a great wrapper, she loved getting them. At the time my boyfriend and I joked that you could have the cheapest item in an great looking box…but the box had to be special…and better from and expensive store. I told my mom that story, and so under the tree that first Christmas, she had him pick up something for me so she could get a Nordstrom’s box ( my favorite store). It was gorgeous. I cannot remember what was in that box, but I still have the box.

Our family always celebrated opening of presents on Christmas Eve (after dishes were done) when Santa would come. Christmas Morning was church not Santa. My mother was early to bed and early to rise. I was a late to bed and late to rise person. We were opposites. For the holidays this worked great. After she went to bed, I would pull out the Nordstrom’s box and swap the item for me for one for her. She would be greeted on Christmas morning with a gift from “Santa” in the wonderful box. No ceremony, just something under the tree. We would spend the morning eating  her Swedish bread with coffee for her and coco for me.  And so another tradition began.

We were bringing together our old traditions and adding new ones. Somehow it worked without knowing what we were doing. There were some intentions to make this easy for both of us. Things were changing. Our lives were changing. It was falling into place without us really realizing it.

The year I moved back to take care of my mom was the year I realized what had happen. This year it would be fun to be with family. As we were preparing,  little bumps in the road would surface. First, as exciting as it was to be with family on Christmas Eve, it was different. No meatballs, rice pudding etc.   I understood, but my mother did not. They did things a bit different.   Although we were able to go to the Lucia Fest, it was not held on the traditional December 13, not at night but in the afternoon. I understood, my mother did not. She was able to have Lutefisk and that made her happy. But something was not right.

On the drive home from Christmas Eve, my mother was very quiet. Finally, looking out the frosty car window she said “it wasn’t like ours.”   I asked her what she meant by “ours.” She said quietly, that she missed our Christmas that we had the last few years.   In my heart I was dancing. I did something right. I had made my mom feel like home. I was the good daughter. I could not say that to her. Instead I told her I understood and although we were here now we could create new traditions. She gave me a sigh and we got home.

On Christmas morning, I came down to find her sipping her coffee with Swedish coffee bread in hand. Her mood had changed and she was content, but the earth had shifted once more for her. New accommodations had to be made and that meant she would lose more of her traditions. Although she was “home” to the world she knew, it had changed. It reminded her that it was because she was losing the battle with age. She still had a lot of fight in her, but it was a compensation to her world. It was not “our” Christmas that she was missing…it was our family…the one when we were the kids and she was the mom. When the future was ahead, all bright and shinning like presents before they were unwrapped. Full of unknown possibilities. Instead she was still hurting from her fall. She had her friends that she had to explain why her daughter was living with her (she could not say she was living with me), and that she was finish with her exciting vacations in the warm climate (another explanation for living with me). She was losing her independence but more importantly her self worth.

We went back for the Christmas dinner with family. Sitting and being social with everyone, but she still was not herself until she spotted it. Under the tree was a pretty box…from Nordstrom’s. She looked at me and a big smile came over her. It didn’t matter what was in the box…it was our tradition and she was in her glory telling the rest of the family about it. As she rambled on to all who was listening I walked out to the kitchen to swipe a wonderful chocolate mint cookie…”and I bought the top of the tree!” She was on to another “tradition.” On our way home that night we took a detour to see the lights.

At the time, I would love to say I was very wised and knew this was happening. I did not. I was too much in the moment and had no experience to fall back on. I learned to be a caregiver the hard way…I answered a phone call. I see now that the early years of being a caregiver was full of transitions. For me and for my mother.  She was becoming more demanding – because her world that she knew was slipping away. The more demanding she became I could see that mine was slipping away.

Holidays will bring out the worst because it means the most to us. I had learned that those first years, but I could not explain that to the rest of the family. I had passed that bump and now I was dealing with a new set of bumps. I was now the mediator for the family as well as for my mother.   Trying to blend all the bumps so they were passable. For one brief moment, I was the good daughter…or so I thought. Instead, it was a passage for my mother.

My mother has been gone for some time. The Nordstrom box is packed away some place with old photos. The tree, after years of storage in my garage I finally threw it out. Although being a caregiver was not easy and I hit tons of bumps in the roads I traveled.  I have grown and become wiser.   I have created my own traditions now and they are entwined with my parents and family. On December 13, I always remember Lucia. I take out the crown and light the candles…then blow them out.  After all, I don’t want to start a fire.  Now, if only I had made the Swedish coffee bread yesterday….I guess I will just have to settle with some coco.

 

 

 

 

“Hello, this is your mother.  I just wanted to ask you what time is dinner?   Your aunt has called three times already. I am tired of trying to explain why my children do not give times. Will you call your brother and have him call her and then have him call me and then you call her and then call me so I know that you made the call. I am going to call her now to tell her to expect a call from your brother and then you. Did you call your sister yet. Did you call your brother? Now do so now. I will call them and tell them you will be calling…. Are you still there. You are really quite.”

“Mom, it is 7:30 am. NO ONE is going to call anyone at this time in the morning.”

“Oh, I am sorry. I thought it was 7:30 pm. Never mind. But do call.”

“Mom, I know you know it is 7:30 AM. I know you want a time…and you were given a time. 3:00 pm.”

“Well, that is just a strange time for a dinner. What are we to do till then.”

“I will be sleeping. Good Bye.”

A few moments later: “Hello, your aunt wants to know if she should eat something before. Will you call your brother………………………………….

The holidays are always a marker on the caregivers map. Changes are a little more noticeable. The pulling together of the meal is harder. The drive is too long, or they don’t remember the route. Other family members point out things we have not noticed. Hearing aides are silenced because of the noise. Or we over compensate and as one aging parent said…”it was like going to my funeral…talking and acting about me as if I was dead.” You become overwhelmed with the changes, demands, behaviors, compensations, and your own traditions. We start to measure these times through the holidays. As caregivers we can look at these milestones to see how far we came or lost.

For me, Thanksgiving was one of the first holidays that as a college student I gave up going home…my college was too far away.   It is when you realize you miss your family, even the mean brothers or annoying aunt. It not only is the emptiness of the people, traditions but the food that you love. It evokes so much of your senses that you feel a great feeling of loss. But the price of a plane ticket is too close to the next holiday, you have to make that choice. After all, there are other alternatives.

My first year, I fell for the “come and join us at the cafeteria for a wonderful home cook meal.” I think the food was good, but everything else just spelled out the fact that everyone wish they were home instead. The next year was at friends where I realize people do have different traditions, like spaghetti instead of turkey. After that it was at a restaurant where you were so crowded in that everyone heard your conversation and the food was not very good. Needless to say the alternatives were painful.

One year, a friend called up and asked if I wanted to “do thanksgiving “ with her at her new townhome. She was the first of our group that had her own place after graduation. So I drove down and we planned the meal. It was just the two of us since all our other friends were gone. I was going to do the cooking because she had to work, but she would bring the pies home. We pulled together a menu combining our favorite memories of past meals. It was quite the menu. Off to the grocery store to buy everything. Got all the items and then on to buying the turkey. Standing in front of the open meant counter we stared at all the turkeys. What size should we get? Finally we both agree we would get the size that our mothers always selected. We were happy, and quite confident in our “grown up” thanksgiving shopping experience. We had arrived! Our 22 pound turkey and all the fixings!

The next day I started working on the meal. I put on the radio and became Julia Child with all the embodiment and mess! As I progress I made a few blunders along the way. Defrosted the turkey by leaving it in the sink all night. The new cooking bag craze…did have instructions that I failed to read until after I had the turkey in…so I had to pull it all out of the bag not once but twice. I did make sure to pull the giblets out (very proud I never fell for that one). But I soon realize I was over my head. A quick long distance call to my mom for instruction and reassurance. Not once, but three times. And in those days that was paying long distance…no cell phones. My mother was kind and gentle and nice about it. After all I was interrupting her Thanksgiving, and her own cooking going on at the same time. Finally I had it all together and I kid you not, as soon as I closed the door to the oven the radio announcer said “and now Mrs. Blanky blank will tell us the most common errors in roasting a turkey.” I sat with flour all over me, displace hair, apron a mess with stains of broth and who knows what…fearful that I was going to kill us.   I could see the headlines now: “Two post college girls found dead from turkey poison in a beautiful townhouse.” So, another call to my mother for reassurance.

My friend came home with four pies. Did not remember what I liked so she got one of each.. The smell of the turkey and fixings was overwhelming and we put on a fire in the fireplace (even though it was 80 degrees outside), music and then the feast began. The table was overflowing with food. I still can remember closing mine eyes and taking that first bite. The aroma of the turkey, dressing, mash potatoes, gravy, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green bean casserole, corn pudding, cranberries just to name a few. The flavors danced across my taste buds and causing goose bumps across my arms. I was in heaven.

What seemed like five minutes later, we had ate all we could. We were finish. My friend started to clean off the table and we both worked on cleaning the kitchen and putting away the left overs. For two people, we really had a lot of turkey left over and could not understand why. But I had a very strange sensation coming over me as we spent the next hour cleaning.   I could not put words to it until the last item was sealed and refrigerated. A whole day of work, slaving over the stove for what….5 minutes of enjoyment and then it was over! I realized I was angry. I felt cheated.   Was it worth it???

Discussed with the whole event it came to me. This is what my mother has done year after year after year. I always thanked her for the meal …but I soon complained that why did I have to go clean the table and wash dishes. I always made comments that it was not fair for the guys to sit in the living room and the women had to work in the kitchen. But never, never did I ever really…I mean really thanked my mother for all the hard work. I did what I had to do….call her. I cried as I thanked her for all that work. But I am not sure that is what I said. I believed what I really said was “I miss you.”

There would be future Thanksgivings with my mom. Some shared together with family and some with just us. But that Thanksgiving was a deal changer for me. For one thing, I was growing up and becoming independent. And the realization of just some of the things my mom did for our family. As I look back I realize that my mother and I were at a midpoint in our lives where similar experience was crossing. We were beginning to assume each other’s roles. As I was gaining my independence, she was losing hers. As I was making memories, she was losing them. I was taking control of my life and she was losing hers.

Our lives are crossing. I wish I could have asked my mom more of her feelings about this. Her fears. Her losses. In years to come we would bridge some of that…but we never really talked about it. It just happen as her abilities or needs changed. It would be years to come before all those phone calls would start….if I knew then what I knew now….

“Hello.  This is your mother.  Just one more thing. What time will you pick me up?”

“Mom, I am sleeping. You wrote it on your calendar. You will be picked up at 2:30”

“So, we are just going to come in and sit and eat? What kind of holiday is that?? Pick me up early…like 12.”

“Mom. It is 7:30 am….call me at 12 and we will talk about why you will be picked up at 2:30 then.”

“Your brother on the east coast is eating at noon.”

“Mom, It is two hours difference. He is eating at 2:00 pm”

“You are sleeping till noon?? I just can’t believe…”

“Mother, I do not sleep until noon. I am sleeping now. Hang up and don’t call back! I will call you.”

“Well, is that how you treat your mother. “

“MOM! Why are we arguing…it is 7:30 am. Please.”

“Ok. I will call you back in a half hour. But remember to call your brother on the east coast…after all it is two hours early then us. That would be 9:30. Then call me back so I know that you called him. I will call him now to tell him that you are going to call him. Call your other brother to remind him to call him too. For some reason he gets mad when I remind him to do this. And call your sister too. I will call her….”

Looking back, my life had changed quite a few years before.  I was not accepted as the Good Daughter then…I had moved too far away.  I was a convenience.

I hated the phone for years. I hated it more in the middle of the night. It haunted me…that ringing. It always had bad news associated with it.

My mother was a great caller. All times of the day. Mostly to remind me what I did or should do. “Did you remember to water your tomato plants? Don’t forget your brother’s birthday. It is going to storm so remember to close your windows”. Sometimes it would be two or three calls in a matter of hours. She would forget that she had called. You always knew when a storm was coming…she would call to tell you. If it was a holiday or family dinner and she was to be picked up…the calls would start coming days ahead – “what time will you pick me up, where again, who will be there, what should I bring”. When my aunt was alive they had phone calls between themselves and then felt they each needed to call my brother and then myself and….talk about a party line!

After my mother had died, I still cringed whenever the phone rang. After a while I would check the phone to see if there was a call because I didn’t hear it ring. Amazing. Years later, I got a phone call in the middle of the night…I right away thought it was from my mother as I jumped up to answer. Of course it was not. A miss dial.

At my mother’s funeral, a friend spoke telling wonderful things about my mom. Then ended with how much they would miss her phone calls. The audience laughed and nodded in agreement. So, we were not alone in her phone calling. She must have been on her phone all day!!!

There was a time when the phone rang and it was a positive feeling.

• A good friend calling to chat.
• Your husband calling to say he was taking you out for dinner.
• A business college informing you that you won the contract.
• The publishing warehouse calling to say you won millions

 

Then life changed. Soon the calls meant something was wrong. You were needed – NOW. They came at all times of the day and evening.   They would break into your life. But you answered.

Why? Was it a sense of duty? Was it because of a commitment? Was it because of love? Was it because that is what daughters do? Was it…….

There are different feelings associated with the “why.” And a different sense of guilt, pain, anger. As a caregiver the toil of caring is a constant drain of our resources.   Caregiving is a major stress. It hits us physically, mentally, spiritually. It goes to the core of who we are. We enter that world innocent. So it is important to step back and ask why we answered the phone.

Why we chose to do something is just as important as what we do. A deeper look as to why we answer the call helps us to see who we are as a person. Take some time to think about it. List the reasons why you chose to answer the phone. Then make a list next to you answer how that makes you feel. The reason I am getting to this is because our feelings do surface. We need to understand that and it will help us to control ourselves and the circumstances we are in. We cannot stop aging. We cannot stop the aliments all the time. But we can control ourselves.

The phone for my mother became her lifeline to the outside world. Her reason for calling was to hear another voice and not be so lonely. It even gave her a sense of purpose. To bug me…to be my mom            (ok, she did not realize she was bugging me, but she did know she was being a mother, still telling me what to do). But it also was her safety link. As annoying as those calls were, I would chose them over the other calls. The ones from neighbor who called to inform you the ambulance had come to take her to the hospital. Or the Doctor office calling to say it is time to move her to a nursing home. Or even that call from my sister asking me to come home.