September 30, 2010
Today I was told that married friends of ours have separated.
This makes me very sad, for both of them. Of all the married/together friends we have, this couple was not even on my mental list of people who would possibly separate.
I have learned through a lot of experience that marriage is hard.
My mother, who has been married to my father for almost 50 years, has always told me that marriage is the hardest job you'll even do.
And she is so right.
Stephen and I have certainly have our ups and downs.
Sometimes we're able to work through them with relative ease.
Other times we need time apart (usually I go to work) and at some point during the day we manage to sort things out.
And if that doesn't work, we always have counselling.
So far, knock on wood, we haven't encountered anything that we haven't been able to work through in one way or another.
Two people together is work, throw in some children, a few pets, aging parents, adult siblings, careers, and you have all the makings for a life long psychotic episode.
Trying to balance everything is more of a challenge than I ever imagined, especially when you're stuck between your teenage/quasi-adult children and your aging parents.
The impact of being planted squarely in the middle hit me when I had to make an executive decision: Emily had a dentist appointment on the same day, at the same time, as my mother was scheduled for a barium enema.
As a one car family, we have encountered these dilemmas before, and I did the only logical thing I could do: reschedule Em's appointment.
She was heartbroken, naturally, at the thought of postponing her rendezvous with our dentist, missing the opportunity to have her mouth held wide open with the mechanically manipulated dental dam, dohickies holding it to her mouth, trying not to gag on the putrid taste that always eminates from this device of torture.
And how come dentists try to carry on a conversation with you, when they have your mouth held hostage and even when you try to participate, you sound like the faceless teacher from the Peanuts?
Just asking.
Now, instead of trying to rationalize with only my children about doing things they don't want to do, I have to attempt to rationalize with my mother as well.
She is stubborn, and when she sets her mind to something, she is almost immovable.
For example, I called her one evening and she was complaining that she couldn't hear.
The hearing aid repair person came in, gave her hearing aid a thorough once over, and said that her inability to hear had nothing to do with the hearing aid.
There must be another reasons.
And there was.
My mother.
Her ears were SO packed with wax that a sandblaster was actually considered to be an option.
However, since the nursing home was not comfortable with sticking a sandblaster, even a mini one, into my mother's ear, alternative measures had to be used.
Oil.
I don't know what kind, could be vegetable, olive, canola, but whatever it was, it was poured into her ear every night for a week.
After the oil went in, the nurse then stuffed her ears with cotton to make sure the oil didn't driop out.
And if my mother couldn't hear pre-oil and cotton, she was a lost cause afterwards.
My dad would call to say goodnight, and I'd have to be on the phone with him, yelling what he was saying to Mum.
The entire nursing home became privy to the intimacies of my parent's good night ritual.
Dad: tell your mother I said goodnight.
Me: DAD SAYS GOODNIGHT.
Mum: WHAT??????
Me: DAD SAYS GOODNIGHT!
Mum: SPEAK UP. . .I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!!!
Me: DAD. SAYS. GOODNIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And onward we would go until all the nightime rituals were complete.
She couldn't hear anything except the crackling in her ear where the oil was trying to break through the practically impenitrable barrier of wax.
After several days of this, I am visiting my mother, and the nurse comes in with her hands full: oil, cotton and Mum's medication.
Mum dutifully takes her medication.
And resolutely refuses to allow the nurse to put the oil in her ears.
Mum: I don't like it!
Nurse: I know, but the doctor is coming in tomorrow to syringe your ears, and the softer the wax is, the easier it will be to remove.
My mother was a nurse for 30 years.
She damn well knows why the oil must go into her ear.
She just doesn't WANT the oil in her ear.
She can't hear anything, she says, but the crackling, and it keeps her up at night.
Given the night time medication she takes, there is NO WAY a little oil working through the wax barrier in her ear is going to keep her up.
I once accidentally dropped her phone.
Scared the shit out of me.
Mum remained asleep, didn't even bat an eyelash or flinch.
So I wasn't buying her rationale.
In her wheelchair, arms crossed, lips pursed, teeth out, she shakes her head back and forth, indicating in no uncertain terms that it would take an army of nurses to get that oil in her ear.
Sitting on her bed, I am pleading internally for her to listen to the nurse. Hoping that for once the telepathic bond between mother and child would kick into high gear and she would just agree to oil in the ear.
No. Such. Luck.
After much pleading and cajoling, I finally stood up, went over to my mother, bent down to look her in the eye, and said:
Me: Mum, you either let the nurse put the oil in, or I will.
She glared at me for a few seconds. Lips still pursed. Arms still crossed, but I could sense she was wavering.
I have no medical training whatsoever.
If I did it, the oil may actually end up in her nasal passages as opposed to her ear.
Me: I mean it. And, if you don't do it, the entire week of oil and cotton will be a waste and you'll have to start all over again.
Eureka!
She uncrosses her arms, keeps her lips tightly pursed and tilts her head to the left to ensure maximum oil capacity.
Cotton packed in, she looked at me and said,
Mum: There. I hope you're happy. Now I can't hear a damn thing!
Part of parenting is the referree role.
You know, when you have to physically or metaphorically get between your children to negotiate a peace treaty so no one ends up bandaged or on the way to the hospital.
The same goes for my mother.
I have alluded to the wheelchair kicking incident between my mother and another resident.
I'll call her Maude.
In relating the incident to my brother, he commented that I really need to put the entire story in my blog.
After he wiped the streaming tears from his face. . .the ones caused by intense, almost breathless laughter.
One Saturday evening, I was clearing the dishes from our usual beans-and-homemade bread nursing home supper.
We were eating during what's called the "second sitting."
The residents eat first, and then those residents who are having company join them for dinner eat when places become available.
And usually, during our meal, one of the sliding glass doors to the dining room is closed and locked.
While Stephen and I are clearing the dishes, my mother readies herself to return to her room, where we usually watch the news.
Or if she really wants to punish me, a John Wayne film on Turner Classic Network.
This particular evening, while we were clearing up, Maude wheels in through the only remaining entrance out of the dining area.
Blocking my mother from being able to leave.
My mother is not always patient with the other residents. She discerned early on who she considered a friend. . .
. . .and who she considered not to be a friend.
Mum and Maude have a history. While awaiting beds in nursing homes, Mum and Maude were in the same unit at DECH.
I call it the holding pen.
Its the place where people awaiting nursing homes, and who have been as physically rehabilitated as much as possible, go and wait for a space.
This was, without a doubt, the most depressing place my mother was during the two years she was hospitalized.
But that is a story for another time.
Suffice to say that the line between Mum and Maude had been a long time ago, and it was as solid as cement.
Instead of waiting for me and Stephen to finish with the clearing up, my mother decided to take matters into her own hands.
Mum: Move Maude. You're blocking the entrance.
Maude's hearing is about as good as my mother's.
Mum: Maude. Move. YOU'RE BLOCKING THE ENTRANCE!
Maude doesn't budge.
And there are no three strikes you're out with Mum. Two warnings are as good as it gets.
Mum proceeds to put her foot on Maude's wheel and starts pushing her out.
Maude, in retaliation, yells at Mum to stop pushing her.
Which only makes my mother push harder.
Before I know it, I turn and witness a WWF:WCSD (World Wrestling Federation: Wheelchair Smackdown).
I didn't even know that was a division.
The two of them are kicking at one another, yelling and I did the only thing I could do.
I grabbed the back of Maude's chair and started pulling her out of the doorway, while she continues to yell at me that it was all HER (my mother's) fault and she was just sitting there minding her own business.
I bent down to talk with Maude, apologize for Mum kicking her.
And when I stood up, my mother was booting it down the hallway in her wheelchair, her hands a mere blur she was moving so fast.
Leaving me and Stephen to deal with the aftermath of her actions.
Finally, we sorted things out, and I head for my mother's room.
She is sitting there, resolute, arms crossed, watching the news.
I bend down in front of her, again looking her in the eye, and ask:
Me: WHAT was that about!!!?????
Mum looks back at me, right in the eye, and says with a completely straight face,
MUM: I don't know what you are talking about.
Stunned, I fall onto her bed, and sit there, not saying another word.
Later that evening, the night nurse came in.
The night nurse who lives across the road from my parent's house and keeps an eye on my father, letting me know if he doing anything stupid like climbing on ladders to clean gutters when he has an aneuyrsm and is not supposed to be climbing ladders under any circumstances.
My mother hadn't said a word to me about the incident, or anything else for that matter, since she claimed ignorance of her foray into smackdowns.
As soon as the nurse-who-lives-across-the-street comes in, hands full of Mum's meds, Mum looks at her and says,
Mum: Jackie (a pseudonym) I want you to know that you may hear that I was kicking Maude earlier this evening. I just want you to know I didn't kick anyone!
And then she looked at me.
Pursed her lips.
Crossed her arms.
And stayed that way until the meds kicked in, and the world became a softer, more narcotic version of itself.
If I don't see the humour in these events, I may as well just lay my head down and cry.
I'll take humour every. single. time.
Title Lyric: Grow Old with Me by Adam Sandler
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