Filthy wet night...

I think I figured out why I was so upset with my kid.

On his birthday, when we were taking his little one to her soccer game, he began to attack me in front of her for what sort of parent he felt that I'd been when he was a kid.

She is only 7, but incredibly sophisticated for her age, and she tried to stop him.

He laughed her off.

I got thinking about it and realized that he and I could have a conversation about this, but the time and place was wrong. He was attacking her in a subtle way for loving her grandma, and he was blindsiding me by attacking when he knew I could not respond.

And I got thinking about Thursday night tickle fights and making their beds, and ironing their clothes, and fighting with their dad because he withheld things from them because he didn't feel they were worthy. Not because we couldn't afford it, or they hadn't been good. But because they hadn't been his idea of award winning children. Their dad, my first husband (who I thankfully cut off contact with) used money like a club on us. When I refused to let him batter me and them any more, he met someone else, and then moved out (in that order).

To me, my kids where wonderful. They were amazing and unprecedented. There were simply no others that could touch them.

That's the other problem... after years of comforting them, protecting them from their dad, loving on them, caring about them, fighting until I was emotionally exhausted for them, they've both turned on me because of my imperfect skills.

______________________

I haven't been sleeping well. I get to bed between 2 am and 4 am and can't wake up in the mornings. If I manage to get myself awake, I'm incapable of doing anything more than going back to sleep for a while. I know it's depression, but I absolutely loathe this manifestation of it. "Sleeping late" is frightening to me. It infers that I'm lazy and unmotivated, and have no self discipline. It's deeply embarrassing.

I absolutely have to wake up tomorrow because I slept in today and didn't get my car registration and plates, and will have to take Dean to work, and get myself to my cleaning job. The woman I clean for bought me a car. I, somehow, without breaking the rules I live by, have to get the car and claim it as mine.

_____________________

This is the first car I've owned in many, many years. The first in my name, and it's the first time I've taken this responsibility as seriously as I am. It's got to run, and if I have problems with it, I have to be sure I have prudent reserve set aside for repairs. When it's had enough, I have to be the one to buy the next one. There will be no more living off the good grace of others in my life.

My goal, the thing I've been thinking seriously about, is something I heard in a group I belong to.

"Self supporting through our own efforts".

I was raised to feel that only a man could take care of me, that women were incapable. I internalized this for years. I am just starting to break away.

I want my autonomy. I want to be self supporting through my own efforts. I want to be responsible for my own car, insurance, home (to the limit I can be). I want to live or die by my own hand, and stop waiting for the knight in shining armour to come. He's already here. He's inside me.

Full moon rising...

So, I'm pretty sure all the residents where full of crazy pills tonight.

Three serious panic attacks that manifest themselves as... "It's my shower night! NO? It's NOT my shower night? Well, I want one anyway! Who SAYS I can't have one? No, I CAN'T take it tomorrow. My daughter is coming! NO, I don't CARE that she'll be gone before it's shower time! I want a shower! I NEVER GET A SHOWER!" (she gets them... the "shower" is just a symbol to her. It's where her focus turns when she is frightened and confused. Nothing soothes her, either. Not even a shower.)

That one was a little funny, because she's mostly angry, and her anxiety is treatable.

For Dora, not so funny. She's concerned that her little girls are lost. What's worse is that she is going through a med change, and has no PRN anxiety meds ordered.

With Dora, I lead her down to the nurses station where we call both her daughters, who are patient and kind with their mom. They are only little girls in Dora's mind. She's forgotten that they grew up. Or perhaps she dreamed that they were little again, and lost, and needed her. She was easy to manage and tuck in after talking to her girls. The only thing damaged was for the nurse and I who's hearts broke for Dora. How awful it must be to have a delusion feel so real.

Moments later a woman who'd been perfectly fine suddenly paniced and felt she had to go home. NOW! Her name is Beth and I've always loved her. She'd always lived on a farm, loves me and Cass because we both farm, and she's always trusted us.

Tonight the look of betrayal on her face tore me into pieces. When I said, oh, so gently, "Beth... I'd take you home myself, but honey, the home you're looking for is not there any more."

Leah, the nurse and I managed to get an ativan into Beth eventually. And then I sat and gave her a foot rub, praying that the pill would work. Leah turned away in tears. Neither of us knew for certain what to do. We helped Beth call her daughter, but both of us were grim because we knew the damage these calls do to the family. Hearing your mother in desperate tears is not something any of us like to be party to.

____________________

Tonight the sumac, hickories and maple had turned electric colors. And when I came home, the wind had picked up and they'd begun to fall.

Suicide note...

It's been a long time since I felt, really, like killing myself.

Truth to tell, I thought I'd outgrown my self destructive impulses.

But when faced with days like today, all that goes out the window and the call of it returns. "It would be so much easier than this half-assed survival that I call a life."

It didn't take much to set me off today. My kids anger and contempt, my spouses absence, my inability to reach out, loosing the dog because I'm too worthless to have the responsibility to take care of an animal.

First the kid..

It's hard to write about the kid because I'm never sure where reality begins and ends with him and me.

He claims a tortured childhood filled with emotional and physical abuse, I tend to remember something less horrible than that.

I remember when he was born, lying in the hospital thinking of nothing but him for days. But they'd taken him away from me, and put me in the "surgical ward" Back then if you were giving up a child for adoption they just wouldn't let you see it for fear you'd bond with it and then keep it.

I remember refusing food until a kind nurse who knew me came in just as I was being given a tray, and cut up my food for me and gently pushed the tray toward me. I wish, knowing what I know now, that I'd never picked up that fork.

Back then, if you were a pregnant teen of a catholic family you were kept inside, with no contact with the outside world for nine months. After that, I suppose, if you kept the baby, you and your child would be kept in until it was supposed that the neighbors forgot where it came from, however long that happened to take.

After he was born I came home, alone, with empty arms and an empty belly, and my heart ripped out lying in a trash can somewhere.

For the first week I tried to recover from a rough birth, and deal with the visits of friends. I can still remember the sharp pain that sort of went through every part of me and up to my temples. I remember the unintentionally cruel words. No one knows what to say when you give your baby away.

Worst was the attitude of the family, who didn't have a lot of good thoughts for me. In my family, this was not considered a noble and selfless act.

But I remember, really well, my mom saying just one thing. "If you don't go get him and bring him home, I'll do it".

Well... I honestly don't know why I did it. Maybe at that point I just couldn't handle the pressure of her hating me any more. Maybe it was the torn out heart, and his heart beating separate from mine. But eventually I did go get him and bring him home.

Then I was 17 with a mother who (not surprisingly) still hated me. She was mad and didn't want me to "get away with it". She wanted me to "sleep in the bed I made". Live a life of disgrace with an infant that was also a disgrace.

But how can a 17 year old look down at the infant she'd brought into this world, knowing that it would forever be labeled, along with her, as damaged, "bad", unworthy. Looking at a baby you love, knowing you'd brought this precious thing into the world to be despised by everyone.



Back then there were support groups for young single mothers. I was in one. I was the youngest. I remember the horror of being there with the young-twenties and older teens, and, lacking a better idea, spreading a blanket on the floor for my baby to doze on.

Through a freak event, and desperate move, I ended up living with a much older man for a while. The pressure put on me by my mom was unrelenting. I had to leave, and even though this situation was horrible, at least I was in a new environment, and treated as a new toy by this man. He was ugly and fat and filthy. But he seemed totally enthralled by me. He got tired of me after a year or so.

Then I re-met an old boyfriend, got pregnant by him at 19 and finally thought I'd found an escape.

I remember my journals through those years. They were horrible, filled with words of self hatred and pain. I destroyed those journals years later, after my husband looked at one, trying to see if he could catch me being unfaithful (he couldn't). I poured bleach on them in the bathtub, smashed them as my nose burned from the fumes, and then poured the mess into trash bags as pulp. My blistered hands were all that were left of those years of horror, pain and misery.

Except for two things. My boys.

Yes I remember screaming at them, swatting them, grabbing their arms hard enough to leave finger-print bruises and tossing them in their room. No, not hard enough to injure them. Just their hearts and souls where damaged, because today, neither of them are talking to me.

But I also remember rocking for hours and hours and hours with one or both in my lap. Laughing at their little boy antics. Cheering their little successes. Teaching them to sew, or multiply or plant potatoes. Helping them give their stuffed animals clever names. I remember the good times, too. I remember telling them both a million, trillion times how much I loved them and how wonderful they were.

But neither of them do. I know this sounds suspect, but they both remember things that never-absolutely-never and could not have happened.

____________________

So, where to go from here with it? I've told them I am sorry. I've acknowledged their feelings, and never once have I said one word of anything other than complete and total humble repentance. Even when they said things that didn't happen.

And yet still, they rage at me, and I at myself.

The oldest lives at home with his clinical depression (that he flat refuses to treat). At odd, vulnerable moments he attacks me for the type of parent I was.

I'm looking for forgiveness, but I'm not sure who needs to forgive me. Am I waiting until their rage subsides, so that I can explain to them that I wasn't entirely criminal and monstrous? That my way of parenting didn't come out of a vacuum, but from never, once, in my entire life having been loved or supported myself? That I did better than their grandparents did, by a good, long bit? And maybe, maybe, someday at least having them acknowledge that I was horrible, but I was good, too?

Or is it myself that has to forgive me? I can't. No matter how I think of it, I can't let go of the feeling that I carried my unworthy existence on down to them, and made them undesirables, too.

The few adults in my life when I was young that showed support for me where men that were attracted to pretty young girls.

My mother detested my inability to agree with her on her strange, skewed perception of the world. She played dirty and hurt me any way she could because she absolutely hated me, what I thought, and how I perceived myself

My father only wanted me close so that he could press against me. The times he managed to get me alone and touch me, I blamed myself for being an idiot. I'd been warned and let my guard slip. Stupid, stupid, stupid...

Ahhhh... excuses, excuses. I want the boys to let go of the excuse of bad parenting and get on with their lives, but I don't do the same for myself.

Thread and fabric..

So, today is my kid's twenty-ninth birthday and apparently, as always, he hates my guts.

His little one was here and she had a soccer game this morning, and it was obvious that he was in a bad mood from the start.

He had to remind me what a horrible parent I was when he was a kid.

Whether or not I was is kind of immaterial at this point. I wasn't the worst, and I soooooo, sooo, soooo was not the best. Again, it doesn't matter so much any more. I'm a good parent now, and as a grandparent, I say with no false modesty whatsoever that I kick ass.

Now, what to do about all these little fits and spells he has where he wants to rip my guts out for things I did in my teens.

I'm thinking that (since he's been living with me for years, and his brother resents the living hell out of it anyway) that it's time this little one moved out. He's obviously being damaged further by having to live here. He's got money to move out if he chooses to. He stays here for no other reason than he can.

Sometimes creating the post and then adding the title seems to be the way to go.

Last night at work Gordon asked where I had been. Bewildered I said "Well, Gordon, you ordered me out of your room last night! I figured I'd pestered you enough for a day and sent Kathy in to get you ready for bed!"

He snatched my hand to his lips and kissed it. I gave him a quick hug and muttered "You old coot.."

It was a pretty horrible night where I got there late (could NOT wake up in the morning to take Dean to work so I could have the car and get there on time) and I felt over worked. Seriously didn't get some of my work done and just didn't care.

______________________

Still haven't sent the lawsuit response. I'm terrified. I'm going to ask Dean to take it to the lawyer and vet it out before it's sent.

______________________

I wish someone would read my posts... someone with whom they resonate and who would respond. I feel kind of empty and alone here.

Indignantion

There are a lot of things causing me to feel pretty worried today, but I think inside I’m building a tiny spark of “calm”.

I did post to my favorite message board about credit issues. I asked if calling creditors and informing them of an intent to declare bankruptcy would stop legal action.

Of course the answer was no. If that were true, no one would even bother with bankruptcy, right? Call and tell you’re creditors, and whoops! No more problems with them?

Anyway, I then sent an e-mail to my sister-with-the-bossy-attitude that I wasn’t mad but felt she was underestimating my problems.

I’ve thought about this over night and came up with a list of things that I don’t think my sister was adding into the equation before she came to her conclusion.

...I am not a phone person. It can take me a week and sometimes narcotics to get myself into a state of mind where I can make a simple phone call, and it’s incredibly stressful for me. I don’t do these things easily or well.

...The debt is not mine. I, personally, and not declaring bankruptcy, and it would be stupid of me to do so at this point, as I have a very modest amount of debt (a couple vet bills, a credit card that I defaulted on, and a couple doctor bills in my name). DH is going to have to be the one to take action and there is no way on earth I, PERSONALLY am going to advise him to tell creditors something that may or may not be true.

...What I WILL advise DH to do is deal honestly with the creditors, and work within the system to settle the debts. Scrupulous honestly.

....One of the things that really pushed my buttons is that she stated that we’re going to LOOSE EVERYTHING if I didn’t take her advice instantly.

Now… Listen here, missy. I’m already stressed enough without vile edicts and declarations that I’m “GOING TO LOOSE EVERYTHING”. Particularly since that statement isn’t true. Saying horrible things trying to get me to take an action that is NOT in my best interest is NOT a good way to help me at this point.
The legal action is already in the works. It’s far to late to call the two creditors that are already fighting over us and start making false statements. We’re going to have to see them in court very shortly and I don’t want former lies hanging over our heads. DH and I need to keep this situation as clean as possible.

__________________________________________


All that said, it’s a pretty morning, and I work tonight, tomorrow and Monday I think. There should also be a paycheck waiting at work for me.

I need to send out the ISP bill today, and drop a check off at the mortgage company.

DH and I also need to set up a good grocery list.

That and mail out the response to the lawsuit to the appropriate parties.

And make a clean, clear copy of our spending record for court.

Ok. Those thoughts pretty much just terrified me.

Seven kinds of "suck"..

Ok... with the infinant variations of "suck" my week can be, I've come across a total different breed.

Delightful older sister keeps contacting me (through IM and phone) and giving me her take on things, and telling me certain things need to be done instantly.

Unfortunately, she's not listening to the real problem (i.e. the debt problem is not in my name, and she's barking up the wrong tree), and I don't give a shit about taking politcal action on the wrongs coorporate America is heaping on the poor populace.

What I care about right now is finding a car to get me back and forth to work for a reasonable amount of time. What I care about is getting my husband out of the worst of the problems and teaching him the skills to prevent problems in the future.

What I care about is whether or not I'll have a job long enough to collect a miserable paycheck.

The fluffy bunny was just because it was there and made me feel good for a moment.

What I need to do is start keeping a record, on a spreadsheet of our spending. I need to keep careful track and develope a plan for each month that meets our needs. What I need to BEGIN thinking about is an approach for this lawsuit we're enduring, and what to expect and do in court.

What I don't need is extrainious things like calling creditors that are currently suing me and (lying) telling them I'm declaring bankruptcy in hopes that they'll stop their madness.

DANG, now that I think of it, that's a question I'll post on one of my message boards... I'll be back (maybe tonight, maybe not).

Dear Diary...

Here's the latest scoop.

Dean came up with a good idea. There's a lawyer in the little village where we live, who's done some little jobs for us before. We took our lawsuit complaint to him to prepare a response.

One small problem has the sharp point knocked off it anyway.

Still no good word on a vehicle.

We borrowed one from my best friend's son. One which he is not using and has no plates or insurance on it.

Frustrating part of it is that the boy it belongs to has become a petulant child about it. We've tried to return it, but that doesn't seem to be what he wants. He's playing mind games with my friend, trying to get her to pay for the insurance and plates for his other vehicle, and she's not willing. We are willing to get the one we're using legal, but we're becoming pawns in their chess game. Not that we had time for more trouble in our lives.

__________________________________________________________

Last night I made it back to work. Several of the residents asked where I'd been (I'm usually full time there), and I just smiled and hugged them and said "ohhhh, personal problems". I don't share details because then they'd fret and worry over me.

One in particular... oh, lets call him Gordon...

I've often said that a nursing home (or assisted living facility, in this case) is more like a prison that people realize. And the staff serves the same purpose. We're keepers and caretakers.

There are residents who try to curry favor by being false and obsequious. There are those that behave well as long as they are getting little treats and cheats. There are those that couldn't care less about us, keep their mind on their own issues (these are very few). And there's always a "problem child" or two that simply wouldn't cooperate with us if they were on fire and we were trying to douse them.

Gordon is a problem child.

He's rank and miserable and demanding and manipulative. All of the frustrations he's accrewed through life he brings with him as heavy baggage and he lets it loose on us.

Nothing is beneath Gordon. He'll fart in your face or piss and shit his pants out of sheer spite.

He demands a urinal (which as a rule we do not use at our facility), and then demand that we un-pants him, hold his penis AND the urinal. No, it's not that he's not capable, but if you infer that he can and SHOULD do this for himself he'll begin a rant about how much money we make and how we're PAID to do this.

Laughing, I point out to him that his numbers are off a little, and that in truth, NO amount is enough for me to put up with him.

I do get frustrated with him, but only for a flash. Mostly my frustration is that he'll really cut off his own nose to spite his face. He rages at his family, but I tell him at least they thought enough of him to put him in a good place. He then rages that they dropped him here and forgot about him, calling his daughter a bitch. Pretty harsh, I'd say.

Finally I gave up on being "decent, kind, proffesional nurse" to him. He's totally suspicious of kindness.

So I decided to show him what sort of skills I'VE learned over the years, caring for a nasty old Viet Nam vet and a Detroit street kid and some rank old prison guard and my drunken father and neurotic mother. And some of the skills I learned having raised a few teenagers in my time.

He complained that he had a cut on his foot. He's a diabetic so I was alert to it. "How'd you get that?" I asked (concerned at first)..

"YOU probably did it last time you were in here!" he yells.

"Oh! Well, I guess I shoulda' aimed HIGHER", I shoot back.

One night while I was helping him get to the bathroom, and he and I were in the midst of full out warfare, he finally yelled at me that all I do is argue. I was mulling this over, when I realized that when I wasn't talking I wasn't argueing. So... Finally he began to demand "WHAT? You ain't TALKIN' to me now, Huh? Well, I HAD somethin' to say, but you ain't LISTENING.."

I looked up, surprised, and said "Yes, I am talking to you! Now, pick up your foot so I can get your shoe on..."

"Well, if you was listenin', I'd have said 'you're a nice lady, but you're too BOSSY".

I laughed. "Gordon, I raised teenagers. You're right. I'm pretty darn stubborn. God knows how those kids might have turned out if I hadn't been stubborn".

Last night he said "I need you tomorrow. I need a shave".

I shaved him last time and I think he was shocked because I'm pretty good at it. I've taken care of lots of men in my day.

Then Gordon winks and says "Maybe I'll shave you, too".

"Good, Gordy... we'll make it a party".

Fury and futility...

Really... I hate starting a blog with a title like that.

Maybe it should have been "Let them eat cake..."


Dean came up with a solution. He decided that borrowing some money from his wealthy sister is the solution to our problem.

Problem is that said-wealthy sister dictates that I should not own pets, have cable, nor spend any money on any form of entertainment. Food that is not strictly survival should be curtailed. You get the picture... wash and reuse tampons, steal ketchup and cracker packets from Mc Donalds for a tastey dinner later... That kind of thing.

Pretty depressing words, coming from a millionaire down to a girl in a double-wide.

Basically, if we're borrowing money there should be no enjoyment of life. If we have money to enjoy life, then we're being wasteful. If we have time to enjoy life, we are not working hard enough and have no business borrowing money, only to squander it with laying about.

I told him I was uncomfortable with him making the call, that the likelyhood of her refusing him (and leaving him feeling devistated and rejected) was high. That if she did loan him money that the price he paid would be high, emotionally. And I told him (again) that you can not get out of debt by borrowing money.

So... I let him call her. Ok, desperation move on my part. Trying to get a quicker resolve to this problem of not having vehicles to get to work in.

Her requirement for the loan was that I call her to give her my verbal agreement that I would not add any pets, we would not have cable, and I would have my IP account terminated (that doggone wasteful $14.95 a month, you know).

I told him up-front that I was not happy making this call, that I felt that while I don't mind justifying, reasonably, my expenses, that this situation was more complicated than she could understand.

So, ever the dutiful wife, I gathered my strenght and resolve (shaking in my boots, I mean) and called her.

As expected, I felt abused. She reminded me that people in "our situation" have no business "running a rescue". I made it clear that in no way are we a rescue, and Molly the beagle is in no way our financial responsibility, and that my friend's rescue organization offered to pay ALL our animal feed bills until we get back on our feet.

I also told her something very important that I didn't think she understood...

I've worn the same pair of contact lenses for two years. THese are the two month kind of lenses, and should have been thrown away long ago. I CHOOSE to put my money toward my animals.

What I didn't tell her is that Dean and I do not take vacations.

We took a moderate amount and showed two of my granddaughter's ponies at the fair this year.

We didn't take so much as a weekend to go to the lake this year.

We had no family gatherings.

We haven't had a working furnace in almost two years, and continue to heat with wood (we have a wood lot behind the house, and a very nice wood burning stove in the living room of of our 1100 sq ft. house, and Dean cuts and stack the wood himself).

We had a broken refrigerator and Dean helped a friend move in exchange for her old, beat-up one that works beautifully.

We do not have garbage service, we don't go to movies. I have continued a Netflix subscription the last few months after my youngest got it for free for me for Christmas last year.

We don't buy clothing, I don't buy make-up.

I can't remember when I paid more than $10 to get my hair cut, and I quit coloring the gray because I couldn't do a respectable job of it myself and can't afford to pay for it.

We own no jet-skis or snow mobiles. We haven't got fishing licenses.

I have no molars at all on the bottom because dental work is expensive. The one molar I have is fake and falling apart.

We both work between 40 and 50 hours a week.

I guess I sort of resent her infering that we have this luxurious lifestyle with all these "extras" that we should do away with.

Anyway, in the end, I assured her that if she didn't feel right about doing this that she should do it. I told her that if she did, it would help relight a spark in me that someone had faith. And that in no uncertain circumstances she should refuse if she felt uncomfortable about it.

The first thing Dean said when I hung up (in a very snotty tone) "Well! Sounds like you were doing a pretty good job talking her out of it!"

I waited a few minutes before I could gather myself to say "That was a mean thing to say. I'm as commited to getting out of this mess as you. If you didn't want me to be scrupulously honest, you shouldn't have had me call her at all. I TOLD you I didn't feel good about this!"

Eventually he apologized. He tends to instantly say the meanest, nastiest thing that comes into his head, while I tend to really, really, really carefully count and weigh my words to do minimum impact. (which is probably why he still hasn't cut down the tree I've been asking him to cut for years).

God, I do not want that woman's help. I've GOT to come up with something that can stop this.

I tried to explain to her that the situation is neither as complex nor as simple as it seems.

Honest to God, she asked me "Oh! You really can't get a personal loan or a credit card without your spouses signature, can you?" And I simply said "oh yes. Absolutely 100%."

The debt is not in my name. And this is the complex part.

I've done little to stop him from creating new debt (see debtors anonymous website for details, if you're reading this). Problem is, I've got my own issues with this to contend with and it's murderously hard. Now comes the man who wants to get a signature loan to "buy a new refrigerator and make truck repairs", but oops. The new refrigerator never gets bought. The money is frittered away. I get the benefits of it, with no repercussions. But I didn't create the debt. And if he'd asked me BEFORE he did this, I'd have said "Don't you dare create any new debt". But he didn't. And I didn't fight and scratch and scream when he offered to take me out to dinner (etc) with the money. I'm guilty but not of the crime I'm being accused of.

As it is with his sister. I've told him again and again and again... you can NOT get out of debt by borrowing money.

Just blog about it...

For some reason, my font didn't want to set. I wonder if there is a way to edit it in my preferences?

The last few days have been pure "suck". No two ways around it.

I found out that Martha was put on a feeding tube. While this is going to relieve the horrible choking, and I should be glad for that, 94 is awfully old for a feeding tube. Good sense says the family should have just relieved her symptoms and let her slip away.

Starvation isn't that bad of a way to go, I don't think. Nor is dehydration. If you've got good meds on-board, anyway.

About my home life... Lately not good. Both vehicles were repossessed in the last two days. Dean's truck was picked up on Wednesday night, and my car was picked up yesterday.

We're also being sued for the cost of them.

With no way for me to get to work, that's going to cut out at least $1000 a month from our income.

Tomorrow we'll try to work together on a solution.. an old beater that I can use to drive him to work in the mornings, and then pick him up at night. Wood Ridge might let me transfer to first shift, and then it could be done.

Problem being that we're barely making anything right now, so getting a working car, getting insurance and tags on it, and then keeping it going through the winter is not looking very bright.

I was hesitant to even write about this. There's a lot of shame and anger in me over this situation.

Dean sits and looks at me, waiting for me to somehow "fix" this. Truth is, we wouldn't be in this situation if I could only convince him that we can not get out of debt by borrowing money. He just does not get it.

Updates...

Minnie passed away Thursday night. Her family was with her. Joe is handling it well. In her obituary I discovered that she's a Canadian, and that her real name is after two beautiful plants. Her family asked that donations to local animal welfare organizations be sent. I love people that do that.

I've visited Martha in the hospital. The first time I got lucky and got there just as they were taking her in for a swallowing test (an x-ray as she swallowed).

Thought they could tell me anything because I'm not family, it was easy to gather that she's aspirating absolutely everything that she swallows.

That's terrifying to me. I've seen people go that way before, and by gosh, I sure didn't want this for my girl.

Yesterday I visited and brought her dentures, her glasses and her rosary. Sweet little Cass had been in and brought her "Charlie", a little green stuffed bear that she had tied to her call light cord. He squeeks when squished, so I'm hoping she thinks to squeek him if she needs help in the hospital.

I talked to her nurse and told her that Martha's dementia makes her panic easily. She can walk, but she's anxious the whole way asking "what are we doing now?" again and again. I told the nurse to break it down into tiny steps for her "put your hands on your walker... lean forward.. stand up". And to reassure her that she won't fall.

When I gave Martha her rosary I said "When my momma' went to the hospital, that was what she always wanted us to bring her... her rosary and her glasses", as I took it out of it's case and handed it to her. "Ohhh", she sighed, so quietly. "I'll say a prayer for her, too." This choked me up.

Last night after I finished my work, I had Gab take my tempurature, which was 100.2, and I left. I'm pretty sure I just have hot ears and wasn't sick, but I took advantage and called in today. I needed a mental health day after these past few...

Instead I went to my step-daughter's house and cleaned her appalling kitchen. Dean scolds her and asks "WHY don't you get busy and clean?". But I know why she can't, even if I can't really put it into words. What I do, after he scolds, is hug her and say "You need to decide that you deserve a clean comfortable house to relax in". She looks up with huge blue eyes, dark circled, and says "That's the hard part." She has three kids, and they are a handful. I love them, but these are not easy, low maintenance kids. They are messy, noisey, and occasionally naughty. This doesn't mean I love them any less, but only that I have empathy with her because sometimes things are more complicated than just scrubbing your floors.

"She's dying..."

Last night was a brand new low in my career, and got a hair's breadth of being something much worse.

A busy, busy night. Several declining residents, and some making painful-slow steps up from illness and injury (read: stroke, fall, or CHF). No experienced help on the shift but me, and another nurse assistant in charge.

I'm struggling through my work (a particularly heavy assignment), and I hear the charge aide announce that help is needed in a room on another hall. I finish what I'm doing, but it's late and I'm sure that one of the others is long since finished and has gotten to the resident who needed assistance.

But on my way to drop my trash, I look up and see that two call lights are on and silenced... The one that was announced, and another near by. The one near by is my dear Martha. She's got some form of dementia, and will often call out for help, when her problem is simple (ha!) anxiety.

I am quick down the hall, and pause at Martha's door. "Hang on, honey. I'll be right there!" I call... but instead of her little "Help! Help!", it registers that I hear only a rapid tapping...

The other resident needs a window closed. I check to make sure her O2 is on, and that she has water, and tell her "Good night, sweetheart, sleep well".

And back to Martha.

I come in the room and hear the sickening sound of labored, liquid, struggling breath. I flip on a light and Martha is stone white, heavy, frothy phlem pouring out of her mouth and nose.

Leaping on her bed, I grab her to flip her over on her side so I can clear her air way. In my mind a racing dialogue... "Is she choking? On WHAT? Flip the call light!", she is rigid, and will not turn, though I'm strong. Her jaws are clenched and I can not clear her mouth. The emergency phone is far away. I tell Martha "Hang on, sweetie! I'm going for help!" and I sprint, absolutely sprint, to the med room/nurses station. As I fly I see a young aide.. "Mark! Go sit with Martha!". In the med room, out of breath, "Mary! Martha is choking!" and we both sprint back to Martha.

Mark is meandering down the hall. He didn't understand I ment "URGENTLY go see to Martha". Mary and I race past, I say "she's choking" to Mark, and I run to Martha.

Mary looks at me and says "She's dying."

We're struggling to get her upright, and Mary grabs a towel and begins to clear the heavy fluid. Again she looks right in my eyes and says "She's dying." Very simply. Very quietly.

"No", I say, "don't say that. You'll be fine, Martha. I'm here."


Mark arrives and we get Martha sitting up fully, Mary says "Go call 911!". Again, the long sprint to the med room.

Totally out of breath, I tell the 911 operator that we have apparent choking in an approximately 90 year old woman. As I'm finishing the phone is ringing again. Not sure if it could be Mary, calling on her cell with more information, and knowing that I work for this place (not for Martha, but for "the place"), I dutifully answer the phone "Wood Ridge, this is Lynn...". It's the DON and thank heavens. When I say "choking" she says "try the heimlich manuver", and I feel one of many waves of frustration for my panic, because it should have been my first thought.

Back in the room, Mary and Mark are attempting to swab out the thick phlem. I slip onto the bed, supporting Martha as high up as I can get her and say "it's ok... I'm here. You're going to be fine. Now COUGH for me, honey!"

I'm nearly blank, my mind is a white place. I'm trying to remember what I was trained to do.

I tell Mark and Mary that I've told the ambulance that someone will be out front waiting for them.

Suddenly I'm alone with Martha and another aide, white faced, but wonderfully solid. She's a girl nearly my age.

I look into Martha's eyes. "Give me your dentures." Her ashed face shows something besides panic, she's puzzled and objecting. "Give me them!" I remove them quickly with my bare fingers. Kathy then can sweep Martha's mouth more effectively. We get Martha's feet on the floor.

"She was fine when I put her to bed!".

"I know, sweetie.. I just found her like this.."

The ambulance, Mark, Mary arrive. The EMT asks a few questions. I tell them she is 94, no history of COPD or CHF. Some dementia. Fine and normal right up until she was found like this tonight.

They ask her if she wants to go to the hospital. The EMT's and ambulance personel are obviously skeptical. As I listen to the quiet pieces of their conversations that slip in, they are disappointed that there is a motorcycle accident so close, but they're stuck with this old woman with no family. They take a pulse and listen to her lungs quickly but take no other vitals and put her on O2.

"Well, her lungs are clear. This is upper-airway. And.. well," (to Martha) "You want to go to the hospital?"

(A little aside here... the one thing you NEVER do in health care, at least NEVER with geriatrics, is ask a question like that. They'll always say 'no!'. They don't want to be a bother. They don't want to have to leave their bed. They're afraid of the cost.)

I'm exasperated, but silent. Mary tells them "yes, we want her looked at".

"No, no!" Martha is struggling to get that out.

"Martha.. you go up and let the doctors look at you. For me."

Not aware of Martha's peculiar style of ambulation, which is filled with objections and anxiety, the EMT's lift her, and she, manages to get in a few of her "I'm going to fall! I'm going to fall!".

She's always said that. Ever since I met her.

Quietly I say "no.. you're fine. I won't let you fall. You're ok".

At the door of the ambulance I tell her "I'll see you tomorrow. Ok? If you're at the hospital still, I'll see you there. I love you. Be good for the doctors."

"I love you, too" she says.

I do something I've done only once at work. I cry. Hard.

All of us shaken, Mark says he said it looked like a seizure. I wonder at that, because she was so rigid at first, and I could not get her jaws apart to sweep her mouth.



This morning I go and do my weekly housekeeping gig (that I keep in order to feed my ponies and other animals). Afterward, midafternoon, I'm close so I go back to Wood Ridge to get an update.

Martha has just been brought back. The DON tells me that all four lobes where effusing, and that they feel it's bronchitis (but don't back any of this up with x-rays).

I go to her room. She's much like she was the night before, but not so responsive. I look in her eyes. I stroke her hair a moment. Tell her I love her and will see her tomorrow.

Tonight I called for an update. Moments after I saw her this afternoon she was taken back to the ER and this time admitted.


I know she can die. I know that 94 is a good age. I don't have any illusions about death ever having to be pretty. I know she is ready.

Many, many of my beloved residents have died. Friends and family as well. This is not new to me, and I'm usually rock-solid about it.

I just wanted them to ease her pain and suffering. And I was mad at myself for so quickly forgetting all training and panicing. And for loving the funny little lady that she is so much, that it erased all elements of my job.

Truth is, no.. I'm not really ready to let her go. Just please, not like this.

In the beginning..

G'morning, everyone.

Instead of playing endless hands of freecell or spider solitaire to unwind from work at night, I thought it might be nice to maybe do something a bit more productive with my time.

The only thing you need to know about this blog to follow it is that I'm a near-middle-aged female who lives in the midwest and I work in heath care. I've done this for many, many years.

That and I'm an animal lover and that I'm married with kids and grandkids.

The only person that could come across this blog and be even slightly offended by anything I write here is someone who probably wouldn't bother. He's got plenty of his own blogging and worrying about others to do.

What's on my mind today is work. Last night at about 7pm a man came out of his room worried. "Minnie is on her way out."

"What's wrong, Joe?"

"She's just staring straight ahead and won't talk to me".

She's just come back from re-hab, she's CHF and has a single kidney.

Indeed, she's staring straight ahead and her expression is a bit fixed. I ask her what's wrong, which sends her (and she's quite a prim little lady) into fits of giggles. Euphoria. This isn't good.

I quickly go and find what substitutes as a "nurse" (or "charge-aide" is what we use where I work) who is a 19 year old fool who I know, is going to be way beyond her depth.

I'm gentle in guiding her through what we need to do here, which is get vitals, contact our DON and the doctor, ASAP.

No, Gabrielle says, she can't reach the DON. I get more firm and tell her to try ALL available nursing staff (ANYONE who can give us permission to ship poor Minnie to the nearest ER), and that I'll stay with Minnie and Joe.

Honestly, I think Gab-the-fool was a little lost at that point. She suggested Hospice, until I reminded her that Minnie and Joe had actually met with Hospice just hours earlier and refused their services.

Minnie is sitting comfortably, peaceful, and cooperative. Joe, trying to hide tears carefully, in his wheelchair, goes to the refrigerator and shakily brings her back a small cup of water. This act, which has taken such effort on his part, out of love and devotion to his dying wife, has broken my heart.

That and the fluid, which her kidneys no longer will remove, which is leaking out of her socks, and even pooling out her tiny shoes.

Minnie, with a odd, strange smile, is asking for a cup of wine, and I, looking deep into her dear, dark eyes tell her I'll have something much better in a moment (morphine). No, she'd really like just "this much" (indicated with her fingers) madeira. "The medicine probably wouldn't be good with wine, sweetheart", I say.

The morphine comes from Gab's shaking hand, and Minnie makes us giggle by sucking it rather comically in an eager way.

Her 02 on 2 liters is between 89 and 92, HR is about 62, blood pressure 86/40. Temp, unfortunately is in celcius and I can't read the stupid thing. Lowish, though, I'm sure.

I wrangle another aide to help me; a good girl named Cass, and we gently dress Minnie is flannel pajamas, a "brief" (some might call this a "diaper", which we do not call them, for dignity's sake), and Cass removes the soaked socks. Minnie's legs have small droplets of fluid collecting, which reminds me of an injured sapling.

The doctor calls and tells us not to ship Minnie, that there is nothing more to be done but supportive care.

Eventually, our very dear DON arrives, calls family to come. The doctor has confirmed Joe's (and all of our) initial thoughts which is that Minnie will not last the night.

I flip through residents, getting those that need help ready for bed, fixing soup for old Dan who's refused to come down for dinner and has been waiting for me. Other's pitch in, though we've all been incredibly taxed this night, when many residents are struggling though difficulty. I'm grateful, and eventually, with head and feet elevated, Minnie is in bed, lying on waterproof pads in the unlikely event that her kidney suddenly decides to work again. "Sleep well", I say, as I turn down lights.

I think of gentle, quiet Joe all night. "I just got her back", he sobs, very, very quietly.