More than one fork is too much to handle

I am definitely more peasant than princess. I cannot detect subtle notes of...anything. I fidget with multiple forks. My husband sighed, grateful for the privacy of our New Year's Eve igloo, when I carefully re-arranged the crispy onions on my fillet mignon into the shape of a bridled horse head. "Look! It's a fillet filly," I said, rotating my plate so that he could see it better. "I can see it just fine," he told me. 

I am a soup and sandwich girl...as a six-course meal charlatan, my utter ineptitude is revealed before the silver lid is even lifted from the serving tray of every exotically-edible offering. "I wouldn't exactly call cod exotic," my husband corrected as I used one of my five forks as a scalpel to surgically scrape and separate questionable areas. Culinarily-speaking, Brad left, delighted and satisfied with his epicurean adventure. "There's a McDonald's to your left," I mentioned helpfully as we paused for a red light on our drive home.

Little did we know that, a few weeks later, we would attend an even finer dining event...easily surpassing the water-front

fireworks and cozy igloo of our New Year's Eve date.

"Mom," I announced over the phone, "Brad and I are going to pick up a fish fry so that we can eat dinner with you." "O-kay," she answered slowly, mentally adjusting her current menu of Special K with strawberries. "We'll be there in about an hour," I said before hanging up.

Clutching the fish fry-filled environmentally-abusive plastic bag banned by grocery stores everywhere, we were soon knocking on my mother's door. It took me a moment to get my bearings as she had obviously prepared for our visit. Her small kitchen table had been cleared and three place settings now decorated the surface. She had found a paper napkin that was folded carefully, topped with a knife and fork, while utensils also weighed down two similarly folded paper towels. My mother saves EVERY plastic cup that accompanies the twice-a-day arrival of her pills and three of those stood sentinel at each of our place settings. 

Blinking back threatening tears, I forced myself not to look at my husband as I fussed happily about Mom's apartment. This was incredible. My mother's innate need to serve her family outweighed the frustration of not being able to remember that a package of paper napkins was stored in the bottom cabinet. She might not be able to recall that she has a shelf filled with glasses but she certainly knows that she has stored up a week's worth of plastic cups on her counter (Until I sneak the tower away). This was Vee DeLong at her best. 

My mom and husband wrestled over the worst of the seating positions in the cramped corner until my mom reluctantly but graciously let him win. We had dinner as a family. This was incredible.

Now, this obviously isn't the first time that we've shared a meal with my mother. But it was the first time in YEARS that she hosted it. This was the first time that I was back in the guest position...being served by my mother. Shining as she saw to our comfort and enjoyment. Picking up my one fork, I ate the best meal ever...picking up notes of dignity, satisfaction, and pride as my mother smiled, chatting happily away.

We cleared the table so that we could play cards, my mother dismissively waving away our offers to help wash dishes. "It'll give me something to do later," she said, sticking to her well-established script. As we prepared to leave, Brad standing behind me with his arms full of boxes and bags, I hugged my mother good-bye, wishing that I had taken a picture of her set table but knowing that it would have been weird and might have ruined the moment if I had. During my reflective deliberation, my mother was busy scolding Brad, "Don't leave without a hug," she said as he maneuvered his load to make room for her to wrap her small, slender arms around him. This was incredible. I'd definitely give it five stars.

 

A pirate's favorite letter is "R;" Mine is "Vee."

A year ago, I was praying for safety.

Six months ago...comfort, solace, peace.

And now...small pockets of joy.

God is good.

EVERYONE, including me, underestimated my mother.  She is a kind, quiet, reserved person...content to stay home, proud of her family, gently able to coax seed-to-sprout, bloom-to-bouquet, magically. And then, suddenly, her world imploded and her very reasons for living...husband and home...were both taken away from her. Her weathered memory was further clouded by crisis, confusion, anxiety, and depression. No one said it out-loud, but we thought about swans and wondered how long she would be willing to swim and soar solo.

Turns out, my mom is the toughest, most resilient person I know.

I live for her laughter.

It has been a journey...a LOT of adjustments and a HUGE learning curve. Smiles were understandably sparse in the beginning but slowly, she began to share them more until they were being sprinkled more regularly during our visits. 

Control is a major facet in everyone's life. And my mother had been stripped of ALL control. In my desperate attempts to "help" her, I often also hurt her by not allowing her to be a part of important decisions pertaining to her life. Those decisions HAD to be made as they were safety-related but, when we were past crisis-mode, I began to look for opportunities to support her independent decision-making...

• I stopped bugging her to go downstairs for dinner. If she wanted to eat Special K with strawberry cereal for supper for the rest of her life...so be it. I could support that. It's about control. 
• She would benefit from a cane or walker but she stubbornly refuses to use them. We provided her with a cane adorned with butterflies and tried to practice with her. The most use that cane has
  gotten was Brad re-enacting the Looney Tunes frog in black tie and tails dancing. Control. AND...the first time I'd heard my mother roar with laughter.
• We were constantly fending off my mother's insistent demands that we take her money when we'd go out to eat. Mistake. Control. Plus, my mother is STILL my mother and wants to maintain her role as a provider. Now, we have to figure in dignity (and creative ways of sneaking her money back to her).

We're still learning:

• 
  My mom is too polite to tell anyone when something is bugging her so I have to work really hard on my intuitive skills. I realized that it startled her if we just showed up, unannounced, at her apartment door. But if I called as we were leaving our house, she would be flustered because she thought we should have arrived to her sooner. So, Brad and I call her from the parking lot, cheerfully proclaiming our presence. If she is having a good day, she's up on her feet because we've given her the time she likes to make sure the apartment is tidy and her hair is combed. We know we'll be there for an hour or so and will be playing cards. If she's having a not-so-great day, she'll be in her chair. We abbreviate our visit. If she's wearing her little bunny slippers instead of sneakers, it's a quick "Hello," re-stock her groceries, make her some tea (if she'll let us) and skedaddle after making sure she's not sick. 
• I want my mother to EAT (She's 86 pounds!). My initial good intentions of bringing her hot food didn't go well as she, understandably, doesn't want to eat if those around her aren't eating too. She's not an animal at the zoo. If we eat with her, then, of course, she'll eat. And bonus:  If I claim I can't eat my portion and ask her to split with me, she's thrilled to be put in the position of helping me.
• My mother's close proximity to a Wegman's has become a real problem for me. At the height of peach season, I "accidentally" wandered through the bakery department as I shopped for Mom's weekly groceries. And there it was. A 3-layer peach cake. No. You are not hearing me. A 3-layer peach cake:  Peach cake layered with peach juice-infused whipped cream, topped with fresh peaches. Oh. My. Goodness. One piece cost the equivalent of a bushel of peaches, the peach cake mix, and a carton of Kool-Whip. Never-you-mind...it was "for my mother." We'd split it.
• It was a beautiful day. "Let's eat it on the veranda," I proposed. We gathered up plates, forks, napkins, and our ridiculously expensive piece of peach cake heaven. We settled in on our chairs, toasted one another with a "clink" of our forks, and took a bite. Oh. My. Goodness. My mother closed her eyes as she chewed and then looked at me and smiled. "This is good."
• Worth every penny.

We're still learning.

• We host repeat conversations with the same energy and enthusiasm of the original conversation.
• We listen empathetically when Mom is frustrated by her puzzle and claims pieces are missing and then casually look for the missing piece(s) on the floor or fix the original framework.
• Every day, when I call Mom, I listen intently for the sound of the TV. Aside from the visits of her family, Mom does not have a lot of daily interaction with others aside from the staff members who deliver her medication. That TV is IMPORTANT. She won't tell us when it goes out on her but we can tell because, after a few days, her verbal acuity disintegrates. 

We're still learning.

• I try to call her at 3:30. Once, I called her at 6:30 and couldn't hear the TV. "Mom, is something wrong with the TV?" I asked. "Oh yeah," she admitted, "It's been out all day." I glanced at Brad who glanced at the clock as he shrugged into his coat. One hour there. Five minutes to fix the TV. One hour back. But we could sleep that night.
• 
  
• We're still learning.

• 
  I noticed Mom's watch was on her side table which was unusual. Then, in casual conversation, Brad unearthed that she hadn't gone down to breakfast. "I was too early," she told him. Breakfast was the only meal that she would go to the resident's dining room for so Brad persisted. "Why were you early?" he asked. "My clock wasn't working," she explained. He glanced at the large, illuminated clock in the living room that very clearly worked. "No," she said, tapping her wrist, "my clock." Oh. We grabbed her watch to have the battery switched. Four days later, during my daily call (again, at 6:30), I asked her what she'd had for breakfast. "I didn't go down," she reported, "My clock is broken so I missed it." Silence. Oh no...silence. "Mom, are you watching TV?" "No," she said, "The TV isn't working." I glanced at Brad who glanced at the clock as he shrugged on his coat. She hadn't eaten breakfast all week. I'm making fewer mistakes...but I'm still making mistakes. I cried.

The tears come far fewer now.

A year ago, I was praying for safety.

Six months ago...comfort, solace, peace.

And now...small pockets of joy.

God is good.

Thank you, God, for this precious time with my mother.

God bless, Vee DeLong...the strongest, most resilient person I know.