Create the Context of Pesto

I woke up the morning after writing the "I give up" entry wrestling with a Big Question - how to get two seemingly irreconcilable ideas into my head at the same time.

Idea 1 came from a Touching Moment. A postcard from my sister was in mom's mailbox, so I took it up to her. She looked at the picture - two dogs, viewed from the back, leaning on each other in a sort of doggie hug. One dog white, one black, their tails intertwined. A sweet photo. Mom's face changed as she took in the photo - a look of happiness, understanding, and appreciation filled her face. I let her ponder the photo for as long as she wanted, and when her attention wandered I took the photo and showed it to each of the other ladies sitting in the Dementia Circle. Each one had a similar reaction, even the ladies who were sinking fast into late-stage dementia. Their faces softened, opened up, and responded to the relatedness and affection in the photo. So there were actually 7 Touching Moments, one for each lady.

What woke me up was trying to relate this to Idea 2 - a quote from Werner Erhard on my office wall - which reads in part, "The possibility to create the context in which people's lives really matter is undoubtedly the most profound opportunity available to anyone ever."

I work on creating that context in which people's lives really matter - and I fail, utterly and ongoingly. It's OK that I fail - I don't mind that so much, as I have a pretty good relationship with failure as a teacher. What woke me up was the juxtaposition of Ideas 1 and 2.

My ability to generate the context that people's lives really matter has degraded, especially over the last 4 years in which I have been responsible for my mother's life (4 years ago next month was the famous fireplace smoke-out that called for me to step into action). Now I struggle to find anything that really matters, much less people's lives. I used to be able to live in something close to that context, and now it all looks like a joke - a joke on me and all of us - on people with lives.

I go sit in that Dementia Circle twice a week for as long as I can stand it. Sometimes I can generate 1 or 2 or 7 Touching Moments, but I cannot look around that room - at all the ladies whose names and foibles I have come to know - and grasp the idea that people's lives really matter, including my own. It's just too absurd.

Thanks for the supportive feedback, my 3 friends. I made pesto today with a bountiful basil harvest and the best parmigiana, romano, olive oil, garlic and pignolas on the market. I may not understand "making a difference" any more, but I know how to fill 6 ice cube trays with quality seasonings, frozen for a winter's worth of sauces and soups.

I give up

OK, it's probably time to pull the plug on this blog. It's really just a diary - I don't tell people about it (what would my clients think if they knew how I feel about this part of my life?). And while I once thought it would be a good record of what is involved in tending to a life's end - thinking I could gather tips on how to make sure I never put anyone else through this space-suck - I now realize my mother is going to live forever, or at least she will outlive me. I'm going to be 64 in a month. It is clear now that the remainder of my days will be tethered to mom's Chute (doing her laundry, handling the bills, etc.).

It is good that she is happier. The anxiety is gone, and she is comfortable again, eating well, probably gaining back those 5 pounds she lost that had the doctor recommend hospice. So she's probably going to graduate from hospice care. I'll figure out how to end this blog, however. It can't be as hard as dying seems to be.

One moment at a time

The mom-in-hospice care is the backdrop for my larger life change: a vaguely planned but unstructured shift in my career/livelihood. I'm leaving the fast-action world of consulting - two years ago I was juggling several large clients and all their many interactions, providing structures and supports for major organizational changes. Then the economy began to slide (though most of us didn't know it then) and one by one the clients put projects "on hold", canceled them altogether, or reorganized to eliminate my primary contact person's job.

Life is slower now. Our book is out and we're using it to lead programs for improving workplace communication. I have one consulting client remaining, with enough connections to other departments and groups that I am not lacking for work. But I do not have to put my phone on the bathroom counter when I take my shower any more. Nobody's going to call - the real-time urgency of client care is gone. I still check my email, out of a habit of the overfull-inbox days, but that has gone pretty quiet too. I miss the buzz, and haven't completely adjusted to the new pace or the new direction (whatever that is).

My temporality is now one moment at a time, one event or conversation or activity at a time. No more "multi-tasking", and very little rushing around to be sure dozens of people and promises are handled. Things happen on a slower, more quiet clock. Sort of like mom's. Egad. Now there's a frightening thought.

Life goes on in hospice care

Mom is at a new lunch table with Marta, a woman who rarely speaks but is apparently glad to have Mom with her for meals. The aides let Mom sleep in these days (thank goodness - who needs a schedule when you're 91?) and Marta misses her for breakfast.

When I got there, she was finishing her orange sherbet. Her appetite has returned a bit, she has gained a pound, and seems more awake and able to interact. We chatted a bit.

Then we went to the activity room - or at least I did. Mom got very disoriented, and couldn't seem to figure out how to use her walker, which hand to put on which handle, or how to navigate out of the room. I don't know if it is the changed location of her lunch table, but she was all over the place and needed strong guidance to get out of the room, and even more to get her in the chair in the community room. It's like her brain got scrambled just by getting up from the lunch table.

I don't know what to expect now that she is in hospice care. I usually associate that with an approaching end to life, but she seems better in some ways (cognition, appetite, doesn't seem as tired) and worse in others (not using the walker or getting confused about it, hands are icy cold). Someone from hospice comes in to read to her twice a week which she really enjoys. For some reason, life goes on.

Weigh-In

I was there at the monthly weigh-in today. This project involves putting each of the residents into a wheelchair, pushing the chair onto a ramp, and noting the weight of the patient and chair. I was curious to see what mom weighs now, so I stuck around. She weighs 95 pounds (minus the chair).

This is the first month her weight stayed the same. She had been losing 1 to 1 1/2 pounds a month for a while, and then last month she lost 5 pounds which is probably what triggered the doctor to suggest hospice. So he took her off most of her medications and she is stabilizing, albeit a featherweight.

She is mentally clearer too, even though her vocabulary is minimal. She simply cannot find the words she wants, but she is no longer agitated - or at least I haven't seen it - and we are able to communicate in our own odd way. She says some verbal mishmash and I say Yes, or agree, or give her some words and a facial expression that validates her, and she's satisfied.

I'll be back over to see her in 2 days because I need to get her laundry back in her closet before we leave Friday morning. Our book is now out (on Amazon) and we started delivering book-based communication programs last week. We have another one tomorrow, and many more to market and deliver. My consulting work is gearing up in a good way, and needs my attention. We leave for Chicago on Friday - a conference and two book-signings. I'm glad to have hospice support while I'm moving around so much.