Sitting in your own shit

Warning: This blog entry has an excessive amount of cuss words. If that type of thing offends you, you might want to skip this post.

I fucking hate being in this sandwich generation. I hate that I don’t make enough money to buy a decent car. I despise the fact that I gained weight this winter. I really fucking hate that my brother is sick and sometimes I just hate the whole fucked up world. For more than a day, I’d like to stop putting on that stupid ass fake smile that everyone thinks is real.

You might be saying, “Well, yes, life is hard but there are so many other people worse off than you are.”  That is absolutely true. But you know what, ass hat? I don’t give a flying fuck right now.  I don’t want to look on the fucking bright side. I JUST WANT TO BE MISERABLE AND SIT IT MY OWN GODDAMNED SHIT, OK?!?  IS THAT ALRIGHT WITH YOU?!?

Fuck.

Alright. Here’s the deal. I, Holly Williams, am giving YOU, my lovely readers, permission to have a pity party. Right now. Go ahead! Do it. It’s completely fine.  You do not have to be positive and chipper and cheery all the time. It’s ok to feel shitty and hate what’s going in your life. It’s ok to cry and scream and bitch about it. It’s even ok to let it all out on social media. (Just expect people to unfollow you for a bit because not everyone can listen to that shit 24/7.)

Life is really fucking hard sometimes. It is. I know it can be filled with beauty and joy and unicorns dancing with woodchucks, but it can also be filled with disaster and grief and pure suckage.  It is completely acceptable to admit that life isn’t good right now.  When someone asks you, “How are you?” go ahead and tell them the truth. Tell them that life is shitty right now but thanks for asking. Or grunt. I’m personally a fun of grunting. Sometimes talking takes too much fucking energy.

It’s ok that your life isn’t wonderful and it’s ok to feel bad about it. No one’s life is wonderful all the time, no matter what bullshit they post on Facebook.  At some point you will probably have to find a way to fix whatever is wrong or learn how to handle whatever issue or problem you may have, and you will. But right now, today, you don’t have to.

Go ahead and sit in your shit, wiggle your ass in it and feel it squishing between your butt cheeks until the smell is too fucking awful to breathe. Then, and only then, when you can’t stand yourself anymore, do you pick yourself up, clean yourself off, and deal with whatever shit storm you’re in.

You’ll be able to handle it now. You’ve wallowed and cried and screamed and stunk up the joint and now you’re ready to move on, let it go or suck it up. You can do this. You can. Really.

So go.  Clean that shit up and start smelling like daisies again. Put on a smile if you have it, and if you don’t? Who gives a fuck. Just be yourself and do your best to deal with what life flings at you.

 

 

 

Looking for Contentment

I am a tall woman who lives a small life. I live in a very small town with less than 3,000 people. I work in a small, rural library in a town of only 4,000 people. I rarely travel, except to and from work and to soccer practices and games and to my mom’s house and to most of my mom’s appointments. I run and I read and if I want to have a drink, typically I’ll have it at home where it is considerably less expensive.

Most of the time, I think this is ok.

It’s not the exact life I thought I’d have, but it’s not horrible. It can be hard some days and weeks, but it’s not bad. It can be horribly hectic, particularly weekday mornings (probably like yours, too!)–trying to squeeze in a run or a walk before or in between getting the kid ready and making dinner for that evening and doing laundry or dishes and fitting in a shower in there somewhere. And if I’m volunteering at the school library that morning? Forget it. I don’t even try to exercise on those days unless I’ve been up since 4:30 due to the cats hitting my face with their paws….claws out.

Again, not horrible. A little bloodshed, perhaps, but could be worse. And yet, I strive to find contentment. Do you?

I often wonder if social media is what has done this to me. I see my friends taking their children to far off places or flying to another state to run and drink (and vomit?) but having an adventure of some sort anyway.  Typically I’m very happy for my friends and family and the journeys they are fortunate enough to take, but this week it really got to me. I was thinking about all of those lovely images as I entered the local pharmacy where I needed to pick up extra vitamins for my mother because she couldn’t remember to get them. As I kneeled on the floor trying to determine which calcium was the right one for her and which one wouldn’t bankrupt me, I felt my shoulders slump and had to blink back tears. This? This is what my life is? Sitting on Rite Aid’s floor trying to find the cheapest yet most effective vitamin for my poor mother whose entire life seems to center around her cat? How has this happened?

Once I got back to my car, I had to take some deep breaths and try to snap out of this funk. Feeling sorry for myself or for Mom isn’t going to get either of us anywhere, yet sometimes wallowing in self-pity in private doesn’t really hurt, does it? If it does hurt, then I’m a damn mess.

I didn’t shake the blues until two days later. I barked at everyone at home and at work, until my boss and I had this great conversation about “kitchen envy” and trying to put things in perspective. She loves to cook but has a small apartment with a small kitchen. Yet some of her friends will post photos on Facebook of their gorgeous homes and kitchens and my boss will drool a bit over them. But she reminds herself that she has a small place with that horrible orange countertop so she can have decent vacations and save for a good retirement on the small salary that she makes.

Perspective. Again. I keep having to remind myself that it’s about perspective.

I do live a small life in a small town in a small state. But I also live in a lovely town in a gorgeoudscn3538s state. My family and I took a walk in the Bangor City Forest this weekend, to attempt to “leave town” but also in payment for a promise that we’d do something together OUTSIDE. It was one of the best days I’ve had in weeks. I watched my kid kick butt on the soccer field, I got to walk in the crisp air with the trees falling from the trees with my family around me, then I stuffed myself with sushi and rice noodles and tea. It was a good day. A BIG day in my little life.

Does this mean I don’t want to travel with my family (or without them) or fly off and run a race in another state? No, of course not. I yearn to take my child to San Francisco, a place I’ve always loved, or to go to Seattle, a place I’ve never been but desperately want to go to. I’m not into racing much these days, but I’d love to do the Brain Freezer 5K again, for sure! (No alcohol, but ice cream and possible vomiting.) But for this day, for right now, I didn’t need to buy an expensive gadget or travel to another state to have a great day. I just needed to look around and realize and appreciate the wonderments I had right in front of me.

 

 

 

Becoming My Mother

motherdaughterThere’s no doubt I am a lot like my mother. We look alike in some ways, have many of the same mannerisms, same obsession about making things neat, same love of vanilla ice cream. As I watch my mother’s mind deteriorate, I can’t help but wonder if we will also share the same fate.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, particularly in the last month when my husband found my vitamins in the refrigerator. I’ve also had more of those moments when I just cannot grasp that one word I’m looking for. Do you know what I mean? You’re having a conversation with someone and all of a sudden you draw a blank on that one specific word. You haven’t lost the thread of the conversation (yet) but you can’t think of that one friggin’ word.

I often find myself in this situation when it comes to naming actors. I’ll be talking with a library patron about a particular movie and if I can’t remember the actor’s name, I start googling the other film titles I can remember just to narrow down the possible name. It drives me bananas!

And then on Friday, I got this weird vision impairment thing for a few minutes and it made me stop and think, “Shit. Do I need to go to a neurologist, too, and find out if my brain is already going wacky?” Maybe. Maybe I need to be a little cautious and make sure I’m ok. And maybe I’m just freaking out about my mom and worried that I’m following down the same exact path she did.

My sister and I often talk about how doomed we are. On nearly every branch of our family tree, a female member had dementia or Alzheimer’s disease–both of our grandmothers, at least one of our great grandmothers, and all three of our aunts. This past weekend there was an incident with my mom, and I asked my sister, “Is this what will happen to us?”

Not only is it frightening to watch my mother go through this horrible decline of her mental and physical health, but to think that my sister and I may have to go through it, too. Will my son be on the other end of the phone line, listening to me cry in confusion and frustration, just like I listened to my mother? Will he have to take me to my doctor’s appointments and tell them what is really going on in my life, because I have no memory of what happened the day before?  The thought of putting him through all of that gives me a belly ache. And yet, I am already turning to my 8-year-old son and saying, “Bri, what’s the name of that song? You know, the one with the guy that loves the girl?”

I can only hope that in the future, I’ll realize my decline, realize that I could harm myself or someone else. Having someone tell you that your memory is getting worse, doesn’t always do the trick. It makes you want to prove them wrong. Admitting that your mind isn’t what it used to be is a *very* difficult thing to do, and when you fear losing your independence, it’s nearly impossible. I can only hope that I’ll have the courage to admit to myself and to others when my mind is failing, and get help before I lose my chance to make my own choices.

This is what I fear for my mother. I want her to still be able to make whatever choices she wants to, to make her life her own. But things are getting more and more difficult and I feel like her time is running out to make those choices. We had several conversations in the past and papers have been signed, but not everything has been said. There are still things to be done and decisions to be made.

But…not yet.

Right now it’s just time to take deep breaths, to stay calm.

And to hope.

I no longer know what to hope for, but hoping for something good seems like the way to go.

So let’s do it. Let’s hope for good and see what happens.

 

 

 

The Memory Game

Did you ever play Memory as a kid? I always loved it when I could remember where that one matching card was, especially that damn red apple. If I played with other people, I, of course, would want to win and would just hate it if someone beat me. And then, as an adult, I played with my little boy. All I wanted was for him to win, to feel good about himself. I never “let” him win, though. I would try to send him telepathic messages, telling him where the fish was or the beach ball, but rarely did that work.

memory

Last week, I took my mother to the neurologist, to play a new kind of memory game. I again found myself willing someone else to “win,” telepathically sending her words that began with the letter “F” and giving her numbers to count backwards with.

It was extremely difficult to watch. With each question, Mom was getting more and more frustrated and very tired. She would cover her eyes with one hand then rub her forehead and let out a big sigh.

My siblings and I know that sigh VERY well. It’s her “I am so sick and tired of you and what we’re doing and the best thing to do is for you to leave the room” sigh. And that’s what I wanted to do. I kept looking at the door. Maybe pretend I had to use the bathroom? I wanted to run away from that room and tiptoe back to it an hour later.  That’s what I used to do as a kid and my “fight or flight” response was screaming at me to just leave.

But I couldn’t.

So I stayed. I silently mouthed to the doctor that Mom was getting frustrated. The doctor nodded and she started to ask Mom questions about her children and grandchildren instead. Just a conversation. It worked…for a few minutes. Then the doctor slipped in a few other memory questions but Mom caught on after a bit, stopped talking and just stared at the doctor. It was so unbelievably uncomfortable. The neurologist was getting “the eye” from my mother! I’m sure that woman would have burst into flames if my mother had anything to say about it.

Thankfully the testing finally ended, or rather the doctor stopped trying. She wasn’t getting anywhere with Mom, so she did a short physical exam instead. Funnily enough, Mom relaxed at this point. This was something she was used to, something she was familiar with.

Unfortunately, my poor mother not only has a hurting brain, but her body is a mess, too. She smokes and this doctor, the very first ever, told Mom that her lungs sounded horrible. I was almost happy she said it, although it’s not going to make any fucking difference now. She’s 69 years old and she’s going to smoke a pack a day. Period. Diabetes is also corroding her body–her feet, her legs–I had no idea things were so bad. I should have, though.

Once the entire exam was over, the neurologist recommended a few physical tests (MRI, EEG) that will need to be done in the next week or two. We won’t go back to see this doctor until April, but will hopefully have more answers before then.  She did toss terms at us like frontotemporal dementia and transient global amnesia due to mild strokes that might explain some of the strange behaviors my mother has exhibited. But nothing is really known right now, except there are serious gaps in my mother’s memory and in her ability to understand or follow instructions.

I don’t really know what will happen now. I’m relieved that we’ll have some answers to why Mom acts the way she does. Sometimes all this guessing we’ve been doing gets exhausting and honestly, it’s just foolish. My family and I can look at our grandmother and our aunts and get a very good idea of what’s happening, but still not have any concrete answers or facts. With these tests, science can at least tell us why she can’t remember where she put her teeth and possibly, how much worse her memory will get. Although I suppose we all know that answer.

You know, I have so many wishes swirling around in my heart right now. Wishing I would have made my mother see a neurologist four years ago when things started going wacky. Wishing I would have told Mom’s doctor about her feet when I got a glimpse of them last summer. Wishing that Mom didn’t need me as much as she does. Wishing that I could tell her how scary it is being her parent and that I’m afraid something is going to happen and it will be my fault.

And wishing, always wishing, Mom was my mom again.

Picture this

As I enter the yard, the lawn has been mowed and there are trimmed bushes in front of the house. When I walk into the small, but clean and organized home, there is no trace of dirt on the carpet or dust on the television. The kitchen floor is swept and Mom is at the counter whipping up a batch of cookies. Mom is a tall woman (5’9″ish), thin yet strong. It’s possible the house smells like cigarette smoke, but it probably also smells like chocolate and sugar and a hint of dish soap.

Now fast forward four years.

I walk into the yard with the overgrown bushes and am greeted with a trash bag on the walkway that has been ripped open by animals. When I enter the house, I see a rug coated in dirt and grass, and Mom, now 20 pounds lighter with the look of a frail wounded bird, is sitting in her favorite chair because her body doesn’t allow her to do much more. The kitchen floor is also dirty, and when I open the trash can to throw something away, tiny flies dart out at me as I try to slam the lid back down while covering my face. I can only smell cigarette smoke. Nothing more. Until I go into the spare room where the cat’s litter box is stored. There is no more clean litter and the box is filled with urine and feces. The cat has done the best he could with what he had.

I don’t cry. Not yet.

I sweep the kitchen floor and vacuum the rug while Mom tries on the clothes I bought her for her birthday. I scoop the cat box as best as I can and try to leave the little guy with something until I can get back during my lunch break with fresh litter. I talk to Mom for another minute before I have to leave for work. It’s obvious she’s in pain today. The dark half-moon smudges under her eyes tell me she’s hurting. She doesn’t complain, just states that she hurts. I give her a hug and tell her I’ll call her in a bit before I come back over in the afternoon. I take the trash out on my way to my car, and I have to hold my breath as I open the large trash can. It not only stinks, but maggots drip from inside the cover onto the garage floor. I stuff the bag in and try not to retch.

As I drive the 15 minutes to work, I take several deep breaths. When I get to work, I ask my boss to smell me because I think I smell like smoke and/or cat pee. She tells me I do smell like smoke….and then I cry. This wasn’t a “silent, tears streaming down your face” kind of cry. This was a blubbering, snot-inducing sob, while trying to tell my boss why I was so upset. Mom was actually doing pretty well that day. Her memory was decent and although she was hurting, she could still get up and walk around with her walker.

But…she wasn’t my mom anymore. I’ve known this for several years, but the great leap in those two images, the stark difference in “before” and “after” finally became real to me.  I know she is no longer the baking, clean-freak I grew up with (and became!) but is now an old woman who can no longer care for her home like she used to.

I am the person responsible for cleaning it now.

And I hate it.

But I think she hates it, too.

She always thanks me profusely whenever I go over and for some reason, I always feel a little guilty when she thanks me like that. Admittedly, if my visit is before work, I’m running around her house, cleaning up, not sitting down and chatting much, because I need to get to work (and typically this is after taking my son to school and running around my *own* house getting supper in the crock pot and doing laundry and who knows what else). I’m sure Mom can feel my tension but also understands my “I need to get his done” attitude, because that’s how she always was while I was growing up. I do know Mom appreciates my help, but I also know she’d give anything if she could do it on her own again.

And so would I.

Does that make me selfish or a bad daughter? Probably. But I have to be honest, at least with myself. B_wears_her_heart_on_her_sleeve_by_fangedfemut I also know I need to come to terms with all the changes. Over the past week I have had multiple emotional outbursts, some with tears and others in anger. No one has been immune–my family, my co-workers, my friends. I’ve either yelled at or cried on nearly everyone.  Wearing my heart on my sleeve is an understatement this week. I have felt just so….exposed, with every emotion I have felt being raw, painful.

 

I’m aware that the stress I have felt isn’t just from Mom’s situation but also from other health-related concerns within my family. Yet I have no control over those problems. I can only hope and send good thoughts and say encouraging words, but there’s nothing else I can do. But with my mom? I may not have control over the deterioration of her mind and body, but I can do little things like vacuum or sweep or bring her good food, and I need to take some consolation from those few things I *can* do. I need to give myself a break and not get angry or frustrated when I walk into her home and it’s not like it was a few years ago. This isn’t her fault and I need to stop acting like it is.

I need to remember that Mom is still my mom and just try to forget all the rest.