How I spent my summer vacation – the battles begin

 

Well Gentle Reader,

I told you about the trip home and promised to tell you the rest of the story. I am finally starting to make good on that promise. GenXers are all at that age when we face our ghosts through the end of our parents’ lives. I am not the first nor the last of the people I know to go through this and no two situations are the same. This is just mine.

and so we continue and bring Mom home...

I have finally arrived. It is a grey and miserable and the person with the key to the apartment is out shopping. I had a key to the building and left my suitcases with the neighbour as I unload a bit more and wait for them to return.

 

Tired, hungry, and needing to run errands and settle in before I go to meet with the hospital care coordinator tomorrow, I order some delivery food. Delivery is a luxury I can not do at home. I know confusing first I was calling Ontario home but now I am here Nova Scotia is home. Home is where the heart is they say but my heart is split. I am a child raised surrounded by green fields under thunderstorm skies in big cities. I have grown to love my ocean home too, but I do not have the rocks and pines for my roots or the Nor’easter winds under my wings like those born on the coast do. My whole life has been living in between worlds, daughter of immigrants and looking Caucasian but half of me was olive skinned and familiar with Arabic conversations. Now I live with one foot in the military and one in the civilian world but not completely a part of either.  

 

I called Mom and let her know I am finally here 3 days late and her credit card statement much heftier than it has been in years. She had a bad night early on and is miserable in the hospital. They are short staffed, and the room is cramped and dim. They have not given her a proper shower or brushed her false teeth in 9 days, and she wants to come home. She is spitting nails at them talking over her and not to her. It is definitely pneumonia, and it is aggravating her congestive heart failure but like most things wrong with her it is chronic pain and annoying but not killing her any time soon. She keeps saying she never thought she would live this long. She had a fever episode or bad reaction to something no way to know or maybe it was her witchy side sending her a message but one night while I was trying to get myself here, she had a waking dream full of hallucinations and all she kept saying was Amy is coming and she will get me out of here, she will rescue me. That is my job, the family pit-bull, I do the fighting, I solve the problems, I fix things.

The idea that anyone is telling her she can’t live alone anymore is unfathomable to her. I am standing by her bed trying to pay attention, but I misplaced my cell phone on the way out of her door and I am in a bit of mess trying to figure out a solution as I cannot log into work without it, and I really need what is on the SIM card not just a new phone. It is snowing outside, I had to borrow something of hers as my few bits of winter clothes were needing a wash from the trip making me fidgety as well. We got it settled that the meeting to release her would be the next day and she would have to hang in a bit longer. I went off in search of a new monitor so I could be set up to start work and had a nasty fight with the machine that releases you from hospital parking. Everything seemed to be a fight, and this was rapidly turning into a karmic bad joke or test I needed to pass. If it was a test, it was multiple choice, which have always been the bane of my existence, with no clear-cut right answer to any question.

 

Monitor bought, supplies laid in, especially the magic elixir of coffee, plans in place for what is to happen when, I can finally get a bit of rest before I get to armour up for the next battle. The occupational therapist was an awful woman and a bully. She had no business being in healthcare and I find it hard to believe none of her fellow employees had not reported her to HR for any kind of training related to being a decent human being like compassion or basic manners. I bit my tongue for as long as I could but when she directly scoffed at mother while simultaneously stripping the last of Mom’s dignity, I tossed her from the room with a blast of icy words and threat of formal complaint. I packed up the few things to come home the next afternoon armed with knowledge of how and when this would happen hoping I could get mother out of my vehicle at the other end without incident. We managed somehow although it was a bit of a feat and the coffees I picked up at the drive-thru mostly survived.

 

Safely in her recliner with a decent cup of tea and her tv remote in hand I went back to work for the remainder of the day. I had to hide her walker in the other room so I would not be dealing with any misadventures while I worked, and we seem to be getting off to a decent start. Once again, I was setting myself up for disappointment with my high hopes, but you take the good moments when you find them as they might not come around as often as you would like. She finally ate a decent supper for the first time in months, that is the other thing I do, I feed people. I am the family pit-bull and wishful chef. Somehow that dream slipped through my fingertips when life got in the way. I had to make a choice long ago. As always, I chose what was best for everyone but myself. Martyrdom was built into my genetic code. 

The doldroms and deja vu

The days began to follow one like the other with a routine developing. It was very much like caring for a large mouthy toddler. I had spent years learning to like my mother and she in return seeming to like me back and I was determined not to waste this time fighting with her. Previously I spent a summer caring for her after a heart attack, we had a couple of blow outs one of which I think shone a light on for her.

 

It did not change things completely, but the epiphany certainly had been the start of her understanding why I was the way I was and maybe, just maybe, a little less punishment and a little more appreciation came of it.

After that first day I did not have to brush her false teeth again until near the end and every morning I would make her breakfast, assist with her medications and testing her blood sugars, settle her in for a day of watching out the window in front of the tv. I would have lunch for her at noon, and supper as close to five as humanly possible. On the days I did not work there were errands to run and shopping to do. A PSW came every day to assist with things and fill in the records kept in the large white binder for the nurse or doctor when they came. Mondays and Wednesdays were shower days, every other Thursday was the cleaning lady who bustled around at mach 2 and did laundry. All of them were wonderful, some of them were pretty much family and she knew everything about them, their dogs, their gardens, their children, and other family. One of the PSW’s that had been with her since the beginning was very pregnant with twins and another, I ended up doing her taxes so she could get her provincial medication benefit and continue with her very, very, expensive medication.

 

Spring never did appear, we went from winter snow to tornado and heat warnings, humidity, and green leaves in the blink of the eye. Of course, the one aspect of spring was not skipped, and the budding of the trees put my allergies in over-drive while the chlorine in the water helped my eczema bloom as well. Living in Ontario was always a double-edged sword, my feet swell, my skin revolts, and my eyes run streams of muck. It did not stop me from spending some time in my happy place, the parks. Where she lives there are 3 wonderful parks along the river and I spent as much time as I could there to sooth my soul but it was not as much as my soul needed.

 

We would talk about the news, watch tv together in the evenings and I would help her get to bed each night. The antibiotics for the pneumonia had a nasty affect on her already tenuous gastrointestinal system. I found myself battling the sores she came home from hospital with, one refusing to heal and had flash backs to when my son was an infant. The pneumonia cleared as did the worst of diarrhea, but her strength was not returning. She was determined to get back to where she was, living on her own without constant care and send me back to my life. This idea was obvious to everyone else just a pipe dream and we could not dislodge it from her minds grasp. It was not long before she could not stand without assistance. Up until now I was just a helping hand to keep her stable as she forced her body to bring her to her feet. Now active lifting was required. She refused to use the lift built into her chair, thousands of dollars to have it to help her and yet she stubbornly refused the assistance not until she had no other choice.

 

She was the same with pain medication. After living most of her adult life with chronic pain she had learned to control it but that was not as easy to do now and really at this point fear of opioid addiction was ridiculous Tylenol was the limit of what she would take. It took a great deal of gentle pressure and pleading to get her to take any pain meds and understand this was her life now, there was no going back.

 

Nothing I said sunk in but when one of the other care givers, nurses, or doctor told her then it would - she hated hearing time and again I was right. I learned to hide the growing pain in my left shoulder and was careful not to blow out my right again. I never mentioned the tingling in my left-hand pinky and ring finger. I figured I would get to it later as it was not life threatening and what would we do if I ended up needing more then a few Tylenols myself?

It was bad enough to live with constant caution to not bring home covid to her thus limiting my ventures into the world more and more. Especially now I could not leave her for more then a couple of hours at a time as the water pills meant trips to the bathroom were frequent and her muscle control was all but gone. I could get an extra 45 minutes if the arrival of a PSW coincided with a bathroom trip just right but there were no guarantees they would be there exactly when expected. They were also my biggest option for some connection with the world too, so I looked forward to seeing them as much as she did now.

Time does not always fly 

Time flies when you are having fun and does not when you are not. I was living in a retirement Brigadoon that came out of the mist very early and faded back into the mist later then it should every evening. If I wanted any time to myself I had to be up even early (not likely as I am a creature of the night) or stay up even later. Easy at home but now I have the issue of a small apartment, all the inside doors always open, and even the tiniest light anywhere bothering her. If I went out on the balcony her open window was right there and I would hold my breath as I opened the door and screen then closed them again.

I had not lived this far up in a very long time, the view was beautiful especially at night. The practically perfect straight line of the horizon was not something we have in Nova Scotia. It was something I missed especially when there were fireworks. Living close to a water treatment plant I did not miss though. When the breeze blew from just the right angle, or the air was incredibly (neither happened often but enough) they aromas lofted up the hill to the balcony. Sewage and stagnant water from the evaporation pools hung in the forty degrees air dispersing through the extra 10 degrees of humidex and clung inside your nose. Luckily this was always followed by a shower (even mother nature felt filthy) or rain and a change in the breeze.

The green is greener in Ontario. Fields of milky emerald that rolled like waves in the breeze. Cool dark greens secreted in the trees and pale lime reflecting bright light from the acres of corn. All the colours seem more vivid and bright, sky and Lake Erie shores, sunsets, and velvet nights punctuated by stars. It inspired me to paint again. I needed something to be absorbed by the was mine as I was trapped in the place more and more now. I took art classes from the time I was little now I think about it. Weekends and summers I spent a great deal of time at the library art wing and later the Art Gallery on the river taking classes. I always threw myself into art class at school too every year. I was part of a great experiment in education back then, so I was lucky to get more and keep extras like art and music in grade school while all the other schools bereft of boomer children were downsizing or shutting down. High school I was incredible proud of my port folio and both my teachers the classically trained and the modern professional encouraged me to keep going. But like all good things that came to an end when life got in the way so, I revived it.

 

Some inexpensive water colours (more gouache than water colour) a cheap set of brushes and a pallete and I was back at it. I did not do a lot of water colour before, but I did do acrylic, so this worked out well. I eventually dug into my mother’s magic closet and dug out more items including her travel box / easel.
We call it the magic closet for a few reasons and one day I will tell you all about it. I found myself painting memories of Nova Scotia, flowers from the graveyard, and watching YouTube videos to remind myself all I had forgotten and learn more. Troubleshooting my frustrations and correcting my mistakes and mostly finding exercises to bring back my muscle memory in my hands, eye, creative brain.

And so Dear Reader,

I think it is time to stop here. I have some painting I would like to do and a few chores that really should not be avoided any longer. I will fill in more blanks later as I am able to get them down and coherent. Suffice it to say you should never complain about long boring periods of time. Find a way to fill it and appreciate the quiet because the tornado is coming, it always does.

First one in 35 years 

Motherhood, Mothers, Mother in Laws, Grandmothers

 And so Gentle Reader, we find ourselves once again with Mother’s Day rearing its head, testing our patience, and confusing our emotions. I have knowingly survived 52 years of any or all the above titled mothers to deal with. What a bizarre mind game it was/is.

 

Motherhood

That condition which you find yourself in whether you have given birth, adopted, simply taken in, or been adopted by another person in one of its various states of being, or have a pet.

Those loving people who dedicated themselves to you, or a pet, with unconditional love.

or

Simply found themselves in the state of motherhood and stayed present keeping you alive until you left.

 

Mothers

I am familiar with a few kinds of Mothers as we are all different.

 

Birth Mothers sacrifice their own identity and physical well being to bring you here as a person instead of the parasite you were inside of her. You were using up all her nutrition, brain capacity, and altering her body forever leaving scars in your wake before you came screaming into the harsh light.

While you were there everyone told her horror stories about death and pain and things that will never be the same in not a good way only to finish each story with “It is worth it” and no one believes completely.

 

Even before you are born your mother had to deal with her stomach being public property and every stranger trying to touch her/you. Anyone and everyone cooing and awing or staring trying to decide if she was just fat. She was no longer <insert name here>, she was now the “Little Mother” until she was simply Mom.  Her brain literally shrank and in some countries is considered legally insane until you are born. It is helpful if she has a murder in mind but otherwise not so much. She found herself stuffing awful things in her mouth to satisfy the weird desires masquerading as your nutritional needs which you hormonally demanded.

She thought of all these things over the next few years when you spat food at her, vomited and peed on her, developed rashes & injuries, and woke her up to the point of several years of sleep deprivation. She thought about how for those nine months almost a year of her life, her taste buds were bizarre, morning sickness, her squished and kicked bladder, hemorrhoids, stretch marks, and mostly how preventing sleep is used as a torture in places and it works or drives you mad. Some birth mothers also think about sitz baths and stiches in various places some very delicate and some very dangerous.

 

But now you are here, you may have been adopted, chosen from the litter, or inherited by a relative who is now your parent like or not, or ordered from the surrogate service. You are reeking havoc on the mothers and fathers that now have possession of you.

Fathers have their own day and their own issues many the same once you are a certain size and state of psychosis. Remember a skull is not even fully sealed never mind have a fully functioning frontal lobe for some time. Teenagers are all lizard brained while testing out new and scary personalities. They would rank more as sociopaths at that stage.

 

There are other kinds of mothers too and for them this day is very sad, and they avoid it. My heart goes out to those who have had a child die at any stage of life or motherhood. A parent should never bury a child, the only thing worse is to bury a spouse or partner, someone you have chosen to be with until death preferably your death, much, much, later in life.

Mothers who chose to give up a child to adoption are strong and rational and put themselves last in the decision, and always wonder, always. Mothers who have had an abortion are like this too and their reasons are all sound and good. Yes, they are mothers and yes, it is their business not yours.

Mothers of lost children never give up hope of finding them and are always terrified to find out their child is dead. As long as they are not found they are not dead just lost.

Foster mothers are important too, you are with them briefly or for a long time, you come with baggage and pain and fear often but no belongings.  They have photos and memory books, but they do not have a front row sit to the entire play that is your life.

My Mother 

I have talked to you about my mother before and she is in a category all her own. A conundrum of sorts, a puzzle never truly solved with secrets never known. Every girl struggles with their mother and every son has an adoration for her that becomes something quite amazing in adulthood.  Some girls become best friends with their mothers while some of us never stop feeling her eyes and hearing her voice even when she is not there, and it is not always good.
But I always revered her, and mothers’ day was never forgotten. It is in March in England and the tradition for our family was to give her a special fine china cup and saucer to add to the china-cabinet. I stopped doing this at a certain point and found new things that suited her far better and did not collect dust laden with memories of children lost. She however, made sure on my first mothers’ day I had a cup and saucer. Not fine china for the cabinet but holding a flower arrangement and the card read it was from my infant son.

 

Mother in Laws

They are gift that keeps on giving. Giving you back handed compliments and offers to help or teach you how to do something right, giving you surprises when something happens that feels sincere and maybe just maybe you have finally passed her tests.

As I said before daughters and sons have different relationship with their own mothers and mother in laws are a whole new ball game. That mother that made her daughter crazy all her life and still is source of pain will suddenly turn into a ravaging bear if anyone else but her causes her daughter pain in the slightest. That mother with the adoring son will test you for years and years, never sure you are good enough and always worried you will take her son away for good never to see him again. She is cunning and seems so sweet and helpless. All you can do is stand your ground, remember you have created a new family now that should come first and try your best to sympathise with her until the day (should it ever come) that she considers you one of her own.

 

I have had two mothers in law in my life, the first I will not discuss and the current I am happy to say we have reached détente. It was years in the making and is a delicate thing. It is nice to not feel so much like an orphan now my parents are dead, and I am happy we are at this point.

 

Grandmothers

Wow that is a strange bunch those grandmothers who have been there done that and lived to tell the tale. They fawn over grandchildren and sometime bring up pangs of envy and jealousy in the parents. I am an honourary grandmother and my title is crazy Grandma, so I am not confused with the other 2 bio-Grandmas. I have taken that remarkable boy into my heart and though I do not get to see him often anymore he is never far from me. He also has a brother now that I have never met but he is mine too whether he likes it or not.

 

 

There are other Mothers

I have not mentioned Stepmothers for a couple of reasons. Stepparents are either amazing people or horrid. Most would never realize they are a “step” parent because family is not about blood but how you treat each other. I have lot of examples to work with including a Step Monster of my own. I also have a father that was technically my “step” father but not to us.  He was the father of my heart and one of the last things he ever said to me was “Never let anyone tell you that you were not my daughter or I your father.” Some day I will tell you about him but not today, I have misted up with just the small bit here. Fifteen years since his death and miss him every day and mist up all over again when the memories are too close or vivid.

 

I am a birth mother, a gave a child up for adoption mother, a chose to end a pregnancy mother, an adopted by someone else’s kid a few times over mother, and an “I wish you were my mother” mother.
I was a single mother before I got married and I am an honouary Grandma now I also have pets that are just like children especially now my son has grown up and started his own life. I have friends that chose not to be a mother and that is okay too. For a long while I thought that being a mom was something I was supposed to be. I questioned if I became a mother for me really or other reasons. I am not sure I really was supposed to be a mom, but I took it seriously and did the best I could.
 

I must have done something right because I have a son that has good manners (including table) and a huge kind and giving heart. He is a good man, and he does the right thing even if that is not necessarily right in everyone’s opinion. He thinks for himself, and he questions things instead of blind faith. He also believes in Santa Claus because he knows Santa is simply the image that represents something far greater and can only truly be felt – the spirit of the season. He knows magic is just something science has not explained yet. He loves learning and values knowledge, truth, and facts. He is everything I ever wished for him to be and can only wish for more great things for him in the future.

He may have been a slow starter, but he has a long run ahead of him still and can catch up what he missed.

 

And so Gentle Reader no matter what kind of Mom you have or are or wish you were, you can still be a different kind if you open your heart. Everyone needs a mom; she doesn’t have to be the one you got by accident of your birth. She can be the one you chose, or you can be chosen. Just be the one who listens, does not judge, and knows the past is gone and the here and now matter most. I am also the kind of mom that feeds you full of food you love until you might burst – it is how I tend to express love. Find your language to express love and use it often.

Part II - First Monster Plants then flooding and embarrassment

 

Oh my Lord dear reader it was May a year ago when I promised you the rest of my first Nova Scotia gardening adventure. You must be terribly cross with me if you are even talking to me still.
I will attempt to woo you back with my promised sequel to the Rhododendron that ate Foxpoint.

Part II - Water features are not for starters

The one and only flower bed on the property was living mostly in shade, overgrown, and had the sump pump hose running through it. The hose would jerk and wiggle like an eel on occasion then you had to tromp through the garden to reattach it properly to the basement wall exit hole. It would vomit and belch ground water over whatever part of the lawn or driveway it was pointed at.

 

One sunny late spring day I worked up either enough energy or disgust to tackle it head on. With all my garden tools at hand, a chair to rest in, and some bottled water, I struck out to either revive or kill the garden bed. It certainly could not get any worse. I ripped out weeds, attempted to identify the plants that looked purposely planted and pondered the umpteen amazing finds beneath the surface.  There were 30 year old pop bottles, the original plastic pots some of the plants came in, plastic flowers very faded and mangled, mussel shells, beer caps, broken pottery, hard clay, sandy soil, vermiculite studded potting soil, degenerated red mulch, bulbs about to burst through into unknown plants, spiders the likes of which I had never seen, various curiosities in the form of insects, and the piece de resistance -black flies.

 

Now I am Canadian born but was never much of a camper so I had only been exposed to black flies in the legends and tales of the NFB, or late-night summer horror stories told by guests at BBQ’s. I knew of Northern Ontario black flies as big as hogs that would rip the meat off your bones and laugh as you went insane. All right, this may be a bit of an exaggeration but not to the people who have ever gone camping in Algonquin Park at the wrong time of year, that being when there is no snow.  But Maritime black flies are their evil cousin making the flesh-eating Ontario bird / insect seem like harmless sparrows. These nasty no-see-ums could get through the screen door when it was closed and hermetically sealed at the edges so you can imagine their delight at this silly Upper Canadian in shorts and a t-shirt exposing multitudes of fresh meat for the feasting.

 

I cleaned up the garden after a few days of work but the bugs got nastier with each progressing day. I divided the Hosta I dug up with several hacking downward strokes of the spade blade and unceremoniously dropped it into two new holes and replanted all the tiny bulbs that turned out to be flaming oriental lilies. I scavenged the lawn for all the violets and violas dotted around and scattered packets of mixed seeds for cutting and wildflowers. An epiphany suddenly struck me, the bright idea that I could build a make shift water feature that would put the sump pump to good use too.

 

You see there is one thing that grows better than anything else in Nova Scotia – rocks. I had big ones, small ones, gravelly ones, even boulders. I fitted them together as best I could in an artistic fashion trying to make it look as natural as possible and filling in the gaps with shovels of sand from the mysterious pile I had by the side of the house. It was my masterpiece and at the bottom a small empty pool waiting for the sump pump to fill it from cascading water burbling down the waterfall path I had built. The sump pump hose now securely hidden under a tunnel of rocks perched at the top, I settled in my chair for a break and waited. I imagined how the white violets and violas would look when they had filled in around the rocks, watercress crossed my mind and the mound of dirt that sloped away from my house partially planted and very lopsided suddenly in the bright sun looked like a garden from a glossy magazine. I do not sit still well and shook my head thinking I must have sunstroke with the ridiculous imaginings and check my watch to see how many hours had passed while I waited for the confounded pump to go off, it had been ten minutes.

 

Now I won’t say I am cheap, much preferring the word frugal but the dollar store people know me by name. That year I discovered another dollar store in a nook at the back of a plaza and they had more gardening ‘stuff’ than anyone else. I purchased four rolls of green edging just for this flowerbed and while I was waiting for the pump, I thought I should get back to work and put it in. I really had not been paying much attention to the edging and the waterfall / pool had been very spur of the moment so I got my first lesson in why you preplan everything in the garden. The end result of plans is a happier back, knees, arms, and all those muscles that you only use crawling around in the dirt winging it as you go. 

 

The edging was in tiny rolls that when released became giant snakes of unruly plastic that refused to stay put unless I held it there but my arms are not 25 feet long and I had not made a simple oval curve to the edge of the garden but had to have it dip in the middle didn’t I.  The edging had no feet or little spikes either so first I got a board and mallet and tried hammer it in a bit at a time. Well after about 6 feet the first foot popped out again and then came the hard clay area after was the lawn tightly bound with weeds so it was not getting hammered in at all. At least not with renting a large piece of equipment that would have shattered the edging long before I made a dent in the clay or weeds. Time for plan B, I got the edger and thought I could make a slot all the way round to slide it in. Jumping up and down on the edger furiously and toppling over repeatedly I realized I was not a good substitute for mechanical engineering and got down to dig with my trowel and pulled out the weeds. The narrow trench I dug was too wide at the top and seemed to further enlarge the garden considerable in some places the border became more irregular as I dug around the hardest places and it swerved back and forth but I do not like square edges or perfect geometric shapes in gardens so I decided this was even better. Except now the total linear length I needed of edging was shorter than the roll by a considerably amount. I would have to figure out how to join it at one side. Of course, there was still the edge of my waterfall to deal with, I had not planned on it originally and put it in before the edging and you can guess what came next - Yes, the rebuilding of the rock pile. If edging won’t go into clay, it was certainly not going into granite.

 

Of course, as I am putting the last of the rocks and sand back in place and I am standing dead aim in front of the hose the sump pump finally decides to go off. I had never really paid much attention to it before so I was quite surprised when after a small gurgling I was greeted with a thunderous splash of water forced up and out of a two inch hose and hitting me square in the thighs with ice cold water. I fell back and sitting on the lawn I watched as the water rushed over my rocks not even touching the top and forced rocks and sand out onto the lawn. My pool over-filling and the mud puddle around my butt growing. Up rooted violas floating along and my lovely pool full for a few minutes before it seeped away across the lawn and into dirt.  After a short, stunned, silence, I moved the hose to the other side of the garden and out onto a spot on the lawn. I decided on a dry rock waterfall and really wondered if water features were something I needed just yet. We have never seriously spoken of adding water features since.