Trash Day

Tuesday night is trash pickup. So, when I got home tonight, I told Mama that I had to take out the trash and recycle. I got all the bags together and put by the light post in front. I did notice that someone from the apartments next door put a couch out in front of our house. Lovely. That'll be certain to generate a violation notice, and a phone call to the garbage people. Why the people who live in the apartments think that trash belongs in front of our house is beyond me.

Anyway, while I was putting a new trash bag in the can, Mama came out and...

"Is it trash night?"

"Well, yes, that's why I told you I was taking out the trash."

"Do you take out plastic bags."

"Just the bag, or full of trash?"

"Full of stuff I put in."

"Is it trash?"

"No."

"Why would I take out stuff that isn't trash?"

"It might be trash, but I forget what I put in it."

I have to check her 'trash' since once I found that about half the stuff she threw in the bag was her good knitting and sewing stuff.

Trash generates some funny stories around this place. A few years ago she informed me that she changed the garbage bag in the can because the other one "got dirty."

Dirty. A trash bag. Imagine that.

So, she took the dirty one out, put in a clean one and THREW AWAY THE DIRTY ONE.

A dirty trash bag, jeezus.

A fine Sunday morning in wonderland

I really slept in today and managed to stay in bed until 11:30. Nice long sleep. mmmm.

I heard the TV on around 9, so I knew she was up and about. I went down, fed the fishies, made comments about the fishies and how much we like the black one - a very cool looking cichlid. I asked Mama if she'd eaten and she said "yes, a little, not much." That meant she had a donut hole or maybe 2 or 3 coconut cookies. Ok, I'll make something that resembles breakfast. I got her pills out and put them on her table and told her that I was making something to eat. The old rule about not taking her pills on an empty stomach is still in effect, but... not in use. Erg. when I brought out her breakfast, the pills were gone. I just didn't say anything. I know she can't help it. Now I know, give her food, then give her pills.

So, while we are having breakfast, well, in this case, it was more like lunch -

her: hot dog and potato salad,

me: oatmeal! YAY! More oatmeal!

I turned on the weather channel to see what was up for the day. There was a commercial for these nifty gloves that peel potatoes and carrots and even APPLES! YES peeler gloves. About 1/2 way through the commercial Mama pipes up with this pearl.

"I don't like potatoes."

Then.

And then.

Yes, right then.

She took a fork-full of potato salad and ate it.

"Oh, then why do you ask me to get it for you every week?"

"That's because it's easy to make with a sandwich."

"But if you don't like it, I can get other things."

"I just like potato salad."

"What about potato chips?"

"And I like them too. I don't like most kinds of potatoes!"

"What about mashed potatoes?"

"Oh, I like those."

"So, you don't like potatoes except in salad, mashed, and chips?"

"I don't like French Fries."

"What about Tater-Tots."

"What are those?"

"The little nugget sort of things."

"Oh yes, I like those too."

Check yer sanity at the door, you won't need it in here.

A different definition of 'eating'

Mama takes pills. Like every other 83 year old woman in the universe. She's not on anything... outrageous or even out of the ordinary. Vitamins, aspirin, anti-acid, blood pressure meds, calcium, poop pills, blood pills, and my personal favorite... HAPPY PILLS! Several of the meds either NEED to be taken with food or it's recommended. Ok, so, she was getting indigestion A LOT, so I started to ask her what she ate for breakfast before she took her pills.

She ate 2 donut holes. Or maybe a few crackers. Like 2 or 3.

Uh huh. And???

That's all.

Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but 2 donut holes do NOT constitute "eating" when you are taking meds that NEED FOOD.

Ok. I found this out pretty long ago, and it continues to be a source of amusement as she can NOT remember that she needs to eat more than 2 donut holes for breakfast.

Sigh.

Last weekend we had this conversation after I put her pills on the table next to her and she proceeded to take them... Now I've been taking care of giving her the meds for about 2 years now. The eating rule has been in effect the WHOLE TIME. Right, now...

"What are you doing?"

"Taking my pills."

"Did you eat?"

"No."

"hmm... Ok, then why are you taking your pills."

"Because I'm supposed to take them, aren't I?"

"Yes, but after you eat. You know you are supposed to eat first?"

"Yes."

Ok, so I make her a nice biscuit with sausage and egg and cheese and general microwaved goodness. She took 2, yes I counted, 2 bites, and took the rest of the pills. Then announced that she was too full to finish it.

Crazy is my friend, he comes to visit often.

So, what the heck's wrong with her anyway?

Whew.

Mama.

That's a loaded word in this family.

Even when Mama wasn't going senile she was pretty, well, nuts. With Mama you always needed to keep your bags packed. Ready for the guilt trip.

These days she has small blood vessel constriction of the brain. Neat. What that means is that she has memory issues. Now memory issues combined with her slightly... well.. off personality makes for interesting times. It's amazing the things she remembers. Then the things she remembers but has genetically manipulated so it's sort of like reality. Then the things that she pulls out of thin air. The best though are the combination of clueless and manipulation.

For instance. This woman thinks that sweatpants are the greatest clothing every created. She has several dozen pair of them. Since she no longer attempts the stairs, and since there's not a lot of room for her clothing in the living room, we keep her stuff upstairs. Where she can't go. So, when she would like to wear some different pair than the ones she has on, Deb or I bring some down. No biggie, right? Ah, but here's how she asks. "I guess I don't have any other of this kind of pants. What do you call them?" "Sweatpants." "Oh yes, that's right. I guess I don't have any. The next time you go to the store, you could get me some."

Sigh.

"You have lots of them upstairs."

"Oh? I do? Well, I can't go up there so someone else will have to bring them down."

Sigh.

"Yes, what color would you like?"

10 minutes go by.


"I guess I don't have any sweatpants."

"Yes, I told you there are some upstairs and the next time I go up, I'll get some."

"Oh, OK"

10 minutes...

"Do I have more sweatpants?"

"URG GASP GARGGLE GAG GAAAAAAAAAA"

"Yes, they are upstairs."

"Yes, that's right you told me."

Growing Roots

Occasionally while I'm puttering around in Mama's house, I realize that I've spent a huge amount of my life living in that house. Mom and I lived in the attic for a while when I was pretty little. I spent most summers there, and after we moved back to town when I was in 4th grade, I spent weekends and after school time there. Living there now isn't the same, but I still get those moments of recognition. The sound of walking down the hall, the smell of clay dust, the bell on the stairs.

I moved back in with Mama and Papa the last time when Sissy and I started, ok, well maybe not started, but got to the point where we just could NOT get along. Mama's was always a refuge for me. A safe haven away from the crap in my life.

When the shit hit the fan with Sissy, I called Mama and she said that I should come and stay with them. That was about 10 years ago, and I'm still there. Things with Sissy certainly have gotten better and who knows where it will go. But, since Mama now NEEDS to have someone with her, this works out quite well. I have good things on both sides, and not always such good things, but overall, it works and has for a decade.

In the beginning

Occasionally when talking to mom about Mama, she says, "You should write a book." Well, ok, so maybe this is the next best thing. Even though I have other blogs, I'm going to stick to the subject of Mama (pronounced Maw-Maw.)

Living with an 83 year old woman who is losing her marbles can be interesting, taxing, annoying, frustrating, rewarding, but never, never ever dull. She has good days and bad, sometimes she can remember things perfectly, other times she can't remember what day it is or occasionally, who I am. There are days when banging my head against a wall would be more rewarding than dealing with her, but I've chosen this and I have to deal with it.

In the next few posts I'm going to give a brief history of living here. I'm going to try to inject a lot of humor into these posts because as my uncle used to say "if it's not funny, it's exactly what it is."

So here goes...