Flashback: Top 10 Most Annoying Things People Do (Part II)

Last week I reposted Part I of my list of annoying stuff folks do.  Here's the second installment, originally posted in April 2011.  (Rest in peace, Meemaw!) 

What are YOUR people pet peeves?

P.S.  Um, about #3...  This blog doesn't count as "in public", right???  :D

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Back again, folks, with more annoying things people do.  (Click pictures to enlarge.)

5. When caseworkers/gatekeepers of services are rude/incompetent.

One of my absolute favorite parts of caregiving is all the paperwork involved. I especially enjoy when I've spent weeks compiling required documents in order to gain access to some service that my grandma clearly qualifies for, yet the caseworker/receptionist person has neglected to do HER part, so I have to completely start over again with updated documentation.

I've been trying to get my grandma Advantage Waiver services (services designed to keep people out of nursing homes and in their own homes) through the Department of Human Services for a few months now. Her incompetent caseworker has been completely unreachable by phone, and the few times I've received a letter from her, it has a deadline for required documents that will expire in like, two days. If the paperwork isn't received by The Incredible Disappearing Caseworker by the deadline, the application is automatically denied and the case for services is closed.

It seems to me that the caseworker is setting it up so the application is denied before she ever has to go through the paperwork to verify everything. Less work for her!


4. When people ramble on with guesses instead of just saying that they don't know the answer to my question.

This bothers me because it's a waste of time. I don't know the answer, so I ask someone else. If they don't know the answer, I want to move on and find someone who does. I have no patience for listening to postulations and pontifications for what feels like an eternity. So you don't know everything. Let it GO!


3. When people cuss in public.

My son was 5 when he learned the F-word in a checkout line at Walmart. Interestingly, he heard it from another mother who happened to be cussing out her teenage daughter. Now, as I've mentioned before, the grandmas in my family let choice words fly on a regular basis, so my son has heard 'em all by now. (He is very rule-oriented, fortunately, so he doesn't say them himself.) So perhaps it shouldn't bother me when people cuss in front of him any more. But it does. And it happens everywhere--movies, sleepovers, the mall, restaurants. (Which reminds me again that I need to tell you about the Golden Corral Incident.)


2. When people call me too early in the morning(!).

I am an inveterate night owl. And I'm crabby in the morning if someone wakes me up before I'm ready. This happens most mornings. Usually it's a phone call from some doctor's office reminding me of an appointment (that I already have entered in the calender feature of my phone).

Sometimes I want to stomp on my phone.

Sometimes I want to stomp on my doctor's office.

My husband thinks it's ridiculous that it bothers me to get a call before 10am. He's all, "The REST of the world starts operating at 8. Deal with it."

He doesn't say this to me before 10am, however.


And the number one most annoying thing people do....


1. When people are cruel to animals.

See, I don't even PLAY when it comes to animal abuse. I don't keep quiet like I do in some of the other annoying situations. I don't try to confuse the idiots with witty banter. No, I create a physical barrier and face the bullies down.

I have no problem being labeled The Pet Po-Po.

I don't like punks who throw rocks or poke sticks at dogs in fences. I don't like people who harass (or watch while their kids harass) wildlife. I think people who torture grasshoppers need to spend some time in an inpatient facility.

And there you have it. A veritable guidebook on how not to get on my bad side.

You're welcome.

My grandparents: a love story

Have you ever wondered how I ended up living with my grandparents when my parents are very much alive and in my life?  (Surely you sit around pondering how someone as fascinating and together as I am could have had anything but a Cosby-like family growing up, right?  Totally understandable.)

My bond with Meemaw and Poppy started really early.  When I was 5 weeks old, my mom hurt her back while trying to get in shape for boot camp.  Her doctor said no lifting, so she stayed at home and I moved in with her parents.  I lived with Meemaw and Poppy until I was 5 months old.  That's prime bonding time, y'all.  My grandpa still worked long hours at the railroad back then, so I had months of concentrated Meemaw time.

And this is the only time my naked butt will ever be online. Meemaw always said she was going to show this picture at my wedding reception. She didn't do it, but I will in her memory. (*Raises glass*) Two cheeks for Meemaw!

Soooo big!  And back with Mom.

I lived with my grandparents off and on for most of my childhood.  For as long as I can remember, home was always wherever they were.  Sometimes I'd visit for extended periods, and sometimes, when times were tough, my mom, my brother, and I would all move in for awhile.  When it was time to move out on our own, I never wanted to go.  My mom wanted me with her, but I resented her for taking me away from Meemaw and Poppy.  I moved 11 times in 11 years.

I was 2 years old when this photo was taken at my grandparents' farm. My grandma wrote this on the back of it: "I love this picture. Isn't it cute? One sock up & one down."

I was 12 and had been living with my mom and brother for 2 years when I called my grandma to say that I would run away if I couldn't move back in with her and my grandpa.  Things weren't going well at home.  (Did I mention I was 12?)  My mom was a young single mom, and she wasn't receiving child support or parenting help from our dads.  She had to work full-time, and I watched my brother after school and some evenings.  She liked to go out, but my brother and I were scared to be alone at night.  (Back then, the Po Po wouldn't come after you for leaving your kids home alone.)  All in all, it wasn't a hard life.  There were no beatings or neglect.  I believe that my mom did the best she could alone.  But one of the hard truths of life is that sometimes our best isn't enough.  And even if it had been enough, it just wasn't where I felt I belonged. 

Mom and me.  You know this was in the '70s! 

My head looks strangely Oompa Loompa-ish here.

My grandparents were in their 60s when they agreed to take me in permanently.  They became my guardians, and I lived with them until they dropped me off at college.  I was far from a perfect teenager, but I was better for being with them.

I know it was hard for my mom--this bond I shared with Meemaw. But I think she said it best when she told me, "You knew where you needed to be." I've said before that my grandparents saved me. And I mean that.  If mental health care for children had been a common thing in the 80s, I probably would have been diagnosed with a mild attachment disorder.     

Because I'd had a tumultuous childhood, my love for them was the desperate kind. It's why I was so terrified of losing them. There are many benefits to being raised by older and wiser (and more patient!) grandparents. The downside, though, is that these "antique parents" have an expiration date. And it's usually long before most of your peers lose their parents.  I was painfully aware of this, and as they were the constant, the stabilizing force in my life, the thought of living without them was unimaginable.  It still is to an extent. 

But I know how fortunate I am for having had them for as long as I did.  They both lived to 87 years old.  They got to know my son, and he got to know them.

Hard as it was at times, I was blessed to be able to care for them at the end of their lives.  They never made me feel that I owed them.  But I knew that I did.  How do you thank someone for saving your life?    

Guest Post: Future Reflection

Below is a guest post written by my mom.
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As you all know, my mom passed on recently. She had come to stay with me. You probably don't know that I am an Empathic. I didn't always have that and I can no longer recall when it started. Funny, that. Anyway, when I worked at a local hospital, I found myself wanting to make sure no one ever died alone. Families go home. Sometimes they live far enough away that they can't be there and raise a family too. I think it may have been then that I noticed the energy zap caused by my patients who were actively dying. I would check the heart monitor for patients that weren't my own. Someone called me morbid. To my face... No tellin' what the untold stuff was. But all I had to do was look into the face of a family member who missed it after I told them how peaceful they went to know it was the right thing to do.

Even though I knew my mother was actively dying, she was gone by the time I got to her bed. She SNEEZED and that was it. I SWEAR. And I missed it! Besides the effects of the dementia, which had fast, fast forwarded, leaving her unable to walk, her falling blood pressure told everything. A lot of the time, there are other physical signs so maybe I was waiting for that. Or perhaps it was denial.

I had been staying awake until 3AM, just in case she woke up without knowing where she was. That night had followed a very restful day for her. Actually, I watched many of her deep wrinkles disappear. The day before had been a rough one. The hospice nurse sat me down and told me without asking, "You CANNOT overdose your mother with the Rx as it is written." I HAD been hesitant. Some of those heavy drugs can cause psychosis in some folks. She had stopped eating the day before. They kill your stomach when it is empty. I know this first hand. Hospice isn't my biz, so I did give her 2 of the 3. I never needed the 3rd.

She was peacefully letting go that day. I was hyper alert. Because in addition to this, my daughter and her family would be continuing the grieving that had begun when mom no longer spoke or would open her eyes. Many people to serve. As I said, it was a rapid decline. But I put relaxing music on and lit a lavender candle. I kept the lighting soft. Throughout the day I spoke with her. I told her to not be afraid. I told her she would soon see Dad coming her way to pick her up. I told her to run to him, that they had both been waiting for this day. I asked her to please kiss Collin for me and tell him that even though I get through every single day, I miss him being on earth every bit as much today as I did the day he died. I can still feel that absence in my physical body.

And yet, at 1:00AM, I became exhausted. I had had some severe body pain for 2 months that was letting up. I thought I was just wore slap out as they say in Texas. A good sleep at the end of a peaceful day, I was reaching for the lamp needing to sleep very badly. And she sneezed. And crossed over. I went to her. It was 1:17AM. I was in clinical mode and thought, "Wow! She's German. I wonder if there's some truth to the gesundheit thing." I did what anyone would do and decided to read up on it.

Of course you also don't know my personal spiritual beliefs. That's as it should be I guess, but one thing I believe strongly is that as Spirit, before our births, we have a hand in the life planning. Leading most of us to say, "If that is true, WHAT was I thinking?!". Don't bother to deny it... We know. And I thought maybe if God asked her how she'd want to go out, that it would have been just like Mom to say, "Like a fart in church." I think that God is a gentleman. Maybe He compromised with the sneeze. Both, after all, are escaping air.

Mother was also Jewish. They weren't raised as such as my grandfather was Catholic. So after I got beyond the superstitions, I found the answer. It's not only a German thing but a Hebrew thing too. So here is the answer. I trust you will find it as interesting as I did.

The following is a Jewish perspective on the custom: Although not technically part of Jewish law (Halacha), the custom of saying gesundheit, tzu gezunt, labreeyut, or bless you is considered a mannerly custom. It is written in the Talmud that the Patriarch Jacob was the first person to become ill before passing on. Before that, people would sneeze and die. When God infused the soul into man, He "blew it" into Adam's nostrils. Thus, when it came time for the soul to be returned to its Maker, it would leave through the same portal it arrived.

Makes perfect sense to me.

It's a good thing Catholics drink

Today was my grandma's funeral.  And I don't know how I feel about it.  I've spent the last week or so telling people, "I'm okay.  I know my grandma's in Heaven with my grandpa, which is where she wants to be."  And I do know that.  But that's not all I feel.

The early part of the grieving process is weird because shock plays a major role.  It cushions us from reality.  It creates a barrier that protects the grieving from facing things before we're ready. 

Shock is the grieving equivalent of diaper rash cream for sore baby butts.  The pain potential is still there, but thank God for the buffer. 

During the early stages of grieving, some feelings are like slaps in the face, while others are like wading through dense fog.  What happens in real time doesn't feel quite real.  And the memory of it slips away bit by bit like a fading dream upon awakening. 

Today doesn't feel real. 

Now, you might be thinking I need to up my bipolar meds.  And maybe you're right.  And I'm sure it won't help my case when I tell you that after the memorial service, we took my grandma's ashes in an urn to Golden Corral for lunch.  She was right there at the table with us.  She loved Golden Corral, and you know we have a history there, so it made perfect sense.

We had a deacon perform the funeral rite because our priest was out of town.  Another might-I-be-in-a-sitcom? moment was when I blurted out, "I don't believe my grandma's in purgatory and I don't think most of us even believe in purgatory anyway!" as soon as the deacon left the chapel.  He'd actually mentioned the possibility that my grandma might be in purgatory.  At. her. funeral!!!!  I couldn't believe it.  My grandpa was Catholic too, and there was nary a purgatory-related utterance at his funeral.  So it's not like purgatory references are standard Catholic funeral fare.  I don't know that I could have held that in for the entire funeral, so it was probably a good thing that the deacon left after his part of the service. 

After the service, I complained about the purgatory talk to my cousin and uncle.  I mentioned that when I saw the deacon at church on Christmas Eve, he asked me how I was doing with the loss.  I replied with my usual, "I know she's in Heaven with my grandpa..." comment.  And he hesitated for what was probably 3 seconds, but felt like a minute, and said, "Well, just continue to pray for her."  And I knew that purgatory was what he meant! 

In response to my complaining, my Uncle Craig dead-panned, "It sounds like the deacon must've known your grandma."

In case you are confused at this point, I'm Catholic.  But I struggle with some Catholic Tradition. (Like arbitrary capitalization, for example.)  Belief in purgatory is another Tradition that I'm just not down with.  And here's why:  Jesus already died for the forgiveness of our sins.  So why would we need purgatory?  (If you're a devout Catholic, it may seem ridiculous to you that I was offended that a Catholic clergyman mentioned purgatory at a Catholic funeral.  But see, my offense knows no denomination.  Catholic or not, I think it's annoying for purgatory to be mentioned at someone's funeral!  That's like saying, "She's in a better place.  Well, maybe.")

So that got me riled up.  I leaned over with a WTH? look to my cousin, Missy.  She had the same expression on her face.  Which made us both crack up, of course.  Which was totally irreverent and therefore, totally appropriate for a family gathering of my clan.

And then there was the music mix-up.  In planning the funeral, I'd requested Amy Grant's version of Amazing Grace.  When I showed up for the service, I was informed that the service coordinator couldn't find the song, so it would be Celtic Women's version instead.  No big deal, I thought.  And it started off fine.  Peaceful, like you'd expect Amazing Grace to be.  But come verse two, it got all, well, CELTIC up in there!  Not quite Riverdance, but still. 

And then Ave Maria was supposed to play as the good deacon finished up his part of the memorial service.  But it didn't.  I don't know what the service coordinator was doing back there, but she sure wasn't pressing Play.  So I encouraged the deacon to just keep going.  I thought we'd just skip the song, but apparently both the deacon and the coordinator had other ideas.  He asked for the song a second time and this time the music started.  But it wasn't Ave Maria.  No, it was an encore of Celtic Women's rendition of Amazing Grace!  And then it stopped.  And then it started.  And then it stopped.  And then it started.  It was like some crazed Irishman was trying his hand at skipping records!

This went on for a few minutes.  So I got up and went to the back of the chapel and said to the coordinator, "How about we just move on?"  The moment had passed, you know?  But she was determined, so she played it anyway.  As I sat through the 4 or 5 minute song, it was hard to keep a straight face.

I was a little afraid of myself at this point.  I'd planned the service well.  But the main players were not cooperating!  I wanted it to go PERFECTLY!  I wanted to finally be able to relax and just be present.  Not coordinating things.  Not fixing things.  Not worrying about the details.  Just being present.  And I felt myself fraying.  Going just a wee bit crazy.  Hence my "DOWN WITH PURGATORY!" protest.

Fortunately, things went more smoothly when they got more personal.  After the deacon left, I read my eulogy.  Laughed a little.  Cried a little.  Then I opened the floor for other people to share their Meemaw stories.  My uncle talked about how my grandma helped him walk again after the doctors threw up their hands at his polio.  My cousins talked about how they were scared of Meemaw while they were growing up.  That she threatened to swat them when they were kids!  And I was like, "What?!"  She wasn't that way with me at all.  At least, not until the past few years!  LOL! 

Also fortunately (for HER!), the memorial service coordinator got the third and final song right.  It was Wind Beneath My Wings by Bette Midler.

Even with the glitches, I think we really celebrated Meemaw's feisty spirit.  There was reverence and tears.  But there was also laughter and joy. 

I don't think she would have had it any other way.

      

Meet Tank

He's 80-odd pounds of drool love.  And he's spending the next couple of weeks with us to see if he's a good fit for our family.  He loves people and wants to get to know our lab mix Raven, but she's all I will CUT you.  We're hoping that's a temporary thing.

Nature Boy is super excited.  Tree Guy cracks up at Tank's snorting.  (He's not so crazy about the drool trails though...)  And I like Tank's wiggly butt and stub of a tail.

We're counting on Tank to bring some joy and laughter during this sad time.  My mom, GC Brawler, wants to meet Tank, so I'm taking him to her crib in a bit.  I'll kiss my grandma while I'm there too.  Hospice says it won't be long.  We decided to have an early Christmas this year.  We celebrated at my mom's last night.  Meemaw was able to open her eyes long enough to see me and Nature Boy looking like crazy folk in our Santa hats.  I hope it made her smile on the inside.

Please say a prayer for my grandma.  And for us.

Meemaw

I've got sad news to report.  My grandma is actively dying now.  Her hospice nurse told my mom that it will likely happen before Christmas.  As I'm sure you remember, Meemaw is naturally a feisty lady, quick to threaten to shoot you in the foot if you get on her nerves.  This geriatric badassness was still present a week ago.  She was getting physically weaker, but still had that essential sass that Meemaw is known for.

Not anymore.

She can barely talk or open her eyes now.  She has trouble eating and drinking.  A few days ago I told her I love her and she was able to say, "I love you too."  At that time, I knew that it was likely the last time I would hear her say it.  But I will always feel it.

When her husband, my Poppy, was dying in 2008, his hospice nurse told me that hearing is the last sense to go in a dying person.  Even when a person is in a coma-like state, he or she can still hear us.  I know that Meemaw knows I love her and am grateful for all that she's done for me.  But I'm going to continue to tell her every time I visit her.  I'm going to continue to share funny stories with her, so that even if she can't laugh, she'll be cracking up on the inside.  I'm going to talk to her about her husband.  Her husband who is waiting for her in Heaven.  The husband that she can't wait to be reunited with.

She's been saying, "I'm ready to go whenever the good Lord takes me," for the past few years.  I know she is ready.  And that does make it easier to accept that it's happening.  But it's still a shock.  It's still painful. 

I can't imagine a world without Meemaw in it.

The upside of dementia

Do y'all remember that I told you a month ago that my small but mighty grandma moved in with my mom? (It was necessary because of health and memory changes.)  After 30-odd days of never-a-dull-moment, GC Brawler (aka Badass Kas, aka Ain't Hearing No Sass Kas, aka Mimi) came up with the following:

Top 10 Reasons Dementia Isn't So Bad  

1) There is no such thing as leftovers.
2) Someone can really piss you off and you won't remember it.
3) YOU can really piss somebody off and you won't remember it.
4) If someone is talking to you and refuses to shut the hell up, you can just say something crazy to put a stop to it with no explanations. EX: "Have you ever thought about killing someone?" and "Where's a good place to hide the body?" Or, "Is lime still really cheap?"
5) Summer reruns are no longer boring.
6) People who repeat themselves are no longer boring.
7) Anti-psychotic meds are great sleeping pills.
8) Everyone you come in contact with seems like a new friend.
9) No one expects very much from you.
10) And, if you're any good at messing with people just for grins, no one will know when you lose it all for real.

When mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy

It’s Plank Pullin’ time! The one day a week that we strongly resolve to ignore the multitude of specks and sawdust around us and pull one bona fide plank from our own eye. Matthew 7:3-5 style.

Life has been stressful lately.  My grandma is no longer able to take care of herself, and the past few weeks have found me scrambling to make alternate living arrangements for her.  Just this week, the plan changed 3 times.  Whew!  Lots of phone calls, faxes, letters mailed, cleaning, packing, etc.  Not to mention the emotional roller coaster that accompanies caregiving in general, and end of life caregiving particularly.

As exhausted and overwhelmed as I've been, I realize that I am lucky.  Some women do every bit as much as I do in addition to working full-time jobs.  I can't imagine it.  I thank God for His provision, and I thank Tree Guy for working so hard to support us.  Without my husband's support, I wouldn't have been able to be there for my grandparents when they really needed me.

My grandma moved in with my mom (GC Brawler, below) two nights ago.  She declined so quickly that it was determined the move couldn't wait until its scheduled date of October 3rd.  The good news is that my mom lives in the same town as I do.  So I can still be there for my grandma.  We will hire a private caregiver to help. 

I'd always liked the saying When Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.  It assumes that Mama is the center of the family, the emotional touchstone for everybody else.  But I'm learning that that's not such a good thing when she ain't happy.  I don't want to be the reason my son and husband are stressed out.  Tree Guy is blessed with the ability to stay calm in stressful times.  He has developed the survival skill(!) of disappearing into the computer room or garage when I'm on a rampage.  Nature Boy is more affected by my stress level.  That's hard to avoid because he spends a lot of time with me.  Quantity time is usually a major blessing that comes with homeschooling.  But at difficult times, it also means that my son is stuck with me and my moods.  I try to arrange play dates with his friends to give him a break from the medical appointments and meetings and endless errand running.  But often he just has to tag along.    

The plank I'm pullin' today is the fact that I don't try hard enough to spare my family from my own stress.  I "let my hair down" all.the.time.  I'm a get-what-you-see kind of girl.  There are benefits to that--but also some downsides.  A bad mood or high stress day doesn't give me a free pass to take things out on my loved ones.  They are my support system and my joy!  They deserve the best of me.

Whether or not my emotional state is excusable/understandable/legitimate, I need to make more of an effort to deal with it in a way that preserves the peace and joy that I want my family life to embody.

And there's more where that came from

So much drama in the past week, y'all, but I don't want to scare you off.  'Cause I know you come here for the laughs and the Jedi Master-like wisdom that I throw out on occasion.

Two funny things happened today.  Nature Boy and I took a Mental Health Day and spent the afternoon at the river.  I must gush here and tell you that my precious boy spent most of this time rescuing minnows who were caught in the river-equivalent of a tide pool.  He ran back and forth with handfuls of little fish, taking them from a dried-up puddle to the river.  It was sweet.  I am so proud.

(Then he stepped on a sticker plant on the way back and was all, "And THIS is my reward for helping those fish!?!?"  He's like his mama.  More about the animals than the plants.  And with a flair for the dramatic.)

While Nature Boy was busy with his task, I sat on a quiet, peaceful little peninsula with my magazine--my magazine and a skinny, bearded old guy taking a nap on his laptop bag.  At first I thought he was an IT guy on his lunch break.  This assumption was disproven when the guy suddenly jumped to his feet and yelled, "MY B@ll$ ITCH LIKE A MUTHA%$#*$&!"  (Fortunately, he was well out of Nature Boy's hearing).  The guy continued with a stream of curses directed at all manner of people, none of whom were actually there.  Then he returned to his nap. 

I'm not saying there aren't some crazy IT guys out there (Shrinky Dink's ex comes to mind), but it was pretty obvious at second glance that this guy was homeless.  And psychotic.  So what do you think I did next?

I just went back to reading my magazine.  (I mean, it's not like he was talking to me.)

About 20 minutes later, the guy stood up again and repeated his tirade.  And once again I continued reading.  Finally, the shade was gone from his sleeping spot, so he left. 

(If this would've happened in my 'hood, or if kids had been nearby, I might have called the police.  But we were near downtown.  Therefore, I was practically in this guy's backyard.  And as I've mentioned before, I have a fairly big tolerance for crazy folk.) 

The second funny thing that happened today was, of course, a conversation with my grandma.  She informed me last night that she is not. going. anywhere. without. her. cat.  Therefore, that awesome place I found for her is out.  They don't accept pets.  And it was really the only non-nursing home option I could find that was affordable.  So she is considering going to live with her eldest son in Louisiana.

And I find that I am conflicted about this.

It's been difficult to be a caregiver again (my grandma lived with us for a year after my grandpa died in 2008)--but I don't want her to move away from me, to another state, at the end of her life.  I want to be there for her.  I just can't do it ALL.  And according to her hospice nurse, I can't do it where she currently lives.  (Her cat rules out moving in with us again because Tree Guy is allergic to cats.)

Here is my attempt at trying to persuade her to move into the place I found for her:

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Me:  Meemaw, I know you don't want to give up your cat.  You've had so many losses.  I really do understand.  But you've only had this cat for a month, and this is the only place around here that I could find.  If you move in with your son, you'll be moving away from me.  If you move to this place I found, you'd have to give up your cat, but you'd still have me around.  That's worth something, right?

Meemaw:  (Long pause....)  Well, I really do love my cat...
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LOL!  Well, that was an epic fail. 

And you thought Golden Corral was bad - part II

Read Part I here.  (You know you want to.)
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When the new manager of my grandma's retirement community said that whoever took the standing order for meal delivery should have contacted me when they decided there would be no more standing orders, I said, "You and your wife put the standing order in--," and he yelled, "NO WE DIDN'T!"  I was done.  So I just said, "I'm filing a complaint against you with your company. In the 9 months my grandma has lived there, I have never been treated like this by anyone." And he yelled, "You know what?! GO AHEAD!" And then he hung up on me.

Tree Guy, Nature Boy and friend, and I were on our way to dinner and a movie, but it was 7pm and my grandma hadn't eaten, so we stopped and got her some food on the way.  I took it to her room, then met my mom and husband in the managers' office to take care of bidness, because my grandma needs to eat!  And the huge amount of money she pays them each month includes all 3 meals every day!

And this is when it REALLY got nasty.

Mr. Anger Management was out of the office, so we went in to talk to his wife.  She started off by saying she hadn't been in the office during my phone call with her husband, so she wasn't a part of it.  (I'd heard her feeding her husband lines during the phone call, so I knew she was lying.)  I started explaining what happened with the meal mix-ups to make sure we were all on the same page.  When I got to the part about her husband yelling, she butted in to say, "Well, I could hear YOU from all the way across the room, so..."  My mom said, "Wait.  I thought you weren't IN the office at the time."  She didn't like being caught in a lie. 

(And I DID raise my voice--to tell the manager not to yell at me.)

But I wanted to get to the point, so I said, "The bottom line is that she didn't get her meals yesterday.  Your husband told me he'd been checking and--."  And she bitchily said, "AND WHOSE FAULT IS THAT, MISSY?!" 

My mom (GC Brawler herself), in her best white-woman-with-soul voice, said, "Oh no!  You do NOT condescend to any of us!"  No yelling.  Just some assertive boundary-setting.  With a Clint Eastwood glare.

So the woman threatened to call the police.  And we were like, please DO.  (Knowing full well that complaints about poor service do not constitute a crime.)

She called 911 and told the dispatcher that we wouldn't get out of her office.  My mom and I said in unison, "You never asked us to!"  We left the office at that point and took a seat in the lobby, waiting patiently for the Po-Po.


Sometimes you've just got to stop and ponder the ridiculousness of certain situations.  Let's. 


Absurd Fact #1:  A legitimate complaint about a meal delivery mix-up for an 86-year-old woman with terminal cancer at a retirement community somehow turned into a 911 emergency call for a domestic disturbance.  Because apparently this manager finds service complaints so threatening to her person that she needs someone with a background in criminal justice involved.  And the thing is, there were no threats, much less actual violence.  (If we're going to get the cops involved, we should have at least got a couple of punches in.  I'm just saying.)

Absurd Fact #2:  Someone called the cops on me and my mom. 

So we had this discussion:

Mom:  Well, I guess we're the first mother/daughter duo to get the cops called on us.

Me:  Nah, I'm sure there are plenty of Jerry Springer guests who've had that happen.

Mom:  No, I mean in our family.

Me (thinking for a minute):  Yeah, I think you're right.   

The crazy thing is that all of this could have been avoided had the managers said, "There must have been some miscommunication.  We'll fix it."  Instead, they yelled, hung up, and prevented us from making a new food plan for my grandma by calling the police instead of having a rational conversation to work things out.

In summation, these managers are nuts.

Not one, not two, but THREE police cars pulled up, y'all!  It was like The Dukes of Hazzard up in there! Only my mom and I couldn't jump in the windows of the getaway car (which happened to be Shrinky Dink's van) because Tree Guy, Nature Boy, and Nature Boy's friend had already taken off in it to go to dinner.  (Which makes sense.  Because the possibility of jail time for me and my mom shouldn't interfere with a good meal.) 

I met the first officer out front and calmly told him my side of the story.  He was understanding and told us that regardless if it's independent living or not, since they agreed to deliver the meals to her room, it's still on them if they changed things and didn't notify us.  (Sounds reasonable to me!)  Then he went inside to get the manager's side of the story.  When he came out he told us that our best bet is to call the parent company of the retirement community and file a complaint.  He said we can also call Adult Protective Services, but that because the meal delivery was an oral agreement, and the retirement community doesn't have any documentation about it, it's likely we couldn't prove anything.

The End.  He didn't ask for our names, our numbers, or for ID. 

All that drama just to get a couple meals delivered each day.  Those managers are just lucky we can't afford bail money right now.  Of course, I already have this poster ready for these situations...

On the upside, I haven't paid my grandma's rent yet this month.  We're paid up until the 7th.  Best believe we're moving Meemaw out of that mofo as soon as we can, rental contract be damned. 


P.S.  Man, this blog has totally ruined my political aspirations.

And you thought Golden Corral was bad - part I

So y'all know all about what's been going down with the caregiving situation, right?  Tuesday my grandma's hospice nurse told me that it's not safe for her to live alone anymore.  So I spent the past few days visiting places and making phone calls and researching "moving elders with dementia" online.  And I found a place!  It's a small residential care home that currently houses 3 senior ladies with mild to moderate dementia.  Nature Boy and I toured the place and spent about an hour talking with the owner, a senior herself.  This place has a good reputation and is exactly what we need.  God answered my prayers.

Of course I still had to tell my grandma about the whole moving thing...

Last night I went to her apartment to broach the subject, and I brought her some food because she's been complaining that her retirement community hasn't been delivering her meals the past few days.  (When I discovered a couple weeks ago that Meemaw is getting weaker and was just skipping meals to avoid having to go downstairs to the dining room at meal times, I arranged a standing order for meal delivery with the new managers of the retirement community.  It was a great solution.  And until the past few days, it worked just fine.)

Remember that I wrote recently that housekeeping hasn't been coming to my grandma's apartment?  I had to make several calls to management (their answer was that housekeeping WAS TOO coming, and my grandma must just be forgetting it) before it was discovered (after I found 5 bags of trash in her apartment and the same dirty dishes in the sink that had been there a week before--with the same food spooge inside) that housekeeping had, in fact, stopped coming by.  Her old housekeeper had quit and they'd hired 2 part-time housekeepers.  Both of them thought the other one was cleaning my grandma's apartment.  An honest enough mistake. 

Each time Meemaw told me her food hadn't been delivered, I called the office and asked the managers whether or not it had been.  (I thought maybe the meals were being delivered and Meemaw was just forgetting that she'd eaten.)  They assured me they'd check, but never got back with me about it.  So yesterday I called the male half of the new management team to follow up.  He got an attitude and said, "Look.  Every time you called this week, I looked into it.  She's got every meal she was scheduled to get.  She must be forgetting them.  And she calls sometimes 2 or 3 times a day for the same meal to order it.  So I know she's having memory problems."  That sounded likely to me too, so I assured the manager that I wasn't complaining--just trying to make sure she's getting her food, as well as trying to determine how her memory loss is affecting her.  That calmed him down.  I also told him about our planned move for her, and that we are aware that she is deteriorating.  I asked whether I should try to move her out ASAP or wait until the 1st of October.  I was informed that a 30 day move out notice is required per her rental agreement.  I thought it was all figured out.

NOPE.

Last night when I was at her apartment, I noticed there were no styrofoam containers or food trays indicating she'd received her meals for the day.  I thought it was possible that they were delivering the meals, but my grandma wasn't answering the door.  So I called her around noon today to make sure she was up and dressed and listening for the door.  My mom happened to visit at lunchtime, and lo and behold, no meal was delivered.  She went downstairs to pick up Meemaw's meal and was informed that standing orders for meal delivery are not allowed anymore, and that we'd have to go back to calling to schedule her meal delivery every day.  (All meals for the day can be ordered at the same time, so only one call is necessary.)  No problem. 

Then tonight my grandma called me to say they hadn't delivered her dinner.  WTH?!  I called the manager again.  He said that my mom was told today that there aren't standing orders for meal delivery anymore, so I should have called in to order dinner.  I said that I thought my mom's conversation with the manager at lunchtime constituted the delivery order for day and the man started YELLING AT ME.

Aw.  Hell.  No.

He ranted, "This isn't a nursing home!  It's independent living!  It's not our responsibility to make sure your grandma has food!  That's YOUR job!"  I very firmly (and with volume) said, "DO NOT raise your voice to me!  You told me yesterday that all her meals have been delivered per our standing order agreement, but now you're saying there are no more standing orders allowed.  When did this change happen and why wasn't I notified?"

And he kept on yelling.  He said the other managers (who've been there the whole time my grandma's lived there) made the decision sometime last week.  So I said, "If someone would have notified me of this change to our agreement, I could've been calling in her delivery orders every day!  Why wasn't I told about this decision?"  He replied that whoever took the original standing order should have known to contact me about it.

I agreed.  And guess what.  It was he and his wife who took the standing order!  The older managers had told me that standing orders weren't possible.  The NEW managers insisted it WAS possible, and proceeded to put a standing order in place.  So the way I see it, either he or his wife should have contacted me so I could make other arrangements for my 102 pound grandma with dementia!!!!

And this is where it gets nasty.

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So you gotta read Part II.

Aging: it ain't for sissies

So remember yesterday when I wrote that I don't post everyday because I want my posts to be of good quality, and at present, I just can't seem to churn that out on a daily basis?  And then I added that bit about not needing to know the gritty details of folks' everyday lives?  (Did that sound as pompous and snotty yesterday as the paraphrasing of it does today?)

Well, today Karma said, "Girl, you think you have it all figured out, huh?  Well, check this out!"  (Because Karma is a sassy African American woman, as we all know.) 

It was a rough day, and my BFF (who happens to be a therapist) Shrinky Dink is asleep, as all sane people in my time zone should be.  So I'm gonna write a therapeutic "good enough" blog post--complete with the gritty details of my everyday life.  Thereby contradicting myself. 

I submit that contradicting myself is okay for exactly two reasons.

1.  I am a woman. 

2.  I am bipolar.

And both conditions have changeability as a symptom.

Anyhoo, here is what happened today:

My grandma's hospice nurse told me that it isn't safe for her to live alone anymore.  

Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised by this.  My grandma was diagnosed with lung cancer last October.  She has COPD, still smokes, and has no intention thankyouverymuch of stopping. She also has congestive heart failure and has had at least 3 heart attacks.  And she's had several mini-strokes, and now has vascular dementia because of the damage caused by them.  Considering all this, it's amazing she's still as feisty (and vertical!) as she is.

As her caregiver, I've been doing everything I can to keep her living independently in her own apartment.  It's what she wants.  It's what I promised her I'd do.  She's had hospice care twice before, but "graduated" out of it by not deteriorating quickly enough for Medicare's rules.  Things have changed for her over the past month. 

My grandparents are on the far right.

Today was the initial evaluation for her 3rd stint on hospice.  I was told she will qualify, but because of her worsening dementia, I need to find her another place to live.  She needs to be somewhere where people will check on her frequently, will help her to the dining room, and will assist her with hygiene.  The hospice nurse said she thinks she's beyond the level of assisted living, but that I might be able to find an assisted living place that offers the amount of care she needs. 

As a gerontology student in college, I worked and volunteered in nursing homes.  There are good ones out there, but in my opinion, they are the exception rather than the rule.  I always told my grandparents that they wouldn't have to go to a nursing home. 

But I didn't consider that dementia could be a part of the picture.

Dementia changes things.  It's worsening.  And I know it's not something I can handle on my own.  With dementia, there are safety concerns, self-neglect, personality changes.  Sometimes when I call my grandma to remind her to take the medicines I arranged for her, she tells me she already took them.   I ask her to double-check, and she says she does.  The next day I visit her and the medicine is still there.  Increasingly, she hasn't been answering the phone--even though she's pretty much stopped leaving her apartment.  The other night I went to check on her when I couldn't reach her by phone, and I found her holding her bloody elbow.  She'd fallen.  Yesterday I called her to remind her about medicines and she told me she was sitting on the floor.  She never sits on the floor.  It's too hard for her to get back up.  I don't know if she fell again.  She's been weak lately, so I took her to the doctor Wednesday.  On Sunday she asked me when we were going to the doctor about her weak legs.  I reminded her that we'd gone on Wednesday, and that afterward we'd gone to the hospital for x-rays.  She didn't remember any of it. 

You might be thinking that the solution is to move her in with us.  We did that once before.  She lived with us for a year after my grandpa died.  It was an incredibly stressful year.  She was miserable.  We were miserable.  She does better in her own space. 

My grandma has always been feisty, but dementia has added a little meanness to the mix.  She yelled at me yesterday for cleaning her cat's litter box, even though she hasn't cleaned it once since she adopted the cat.  (My mom and I have been taking turns.)  Sometimes she's mean to my son too.  She's called him a weakling and she gets mad when we ask her not to smoke while we're visiting her because it triggers Nature Boy's asthma.  I once left him with her while I ran to get her something from the store.  She lit a cigarette and started smoking.  Nature Boy said, "Hey Meemaw, will you please not smoke while I'm here?  I have asthma."  She yelled at him, "Get your ass outside then!" 

Even though I tell him it's the dementia, it still affects him.  He's never known the sweet, nurturing grandma that I grew up with.  Because he's homeschooled, he has to go with me when I take care of her.  If she moved back in with us, he'd be around her 24/7.  He'd be affected by the things she'd say and do.  And by how stressed out I'd be.  And who would be with her when my son and I go to our homeschool activities, to the library, or to medical appointments?  Nature Boy has already experienced losing his great-grandpa to cancer in our home.  What would be the impact of having to go through that again?

So I'm going to try to find my grandma an assisted living facility.  She will fight the move.  I just pray I can find one that meets her needs.  I love her.  And the thought of her in a nursing home, possibly confused and afraid, breaks my heart.

Of elder rage, cat crap, and fisticuffs

I've had my suspicions, but it was confirmed today that everything and everyone on God's green earth is engaged in a conspiracy to prevent me from being relaxed and well-rested, thereby robbing me of the little youth and sanity I have left.  Seemingly unrelated incidents occur at regular intervals, perpetrated by both living beings and inanimate objects.  It's enough to make an already paranoid girl start considering life in a bunker.

Today's bombardment started this morning at the unholy hour of 7:30am.  "7:30 isn't early," you say.  "Why, by 7:30 I've showered, fed my family a home-cooked breakfast, run 3 miles, and done 2 loads of laundry!"  To you I say, Shut up and make me some coffee because you are now my personal slave. 

Anyhoo, neigh on half past seven, I was happily dreaming about chocolate and beady earrings or somesuch, when I was jerked to awareness by a loud, insistent WAHHHHHN! sound.  I surveyed my surroundings via the bedroom window, but the perpetrator could not be identified.  No sooner had I drifted back to dreamland, than I was again awakened, this time by the ring of my cell phone.  It was the animal shelter's veterinary clinic calling to tell me that my grandma's cat was scheduled for a microchipping appointment this morning.  I informed the perky human alarm clock that we'd been told that the new cat was already microchipped, and that I was certain that we made no such appointment as I never would've agreed to a cat drop-off time in the very middle of my night's sleep.  "It's okay," she informed me.  "I was just calling to tell you that we are out of microchips.  Please have your grandma call us on Monday to see if we have more in."

As you might recall, waking me up with a phone call is a declaration of war in my book.

The day went downhill from there.  At a homeschool-related event, Nature Boy got into his third-ever fist fight.  (But one of the three fights was purely self-defense, so that doesn't count.  And the other one was a smackdown with Shrinky Dink's eldest, so that doesn't count either.)  So let me rephrase:  Nature Boy got into his FIRST-EVER fist fight today.  But it wasn't his fault-ish.  According to my perfect angel, a boy he's never met before kept harassing him, repeatedly coming up behind him and slamming him on the shoulders and yelling, "HEY!!!!" in his ear.  (Have to say, I think fists would be flying if someone was doing that to me too, but I digress.)

Nature Boy and Can't-Keep-Hands-To-Self (his Indian name) happened to go to the bathroom at the same time.  According to my son, this kid pushed him out of the way to try to beat him to the last available urinal.  Not to be out-peed, Nature Boy got there first and set about his task.  While Nature Boy was in this vulnerable position, the boy slammed his back twice more (to which my husband Tree Guy says he would have simply turned around and spread the "wealth").  My son finished up, turned around, and did a slam payback.  (The fault-ish part.)  This did not go over well with Octopus Boy.  Apparently he started swinging, which prompted Nature Boy to throw up his karate block.  When the other boy tried to kick him, Nature Boy blocked with one arm and punched him in the stomach with the other. 

The other boy's story is completely different, of course.  His version is that he'd been merely tapping my son lightly, and that someone must have bumped into him on the way to the urinal, inadvertently pushing him into my son.  Then someone else must have slammed my son on the shoulders whilst he peed, and unfortunately Fingers Mancini was blamed instead.  (He was framed.)  Next thing you know, my son whacked him in misdirected retribution.

Now I know these things happen with boys from time to time.  And of course they are both going to have a different recollection of events.  I was okay with this fact until the other mom involved said, "Well, my son is the one who got punched in the stomach," and, "That doesn't sound like something my son would do."  Mmmkay.

I like this mom otherwise, so I will let it pass.  It's annoying is all I'm saying. 

Later, Nature Boy and I headed over to my grandma's to bring her some groceries and eat lunch with her in her retirement community's dining room.  The meal began with the usual overt staring and whispers from the "Old Heifers", as my grandma calls them.  (The Old Heifers are a group of crabby old ladies who sit together at every meal and stare and make rude comments about others via stage whispers.  They tap each other and turn, as a group, to look at visitors with disapproval.  Your hopeful smile is repaid with angry grimaces.  It's just how they roll.  More about the Old Heifers in a future post.) 

Lunch proceeded normally, but it ended with the senior version of bumper cars.  A sweet old lady at the table next to ours mistakenly grabbed the wrong walker.  The walker's true owner yelled out, "Hey!  HEY!  That's MY walker!  You leave that right here because I NEED it!"  I got up to rescue the woman and joked, "So you've resorted to 'car' theft, have you?"  "Apparently so," she replied.  The woman proceeded to attempt to walker-jack the mode of transport of several other residents enduring, "HEY!  THAT'S MY WALKER!" all the while.  I tried to help her find her walker (it was black, she said) to no avail.  I looked for room numbers and name tags on the remaining walkers until one Old Heifer yelled at me: "HEY!  DON'T TOUCH THAT!  THAT'S MINE!"  Surely by now every grey hair in the place knew I was helping the poor walkerless woman find her walker, so the uproar was unnecessary.  I told the cranky senior-turned-toddler that if she wanted to keep that walker, she best get to walkin', 'cause we were in serious need of mobility aids UP IN HERE!

Disclaimer:  Before somebody calls Adult Protective Services on me, I want to clarify that the Old Heifer knew I was kidding with her.  I know this because she didn't run away.  I mean, if she thought I was serious, she surely woulda hotfooted it out of there, right? 

The Case of the Missing Walker was finally solved when there WERE no other possible walkers.  The walker in question was the only walker left.  And it was BLUE.  Risking life and limb, I pushed the lone walker to the woman and asked if it was hers.  "No," she replied. "I don't use a walker."

WHAT?!!!!!

Come to find out, the little old lady wasn't looking for her walker, she was looking for her friend's walker.  That's why she didn't know what color it was.  Crisis averted.

After all the old folk drama, we decided to head up to my grandma's room to visit this new cat of hers.  He's a 7 year old white and cream cat, front-declawed as we discovered today.  He's super affectionate--exactly the kind of companionship my grandma needs.  However.  When I got there, he had no food or water in his bowls and the closet that's set aside for his loo was like one giant litter box.  He didn't poo on the floor, mind, but my grandma obviously hadn't scooped said poop all week.  I could not believe the amount of scat that cat begat.  The cat's scat smelled like a sewage vat.  (Dr. Seuss tangent!)

As Shrinky Dink well knows (because I cat-sit for her), I do not enjoy cleaning up after cats.  I'm a dog person through and through.  The scent of cat poo and pee makes me dry heave.  For real.  I needed a small shovel to clean up the poop closet.  Then I had to vacuum up all the extra litter that my grandma's cat felt the need to shovel out hither and yon.  All she has is a tiny stick vac, and it was not up to the task.  I had to empty that sucker 5 times before I got most of the litter cleaned up.  I couldn't get into the corners because the vacuum has no crevice attachment and I sure as Jello wasn't gonna get on my hands and knees and scrape up the errant granules.  (Not even for you, Meemaw.)

All in all, I spent 2 hours cleaning up the place only to be told at approximately 119 minutes in that my grandma's housekeeper hadn't been coming in to clean.  AHA!  No wonder it was so dirty.  Imma tell you right now, it was not the day to be found slacking on the housekeeping duties, y'all.  I got my sweaty self to the phone and called the manager.  He bodily tracked down the cleaning lady (bless him) and discovered that my grandma's apartment had been scheduled to be cleaned on Monday.  I took 5 bags of trash out that mofo, so there had been nary a housekeeper in there for a long time.  And that's what my grandma told me.  She said the housekeeper never comes.  I thought she was just forgetting, what with the dementia and all.  But now I think she's right.  The manager told me the housekeeper would come to my grandma's apartment shortly, so I left the dirty dishes and headed to the pet store for auto-feeders for the cat's food and water, as well as a litter box with a lid.  Finally, Nature Boy and I headed home.  

As soon as I reached the blessed coolness of our house (because our one working car doesn't have air conditioning), I laid down for a nap.  And I swear, a stupid FLY kept waking me up buzzing around my ears.  (Conspiracy!)  Then Tree Guy called to tell me that he was on his way home.  And immediately after we hung up, my grandma called me in tears saying she couldn't find her d#*% cat!  (She lives on the 3rd floor, y'all.  The cat's not going anywhere.)  I gave her a few more places to look and we hung up.  She called back a few minutes later to say that she found him in her closet.  Sigh.        

Tree Guy got home from work and being the wonderful, supportive wife that I am, I proceeded to tell him about my hellish day.  And he had The Nerve to balk at my assertion that people shouldn't be calling me at 8am.  He criticized my "night owlish" schedule.  (As if that's the problem.)  Right or wrong, I said, "Tree Guy, do you REALLY want to be starting stuff with me right now?  Are you SURE it's in your best interest?  I have been yelled at, shat upon, and lied to all in one day.  I suggest you just listen--silently."  He rolled his eyes and replied, "Whatever."  (He stopped the yapping though.  And he cooked dinner.  I'm just saying.) 

The rest of the evening went smoothly.  Until I called my grandma to remind her to take her bedtime medicines and she informed me that the housekeeper never did stop by today. 

Tomorrow?  It's on.

The misadventures of Henry and Bess

I love having a car.  I love the freedom to come and go as I please.  But I do not love car trouble and its accompanying expenses.

We have two geriatric Fords, both bought used.  Tree Guy's car is 9 years old and has 130,000 miles on it.   Ol' Henry is a little battered, owing to Tree Guy's propensity for backing out of the garage without making room for the side mirror.  I think the busted side mirror gives him character.  It makes him look a little grizzled, like Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino.

Ol' Henry has been a faithful guy.  He's pretty fuel-efficient, so he's become our main mode of transportation since moving "out to the country."  Unfortunately, the old lungs gave out a couple months ago and now he has no air conditioning.  This is a problem here in the South.  I don't hold it against him, but AC surgery would cost a little over $1100.  And with everything else going on (veterinary bills, renegade money borrowers), we just don't have it. 

We'd planned to put him out to pasture, at least for the summer.  Tree Guy has a work vehicle and I have my own car.  This plan worked for about a month.

Ol' Bessie is 10 years old and has about 115,000 miles on her.  Since she's my car, she's pretty dinged up.  It all started when this street sweeper jumped out in front of us in 2005.  Those things move fast, you know.  And then there was that time a stop sign fell on her and scratched up her shoulder.  (Who has a STOP SIGN fall on them?!)  Oh, and that time I was so eager to shop that I neglected to notice a metal bar blocking the entrance of my favorite thrift store.  It left an 18 inch gash on Bess's hood.  (Stupid bar.)  And let's not forget the time I ran out of gas in the middle of a busy street and a cop pushed my car with his to get me to a gas station.  It damaged the old gal's bumper. As if that wasn't enough, she also has a giant crack in her windshield.

Aesthetics aside, Ol' Bessie's had more than her fair share of mechanical trouble.  She's not fuel efficient.  She's needed several AC surgeries, brake jobs, hose repairs, and more.  We still don't have her lungs figured out.  The cold air flows smoothly for about 30 minutes and then her AC fan freezes up and we have to turn the AC off to let it defrost for about 20 minutes.  This is not enjoyable.  But some AC is better than no AC, so after a 5 month sabbatical in the garage, she's back in action.

Or was, until recently.

Now Bessie's got a little incontinence problem.  She's pouring what looks like transmission fluid all over the driveway.  My industrious husband checked her out and discovered that she is pretty empty "down there", confirming the transmission leak.  She needs some work, but with everything else going on, she's gonna have to wait in line.

With Bessie peeing everywhere and Henry's lungs messed up, I've been bumming Shrinky Dink's swagger wagon.  It's a sweet ride.  It's been well over 100 degrees down in these here parts, so the air conditioning is wonderful. 

In other old folk news, my grandma has been guilt tripping me lately about not coming to visit her often enough.  Apparently, having no AC in my car in 106 degree weather is not a good enough reason.  So I'm taking her to an ice cream social at the senior center today.  I'm lactose intolerant*, so this may not be a good decision on my part. 

On second thought, maybe the car ride home with Meemaw will be payback for guilt tripping me.  Bwahaha!    
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*Stay tuned for my poem, Dairy: A Lament.

Top 10 Most Annoying Things People Do (Part II)

Back again, folks, with more annoying things people do. (On a side note, making drawerings about annoying people has quite a therapeutic benefit.  Take note, Shrinky Dink!)

5.  When caseworkers/gatekeepers of services are rude/incompetent.

One of my absolute favorite parts of caregiving is all the paperwork involved.  I especially enjoy when I've spent weeks compiling required documents in order to gain access to some service that my grandma clearly qualifies for, yet the caseworker/receptionist person has neglected to do HER part, so I have to completely start over again with updated documentation.

I've been trying to get my grandma Advantage Waiver services (services designed to keep people out of nursing homes and in their own homes) through the Department of Human Services for a few months now.  Her incompetent caseworker has been completely unreachable by phone, and the few times I've received a letter from her, it has a deadline for required documents that will expire in like, two days.  If the paperwork isn't received by The Incredible Disappearing Caseworker by the deadline, the application is automatically denied and the case for services is closed.

It seems to me that the caseworker is setting it up so the application is denied before she ever has to go through the paperwork to verify everything.  Less work for her! 


4.  When people ramble on with guesses instead of just saying that they don't know the answer to my question.

This bothers me because it's a waste of time.  I don't know the answer, so I ask someone else.  If they don't know the answer, I want to move on and find someone who does.  I have no patience for listening to postulations and pontifications for what feels like an eternity.  So you don't know everything.  Let it GO!


3.  When people cuss in public.

My son was 5 when he learned the F-word in a checkout line at Walmart.  Interestingly, he heard it from another mother who happened to be cussing out her teenage daughter.  Now, as I've mentioned before, the grandmas in my family let choice words fly on a regular basis, so my son has heard 'em all by now.  (He is very rule-oriented, fortunately, so he doesn't say them himself.)  So perhaps it shouldn't bother me when people cuss in front of him any more.  But it does.  And it happens everywhere--movies, sleepovers, the mall, restaurants.  (Which reminds me again that I need to tell you about the Golden Corral Incident.)


2.  When people call me too early in the morning(!).

I am an inveterate night owl.  And I'm crabby in the morning if someone wakes me up before I'm ready.  This happens most mornings.  Usually it's a phone call from some doctor's office reminding me of an appointment (that I already have entered in the calender feature of my phone). 

Sometimes I want to stomp on my phone.

Sometimes I want to stomp on my doctor's office.

My husband thinks it's ridiculous that it bothers me to get a call before 10am.  He's all, "The REST of the world starts operating at 8.  Deal with it." 

He doesn't say this to me before 10am, however.


And the number one most annoying thing people do....


1.  When people are cruel to animals.

See, I don't even PLAY when it comes to animal abuse.  I don't keep quiet like I do in some of the other annoying situations.  I don't try to confuse the idiots with witty banter.  No, I create a physical barrier and face the bullies down.    

I have no problem being labeled The Pet Po-Po.

I don't like punks who throw rocks or poke sticks at dogs in fences.  I don't like people who harass (or watch while their kids harass) wildlife.  I think people who torture grasshoppers need to spend some time in an inpatient facility.

And there you have it.  A veritable guidebook on how not to get on my bad side. 

You're welcome.

My grandma says hi.

My grandma's doctor decided to admit her to the hospital for testing on Friday (her feelings about which are illustrated above).  He hoped that the tests would make clear why she sometimes works so hard to breathe, yet her blood oxygen levels are always completely normal.  It was determined that her lung tumor is taking up space in an upper lobe, and that makes her feel like she's not getting enough air (even though she is).

That makes sense.  And it sucks.

It's hard to be a caregiver.  Sometimes my brain is a big tumble o' guilt/anger/sadness/hope/frustration/fear/sympathy/resentment/loyalty/exhaustion.  The love never goes away, but everything else flashes in and out.

Caregiver whiplash.

A bleeping addendum

I've cooled down a little, thanks to my caregiving rant and two bowls of buttered pasta. 

As I was discussing my day with Shrinky Dink, I realized that there were moments that were actually kind of funny.  (As with OCD, crazy is only funny after the fact.)

Speaking of crazy, my overdeveloped tendency toward guilt is what keeps me from opening the flood gates upon you, dear readers.  You see, I've long been afraid to say negative things about old people because THEY MIGHT DIE AND THEN HOW WOULD I FEEL?

Prior to accepting the mantle of caregiver, I was under the illusion that all older people are nice and sweet and gentle and right all the time.  That fantasy persisted through jobs at a nursing home, a retirement community, a hospice, and as a geriatric case worker. 

What I finally learned is that people are who they are no matter their age.  Old age doesn't make a person nicer or gentler or more trustworthy.  (Did I mention the time an old guy slipped me some tongue?)  Many older people are wiser, but some are still the bullheaded, cantankerous churls they've always been.  (Not talking about a specific person here, y'all.) 

I think my belief in the superiority of old people originated from the love and nurturing I received from my grandparents.  I know I complain about my grandma now, but she was exactly what I needed growing up.  Loss and depression and illness and a little dementia have brought out some qualities that I never glimpsed as a child or teenager.  I just knew that my grandparents were my heroes.  That's why I decided to study gerontology in college.  I knew the need was there, and I felt comfortable around older people, so it was a natural choice.

Caregiving has grown me up.  No more illusions.  And I liked my illusions.

If I tell you what set me off today, you'll think it's funny.  And it is.  But it wasn't at approximately 5:30pm Central Standard Time.

Nature Boy and I picked up my grandma today and we went out to lunch.  Then we went shopping.  She wanted something more to eat, so I took her to Braum's.  They handed all 92 pounds of her a giant banana split.  And I'm not lying, y'all, she packed that sucker away.  I was impressed.  But wait!  As she pushed the remains of the behemoth away, she said, "A hamburger would have tasted better."  Sigh.  It is well known among my family and friends that my grandma complains about meals at restaurants EVERY.SINGLE.TIME.  It doesn't matter how fancy the restaurant is or how much money you spend on her meal.  It's never good enough.  I gritted my teeth a little, and she got her hamburger.  AND DIDN'T EAT IT!  Anyhoo, that's not what ticked me off.  That was just typical Meemaw.

It was a beautiful day outside.  We enjoyed the fresh air and sunshine.  Food, shopping, what more could a woman want, right?  The answer, folks, is MORE.  I picked her up in response to our typical phone conversation:

Me:  Hey, Meemaw!  How are you doing?
Her:  Oh, I'm OK.  Just sitting here.  Bored.  Nothing else to do.  Everybody has their own lives, I guess.
Me (ignoring the complaint):  What did you have for lunch?  Did you play BINGO today?
Her:  Some soggy fish.  No, I didn't play BINGO.  The prizes are things like toilet paper and hand soap.  It's just a waste of time.
Me:  But you were saying that you're bored, so I thought...
Her:  Yeah, it gets really lonely here.  No one to talk to.  Just the idiot box to watch.  It's depressing, really.
Me:  Well, that's why I figured you'd go play BINGO.  You can make friends with other women there.
Her:  I just didn't feel like going.
Me (changing the subject):  Well, I've had a busy day.  I'm about to go to the grocery store...
Her:  That reminds me, I need milk and bacon and ham.
Me:  I just bought you bacon and ham two days ago.
Her:  Well, I must've ate it all.
Me (saying goodbye to my peaceful solo Walmart trek):  OK, I'll come and pick you up.

So after a nice afternoon, we went to her senior apartment and as I'm putting her groceries away (and noting that she does, in fact, still have the bacon and ham that I bought her two days ago), she started melodramatically sighing and saying things like, "I don't know if it's worth living like this." 

And I'm like, What?!  We just had a nice afternoon and all of a sudden there's suicidal ideation?

My husband says that's just Meemaw being Meemaw and I should just ignore it. 

He's such a man.

A 37-year-old man, as of today!

Happy birthday, Tree Guy!  (I heart you, even though you have no clue about girl drama!)