Momma's out and the battle begins - again

Well, what ever I had planned for today got blown out of the water. Mom called about 11:00 and said they were releasing her from the hospital. You probably know how that works. You sit around half dressed on the edge of the bed, waiting for the final IV to be taken out and the papers signed, the prescriptions delivered, word from the Hospitalist, a blessing from the pope, the right phase of the moon, find somebody to drive the wheelchair ….

Mom never misses a beat. When her room-mate went to the bathroom, she leaned over to whisper in my ear that the other lady said that I was an awful daughter … you know, I treat my mother “like an imbecile child. She thinks you’re terrible.”

I asked Momma when the lady said that - before or after I brought the huge fresh fruit plate and coffee that I knew she wanted rather than the hospital food. Certainly being a 93-year-old who is nearly deaf and refuses to admit to it or wear a hearing aid couldn’t play into it. She makes up what she misses - filling in the gaps with whatever seems fun - as in light-hearted and cute - at the moment.

So we left with a raft of new instructions for managing congestive heart failure and a batch of new prescriptions for the trip back up to Sky Peaks. The dreaded ‘home’.

Momma is a bit deceptive. Around other people, you could really mistake her for your ideal grandmother. The very soul of sweet compliance and good humor. Then there’s the real woman. The one who has three children - two of which have refused any and all contact with her for the better and worst part of the last 40 years. Don’t let anybody tell you that boys always have a special loving regard for their mothers. That leaves me.

Even sweet, elder regarding Natacha from Africa started to avoid ‘grandma’ after she got to know her.

Toxic isn’t too strong a word. Neither is passive-aggressive. Wait, that’s two words. Buying a Mother’s Day card is always a challenge - to find that one card that doesn’t assume too much. The big one that borders on civil - with a lot of pretty flowers and gold cursive writing.

It’s probably more universal than I know, that a 93-year-old woman raised on hideous food during the worst of the Great Depression Dust Bowl in Kansas will never, ever understand anything that I’m saying about good nutrition - or that the salt from a salt shaker isn’t the cause of her problems. That it just could be the 46% sodium content of the cheap frozen dinner. And the frozen corndogs. Or that the cole slaw that expired almost two months ago could cause - uh, problems.

I went ahead and set up the new pills in a weekly pill minder - after throwing out the old and out-dated prescriptions that were hidden everywhere - caps off. She is of the opinion that you take medication when you feel like you might need it, the doctors not really understanding what your problems are. She about came unglued when I wouldn’t tell her which pill in the daily A.M. slot was which. 

Me: “It doesn’t matter Mom, you have to take them all … in the morning, every morning.”

I can read between the lines. The subtext was to find out which one was the thyroid pill so it could be singled out and rest flushed down the toilet.

She: “Oh, no. Everybody knows you can’t take thyroid pills with any other pills! You show me which ones they are right now.”

She’s probably up there still fuming because I tossed every bottle of vitamins I could find.

She: “That’s right. Throw ‘em all out!  You don’t care. You think I’m stupid. Hey! That’s expensive! Why are you getting rid of all those?”

Me: “But think of all the money you’ll save, not buying snake oil.”

Especially all the ones containing potassium. Yikes. She really needs a little more of that from here, there and everywhere, on top of the prescription one. Talk about a quick trip in the ambulance.

Then I set up the daily log that the doctor wants for weight and water intake. It’s going to be major miracle if I can get her to do this. You see, a weight fluctuation of more than two are three pounds will indicate a problem with her lungs filling back up with fluid, and that’s a problem that could land her in the hospital again. She got rid of 14 pounds of fluid while in there overnight.

I bought some water bottles with ounces on them. “Oh, I only drink Diet Pepsi during the day and coffee downstairs” at the noon and evening meals. So much for getting her to drink more than a sip of water in a day.

As a final insult, I went through the refrigerator.

She ought to pay me to do this. Then I’d take that money and pay somebody else to do it, since it means going through a lot of science experiments.

Last week, a cousin of mine took her to Apple Hill for the day. Momma came back with bags of fruit. Enough for the entire Dust Bowl. It sat there, tied up in plastic bags, and rotted.

She: “That’s right. You just throw EVERYTHING out! Not all of it was rotted. There were a few good ones left in the bag. Let me see those.”

Me: “If it’s wearing a fuzzy winter coat, it’s going.”

I had my husband wearing a path out to the dumpster. I can’t throw any of it away in the buildings’ garbage. She’s gone and retrieved it after I left.

Tenacious little old woman.

Then there was all the ‘snacky’ crap. Huge Costco barrels of salted pretzely thingees, stale rugelachs, rock hard cookies.

She: “Oh, I hardly eat any of that. I probably haven’t had two of those since I bought it”

Me: “Then you won’t mind it leaving, will you?”

Scowl.

I relented on the really nice almonds from the farmers market - of a year ago.

Me: “Mom, the date is right on the package. See, 2009.”

Sigh. I sat and held her hand softly, and explained that I was doing all this in her best interest - just like she had done what was necessary when I was little to protect me from harm. That’s was a whopper. But you do what you have to do.

I know I’m not alone in this type of mother-daughter relationship. I’ve watched it happen with friends. We survive but are damaged nonetheless. If you think you’re the only one dealing with Anne Ramsey masquerading as your dear sweet mother, know that you are not alone.

I think a glass of wine, and a download of “Throw Momma From the Train” is just what the doctor ordered tonight.

-maven

Throw Momma from the train? Maybe.

This is still one of my favorite movies. It was a funny way of dealing with the truth: I don’t like my own mother. I’ve tried, but it just isn’t going to happen. She’s not Anne Ramsey exactly, but with each passing day she gets closer.

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