Triscuits and Time

What's it like to spend time with an aging parent? Absurd, poignant, bewildering, and beautiful--it's a lot of things.

Photo by Kévin JINER on Unsplash

August 2, 2018, Thursday

Feeling defeated from visiting mom over the last few days I was not looking forward to visiting her yesterday afternoon but to my surprise and relief my time there was both positive and nearly smoke free. Even though mom was uncomfortable yesterday she was able to rise above the situation and engage without distraction or complaint.

When I arrived Jamie was helping mom from the bathroom to the t.v. room. Once she was settled on the couch I joined her there and we zoned out watching CNN and discussing our favorite Food Network shows.

“He’s good,” mom said of Bobby Flay, stubbing a cigarette into her soap dish. We also both enjoy Trisha Yearwood’s show. She always makes a huge cocktail or two and knows her way around a kitchen.

Neither mom nor I go for the childrens’ cooking shows and we both loathe “The Pioneer Woman.” “So corny,” mom said. I think all of the shows on the Food Network are corny but what elevates the corniness of “The Pioneer Woman” is knowing the harsh realities that afflict much of ranch life—the fields are dust, the cattle are starving, the bank has foreclosed, we give up, we must leave.

This morning mom and I watched some of the “Today” show and Rachel Ray. Mom was hungry and her appetite roamed toward something involving dairy. First she asked Anita for some cheese and Triscuits. Then, wait, hold that order, she wanted some creamy potato soup from Panera, a cup of milk, and Triscuits.

“Are you sure now?” Anita asked mom. “Yes, I’m sure now,” mom said. Anita returned a few minutes later with everything on mom’s tray, the soup steaming slightly from a mug and the cold milk making its glass sweat. A small plate held three Triscuits. Mom started with the soup and then changed course for the Triscuits, cracking one in half and then chewing her way through it, one wheaty, salty crunch at a time.

If I had closed my eyes I could have sworn that I was listening to Granny eat. It’s the same, exact sound. It brought to mind hearing Granny sniffle once after I had gone into her bathroom to get her some water. When I returned I half expected to see mom in the bed instead of Granny. Sometimes when I yawn it is mom I hear mom instead of myself. Maybe none of these echoes should surprise me but they do. I wonder when I hear mom yawn if I will hear myself.

When mom finished eating she wanted to lie down. I moved her table and tray and then settled her among the cushions and pillows on the couch. Then mom asked for the green blanket from her bed. I noticed that the overhead fan and the portable heater were both on. Is mom hot? Cold? A little of both? Who knows? Not me! I brought mom the green blanket from her bed and laid it over her on the couch and then left the fine-tuning to her and Anita.

August 6, 2018, Monday

This past Saturday morning mom and I talked about being ready for God and then watched the Barefoot Contessa roast some root vegetables. Would that being ready for God were as simple as a 1–2–3 recipe—preheat the oven to 350 degrees, clean and trim yourself, toss with olive oil, salt, and pepper, put yourself in the oven, and roast until tender. Done! The process, however, is invariably more complicated.

When mom said that she was ready for God I kneeled by the couch in front of her and held her hands, expecting her to cry and talk about the oppression of depression and the humiliations of a failing body. Instead we had an even-keeled, rational, realistic exchange about dying, the upshot of which was—mom may be ready for God but God is not ready for mom.

Mom seemed more resigned than sad about this. You know, it’s just the way it is, sigh—when it’s time, it’s time. Perhaps this perspective will endure or mom can tap into it when she is feeling down.

Mom was in the same accepting, relaxed state of mind when I stopped by yesterday afternoon to show her the brochure from an open house I had gone to earlier. I thought mom might like to see the brochure because Scott Tichenor decorated the home. “Oh, did he?” she said when I showed her the pictures. I had forgotten about their difficult relationship and bitter parting. But mom seemed to harbor no bad feelings. As if it would matter now anyway.

August 7, 2018, Tuesday

Yesterday afternoon mom was just pulling out of another sundowner slump. The depression is crushing. I reminded her that it will pass and then helped her from the t.v. room to her bed although her original destination was the sun room. Her bed is more inviting anyway with its cushy covers and stack of pillows. It’s like a giant marshmallow.

After situating mom on her bed I kneeled beside it and held her hands. She was cuddly and touchy. She pulled me toward her. She squeezed my hands and stroked my forearms.

I thought of Neville when he came home to visit Granny a few weeks before she died. I remember him sitting by her bed holding one of her hands as the other sought and latched onto the back of his collar and pulled him in close. He would lean over toward her and let her hand travel along the back of his neck.

I also remember almost crawling into bed one night with Granny because she kept sitting up and reaching toward my face. But soon after having dinner she fell asleep and I moved away slowly, gradually releasing myself from her hands and sitting back on a nearby chair. “Look, Ma, no hands!” I quietly said to mom sitting on the other side of Granny’s bed.

After about fifteen minutes I sensed a difference in mom’s state of mind. She began to talk and she talked about something other than her own misery.

Perhaps sundowning is like exercise for mom. She has always despised exercise. Unlike exercise sundowning is not optional but, like exercise, mom will just need to grit her way through it as it grinds its way through her.

August 13, 2018, Monday

Mom called early yesterday afternoon to see if I could come over because she was feeling down, the sun sinking lower than usual. When I arrived I joined her in the t.v. room and then we moved to the sun room and then to her bed. “This depression is killing me,” she said, “I wish it would.”

Mom’s stark remark was not as grim as it sounds, probably because of her candor and resignation. Mom is not coy about her wishes. She gets them right out there.

Mom’s eye wandered to her bedside table and settled on a small plastic bag of Triscuits. “That’s what’s making me go now,” mom said. That is unlikely. It is just mom’s newest theory to explain the recent regularity of her bowels.

Mom has always grasped for the cause of any physical or mental phenomenon, her rationale rarely making sense and providing only temporary satisfaction and no real solution. Triscuits work one day, or for a couple of days, and then they don’t. Or maybe it’s the pineapple that worked? Was it five pieces of pineapple or a pint? It seems like madness to me, and maybe it is, always seeking something to explain one obsessing mystery or another.

When I visited mom this afternoon she was feeling so-so, not especially up or down. She was nibbling on one of the chocolate chip cookies that Amy Spears had brought over during the weekend. “To Lady Breck From Miss America,” the yellow tag on the bag read. Mrs. Spears called mom Lady Breck because she always admired how nicely mom styled her hair. Mom called Mrs. Spears Miss America because of her beauty. Win-win.

August 14, 2018, Tuesday

Today mom and I made what has become our usual circuit—from the t.v. room (“I can’t watch this anymore”) to the sun room (“Jess is doing a beautiful job with these orchids”) to her bed (“I’m so tired”) and covered psychological ground that is becoming more familiar even as mom’s mind slips away.

“You are so lucky you did not inherit my blue moods.”

“I am so tired of fighting this depression, and losing.”

“I am ready to go and see Mommy and Daddy.” “I know you are.”

I kneel by her bed. We look eye to eye. Hers are half closed. She squeezes my hand.

This cannot last much longer. This should not last much longer. I hope this does not last much longer.

August 20, 2018, Monday

Last Thursday I picked up a new antidepressant for mom. It is too soon to know if it is working but when I saw mom Saturday afternoon she was feeling feisty about conquering the migraine she claimed to have had for two days and chuffed that Anita had not returned her calls about what medicine she could take for it. “We will have a talk about that!” mom declared Saturday. I am sure. She and Sylvia had passed the morning watching Trisha Yearwood.

August 31, 2018, Friday

Yesterday I was not feeling so great. I was just off and had a bad headache. But I knew that in visiting mom I was going to the right place.

If anyone would have something for a headache, it would be she. After chugging a lot of water and taking two Aleve from the value-size bottle on mom’s kitchen table I joined her in the t.v. room.

Because sitting up is so uncomfortable for mom she now spends most of her time prone on the couch in the living room and props herself up on her elbow occasionally to talk. Mom’s new antidepressant appears to be giving her a lift.

This may not mean the end of sundowning. But now instead of circling from the t.v. room to the sun room and back again, and maybe with a layover on her bed telling me how tired she is all the time, we have started to cover less self-involved, more far-ranging territory having to do with current events.

On the death of Aretha Franklin—“I could never go for that music, I’m sorry to say.”

On the death of John McCain—“I have seen so much of the tributes I could just cry.”

On the sweltering start of the hyper-branded U.S. Open tennis tournament—“Which one just had the baby, Venus or Serena?”

We also recapped the most recent episodes of Trisha Yearwood’s (two big cocktails) and the Barefoot Contessa’s cooking shows (savory meatloaf and apple crisp).

Before leaving I asked mom what she recalled of the Queen’s younger sister Princess Margaret. I am reading a fantastical, dishy new biography of her. “Chain-smoking alcoholic,” mom summarized. That is what I am gathering as I make my way through the book and its kaleidoscopic collection of anecdotes, quotes, and imaginings.

I would add to that assessment that Princess Margaret was embittered and unhappy, perhaps the reason for the numbing, obliterating effects of booze and cigarettes. Mom also remembered how she was not allowed to marry a divorced Air Force captain. He was already the father of two children and 18 years older than she. “Oh, really?” mom said. “Just as well.”

For previously published writing about my time with my mother, please see Fast Food and Back Rubs, Cookies and Cigarettes, Peace Plants and Passing Gas, and Diapers and Depression.

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