PAPERLICIOUS

A Nursing Home Diversion (and a card)

Note:  Now that Mike is back home I'll ask him to take some photos while I demo the "dots" technique featured in my last post.  In the meantime, here's a card made with the same pencil over ink technique with a slightly different result (more on that coming) and the details on this card too when I have more time.

And the nursing home diversion:

Linda sits with my mom at meals.  A lovely woman who appears to have had a stroke, leaving her with the use of one arm and in a wheelchair.  Linda loves me and looks forward to my visits (which often occur during meal times).  I joined them last night while they ate.  You should know that my Mom's dementia lifted and she is doing much better for now and is completely lucid.

****

Linda:  Oh good, Joan is here.  I have 5 questions for you tonight.  Medicare and Social Security are ending on February 31st.  I need to sell my car to get money.

Me:  I promise you that Medicare and Social Security are still here and are not ending during our lifetimes.

Linda:  Oh good.  Everybody listen.  Joan says Medicare and Social Security are still here.  She's a lawyer so she knows this stuff.

My Mom (to me):  What's the name of that movie?

Me:  (???) Give me a clue mom.

Linda:  I have an account with Red Top cab and need to go out.

My Mom:  (to me):  You know, you know the name of that movie. About that lady?

Me:  The Help?

My Mom:  NO!  The movie with the husband and the wife and how the husband is doing something to her?

Me:  Gaslight?  The guy is trying to make his wife think she is going crazy.

My Mom:  YES.  We have a Gaslight situation.

Linda:  Are you sure about Medicare?

Me:  I'll look it up on my iphone (and I do).

 

Eventually, after about 5 more minutes of this, my Mom and I get up and walk out of the unit to chat alone.

My Mom:  Don't say anything about going crazy in front of Linda!!!!  Linda is going crazy.  Gaslight was my CLUE to you that she is going crazy.

Me:  Mom, I didn't need a clue.  I got it right away.

My Mom:  Oh, I didn't realize.  You have no idea what it is like to talk to someone who is going crazy.

Me:  ????????????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

 

 

Distressed Alcohol Markers Technique and an Update

I had an idea to combine Copic markers with Ranger Distress ink and posted it when I was the Flourishes' Limelight Designer over here. 

Beate Johns (supah star) from Splitcoast saw it and asked me to do a tutorial for SCS.  So the pressure was on.  I try to avoid pressure situations when it comes to stamping, but this offer was too good to pass up.  So after lots of trial and lots of error, I made this card to feature this technique.  LOVE this Waltzingmouse Roses in Bloom set (please join my campaign to get Claire to sell more flowers!) 

This is the perfect technique when you want bright colors with some easy shading, but don't like to color large open spaces.   If you want to read how I made it, please check out my tutorial on SCS today.

Thanks to Beate and SCS for the opportunity to share yet another way to combine paper and ink!

****

If you are interested in a life update, read on. Otherwise, I hope you are happy today.

My Mom has been in the nursing home for 4 months.  Since then, she

1.  magically can eat all the food (unable to use her false teeth in our house)

2.  no longer needs oxygen

3.  complains almost non stop about being there

4.  has normal blood levels for the first time in 5 years

5.  bonded with her roommate, who cannot talk or move much at all

Since then, I

1.  can sleep late on the weekends for the first time in 5 years

2.  can travel with Mike

3.  can stay late at work (and why that is a good thing?)

4.  don't have the sound of oxygen pumping through the house

5.  no longer have a household employee to pay

And no I don't feel guilty for feeling free. I am sad that my Mom is often unhappy but thrilled that she is in a safe place that treats her well and that that safe place isn't here. 

Mike and I took good care of her.  Too good.  She turned into a diva while she was here and I got sucked into meeting her every whim.  Still taking care of her as I did when I was a child.  I could see the neurotic dance of our relationship playing out every day but felt powerless to stop it.  My father's alcoholism and abuse taught me to be uber responsible for her, for the world, for everyone except me. 

But now I am one step removed from caretaker and sometimes simply do not know how to breathe.  But I do.  I'm not afraid to tempt the fates by writing that this is one of the happiest times of my life.  It is.  No, it isn't perfect.  There is stuff in everyone's life that isn't perfect and I have a list on that side of the ledger too.  But it is good. 

She'll be 90 next month.   I'll still be daughter.

Those Women in Polyester

My mom has experienced a rapid decline in her mental status and, after 2 falls, is now in a nursing home. 

We noticed a real decline about a month ago (as did she), but last week the decline accelerated in a manner that is nothing short of shocking -- a week ago she was at the hairdresser, watching football and reading the newspaper.  Today she can barely sit up, refusing her medication, and doesn't know who Mike is.  I think I know what is going on medically and it is beyond sad and not all that uncommon. 

We spent a little over 48 hours in a mad dash to find a decent home ** that would take my Mom (over 20 rejected her because she only has enough cash for 2 months of private pay).  The ones that would take her have a documented history of neglect and abuse and we refused to let her go to one of those homes.   The perils of living in a high cost area and the reason we have taken this step only when we had no choice.

We lucked out and one of the very best agreed to take her for 30 days (almost $9,000).  Stay tuned as the clock is ticking.

Despite this development, yesterday I got a good hard chuckle when my Mom complained in a very loud and indignent tone that "I have to get a cup of coffee from a woman wearing polyester." I guess somewhere inside this horrible mess, there is a piece of her that hasn't changed at all....

** thanks to those of you on facebook who listened to me as this was going on.

 

Distress Ink Leaves/Chatter

Die cut white leaves and colored them by rubbing Ranger Inks over the leaves.  Set aside to dry.

Now that was fun.

MOOD WHEN DONE = autumnal

******

We've entered what appears to be a new phase with my Mom.  At 89 her physical condition is stable, but in the last few months -- and particularly the last 2 weeks -- it has become clear that her mind is going. 

Sometimes she is downright out of it -- saying lots of weird things about football of all things. Does Peyton Manning really don a jersey with a different number and sneak onto the field, with only a few people realizing that he is playing?  Did college football adopt the Canadian football rules?  No?  I didn't think so. 

And just for the "record" -- all the clothes in my Mom's closet belong to her and I'm not wearing any of them.  And, no I most definitely did not take any of her money. 

It is evident that if this continues in this direction she will need to move to a nursing home.  We are letting this play out for now and I am going with her to her doctor appointment this week and then just see. 

It's almost like living with a stranger.  I miss my Mom already. 

She's Not Dying

Non stamping related! 

It's been a while since I blogged about my Mom, and I feel like sharing, so here goes.

She's not dying.  I know that sounds odd, but I've lost track how long ago it was that my Mom's doc said she had about a year to live.  We made choices based on that prediction.  However, like a lot of folks (especially women) in their 80s -- she defied the prediction.

In the past week, 3 friends' mothers or mothers- in- law broke a bone in a fall.  All are in their 90s.  All kept on ticking.  In fact, one reported that being in the hospital is "like being in a spa." Such spunk.

From what I've read, if someone makes it into her 80s, she has a better chance of living into her 90s than someone in her 70s has to reach 80.  Apparently, if cancer, heart disease, or diabetes doesn't knock you out by the time you are 80, you can expect to live a lot longer.  Of course there are exceptions to this rule, but statistically, it is true in the US. 

I used to think my Mom had some special hardiness, but there are books written on women in their 80s who bounce from one crisis to the next, seeming at death's door, only to walk out of the hospital leaving a pile of bills for Medicare to pick up and nurses and doctors shaking their heads. 

My Mom appears to be getting better in some respects, but seems older in other ways. The necessities of life are doing well -- the heart, the lungs, etc.  But the structure is failing -- the bones, the eyes, the ears, energy.  Frail is the perfect description. 

As I write this I can hear her TV blasting through her closed door (yes, the Giants!) reminding me that she still IS.  I often wonder if I would have kept my Mom at home, taking care of her, if I had known this was for the long haul?  I have no idea.  And, I'm glad I had no idea back then because I don't know how to make these kinds of decisions.  There's no degree in life.

Sometimes it is better not to know and just lurch from one decision to the next hoping to do the best by everyone in my life.  I'm doing best by her.  It's everyone else I wonder about. 

 

 

Project 100: 25/100: Miss You and some Mom News

Here's the 25th card I made for my college attending son.  You can find the others by clicking on Project 100 on the right.

See the subtle pattern of leaves? Used the White Ink Resist technique featured by Heather Nichols here.  In love with this technique. 

Take cardstock.  Stamp an image (solid is best) with white ink.  Let dry.  Brayer over it with ink. 

Used Stampin Up's White Craft ink, but any white pigment ink should work fine.  Produces a lovely faint background. 

Stamped leaves onto Kraft cardstock and then brayered a variety of orange tone inks on top, ending with a very light brayer of Encore Gold, which really makes it shine. 

After I had the background, stamped the trees and sentiment from PTI's Masculine Motifs in brown ink and then added a little bit of color over the trees with Copic markers.  

Here's another view (can you tell I like this card??)

Mood When Done = happy!

If you are interested, I have a story to share about my Mom.  Otherwise, have a good day.  Ok, a great day.

*****

Took the day off yesterday to take my Mom to her retina specialist.  She told me she was ready to hear the prognosis on her eyesight.  When she started losing some sight, I took her to the original eye doctor, whose only comment was "I can't do anything for her."  Notice he is talking to me, not her -- something that really angers my Mom.

I could not make the next appointment with the retina specialist, but the report I got from Mike was that the doctor didn't sound encouraging and he left her with a bunch of materials on equipment for low vision. Mike and my Mom tell me she is going to go blind.  My Mom tells me that she isn't ready to talk about it.

By now, however, it is all she is talking about and she wants answers.  Enter the daughter.

First, a technician asks my Mom a series of "yes or no" questions. 

"Are you still seeing floaters?" is the first one. One, two minutes later my Mom is still giving a rambling speech, which includes references to various TV shows, and I believe a rerun of the NY Giants winning the super bowl, when I say, "MOM, It is a YES or NO question."  More rambling.  I look at the technician and say "let's go with YES."  From now on the technician is only speaking with me!

Fast forward to the doctor.  I specifically ask for a prognosis.  He explains she has holes in her macula, that one eye is shot, but the other is not nearly as bad and hasn't worsened since the onset six months ago.  He tells me my Mom, "You are not going to go blind.  The sight you have now will not get worse."

I want to cry with relief.  I've spent the last 6 months imagining my Mom blind and near deaf in a nursing home.  I think it likely she will end up in a nursing home but I can't imagine how scary it would be if she could not see.

My Mom is practically doing wheelies with her walker. 

Mood When Done = Ecstatic x Two

 

High Finance

This is another in a series of stories about my life.  The first story is here and the most recent one is here.

Although the nights were sometimes too hot to sleep, I loved summer.  Waking up to the sound of a lawnmower and the smell of the grass, I'd reach for whatever library book I had and snag a few hours of reading before getting up. My father was at work and my breathing took care of itself. 

There was no schedule.  No day care. No play dates or teams or classes.  I think the boys had a baseball league, but that was it.  Just hanging out -- and by "out" I mean out. None of us stayed indoors.  We couldn't even if we wanted to.  Our Moms expected us to be outdoors all day.  At noon, the Moms would walk outside and shout our names, and we'd reluctantly go home for lunch, only to run back outside to play.

My neighborhood was built after World War II, specifically for veterans and financed by loans backed by the State -- interest rate 1.5%!  Yes a 30 year mortgage to pay off a house that cost $10,500. The houses were small and came in 2 types -- a 2 bedroom cape cod style and a 3 bedroom one level.  Ours was a cape cod and on the corner, so our front and side doors faced the main street, which wasn't part of the development.  Our neighbors all lived on the bordering street, and it was the bordering street that filled my summer days.

The houses were filled with families just like mine.  A Veteran, a wife and anywhere from 2 - 5 kids.  Evenly divided among Catholics, Protestants and Jews.  I was shocked when I got older and found out that Jews were a tiny fraction of the population.  Only two of the Catholic families sent their kids to the Catholic school. Everyone else went to public school.  So every summer I rebuilt my friendships with the neighborhood girls.

Nancy Lou was exactly my age and we frequently hung out in the brook behind our house, exploring skunk cabbage and blazing trails.  But one day we hatched a plot to make some money.  Cappies was a candy store about a mile a way and full of things Nancy Lou and I were dying to have.  Plus, nothing beat going to the movies.  So we needed/wanted some cash.

We decided to go door to door selling magazines.  First problem was that we had no magazines.  We each went back home and got a bunch of our Mom's magazines, put them in our wagons and met to plan out how to get rich.  We didn't have enough magazines so we went to a few houses and asked if they had any that they wanted to get rid of.  By then, we had a pile.  We walked all the way to the part of the street that began the curve -- that was as far as we were allowed to go.  She took one side and I the other, and house by house, we worked our way back towards our end of the street.

"I am selling magazines.  Would you like to buy one?  5 cents each."  5 cents was enough to buy a full size Hershey bar and seemed like a fair price to us.  Most folks said no but every once in a while someone would buy.  Mr. Carnan bought 4 magazines!  By the time we got closer to our houses, we forgot and tried to sell magazines to the same people who gave us magazines.  Oops.  At the end of the afternoon we each had about 50 cents.  Bingo!!  This was enough for a movie and 3 candy bars.  I ran home, wagon rattling behind me, ran in the house, screen door banging behind me.  Before I could hear my Mom yell "don't bang the door," I shouted "I'm rich!"  "Me and Nancy Lou went and sold magazines and now we each have 50 cents!" 

My Mom was sewing, As The World Turns in the background.  She looked up and the hum of her machine stopped.  She got up and went to the basket where Life and Look were supposed to be.  The basket was empty. "Those were MY magazines you sold.  I hadn't finished them."  Well, yes, but also some others that people gave us and now I have enough for a movie and candy!! 

"All right. Keep the money." 

MY MOM SAID ALL RIGHT KEEP THE MONEY!!  I took my money upstairs and put it in the drawer of the table next to my bed and counted it out several times a day until it was time for the movies.  The sweetest 50 cents I ever earned.

to be continued next Sunday....

The New Girl, the New Room

Continued from here . . .

I became smart in 3rd grade.  Turns out that I was a good reader and Mrs. Talmadge -- one of the few lay teachers in school and my 3rd grade teacher -- was friends with the couple that sold eggs to my grandparents.  Word went from Mrs. Talmadge to the egg couple to my grandparents to my parents to me that I was "smart."   This meant that, when I got home from school, I was allowed to sit in the living room and read.  The living room was quiet and sat unused most of the time.  My Mom said she needed one room that was always clean "in case the priest dropped by."  By being "smart" I snagged the sofa to myself and everyone left me alone.  Sweet.

Late in 3rd grade, Mrs. Talmadge announced that a new girl was coming. Liz showed up about an hour later in regular clothes.  It would take a few days before they found a uniform for her.  A new girl towards the end of the year was mind boggling.  We had a pretty stable class.  Not many people moved back then and this turned my world upside down. At home I had cut up 40 squares of lined paper and written the first names of every kid in the class.  Every day, after homework, I took out my Seating Chart Plan and rearranged it.  Sometimes I put all the girls on one side; other times I made two U shaped rows; sets of 4 desks pushed together, etc. I had a Seating Chart Plan well into high school. 

In reality, Mrs. Talmadge moved us around at the beginning of every quarter.  But now the new girl showed up and my first concern was where she would sit and where I would have her sit on my Seating Chart Plan.  Unfortunately, Liz did not sit next to me.  Somehow, desks were nudged and Liz ended up on the other side of the room, close to the teacher.  I was left to sit and stare and try and figure out who she was.  At home, though, Liz was next to me on my Seating Chart Plan.

We must have spoken before 6th grade, but I have no memory of Liz between the day she showed up in 3rd grade and 6th grade, when we became best friends.  In the meantime, I was lost in a world of school, reading, Seating Chart Plans, and my new room. 

My uncle was a carpenter and built out our upstairs attic into two bedrooms and a bath. So in third grade my older brother and I moved out of the first floor into our own bedrooms upstairs.  My room was lovely -- two closets with sliding doors and a built in vanity in between.  One window looked out the side of the house towards our neighbors' front yards and the other looked out towards the back yard and the brook and trees bordering it.  My Mom painted it in Apple Blossom Pink and made matching curtains, bedspread and dust ruffle.  We went all the way downtown and picked out a matching set of furniture.  Off white with gold trim.  I thought it was to die for. 

It was in that room, near the back window, that the crazy stuff began.  I've given a lot of thought as to how much to share on this blog and I'm not sharing much about it.  It isn't necessary to know more than what became the central reality of my life then --  my father abused me. 

What you need to know now is that you already know the end of the story.  I'm here.  A wife, mother, lawyer, daughter, stamper, blogger.  I live.  It was close at times, but I'm here.  In fact, I'm more than here.  I thrive.  I won. 

And how I won is the rest of my story.

to be continued (these posts about my life will be on Sundays). 

Rita

Continued from this post...

Rita and I did not live in the same neighborhood so I begged my Mom to take me to Rita's.  My Mom didn't like to drive much and didn't seem to go anywhere or do anything, so at first getting a ride proved futile.  (I never saw my Mom cook or bake or clean.  I'm not sure what she did all day, but we did have dinner at night so she must have cooked.  Mostly she sat in a chair with a cup of coffee, a cigarette, a bottle of Bufferin and watched soaps.) 

No ride, no Rita's house.

Rita and I cooked up a dandy scheme.  Rita lived in between church and my house.  So my Mom finally agreed to drop me off at Rita's after Church one Sunday and Rita's Mom said she would drive me home. 

I couldn't wait to get to Rita's house and debated for days what to bring.  My Barbie or my Shirley Temple?  Both had "cooked" clothes.  In fact Barbie had a grey wool suit with a squirrel collar that was a dead ringer for my Mom's grey wool suit with a squirrel collar.  On the other hand, Shirley had a Polish costume that my Grandmother made.  A blouse made from lace and a skirt with hand sewn ribbons all around it and a black velvet beaded vest.  I chose Barbie because I could comb what was left of Barbie's hair -- Shirley's was in a tight curl that no comb could conquer. 

After church my Mom dropped off Barbie and me at Rita's.  I got there around 12:30 and surprise! just in time for Sunday dinner.   Rita's Mom was "so happy" to have me and handed me an apron. "What's this for?"  "To keep your Sunday clothes clean during dinner."  Wow. And dinner was in a dining room and Rita's brother and father also ate with us.  I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw it was spaghetti because I was very very familiar with spaghetti.  And then dessert. A cake with separate plates for the cake. 

I watched while Rita's parents spoke to each other and to us, asking me all sorts of questions about my family and school.  When I told them I had 2 brothers, I took a quick glance at Rita but she didn't say a word about my "twin sister Jean."  Whew.  So Rita knew Jean was a lie and she kept her mouth shut. Thank you Rita!!  And that's the day "Jean" died!

Then after dessert we all helped clean the table and do the dishes.  Even Rita's Dad.  I had no idea families did stuff like this.  Then Rita and I were excused to play, occupying the front room for most of the afternoon until it was time to go.  A golden day.  Surely Rita and I would be best friends!

The day remains as clear to me today as if it happened yesterday.  It was the first time I saw a family  like the one on the Donna Reed Show  -- at least that's what my 7 year old brain thought. For all I know, Rita has a blog and is writing about how normal my life was and hers was a mess. 

I never played with Rita again outside of school.  While we remained casual friends in school, the friendship pretty much ended that day.  It wasn't until I was older that I thought that maybe she was waiting for me to ask her to my house.  She hinted about it once, but that hint barely made it past my ears as that was never going to happen.  Or maybe she just didn't like me all that much.  It was ok, though.  Eventually, a true best friend showed up. 

to be continued...

The Cooked Dress

Continued from this post . . .

So Holy Thursday procession was not nearly the grand slam for which I had hoped.  But, as every Catholic girl knows, First Communion is the big one, dress wise, and I had another chance. 

I knew I would get a new dress, but I figured that my Mom would make it.  Other than my school uniform, she made all my clothes.  I was too stupid at age 7 to realize how special those clothes were -- to me they spelled Boring, Plain, and Not Nearly As Good As Store Bought.

Ah, the coveted store bought clothes. 

Imagine my surprise when I did a memory check with my Mom last night. I asked her if she remembered why I wore a store bought dress for my First Communion.  She told me that she remembers that it was store bought, but couldn't recall why. 

And then she said:  I'm sure you asked for it.  I remember asking MY mother for a "cooked" dress, except she used the Ukrainian word for cooked.  She told me that when she was young, she didn't know the English words for "store bought," so she used the closest word she could think of.  Cooked!!  How her mother and many aunts howled when she said that!  And, amazingly, in the heart of the depression when money was extremely tight, my Grandmother bought my Mom a Cooked Dress.

I'm in second grade and not causing too much grief.  I was reading and doing my homework, raising my hand and eager to do well.  I was besotted with my younger brother, then 2, to the point that I would go up to the teacher's -- Mother Saint Zanius (I'm spelling it phonetically, not sure of her real name)  -- desk and tell her a story about him every morning until she finally told me enough already!  Undaunted I continued until she sent a NOTE HOME.  Ok, I get the message!!   My only other major breach of conduct was "talking in Church" and that merited a well earned brief taste of a bar of soap.  Learned that lesson! 

As we got closer to May and the big event, my Mom took me to the local shoe store, Buster Brown, which also sold fancy dresses.  And that's where I got my First Communion Dress and Veil and new white shoes and socks and gloves -- all cooked!  The skirt billowed out.  Puffy sleeves and a fake flower at the waist.  Perfection!  I twirled in delight and anticipation.  At last I would shine.  If you watch "Say Yes to the Dress" on TV, you'll have an idea of how it all went.  Big doings for a 7 year old.

We are in line by height - one line of girls and one of boys.  Fidgeting and excited, about to walk down the center aisle of the Church with all eyes on us.  My First Communion is half The Dress and half desperately wanting to be holy and end up in heaven. 

Behind me is Rita in an A Line dress.  In a home made plain A line dress.  I went for the kill.  Oh Rita, I said, look at my dress. Look how it twirls!  Look at the flower at my waist.  It isn't home made at all!  Rita looked at my dress, looked up at my eyes and said nothing.  We are marching in.  My head is slightly bowed as we were taught.  My white gloved hands clasped in faux piety.  It's my moment.

I am crushed.  I know that I've ruined Rita's moment and in that moment I've ruined my own.  I'm mean and I'm mean right before receiving my First Communion.  It's purgatory at least, possibly Hell forever and well deserved at that.  We sit down, Rita next to me.  My skirt billows out and I quickly stuff part of it under me.  I try to listen to the Priest, but it's in Latin and I'm too ashamed anyway.  Finally I take Rita's hand and give her a squeeze.  She looks up and smiles brightly.  All is forgiven.  Rita is a Saint.

After Mass, Rita invites me over to play on a weekend.  A new thing for me!  A friend! 

to be continued...