"Like S**t Through a Goose...or 'I have to go potty'.

Do not read this post if you are easily grossed out.  Because if you are, this might stick in your head for awhile.

So, I never really thought much about 'poop' before.  I mean, everyone does it, but how many of us consciously worry about pooping?

And then I started taking care of my mother.  Part of her dementia includes having to sit on the commode 57 times in an hour.  She doesn't actually have to go, but her brain tells her she does.  This can be particularly embarrassing in when standing in the grocery line.  You see, telling her that she actually doesn't have to go, doesn't pacify her.  She simply repeats 'I have to go potty' at increasing increments and louder volumes every 15 seconds.

On the brights side, some sweet soul will almost always let me move up to the front of the line.

Because we can't fit the wheelchair into the bathroom, I've set up a commode in the living room.  (No, not the dining room.  We do try to keep the fecal-oral pathway to a minimum.)  Now I can only lift my mother about 7 times a day.  That's about all my arms can take.  This is at odds with her 432 requests to get on it every day.  The worst part is once I get her on it, she doesn't actually have to go.  So after 15 seconds, she wants back in her wheelchair.  And once she's in her wheelchair, it's about another 45 seconds till she's yelling that she has to go potty again.

But the problem was, as many times as she sat on the 'pot' she wasn't poopin'.  Which, if you've ever been constipated, you understand.

Now her constant  litany increased to two statements.  'I have to go potty' and 'I have a tummy ache'.  Well, yes Mom.  I bet you do.  It'd rather be like having rocks rolling around in your gut.

Part of the problem is that she no longer can do an 'abdominal press'.  Yes, those are some of the muscles that your body uses to expel waste.  She also doesn't get exercise and her diet is made of soft foods.  Although I've tried to include some fiber heavy power hitters, like oatmeal and blenderized fresh fruit, it just wasn't doing the trick.

After 7 days I took her to the Doctor.  He gave her laxatives.  I gave her Senna tea.  I gave her prunes.  I gave her figs.

And still nothing.

Finally, last weekend, when I lifted her off the commode, I could see 'it'.  A massive piece of stool, blocking the way.

And I knew what I had to do.

I donned rubber gloves, swabbed liberally with baby oil and proceeded to dig 'it' out,  one tiny fragment at a time.

Oddly she didn't complain.  I would have been screaming my head off had it been me.

But gradually, chipping away, bit by bit, the big hard mass came out.

Of course, it was followed by a deluge of, well, you know what.

I will never again question the old saw 'like s#*t through a goose'.

So, that's it.  I'm hoping the problem is solved.  She seems more comfortable, even though she still yells 'I have to go potty' every 5 minutes.

I feel better about making her more comfortable.

I don't know why I'm sharing this.  I know not everyone takes care of their mother in her final times.  But if you do decide to, know that's not a bed of roses.  And you will undoubtedly do some things that you never, ever imagined yourself doing.

A glimpse of morning

I never knew the difference between Dementia and Sundowner's Syndrome.  And even if I did, I would have thought 'Sundowners' started at sundown.

Boy, did I have that wrong.

My mother greets me every morning with a joyous 'Good Morning!'.  It is genuine and she is happy and that makes me happy.

I change her diaper and lift her out of bed.

She begins asking about 'cafe au lait'.  I give her a cup (which is actually coffee flavored 'Insure').

I usually feed my mother her meals.  My husband was injured in Iraq when an IED hit his vehicle.  Because of his injuries, repetitive fine motor movement is difficult.  Holding the spoon hurts his hands. I don't mind.  I enjoy it.   There is something about feeding another human being that is nourishing to both parties.  I can look at her and she focuses on me.  That doesn't happen very often.

I fix her breakfast.  Today it was oatmeal with a fresh peach off the tree mashed in.

I struggle with keeping my mothers weight on.  Most of her calories are consumed at breakfast.  Once the Sundowners kicks in, she won't eat. A glass of prune juice, more Insure, pudding, bananas, whatever I can get in to her during this brief period that will increase her daily calorie count.

It's a race.

We talk about the peaches in her oatmeal.  I ask her if she remembers when my father planted the trees so very long ago.  She remembers, but doesn't really remember when.  She has forgotten my name so she just calls my 'pretty lady'.

And then, at 11:55 am, she is gone.  She begins to shout.  Mostly in French.  She yells at dead people.  She yells at me.  Her eyes grow dark.

And I know that my time with her is over and someone else has moved in.

I meant to get up early to pick blackberries, but something, probably a bobcat and hopefully not a mountain lion, was after the geese last night, so the priorities changed a bit.  Sleep before berries.

The annual summertime war with the kitchen-ants has begun.  Pies, sugar, honey, jelly, cobblers.  I would want to live here too if I were an ant.  I don't like to use poisons because of the pets, so I deal with the ants manually.  I had to throw out a box of powdered sugar this morning, but it was my fault for being sloppy.  I get hurried and forget to screw tops down tight some days.  Ah, well.  I can live with the loss of one box of sugar.

As far as the restaurant goes, I'm still waiting to open.  It sure seems like I spend a whole lot of time 'waiting' these days.  I'm waiting for the parts to come in for the prep bar.  I still have to scrub the floors and hang the menu black board.  And get the final inspection from the county.

One thing at a time, I guess.

A Bedtime Story

In addition to the farm and the herb shop, I take care of my Mom.  She has dementia, Sundowner's Syndrome and a half dozen other conditions that I don't fully understand.

But I do my best.

I brought her home from the nursing home because she didn't seem very happy there.  There were wonderful people, but treated the patient, not the person.  The person is my Mother.

It hasn't been easy.  I actually thought she would be happier to be home.  But it doesn't really seem to matter to her.

Some days are better than others.

She asked me to tell her a story yesterday.  Here it is:

Once upon a time there was a little girl named 'Edith'.  One day Edith went to the beach and she played in the sun, she played in the water and she played in the wind.  She played and she played and she played.  And then she was very tired so she went home to sleep.

The End

My mother liked the story.  I cried.

What Sort of a Blog is This, Anyway?

Huh. This is really turning out to be an herb blog, no? I didn’t intend for it to be. It is suppose to be a blog about caring for a loved one, while living on farm. Why then, is there so much about herbs?

Taking care of a parent is stressful. If you’ve done it, you know what I mean. Although it is an opportunity that I treasure, there are times when I want to pull my hair out. No, really. My mother has dementia coupled with a form of obsessive-compulsive disorder. Which means that dishes must be stacked in a particular order, coffee cups must be filled in a certain sequence and light bulbs must be rotated so that they all ‘wear evenly’. There’s more, but I don’t want to bore you.

Don’t get me wrong. She has her adorable moments. She gave me a head of broccoli for Christmas. And she lined up all the dogs and gave them lectures on personal hygiene the other day, addressing them as ‘people’.

But I found that the stress was ‘killing me’. Quite literally. My blood pressure was up, my muscles were tense and I really couldn’t get much relief. I tried meditation, exercise, ‘getting out’. But nothing really helped. And then I realized that I had the answer all along.

My family has always been ‘herby’. As a child, I was the recipient of mustard plasters and comfrey tea. My mother told me about soap plant and miner's lettuce when I was four years old. I cooked wild foods for my kids as nature lessons. I’ve always made herb teas, grown gardens and ‘listened to the plants’. So why not see if there was something there that could help with my tension?

And I did. Frankly, my little ‘brew’ was a lifesaver. It’s safer than any pill and cheaper. But my success made me look deeper into the herb world. I have sort of a…er….’lot’ of science in my background. I won’t say it’s easy to sift through all the nonsense about herbs, but it does make it easier to actually look at the compounds that they contain and deduce an expected result.

And it’s fun too. Wintertime on a farm can be pretty…quiet. Well, ok, it does have its moments. Like the bear that came through last fall or living without power for two days during a windstorm. But on the whole, I’m left with a whole lotta research time.

So, that’s why the blog is so ‘herby’. Don’t worry. As spring arrives, it’ll get more ‘farmy’.