Behind Closed Doors: Abuse

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This is not an easy post for me to write.

You may have noticed I have been away from this space for a few days.

I want to tell you something – not because I want to garner a fascinated audience, but in the hope that at some point, someone might read this and take heed.

First, a disclaimer:  this post does not concern my mother, nor myself directly, although the subject of it has had repercussions for us both.  It does concern family members – close family, in fact.

You see, on the morning of March 29 (Good Friday) we learned that my almost 90-year old aunt has been being beaten for some time by her 65-year old, mentally-challenged daughter and live-in companion.

Thankfully, the beatings were not severe, but I can tell you that my aunt is a diminutive woman and her daughter is quite a sizable woman.

I was downstairs on the computer when my mother got the news.  She was on the phone with her sister (the victim) and my husband was somewhere else in our house.  Out of the blue, I heard loud wailing!  I must tell you that initially, I thought my mother was on her computer in her room above me and had received a video that I had seen the day before on the internet featuring two howling huskies.

This was not the case.

My mother started calling for me, “Kathleen! Can you come here?” in between sobs and wails.  I raced up the stairs thinking she had injured herself, or she was bleeding, or she had heard that someone was dead.  I didn’t know what to think.

I found her on the bed in a state of near-hysteria and in between wails, she said she had just talked to her sister and that my cousin had been taken away by the police  and hospitalized, because my aunt had admitted to my other cousin that she was being punched by her daughter. She said this had been going on for about two months.  (We have learned since, that it was going on longer than that.)

My immediate concern was to calm my mother down.  I sat beside her and held her head to my chest, stroking her hair.  I reasoned that the situation was now under control, that my cousin was removed from the situation and that my aunt was not seriously hurt.  By this time, my husband had come running in to see what was going on, and he backed me up, saying also that things could have been so much worse, but that my aunt was safe and this would never happen again.

I know that I should not judge, but I have to say I am angry.  I have never understood my aunt’s family of four adult children who have let this living arrangement persist for so long. I cannot fathom why a 90 year old woman has been left caring for an adult woman since basically 1980.  In the past, I have also been mystified as to why my aunt was permitted to drive a car until just last year (I have seen with my own eyes, her recklessness on the road).

You cannot tell people how to live their lives.  With families, you can think one thing, but you must be guarded about what you say.  My father never had that problem – he was a full steam ahead and damn-the-torpedoes kind of guy.  He worried about repercussions after the fact.  I am rather like that too, but I am a bit more careful.

A couple of years ago, we took my mother to visit her sister and we tried to suggest that she should move out of her big, old house.  (She had seen the nice apartment that my widowed mother was living in at the time, and had been very impressed.)  My cousin was in the room at the time, and she flew into a rage! We were extremely taken aback by this.

Never did we hesitate to make my other cousins aware of our experience, but they did not seem to regard this as a problem.

My mother would have phone conversations with her sister where she could hear yelling in the background and suddenly my aunt would cut her off and hang up the phone.  My mother shared this information with my cousins too.

Denial is a very dangerous thing.

Here is the reason I have divulged these family secrets:  If you know of any senior in a similar situation where a companion or caregiver is stressed, depressed or unstable in any way, please advise someone and get the situation assessed as soon as possible.

My cousin (the one inflicting the abuse) cannot be fully culpable.  She is a 65-year old woman with a developmental disability who, had she been born in later years, would most likely be a self-sufficient, functioning member of society.  Instead, her life has been thwarted at every turn.  She was deprived of full education because in her early life, some “well-meaning” assessors determined that she would “never do math” or “read and write” well.  She was stamped with a seal of disapproval and destined to be a burden to her parents and ultimately to her resentful siblings.

Though she has been begrudgingly included in family events, she has been mainly ignored and foisted on her mother since her father died in 1980. Even more sad is the fact that for a a few years she herself worked in a care-giving facility and met a male work-companion who shared her interests and enjoyed her companionship.  Sadly, his mother put a stop to their relationship and that is when she became a truly tragic figure – staying home, eating herself into obesity, staying up until the wee hours of the morning, and sleeping until noon.

Nobody seemed to see that these are classic signs of  DEPRESSION.  Nobody seemed to realize that leaving this aging woman with health and mental issues with a senior citizen was a problem.

Don’t let this happen to someone you love or even someone you just know. Do the best for our seniors. Report situations. Bring in outside care, even if it is only to make regular checks on the situation.

Even the best of families have secrets behind closed doors.

Post Script:  My cousin is now in care, and my aunt is at home.  An effort is being made to bring an outside caregiver in to check on her daily.  I am hopeful that a decent life lies ahead for both of them, for however long that may be.

Bless This House

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Seriously.  We are in dire need of these words right now.

A great wall is present in this house at the moment.  An impasse has been reached.  Who will make the first move to change this situation?

My husband told me stories of his mother breaking into song and intoning these very words whenever a row was going on between him and his older siblings.  Occasionally, my husband will resurrect this bit of song in our house to indicate that we need to take a step back and perhaps retract our harsh words.

It isn’t easy, is it?

Recent events in our extended family, have put us on edge.  Recent lack of care, and self-serving attitudes have resulted in resentment and mistrust.  Harsh words have been spoken in retaliation.

It’s so easy to look at one’s parent and think of who they once were – and what you still wish them to be.  When they don’t live up to expectations, it’s hard to rectify.

It’s not always easy to be the “adult” in the situation.

Harsh words have been spoken, on both sides.  There is hurt in this

house right now.  There is anger, and disappointment and even shock at who we are both living with.

If you are dealing with a senior parent in your life, you will know what this is like.  You are the one who is in charge, but there is always resistance, because independence and liberty is very hard to concede.  I do understand this,

but when happens when your respect for the person you are caring for is diminished by their words, actions and deeds?

Someone has to forgive.

I know it must be me.

Bless this house!

(Day Two: All is resolved and we are once more at peace. Thank you for your prayers and positive thoughts!)

Magistics

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When it comes to church-going, we have some logistics to resolve as far as my mother is concerned. When I say, “logistics”, I mean it in its literal sense—as in the transport of goods.

Because Kev and I are both in the church choir, we are on alternating schedules from week to week.  That is, we sing on Saturday evenings at 5:00 p.m. one week, and then on Sunday at 10:00 a.m. the following, etc. (unless there is a change for unforeseen reasons).

My mother went to church on Sunday all her life, and was never particularly fond of the Saturday evening mass, so she continues to go to the Sunday morning service (barring treacherous weather, or personal ailments).

This means that every other Sunday, one of us has to drive her into town for mass and then pick her up afterwards.

I must admit that I do a bit of finagling on this score.  I’m not keen on rushing out for 10:00 a.m., when I could be schlepping around in my p.j.s and pottering about in the kitchen. That’s just me, so I bargain with my husband along these lines:

“Hon, you take my mom to church and I’ll make some blueberry pancakes. How does that sound?”

Let’s just say that I haven’t taken my mom to church too often.

The other option, is that we both take her and then he and I head over to the neighbouring town where we get a muffin and a coffee in the market and sit and relax for an hour.

Now we have a conundrum. It’s the Easter weekend coming up, and it’s a very busy one for the choir, as you can imagine.  We sing, Thursday night, Friday afternoon, Saturday and Sunday morning.

Mom is choosing to go only to the Good Friday mass and the Saturday night Easter Vigil, but we, as choir members are required to be at both masses quite early in order to do some run-throughs of what we will be singing.  It’s not fair to have my mother sitting on a hard wooden pew for an extra hour before the masses begin.

What to do?

Fortunately, Mom joined the Catholic Women’s League about a year ago, and has made a few local contacts.  A neighbour two doors down is in the C.W.L., and another one up the road is a member as well.  We must impose on one of these ladies to pick mom up and take her to the masses.

Not that you don’t find good Christian people everywhere, but it seems that in a small town, such as the one we live in, people go out of their way to extend themselves to others. Complete strangers will offer to assist you.

I remember my father was always one to go the extra mile.  He often drove out of his way to pick up people and take them to church.  Moreover, he would bring them home afterwards for breakfast, or go and pick them up again later and bring them over for supper. My dad was the soul of generosity.

My mother doesn’t like to ask for favours, but the way I see it, karma is in play here.

No Surprise!

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Mid-April, Mom’s sister ( my Aunt and God-mother) will turn 90.  That’s quite an accomplishment—especially if you know what’s been going on lately.

In 1980, my aunt lost her husband to a genetic heart-condition (I know this from my ancestral research), and she soldiered on without him to see four of her children marry and have children and grandchildren of their own.  Her second oldest daughter never married, having been mentally challenged from birth.  They have lived together for decades.

In recent years, things have become overwhelming for my aunt.  As is the case with many seniors (my father was one of them), she refuses to move from her home of over 60 years.  Despite it being basically a death-trap for her (rugs, hard edges, concrete stairs in and out, laundry in the basement, bathroom floors, etc.) she continues to live in the house with her daughter. My cousin is not a capable companion and in fact the two of them often have big fights (my mother has often had the phone hung up on her when one is going on).

The situation is less than ideal, and I have never understood why the family has not intervened.

Along with that, she drove a car until she was 89 (Heaven knows what accidents she left in her wake!) Reports of driving incidents trickled through the family-grapevine over the last few years, but no-one seemed capable of preventing her from driving.  In fact, it seemed my cousins almost wanted her to continue doing so in order to make things easier on themselves.  She doesn’t drive now, but apparently still bemoans that fact.

I shouldn’t pass judgement, but I am certain I would have taken steps to make drastic changes in this situation.  When my father was ill with Parkinson’s and early on-set dementia, he was still driving and had an accident where he drove into the front doors of a large hardware store.  Immediately, we went to work to obtain Power of Attorney, sell their house and move my parents closer to us where we could monitor the situation.  The most important thing was their safety and to get my mother into a place where she had ongoing support.

I realize how stubborn people can be.  My father was the KING of mules!  Sometimes you just have to take those steps to make a change for the best when the person is not capable of such.

Okay.  I’ve gotten way off track, but at least you have some background knowledge for the current situation.

A party is planned to celebrate my aunt’s birthday.  It is to be held in the party-room at the condominium of one of my cousins.  We are all to assemble for some light refreshment and reminiscing, I imagine.

My mom’s brother and his wife, who live within driving distance, will be at these festivities.  As well, my mom’s other youngest brother (he is 73) and HIS wife will be passing through en route to a holiday in the southern states.  My aunt has not seen her youngest brother in about three years.  In fact, I don’t think she has seen the other brother for quite some time too (he is 86).

Wouldn’t it be nice for it all to be a surprise? I thought so, but it seems the family has decided to let the cat out of the bag because of my aunt’s “mental state”.

They have told her, not only about the party itself, but also that her youngest brother will be there.

I don’t understand; one would think that it would be so nice to give her a really special day to remember and treasure.  It could likely be the last time she sees him (although longevity does definitely run on this side of my family – especially in the female line).

I am mystified as to why they decided to put the kibosh on the surprise. I don’t think she’s going drop dead on the spot if someone unexpected is at her birthday.  I should think she would be delighted.

Mom is terribly disappointed for her, and for herself, I think.

In addition, we’ve been told not to bring gifts – only cards, flowers or plants. BO-RING!  I told mom that, as her sister, she’s entitled to get her anything she thinks she would like (she’ll have to think about that), some small keepsake perhaps.

Well, my uncle (the younger one) and aunt are coming to stay at our house for a night, and I plan on making it a really special time for all of them.

If mom lives to 90 (or beyond), you can bet I won’t hesitate to throw her a legitimate surprise party with as many surprise guests as I can still muster.

What do you think?

Real Stress Relief

frozen dinner

I know when my mom is stressed out. I can hear it in the way she stabs her microwave dinner. Fifty times.

Now I don’t want you to think that I don’t feed her, because that is just not true, but on nights when my husband and I want something more in the vegetarian line, like tonight’s rice pasta with plain tomato sauce and chunks of avocado, she chooses to do her own thing, and often that means a frozen entree that is bound to be pierced rather vigourously as she loses herself in the action. (Talk about a run-on sentence!)

How do I get my stress relief? Come on, you know the answer to that! I bake, of course!

Actually, my stress relief is win-win for my mother. I don’t “lose it” with her, AND she gets to enjoy all the fruits of my labours.

I lie. A little. Chocolate is MY stress relief too.

In Case of Emergency …

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Came across a couple of these in a drawer the other day, where I had casually stashed and forgotten them. (Mid-life brain strikes again!)

I dug them out and promptly indicated a “2″ in the boxes under “CATS”, since we have two felines that would be in need of rescue if something calamitous happened.

I put one on my back sliding doors, and one on the front glass door.

When my husband came home he noticed them right away (more because he doesn’t like things on the windows, I think).  I suggested a scenario to him: Imagine firemen wandering around a smoke-filled house looking for the “OTHER”.  What could it be – a rabbit, a rat, a hamster, a gerbil,  snake, bird or  turtle?

My husband, who is a great wit, suggested I put an “M” in front of that word and a “1″ in the circle.

Bones of Contention

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I’m a big fan of vintage English stoneware.  I collect it from thrift stores and use it regularly to set my table.  I like the colours and the substantial weight of the stuff.  I prefer the design of the retro crockery; no plain, white, square plates for me! Give me round, with abstract swirls of earth-tones and I’m a happy lady.

All the same, were you to break one of my dishes, or tell me I could never use them again— let’s say, for argument’s sake, it was discovered that lead was part of their composition and they were deemed unsafe—I would have no problem with that. I would get on with my life as usual.

Even if the dishes had been bequeathed to me in a will by my great-grandmother, I would, as I always do, put them out of my mind and just get on with it. Seriously. I would.

I have very little ties to the things of this world.  I’m not a shoe-person, or even a clothing person (although I like to look fashionable enough in my thrift-store duds). Sure, I love my books, my charity-shop art finds, my small zoo of stuffed animals, my music and yes, my dishes ( just ask my husband about my MUG collection), but if there were a fire, those are not the things I would be rushing to rescue.  Assuming my husband and my mother were safe, I would grab my cats, my coat and my iPod, That’s about it.

Not so, my mother.

My mother has an absolute fixation with a set of bone-handled knives.

These knives were given to her by her godfather on the occasion of her wedding in 1958 and she keeps them in her own drawer of cutlery and uses them without fail, every single day.

I have two issues with these knives.  Firstly, they cannot be washed in the dishwasher because the bone turns a nasty, rotten shade of brown (this was discovered back in the 1970s when my father put a couple of similar knives in the old Maytag, and voila! rusty, brown, cracked bone-handles came out.)  Even THOSE knives had my mother upset.

Secondly, I am an animal-lover and do not support using animal-bones as a utensil.  Presumably, these are the bones of cows.  I don’t eat meat, and I don’t like using knives that have cow-bones attached to their blades.  I don’t particularly like washing them either, but I must.

Mom’s wrists are not strong enough to put the stopper in the kitchen sink to fill it up with soapy water and wash dishes.  I wash all the dishes that don’t go in the dishwasher.  I wash every bone-handled knife that she insists on using.

She has both butter and steak knives, and believe me, she employs them even when she need not.  She also has a perfectly serviceable set of stainless steel knives from an Oneida collection and she hardly ever uses those (unless I am setting the table for all of us and I put them at her spot). Even then, she will often insist that my husband pass her one of her “steak knives” (for lasagna).

As I write this, I can feel my blood pressure rising.  These blasted knives have come to represent all of my frustration with my mother and though I am not proud of it, I can’t seem to get past it.

Shortly before I began this blog, there was an incident.  I can’t even recall what it was about, but my mother and I “had words”.  She stormed out of the kitchen, and I turned back to the kitchen sink where I was washing up.  My eye caught sight of one of her knives in the dish-rack and before I knew it, I had it in my hand and was standing at the back sliding doors that look out onto our deck and backyard.  Momentarily, I thought to myself, “You’re stronger than this.”  BUT, in a moment of vindication, I said, “F- it” (sorry, to offend, but this had been building for some time), slid open the door, and chucked the knife out and over the deck rail.

Now, I’m sure you are thinking how petty that action was, but believe me, for a time it felt GREAT!

You will laugh when I tell you how I had to keep furiously washing those remaining knives to keep her supply stocked (at the back of the drawer, thankfully) and delude her into believing all were accounted for.

You may also find it very funny to think of my husband out in the yard the next day (after a snowstorm), futilely attempting to retrieve that knife.  (I still laugh at it myself.)

It was not until over a week later when we had a bit of a warm spell and the snow began to melt, that I found the knife (none the worse for wear – darn it!)  and brought it back in the house where mom was none the wiser.

I can’t say that I still haven’t had moments of temptation where I want to throw the whole kit and kaboodle of knives out the back door, but instead I wash them whenever I see them and make them disappear back into the drawer straight away. (Out of sight, out of MY mind.)

I smile to myself at my little secret, and think also of the possibility of tucking them in beside her when she is laid to rest.

Am I awful?