Thoughts on a Nursing Home Visit. . .

I just spoke to my mother, who is gearing up for a visit to my grandmother, who has been in a care facility for probably a year and a half now. She had been having some problems with slipping in and out of consciousness in the sense that she was technically conscious, but unaware of her actions and surroundings. She had recurring UTIs that worsened whatever was wrong in the first place, which doctors have yet to pinpoint--which doctors have stopped trying to pinpoint. They tell her children that "Mama is old." My aunts and uncle have come to believe that a radiation treatment on her eyes is to blame. I saw her during Hurricane Katrina, when I was 7 months pregnant with Doodle, and she was strong--sad, but strong. I saw her when Doodle was 6 months, and have pictures of her holding my older daughter--her second great-grandchild. She was having some hip problems, but was very much herself--though lonely, and sad. Praying her rosary on her porch when we drove up; she had thought that we wouldn't make it to see her before heading back to Texas, but I felt very strongly that she needed to see Doodle. The last time I saw her, I was very newly pregnant with Chiclette. She had been in the home for months by that point, but was in the ER after a fall and another UTI was discovered. After weeks of not seeming to recognize anyone, she was aware that we were coming to visit, and asked about us. She faded out once or twice while we were there, but for the most part, she was herself, only weak and sad. Not too weak to banter with the physical therapy people and give them a difficult time, and aware enough to express her humiliation and the pain it caused her. She asked my son about school, tried to get a shy Doodle to talk to her. On my way out, I told her that I was pregnant. She was so pleased & surprised. I wasn't used to the idea myself, but I thought it would be good to leave her with some hopeful news--something to look forward to. Returning home, I agonized about her care, which, I understood, was not too good. Her 6 surviving children (of 7) visit her daily, as they can. None of them know about me calling the nursing home to make sure she was taken the Eucharist regularly. It seemed like the only thing I could do. The woman I spoke to understood my concern, and knew what I meant when I said that I doubted that it would seem a priority to any of her family who were there. She had been taken out of Mass one day by one of my aunts, who was indignant that she had been in Mass in the first place. This did not surprise me, and it may have been that she should not have been out of her room. After all, they did not heed the sign that said that my grandmother was a "fall risk," and they let her fall, which was the immediate cause of her hospitalization the last time I saw her. . .

I have heard very little since then. I understand that she has varying levels of awareness from day to day, week to week, hour to hour. Very soon after I had my Chiclette (a week or two), someone printed a picture of me with both girls on my lap rocking them to sleep and brought it for her to see. She was aware enough to tell them to tell me that I was doing a good job. It wasn't just postpartum hormones that brought tears to my eyes. Since then, I have fished a bit to see if she was aware of the pictures I sent at Christmas, but no one will say. My mom will be taking new pictures of us to her tomorrow. My mom wants to print them out in poster size. I wish my grandmother could see my Chiclette in person. I want her to be aware. I pray for her to be aware. But when I asked about it, my mom remarked that she eats well sometimes, and has better days and worse days, but that my aunt thinks that her responses are automatic--that my grandmother has memorized what the correct responses are to certain questions and comments. Basically, that there is no consciousness or self awareness behind the responses at all. And how does she know this exactly? Is there anything to this assumption besides weariness and loss of hope from someone who has been bearing the weight of her mother's illness for going on two years now? Might there be some comfort in thinking that her mother is not aware of the bad things if she's not aware of the good? I see this as very dangerous thinking. The family has criticized my grandmother's doctor for waiting for her to die. Well, that's the feeling I get from this doubting of her awareness. And I am more apprehensive since I have no idea that there is any religious belief at all left in my extended family. I know that one aunt's MySpace page indicates that she considers herself agnostic. When I see "atheist" or "agnostic" listed on the profile of someone I care about, I feel a little spasm inside. My aunts & uncle fell away from Catholicism decades ago, though I'm sure there is an element of Christianity remaining for all of them in some corner of their consciousness. But then, I considered myself Christian for many years while embracing the notion that as long as I was "true to myself" (whatever that means) and vaguely ethical, I would be O.K. with God since he must be too busy to worry about me, right? That Christian-flavored-agnosticism made any manner of things O.K. And, well, I'm concerned with the implications of this line of thought for my grandmother. Christian-flavored-agnosticism does not view dignity of life issues in the way I have come to view them through Catholicism. Because really, that worldview is one without hope. And when you have no hope for the next life, one's comfort and awareness in this life is of ultimate value. If that is gone, then one's life is invalid.

I believe that my grandmother is conscious and aware on some level. I hope for her to be able to express this awareness. I pray for her patience and endurance and comfort. I would like, above all things, for the pictures of my family to allow her self to be manifest to those around her, so that they will know that she is still who she has always been.

How Do We Love Them?

Each time I have contemplated having another baby, the thought has struck me: how is it possible that I should love another child as much as I love this one? Each of my children has been an incredible--amazing!--emotional investment: all of the hopes, fears, worries, joyful moments, new experiences, anxieties. . . For years, I wasn't certain that I could have another baby and love him or her as much as I loved my son--fertility wasn't the issue, but love. The thought seemed strange. At the risk of sounding cliché, it was becoming Catholic that opened my mind to the possibility that I could, indeed, have another baby to love, with whom to share all of our family experiences--but that's another post. The same thoughts surfaced when I was pregnant for number three--I was still in the midst of the intense, anxious infant-to-toddler love; my son had had years of my love (and I had had years to love only him with wonderful and difficult mother-love) and seemed much more self-sufficient by the time his sister was born. But however many babies we have, there are always new things to be learned, and I've been thinking about how we love our growing families. . .

We love them all in their different ways--that seems obvious. Each has a different personality, different needs. But while that is true, there are ways that we love them that are the same--or similar--for each child, which nevertheless vary according to where we are with them at the time.

We love them in the midst of the group dynamic: When older brother is able to pick up the youngest, we smile to see his delicate manipulation of her soft floppiness. When he is able to negotiate the various compromises of toddler interaction to give Momma time to take a shower, we are grateful. And amid our exasperation from the noise and commotion it generates, we love to see his horseplay with the little sisters because of the affection it betrays. There is a communication between the baby and the toddler that is amazing to see. . . We love the nicknames that one bestows on the other. And the thrill that is apparent when little sister catches sight of her big sister reverberates through us, and we echo her joy.

We also love them in ways that are (st)age-appropriate: Babies, we adore. This is why we celebrate Christmas, no? That this instinctual love that humans are meant to feel for the smallest and most helpless of our race--the rapt emotional embrace that requires no act of our will--should be transferred to our Lord and Savior. We love them in our recognition of the newness of their actions and their experiences--in our observation of the novelty of their interactions with their senses, their bodies, their families, their worlds. Even amid sweet frustrations, we love their recognition of ourselves--who we are to them--and love their needs, which we alone fulfill. We love their cries and fussiness, and dwell on the sweet sounds that we know we can soothe, or else we love them with anxiety, holding them until their discomfort passes.

Toddlers, we love with tolerance and a sense of adventure. We love them with a wry twinkle, appreciating their cleverness as they demonstrate to us that we can't sneak anything past them--not an open door, not a single piece of chocolate. We love them when we follow their routines--never ever coming in the front door when we come home, but heading around the building to play by the porch. We love them when we "see down" to play with legos or blocks instead of doing that very important thing that we should be doing. And when we repeat with wonder that word or phrase that we've just heard for the first time, or smile at that thing that they shouldn't be doing but which is a very big accomplishment, we give them our love. By letting the baby cry or fuss just a little bit longer to attend to the needs of the toddler, we are loving them in a way that really matters. In every delicate frustration we endure--even if not so well--or turn into a rowdy game, in every single effort to divert attention from that one forbidden or harmful thing, we love them. We love them as we share our tasks with them, even if we can accomplish them better alone. We love them when we hold them like the babies they still are, enjoying their affection whenever it happens to present itself.

In all of their seeming independence and hidden vulnerability, we love our older ones--our "pre-teens," though that term is speeding them on to a stage they have not yet reached--in ways that are subtle, but special. It may mean popping in to comment on a particularly well-played cello piece, suggesting that something is not quite right with a certain note, or asking about the piece being played. In our attentions to what is important to them, we love them. It may mean listening--at least for a little while--to the narrative of "how I beat the last video game boss." We love them when we laugh at their jokes--even the really corny ones. We love them when we accept the help they give us rather than dwelling on the help that was not given. We love them when we answer their questions honestly and carefully, giving neither too much information, nor too little. We love them by walking beside them sometimes, not always in front.

We love them all by remembering all of the ways we love them, as often as possible.

Book Notes: The People of Sparks

A week or so ago I finished reading The People of Sparks, which is the Second Book of Ember, a series that began with The City of Ember, which I mention here, here, and here. Obviously, the first book was interesting enough to merit reading the second, and once again, I was fairly pleasantly surprised. It was not as good as the first, but avoided the didacticism I feared in a book about rebuilding civilization after an apocalypse, particularly one written post-9/11. However, a couple of features of the book merit a brief mention.

Towards the end of The People of Sparks, I had a revelation, as I did at the end of The City of Ember. However, while The City of Ember evoked Plato, The People of Sparks evoked no less illustrious an author than Dr. Seuss. Now, I love Dr. Seuss, but was surprised when, likely by no conscious design of the author, I considered the moment when the people from two competing cities were, to their own eyes and to each other, indistinguishable, and thought, "The Star-Bellied Sneetches"! This moment in the book, the moment of resolution, was rather simplistic. We are building to a crisis that could result in war. One or two individuals are trying to provoke the war (or at least failing to see a solution other than violence) while one or two are trying to prevent the war. In the tense moment before the violence--or perhaps in the tense moment after the onset of violence--a disaster occurs that threatens to destroy the livelihood of one group. This presents the perfect opportunity for a "joining together," spurred by the bravery of one individual.

Now, the actions involved were noble, but it does beg the question, which, ideally, should be considered by the reader--what would have happened had the disaster not occurred? Likely violence. So does this mean that it requires a disaster for the proactive individual to take the step--doing good instead of evil, or at least avoiding doing evil--that is necessary for the prevention of violence? This strikes me as a bit of the Deus Ex Machina. I would have liked to see the people work things out without near-divine intervention (or pure chance, which frequently substitutes for the divine).

Another rather surprising element of the book, in retrospect, is the almost complete lack of heterosexual pairings--there are no traditional families! Well, O.K., there's one. But we do not feel this to be the norm. Admittedly, there are displaced persons (better not to call them refugees) who have to create alternate living arrangements for the sake of space, but among these, there are many young people who are mentioned independent of any parental figures (not wholly unknown in children's fiction). The "families" are generally single-parent. The main characters have a father on the one hand (an entirely male family of two), and a foster-mother and a sister on the other hand (an entirely female family of three). These alternative families existed in the first book, but events at the end of the second book throw them into sharp relief.

One alternative family arrangement consists of a single doctor and her neglected orphan nephew. Our heroine, her sister, and their guardian move in with the doctor and her nephew. There is another nephew, a "roamer," who is the apple of his little brother's eye. When he arrives with a female "partner" (in roaming), things begin to go awry. However, the "partner" considers him unfit for companionship, which, indeed, he is--but he didn't have to be. This was a creative choice on the part of the author. So this non-traditional female escaping from her home city, a failing city, joins forces with our own heroine, and befriends her. So far, so good. Eventually, this large, soft-spoken female joins with the other large, soft-spoken female--the former greenhouse keeper--to become her apprentice and learn about growing plants.

At nearly every turn, heterosexual unions--or close heterosexual friendships--are avoided. There is even a teeny-bopper who falls in love with the most charming male present, usually a sweet-talking con-man or rabble-rouser, who clearly signals the dangers of charismatic men and unchecked heterosexual attraction (not a bad message, and one that can also be found in Louisa May Alcott). The notable example is the hero and heroine, who remain (wonderfully, in my opinion) good friends with no hint of a pre-adolescent romance.

In contrast to the other books intended for this age range, which are largely over-sexual, this can be seen as a significant improvement. However, the lack of viable heterosexual couples remains troubling, particularly for a civilization that is trying to rebuild itself. In the declining City of Ember, where dysfunction would have been understandable, there is nevertheless more of a "feeling" of family unity. I suppose we are to surmise that the hope of the future rests with the pre-adolescent generation, which is fitting for a pre-adolescent book with post-adolescent appeal.