Some thoughts on caretakers

Jordan and me
at her St. Patrick's Day birthday 

Jordan left today for five nights in Austin with her big sister. They plan all kinds of activities from pedicures to party shopping, culminating in my son-in-law’s fiftieth birthday party Saturday night. And let’s not forget the John Mayer concert Thursday in Austin—my girls will go to the ends of the earth to hear John Mayer, but that’s another story.

My nose was a bit out of joint that I wasn’t invited. I somehow have the bad senior parenting idea that I must be included in everything. I remember when I first realized that as adults, they were talking to each other without going through me. Wait! I thought I was communications central. Now they all four talk to each other all the time, and I rarely know what’s going on. As for this trip, both girls said this was simply not the right time for me to be in Austin, and though I want to make a big fuss and give them a guilt trip, I know they are right. I can’t—and don’t want to—do all that running around. And though I’d love to celebrate B’s birthday, the party would be loud with a lot of people I don’t know at someone else’s house, so I couldn’t sneak away whenever I wanted. No, I’m better off at home.

But for me it raised the caretaker question. Jordan is unofficially designated as my caretaker, and yet she’s not only leaving me for almost a week, she has tasked me with feeding her boys Christian and Jacob, a task I willingly take on. But my mind lingers on the thought of how much I need a caretaker.

Granted, I am in my early eighties (I can still honestly say early). Still, I live alone (though help is only yards away), I can handle the routines of daily living, I am still writing and publishing, I socialize with friends albeit mostly on my patio or in my cottage, and I routinely cook meals for four on a hot plate and a toaster oven. I have an active life of my own. Not too shabby.

On the other hand, there are things I can’t do for myself. I don’t drive so I can’t go to doctor appointments, I can’t mop up a spill on the floor (though I try from my seated walker), I sometimes can’t get clothes down from my closet (why did the closet designers put those bars so darn high up?), I need help in the shower to make sure I don’t fall. If I want a dish from the top shelf of the cupboard, I have to ask Jordan.

So it’s a mixed bag—and I admit I probably could not live alone without assistance. On the other hand, I don’t want to go to assisted living for a lot of reasons. I love people, but I don’t want all of them around me all the time. Right now I have the perfect mix of solitude and vibrant company, I want my dog to be able to wander in and out. And a silly, picky point: I get claustrophobic alone in self-service elevators, so the high-rise where most of my friends are is not a solution for me.

But there’s more. I relish the company of Jordan, Jacob, and Christian. I love our dinners together, my garden that Christian and I sometimes agree about and sometimes not, the friends they bring to the house who inevitably come out to give me a hug and maybe sip a glass of wine, the joy of watching Jacob grow and become his own person.  I love being part of their lives and having them in mine.

And in anticipation of this week, I realize that Jordan is what—or who—holds it all together. Yeah, sometimes she’s too busy with work to talk about menus, and I get frustrated. And sometimes, she’s frustrated that I need to ask for help on little things—and big, like finding the exact pan I want to cook something or feeding Sophie a pill. But without her, we are a bit adrift, without an anchor.

Tonight I had my two neighbors for our usual Tuesday night happy hour, and then I served the boys Big Mac salad. Jordan had given me explicit directions on how she did it—she does what I decry and tailors each plate to individual taste. I was raised that you eat what was set before you and there were no exceptions, except in case of allergy but I can’t remember any allergies from my childhood. Dislikes, yes; allergies, no. So tonight I let each “boy” serve himself, and Christian did most of the dishes. We’ll be all right this week, but we will be glad when she’s home again.

And I’ve already planned a couple of dinner for next week—four nights, including some out—so she doesn’t have to worry about that, because I know she’ll hit the deck worrying about her business that’s been neglected.

Have fun, Jordan and Megan. Happy Birthday, B. And Christian and Jacob, thanks for stepping up to the caretaker’s role. I know you’re there if I need you. I love you all a lot.  

June in January?

An absolutely perfect day. Mid-afternoon, and I’m at my desk with the French doors wide open. Sophie wanders in and out but mostly suns herself on the patio. Even the squirrels are quiet though Sophie did rouse to give half-hearted chase a few minutes ago. Tomorrow the temperature heads downhill, reaching bitter cold late in the week.

I had the sweetest caretaker last night on the 11-7 shift. Through a series of misunderstandings, Jordan took the duty, sleeping on the couch. Unfortunately, it wasn’t my best night—up three times in rapid succession early in the night. Towards morning I achieved a couple of blocks of solid sleeping time. When I felt like my body would be permanently stiff in one position, I called Jordan to please get me up. She did, made me tea, and parked me at my desk while she went back to bed. It’s wonderful to have someone you love as caretaker—when they reach for you, you can feel the love in their arms.

She is also the daytime caretaker today, so she’s working in the family room of the house, directly across the small bit of yard from the window at my desk. We wave at each other. Although the kids have made it a firm rule I not be left alone, it’s okay to leave me like that, with Jordan two steps away. I’m impressed enough by all this business, I won’t do anything foolish, like transferring from wheelchair to bed or potty chair without someone around to “spot” me. I laugh in retrospect at how resistant I’ve been every step of the way: when the surgeon asked me if I was interested in quitting drinking, I assured him I was not (I have since done it); when Colin bought a potty chair for my bedroom, I assured him I would not use it and I didn’t want the smelly thing in my bedroom. It’s been a godsend. Late in life lesson in following the rules.

Don’t you love it when you get hooked on a book and can’t wait to get back to it each time life forces you to set it down? That’s how I’ve been today with The Queen’s Accomplice. I have a friend, also a mystery writer, who says what I call for reading for pleasure is really work—we sharpen and hone our style, sense of plot and character and crafts when we read works by others. I’m fully prepared to use that rationale in this case, although I had promised myself I’d finish this before moving on to the next project.

I’m not much intrigued by thrillers, and the element of possible danger is strong in this, as is the gruesome side with the Jack the Ripper murders. But the WWII setting is so true, the characters so real that I am turning pages as rapidly as I can read. I felt my mention last night was a half-hearted endorsement and I didn’t mean it to be. This is one good book in a really good series.