Chores

This post isn't very elegant or amusing. Instead, it's a rant about one of the frustrations that comes with living in a multi-generational household.

Dad with my cat Mia a few years ago.

My father will turn 81 in August. Surprisingly, he is in pretty good health for his age. He gets dizzy, and we think it is a result of brain surgery he had 14 years ago to remove a benign tumor. He also has diabetes, but has managed to control it through his diet. He has a cataract and poor hearing. Otherwise, he's in good shape. Unfortunately, I worry that he won't remain in good health if he doesn't get out of his damn recliner. Dad doesn't do anything or go anywhere unless we make him. Yes! Make him! Aside from worrying about his health, I am also rather annoyed by his failure to contribute in any way to this household, to this family.

On the other hand, my mom, a medical mess, despite having difficulty walking, even with a walker, does what she can around here to contribute to whatever chores are necessary. Obviously I don't want her running a vacuum or mopping the kitchen, but she does many other things that really help. She cleans out the fridge every week, helps load and unload the dishwasher, and dusts. She contributes to meals by sharing the cooking. She looks after the dogs when my husband and I are at work.

We're all getting rather tired of my dad's laziness. This isn't something that came with age. Even when he was active--fishing, hunting, camping--he did nothing at home. He always expected mom to take care of dinner, clean up after him, do his laundry, etc. Mom, being a bit of a pushover sometimes, bent to his will and took care of everything for him. I asked her if he was always like that, and she said yes, that she married him that way. I can't imagine!

Anyway, 80 years of having to do nothing at home has made dad one lazy and selfish man. He won't put even his own plate in the dishwasher. He won't take the trash out if he sees it is full. He never wipes a counter or table. He still doesn't fold his own clothes.

My husband and I have had it with this behavior, but we're not sure what to do. See, if we say anything to my dad, he throws a tantrum. He'll stomp off and not speak for a while. When he finally calms down, he goes back to doing nothing.

I thought maybe an assigned chore would alleviate some of the annoyance we feel, and help him contribute to the house, but I'm not big on assigning tasks to a grown man. Basically, we just don't know what to do, or how to respond to this behavior. It's rather maddening!

Another Visit from Friends: Spaghetti and Meatball

Even though my husband is not the most social of people -he'd rather read a book than go out- he has many friends, some of whom he's known since high school. When my husband and I started dating seriously, I was fortunate enough to meet some of these people, and I now call many of them my friends, too.

One of his friends is nicknamed Meatball. I always forget how funny this nickname is to others until I use it, and someone giggles. I know his real name, but Meatball is how I was introduced to him, and it's what I'll call him.

Lately, Meatball has stopped by our place just to chat, or to refer us to folks who can trim trees or provide other house related services. He's been in the contracting and maintenance business for a very long time, so in addition to being a great friend, he's a great resource.

Yesterday afternoon I was sitting at my laptop doing some work and reading some of my favorite online papers and blogs when I hear a timid knock on my office door. I thought this was odd, as my door is usually open to family. When I opened it, I saw dad peeking in.

Me: What's up, dad?
Dad: Your friend is here?
Me: What friend? (trying to imagine who'd be stopping by at that time of day)
Dad: You know, that short guy.
Me: Huh?
Dad: Spaghetti!
Me: ...(quizzical look)
Dad: Whatever you call him! Spaghetti?
Me: Oh! Meatball! Ok, thanks dad.
Dad: Yeah, Meatball. Whatever.

Considering my previous post about M and L, and this one about "Spaghetti," I'm going to have to stop letting dad answer the door. On second thought, it does make for some rather amusing posts, so maybe I'll just sit back, watch my dad try to figure us all out, and giggle at my friends' bewildered looks.

Mom's Boots Aren't Made for Walkin'

It was my initial intention to keep this blog light-hearted. I planned on sharing some of the amusing or baffling conversations and events that occur when there are huge generational differences occurring among individuals in the same household. I've realized, though, that sometimes, I may need to explain the not-so-humorous, maybe even the frustrating parts of our lives.

My mother is a very sweet woman. I've never met anyone who hasn't liked my mom, and there is no reason not to like her. There is a lot to love about her, in fact. She is generous, considerate, selfless, encouraging, and all around kind. Despite that, mom and I have our differences. She and I are very different people, and we don't always see eye to eye. In fact, there are very few things we agree on. One thing we do agree on is that her leg ulcers suck! I should've found a more elegant way to put that, but "suck" is the most accurate description.

Mom has been suffering for a few years now with leg ulcers. There is no single cause that can be addressed. Part of the problem is that she is borderline diabetic, retains water, and has arthritis. The wound care specialist (who is a wonderful doctor, by the way) suggested that she  might be predisposed to this problem because her veins are close to the surface of her skin. Combine all this, and my poor mom suffers almost constantly from nasty, painful ulcers that sometimes end up infected. I'll spare you any images, as they aren't a pretty sight. Just a few weeks ago they got so bad that she was hospitalized for five days and treated with three different intravenous antibiotics several times daily.

When mom is home, I usually care for her wounds. Medicine and bandages need to be applied daily after a thorough cleaning and sterilization. We both hate it. Sometimes, it hurts so badly that she cries. I start to cry because I am causing her more pain in treating them. I hate it. She hates it. For a while, she had nurses who would come a few times a week. It took some of the burden off me, and  mom appreciated it because she already feels badly that I care for her regularly. Unfortunately, nurses are expensive, even with her insurance, and the cost became prohibitive.

Two days ago, mom was down to only one small wound that was healing nicely. We were both feeling confident that she might have a reprieve. We were hopeful. Last night, she developed three more wounds. I feel badly for her, and yes, I know it's probably wrong, but I feel badly for me, too. I hate changing those bandages as much as she hates having the ulcers in the first place. Poor mom. I really wish we could get rid of these for good.

There is some hope, though. Today, a nurse is coming here to measure mom for a pneumatic boot. It's a boot that goes up the calf and applies pressure. This pressure helps reduce water retention in her legs and feet, thereby reducing the number and frequency of ulcers. As we understand it, she would have to wear this boot for fifteen minutes at a time three times daily indefinitely.

We're both keeping our fingers crossed that it works.

Image from nopcoclinics.com

Mom and the Dogs

We've had Paws, our cocker spaniel, a little over two years now. We've only had Fen, our lab/weim mix, for about 8 months. When we first brought Fen home, he was about 10 months old, and very energetic. Paws didn't like him from the start, but we expected that; Paws doesn't like other dogs in general. Eventually, Paws got used to Fen. They aren't best buds, but they coexist peacefully.

During the time between bringing Fen home and now, there were a lot of ups and downs. There were training accidents, lots of barking and running through the house. These problems are solved. Sure, he still barks often, but he's much easier to calm down. What hasn't stopped is the joy Fen finds in absolutely obliterating any dog toy he can get his paws and teeth on.

For a while, mom and dad tried to spare Paws's toys from Destructo-Fen (as J calls him). I did too, but gave up after a while. I noticed that Paws liked to pick up the smaller pieces of debris that Fen left behind and chew on them. I also realized that I was fighting a losing battle, and resigned myself to buying new toys frequently.

I thought my parents were over it, too, but I was wrong. It turns out that mom is hoarding dog toys for Paws. There were two small tennis balls (Paws's favorite) and a purple ring toy hidden in various places in her bedroom. How do I know this? No! I didn't go snooping around; mom deserves her privacy just like the rest of us. I know this because Paws and I were hanging out with mom in her room. In less than 15 minutes, she had pulled out two dog toys. Paws began sniffing another shelf on her nightstand, and she directed me to a third tennis ball for him. Who knows how many toys might be stashed in that bedroom!

Fortunately, mom decided that Fen could have one of the toys, and gave him the purple ring to chew on. Ahh, progress!