Hymn to Hekate

There is no Homeric Hymn to Hekate, or none extant. There is an Orphic Hymn to her, and Hesiod praises her extensively in the Theogony. But when I was sitting for days on end with Ma Schmidt as she drifted towards death, I found myself musing. Hekate, like Hermes, is a psychopomp—a guide of souls of the newly-dead. who steers them from their bodies (recently abandoned in the world of the living) towards their new home in the Land of the Dead. And wouldn't it be nice if She could arrange that Ma Schmidt die without pain or fear? Of course I mean "die at the right time"—I had no desire to murder her! But if she could avoid the pain and fear, wouldn't that be nice?

In the end it didn't work out that way, or not obviously. But even after returning home I found myself wondering if I could write a hymn to Hekate like the ones I have written to some of the other gods. I've mulled it in fits and starts since then, and tonight—nine days after driving home—I think I have four verses of rhyming dactylic tetrameter. So maybe this will work.

Shining Hekate, beloved of Persephone,
Lady of crossroads and Mistress of night,
Your silver hand draws down the moon from the skies for
Thessalian witches intent on their rites.

Torch-bearing Maiden, a spark in the darkness, 
The mistress of magic, Protector of dogs,
You pass through the skies and the earth and the ocean,
And then disappear in the night and the fog.

Friend of the husbandman, laboring farmer,
You dole out success to whomever you choose.
Honor and profit and victory in warfare—
You pick who's rewarded and who is to lose.

Nurse of the newborns just op'ning their eyelids,
And guide of the dying, who close them again,
Help me prevail in my contests while living,
And shepherd my soul when I come to you then.

     

Ma Schmidt, requiescat in pace

Then early Tuesday morning, Schmidt followed up with this email, addressed to Marie, to me, and to his mom's old friend, Georgie. The header read, "It's Over." 

Writing in the small hours of April 22...

If I were to go into the guts of my email program I might be able to figure out how to format it to put a black border around my text in accordance with Victorian fashion but I don't feel like taking the time for that.  Mom died about 8:45 in the evening.  It wasn't as peaceful as one would have liked.  I was out much of the afternoon.  She wasn't going anywhere at that point and I had a major problem to deal with: the enormous dead digger pine along the driveway fell (during the previous night I suppose) -- right across the driveway, completely blocking it.  Thank good fortune I was able to get hold of neighbor Kurt, who has a really big chainsaw -- and the mass to be able to handle it!  He helped me clear the driveway, which I knew I'd be needing imminently.  Anyway, while I was in and out, I wasn't monitoring Mom closely. Then there were the usual chores and then dinner time came along.  As I started cooking, I checked on her and found she'd suddenly been sick -- yellow bile all down her front and on the bed.  Ugh!  [Good for putting me off dinner!] I got on the phone to hospice [I must note here that the local hospice entity is clearly a very small organization.  I've met nurses S— (who was on call tonight) and T—, and social worker J— and that may well be the entire field team] and got some advice and instruction on (we hoped) relieving her nausea.  Going over to the bed to follow nurse S—'s advice I discovered Mom had stopped breathing.  So I had to call her back and tell her that our plans had changed... She's been and gone (and it's a good hour's drive from her home to here), cleaned and dressed Mom, dealt with her meds, and called the funeral home.  It's now 1 AM and they have been and gone as well, taking Mom with them.  All pretty quiet and efficient, really. 

And now comes, I guess, the next, differently hard part: all the paperwork! 

Wonder if I'll get any sleep tonight? 

_____

I have a couple of other things to post—topics I thought about during the long hours—and I'll tag them on the end here pretty soon.

First update

The first update came just a day later, in response to an email from Marie asking what Schmidt needed in the way of comfort.

Not much to record except for continuing deterioration... The last two or three days, as Hosea may have told you, she pretty much stopped taking any sustenance -- not even Ensure.  Water intake has been decreasing lately as well.  Today, for the most part she has even refused water as she is tending to inhale it rather than swallow.  She has been getting crushed pain pills in (a tiny amount of) sugar water; likewise Lorazepam for agitation.  The agitation is diminishing of late -- not, I think because she's less distressed/ confused but because she hasn't the energy for it.  I started giving morphine this afternoon.  It's liquid and a quarter milliliter is little enough not to choke her.  Right now she's zonked out.  As the nurse told us the other day, without any food they can last around a week; without water, three days. 

I called my cousin today to give him a heads-up.  They have family doings this weekend (Easter dinner and the like) but he'll come up here in a couple days...

I had a job arrive yesterday; one I'd nearly forgotten about.  A water-damaged up-light that needs re-finishing and re-wiring.  I made out a repair estimate for the owner's insurance last fall and sent him a pre-packed box a few weeks ago to return it in... Then stuff happened.  Well, the box got back here yesterday afternoon so I guess I better open and inspect it soon and let the guy know what I think! 

Day 15: I drive home

When I woke up, Schmidt was sleeping on the sofa in the living room, next to Ma's bed. Apparently at 1:00 in the morning Ma had gotten out of bed and collapsed. He tried to put her on the commode, but she didn't need to pee. So he put her back in bed, but figured that the only place he could be to keep her safe was immediately nearby.

I dressed and packed—well, I had done most of my packing last night, including taking a shower so I'd be clean for the day. But I rolled up my pajamas and stuffed them in my bag, and then hauled my stuff out to my car. Drank two cups of coffee while chatting with Schmidt about what he figured was coming next. He offered to make me some breakfast, but it's a long drive and I just wanted to get on the road.

So we hugged and I drove away. I then spent the rest of the day (more or less) driving. Stopped for gas once, and for food twice. 

I was scheduled to have a call with Debbie in the evening, and we agreed to text to work out a time. In the event our phones both behaved sub-optimally in reporting text messages to us, but we finally got on a call after I'd been home about an hour. I was exhausted, but it feels like I spent the whole call ranting. In fact I was just going over some of the same things I've discussed in these posts here (though not this one!), but all at once and without a lot of buffer. Anyway, it was good to talk to her. Then I drank for a while to wind down, and went to bed.

The remaining updates come from Schmidt's emails.  

Day 14: Another Thursday

Ma Schmidt stared intently off to one side of me—not at me!—and asked, "What did you say?" (I hadn't said anything, and there was no one else in the room just then. Or rather, I couldn't see anyone else in the room! If she was talking to someone disembodied, I couldn't say who.) Then, a few minutes later, "Did you say something?"

But when she talks to me she looks at me. Admittedly she isn't doing much talking any more, besides "Help me." And she sleeps more than that.

_____

After a drink of water, she looked at me very intently and said, "I need a nice, tall .........." (The noun was lost to mumbling.)

_____

"I love you."

"I can't hear. Make a loud noise." (So I shout near her ear.) "OK."

"I can't see."

"I want a glass of milk." 

    

Day 13: A caregiving dilemma

I had been planning to leave today. But a couple of days ago I offered to Schmidt to stay on for a bit longer, because he really is going to have more work to do once I've left—and less freedom to do anything else.

Ma Schmidt woke up to pee at 4:00 and again at 6:00 in the morning. (I slept through both occasions.) This time she used the commode. Schmidt called it "easier—well, less difficult." Her voice has been clearer today, and less whispered, but her words are more garbled and harder to understand.

She slept most of the day, though she was physically active trying to change position in the hospital bed.

Around 4:00 in the afternoon, I think I heard her say "I'm dying," and I said, "That's OK." Then she said clearly, "Can you get me⸻?" and never finished the sentence. She said she needed to pee about 4:30, but nothing came out.

This is a stock photo, and not Ma Schmidt. Ma Schmidt was almost
90 years old. Also, there are very few photos on the Internet of
hospice patients in flagrante delicto. 

In the evening, she kicked off her covers, so she was lying in just a turtleneck sweater and a diaper. For a few minutes she grimaced while clutching her thighs together and flexing the muscles in them rhythmically. Her hand was resting on her crotch (but outside her diaper). Several times she said "Help me."

Help with what? Was she trying to masturbate? And if she were—umm, what is the relevant medical protocol? I assume that in principle sexual behavior would be classified as "just one more bodily function," albeit a pleasant one. And the whole point of hospice is to keep terminal patients comfortable. So what exactly is the official hospice line on masturbating patients who are too infirm to do the job successfully themselves?

Just to be 100% completely clear on this point, I did not—repeat, NOT—"help" Ma Schmidt with this job. Among my reasons (though this is not a complete list!) were the following: 

• I couldn't be sure that's what she wanted, because she couldn't talk coherently.
• Her son was in the same room at the time, and that's just squicky.
• Knowing the way the world is these days, I figure anyone who helps a helpless patient by masturbating them will probably go to jail or have to register for life as a sex offender. And neither of those options appeals to me.

At the same time, I can't help wondering: If she had wanted it, wouldn't it have been kinder to help her out? If you have any insight into this question, I would welcome comments or feedback.

       

Day 12: Crumpling

Ma Schmidt woke up to go to the bathroom at maybe 6:45 in the morning, or so. On her way back to bed, her legs crumpled beneath her. Schmidt says she can't do that any more: next time he's going to put her on the portable commode that the hospice services left.

A little while later, along with her interminable pleas of "Help me," Ma said "I need a church." (She had never belonged to any church throughout her adult life.)

Ma slept most of the day. Schmidt met with the representatives of a funeral home, and signed a contract for cremation services.

      

Day 11: "We're going to have to break up"

MA SCHMIDT: I'm going to die soon.

HOSEA: That's normal. It happens to everybody.

_____

Ma slept most of the day. She started to need attention in the evening, as Schmidt finished making dinner: grimacing as if it pain, reciting "Help me" every few seconds, and so on. Schmidt brought her a spoonful of syrup with a painkiller and 2 anxiety pills. But still she wanted me to stay with her. I told her my dinner was ready, and she replied, "Stay with me. Don't leave me."

Then after a few minutes she whispered to me, "We're going to have to break up. Because when they send us away, I know they won't send us together."

Finally she closed her eyes, and I went to eat dinner.

_____

P.S.: Schmidt finished his big job yesterday (Sunday), and FedEx came today to pick it up. It is now officially, at long last, on its way to the long-suffering customer.

      

"Why am I trying so hard?"

Later in the evening, Schmidt went to his house (that's the other house on the property) to tend to his cats. Ma Schmidt had a sedative an hour before, maybe an hour and a half. She looked at me very earnestly and said, "I love you so much. Why am I trying so hard to stay alive?"

I held her hands and said, "I love you too, but it's OK to let go. You don't have to struggle. It's OK to let go."

She drank some more milk and then settled down.

Then she smiled and whispered, "Thank you." And fell asleep. 

      

"I can't breathe" part 2

Later in the afternoon Ma Schmidt woke from a nap. It had been about four hours since her last medicine, so Schmidt gave her two more anxiety pills—prophylactically—ground up in syrup.

Shortly after those pills, she got very agitated again, repeating "I can't breathe! I'm going to die!" over and over again. She decided she had to get away, so she started climbing out of her bed. I was on one side and Schmidt was on the other. So I helped her stand, and then asked "Where now?" We stood there for a few minutes, and then she sat down perched on the bed again. I held her and rubbed her back, telling her that if she calmed down she could breathe better.

After a few more minutes she asked Schmidt to help her back into bed. Then he gave her an anti-nausea medicine to help with any pain in her stomach. He reasoned that this might be part of her distress.

      

"I can't breathe" part 1

Well into midday—I have it recorded as 3½ hours after this morning's medicine—Ma Schmidt started to get agitated again. After another fifteen minutes I texted Schmidt, who was up in their shop working on his late job. He crushed more anxiety medicine into a spoonful of simple syrup for her. I suggested three pills at once, and he agreed—especially since she might not drink it all.

Well, she drank it all but it didn't calm her down. After the medicine, she continued to get more agitated.

"I can't breathe!" she shouted. (She appeared to be breathing fine.)

"If I can't breathe, I'll die!"

"Why are you trying to kill me?"

"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Help me!"

Meanwhile I told her, "You're safe and all you have to do is relax."

She clutched at her sweater and at her diaper, as if those were restricting her breathing.

"Get me into the car!"

This went on for a while. Finally she began to settle down, and her voice became calmer and quieter. She started remarking about things outside the sliding glass door, that they were beautiful. She pointed to some things I couldn't see. Finally, about an hour after taking her anxiety medicine, she fell lightly asleep. 

      

Day 10: Scenes from Sunday

Ma Schmidt slept all Saturday night, just as she had slept all Friday night. But there was a noise all through the night like someone moaning. I heard it, then rolled over and went back to sleep; but it seems that it kept waking Schmidt. In the end it appears to have been a tree branch creaking in the wind against the side of the house. But it reminded me forcibly of the weeping chains in Orual's well. Readers of Till We Have Faces will remember what I mean.

_____

Ma's agitation this morning was quieter but still real. Schmidt got two pills into her by crushing them into water with sugar. She still asks for glasses of water, but often drinks only once instead of multiple times. But she won't always relinquish the cup after.

_____

This morning she spends more time staring out the sliding glass door and seemingly pointing at things. But when I ask her what she sees, her answer is inarticulate.

_____

"What are we doing here?"

"What am I doing here?"

"I've got to go to the hospital."

_____

Even when she is asleep, it seems she is aware of holding my hand. If I let go to get a snack or to refill my coffee—or to write down one of these notes!—I have between one and two minutes to get back to her. After that she starts to wake up and get antsy.

     

"Going home"

Every day, Ma Schmidt makes remarks about "going home."

"Mom is coming to get me and take me home."

"Is it time to go home already?"

"Can we just go home?"

And every time, we remind her that she already is home.

But yesterday afternoon (I mean Friday) I had a phone call with Debbie. She spent twenty years as an oncology nurse (or close to that), and she told me about one of her oncology patients who kept insisting that he needed to get out of there. He referenced every form of transportation known to man. There was a car coming for him. He had to catch a train. He had to catch a plane. He had to catch a boat. She didn't mention a horse and buggy, but that was probably on the list too. It got to the point that the nurses kind of joked about him: "Old Mr. So-and-so just told us he's got to leave again." To be clear, the nursing staff confirmed with the family that all of these appointments were purely imaginary.

But Debbie said, they may have been imaginary but that didn't make them untrue. It's just that they were metaphorical. Three weeks later, he was dead. So he really did have to "leave" soon. He just had the conveyance wrong.

I've been thinking about that story as I listen to Ma. 

      

Clever girl

Ma Schmidt is getting wily about avoiding the anxiety medication. This afternoon I crushed one into a spoon of ice cream, and another into a spoon of jam. She rejected both of them. In fact, that's what triggered her fighting us so violently. 

Later in the early evening, Schmidt got her to take one pill by telling her it was heart medicine. Then he crushed two more into a little water and put it in a syringe that he squirted into her mouth. This is the protocol he uses to give medicine to his cats.

I think it works better on cats. He got the syringe squirted into her mouth, but then she just kept stock still. We tried to make her swallow some water, but she spilled the water and kept the liquid with the medicine under her tongue. A few minutes later, she spit out that too. Schmidt thinks that some of it may have been absorbed through the skin inside her mouth while it was sitting under her tongue, because she fell asleep not long after. But she is getting wily.

The thing is, at some level (perhaps not fully consciously) she can probably tell that we are being dishonest with her.

She says "Help me!" and we tell her she's safe. But she means "Don't let me die," and we mean "Of course you're going to die."

She is worried about what's coming, and we tell her not to worry. But she's trying to tell us that she's worried she might die, and what we mean is, "Don't worry, you can go ahead and die safely."

We give her anti-anxiety medication to calm her down, but we never tell her why. Or at any rate we never tell her the full truth about why—namely, that as she is slowly dying she is also becoming more irrational and less tethered to reality, and we want her to feel at peace partly for her own sake but especially for ours.

No wonder she thinks we are trying to kill her!

She asks for her husband, Pa Schmidt—or her mother—and we don't tell her where they are. Admittedly, Schmidt did tell his mother once that Pa had died seventeen years ago, and she got very upset. But that's why neither of us will tell her again. Yes, partly we don't want to inflict more emotional pain on her; but also we are managing our own emotional comfort, and it is simply more comfortable to lie to her or to deflect her questions. So that's what we do.

And she doesn't know WHY we are doing it, but I bet that at an emotional level she can absolutely tell that we are doing it! So why should she trust us?

      

Scenes from Saturday

"I can't see too well. Over there. I want to look over there, but I can't see. It's too bright." Closing the curtain seemed to help, so this probably wasn't any kind of "Coming to the Light." Just late afternoon glare from the sun.

_____

"Why are you two trying to kill me?"

_____

She called for "Mom!" many more times in the afternoon and evening, along with calling "Help me!" A couple of times she called "Daddy!" but not much.

_____

[Staring straight at her son, very earnestly] "He came up to me and told me to give him a son. so I did. But now I'm afraid I'll be guilty of murder."

_____

Just before dinner, I was sitting with her and caressing her head, and she asked me to marry her. She shifts quickly between saying she loves me, and saying that I want to torture or murder her. 

That said, I have tried to be affectionate and comforting, and I regularly address her as "sweetheart." So maybe it is just that her boundaries are coming down.

_____

As Schmidt and I ate dinner, Ma started talking to the air, and calling "Help me" over and over. Then she began to climb out of bed!

Why? "To escape!"

Escape to where? Long silence.

Finally she said she wanted to go to the bathroom. Schmidt helped her there, but she had nothing to do when she got there other than to sit and bemoan her fate.

           

Day 9: Fighting with us

This is a stock photo. In reality, Ma Schmidt threatened
us with a wooden stool.

Ma Schmidt slept soundly from Friday evening straight through until 1:30 this afternoon, Saturday. Then she woke up and wanted water. For an hour or so she was pretty coherent, and even had a sense of humor. Then she began to get upset and called for her mother. 

"Mom! Mom! Mom! Help me! Help me!"

We tried to get her to take her anxiety medication: well, she swallowed one pill but refused two more. Then she started calling for the police to come save her from us! There was a wooden stool sitting by her hospital bed. It was pretty uncomfortable, but I had used it to sit on whenever Schmidt was using the chair on the other side of her (and vice versa). Ma picked up the stool and brandished it as a shield or a weapon. So Schmidt and I backed away slowly, and let her rave until she ran down. 

When she was exhausted, we helped her back into her normal recumbent position on the bed. By then she was puzzled and genuinely spooked by what had happened to her. "What was that about? Am I crazy?" Schmidt told her she had had a bad dream, and she said, "It was worse than that!" Finally she drifted back into sleep.

     

Day 8: Mostly sleeping

This morning, Ma Schmidt asked for Pa Schmidt several times, and (as usual) pleaded "Help me. Help me." But I gave her no anxiety medication, because right away she fell back asleep. So she had no medicine all morning.

Schmidt went to the store for about three hours. While he was gone, she woke three times, asked for water each time, and then fell back asleep.

I offered to Schmidt to stay up with her so he could go to bed early, to make up for his having to sit up with her a lot on Thursday night. Generally I've been going to bed between 10:00 and 11:00. Turns out that "go to bed early" for Schmidt means 12:15, but OK fine. I stayed awake until about 1:30. Ma slept. I must have had some coffee late in the evening, because I ended up having to pee four times before I got up for good the next morning: at 1:00, 3:00, 5:05, and then finally at 6:50. [I'm writing this weeks later, so I don't remember for sure but I probably got up after that one.] I was afraid the noise would wake one of them, but apparently not. Both slept soundly through the night.

     

Another glass of water

Late at night, Ma Schmidt asked for a glass of water. I gave her a cup. She held it near her face, but seemingly could not figure out how to drink from it. So I pushed it up to her lips and then tipped the cup until the water flowed into her mouth. I stopped, waited for her to swallow, and then did it again. Then I set the cup on a side table, while Ma went back to sleep.

This pattern repeated more and more as time went on, though it never became permanent. Even a week later, she was sometimes able to drink on her own. But less and less. 

"I want milk!"

Ma Schmidt asked for milk to drink. Schmidt got her a glass of milk, and I helped her drink it. After she had drunk two swallows from the glass, she started to moan over and over, "I want milk!" She was still holding the glass. 

I tried to point out the glass in her hands. "There you are. You already have milk right there in your hands."

Finally she interrupted her moan to say casually (and with a little irritation), "I know this is milk."

Standing up

At one point this afternoon, Ma Schmidt got agitated and demanded to stand up. Schmidt was there. I had already given her one anti-anxiety pill. So I let her loop her arms around my neck, and then I stood up—hoisting her out of bed into a standing position.

"Where now?"

She mumbled something incoherent and started walking to her left. I followed and talked to her. In the end we got maybe three to six inches to her left, with no idea where to go next. Then she wore out.

So I piloted her back to the bed and sat her down. Schmidt and I organized her in bed, and he gave her a second anti-anxiety pill. After a while she calmed down, and then dozed.

    

Was Ma Schmidt hitting on me?

OK, I know this sounds crazy. But hear me out.

During the afternoon, I sat with Ma Schmidt while her son worked in the shop. And the interactions would have felt … intentional … if I thought that she was of sound mind. In fact I don't think she is of sound mind any longer. But I wonder whether some corner of her brain has its own agenda, and is currently unencumbered by the need to look socially acceptable? So for example:

She asked me to sit on her bed, instead of sitting (as I have every day up till now) on a chair next to her bed.

Then she clutched at the gap where my shirt opens, running her fingers through my chest hair.

She asked, "Put your chest on me." (I declined, on the grounds that I've way heavier than she is, and I would crush her.)

She held my hands and said, "I'll be very happy if you'll sleep here with me." Then she smiled and dozed off into a nap.

These behaviors were all pretty much one-offs, in the sense that they were not repeated on other days. There is another behavior that I don't understand, but which she has repeated on several different days. Fairly regularly, she inserts the fingers of one hand—sometimes both—under the edge of her diaper, as if she wants to pull it off. Maybe she is trying to signal a need to go to the bathroom, but she doesn't say anything about that. Nor does she push her hand all the way into her crotch. she just hooks it around the diaper … and leaves it there. It's very odd. 

    

Scenes from Thursday

"Don't let me drown."

_____

As before, Ma Schmidt repeated "Help me" and "Save me" many times throughout the day. Each time I tell her that she is safe in her own home. But I wonder if she really means, "Help me NOT DIE?" Because of course she is dying, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

_____

The hospice nurse visited today. Schmidt described how Ma is doing, in all the details. The nurse offered to prescribe another mood-calmer that we can use in alternation with the current anti-anxiety drug.

_____

I had to take Ma to the potty again. It was easier to clean her this time (compared to the first), because there was no shit—just urine. But I was still clumsy at it. Once again, I hoisted her ankles like I would a baby's.

    

Day 7: "Is that my hand?"

This morning, Ma Schmidt stretched out her hand and looked at it in disbelief.

"That's not mine."

"It is. That's your hand."

"No. My hand was chopped off my arm."

"...?"

"Was it stuck back on?"

"Your arm is fine. You are safe. It was just a dream."

"Is that my hand?"

"Yes. You are safe. It was just a dream."

"It was … a terrible dream."

"It was just a dream. You are safe."

    

"Am I dead yet?"

"Am I dead yet?"

"No you're not."

"Oh. Well I might be soon." 

Day 6: Agitation

I woke up at 2:30 this morning, while Schmidt was helping Ma to the bathroom. After he wiped her up, I held her hands for a while and sent him back to bed. (Although she spends much of the day asleep, she needs someone with her before she can drift off comfortably.)

About 6:00 this morning she dumped her water all over herself, so it all had to be mopped up. Then I calmed her back to sleep, before going back to bed myself for another hour.

This afternoon she got very agitated. First she wanted to walk out onto the deck. I told her she couldn't, and she insisted I allow her. So as soon as she stood up she had to cling to me, and begged to go "back" to bed (which she had never really left). Once she was ensconced back in bed, she wanted to go out on the deck or walk around the house. I said we just tried that, and she couldn't.

Next she asked for Pa Schmidt. [You remember that he died back in 2008.] I said I didn't know where he was. 

She wanted Pa to drive her home. I said she was already home.

Well then, could I drive her home? I repeated that she was already home.

Could I at least call Schmidt? Maybe. Why? "Because I'm a nervous wreck!"

So I gave her an anti-anxiety pill. It didn't make much difference. We had more conversations like this one, and she started climbing out of bed. Why? To get away and walk to the neighbors. Why? Because I wouldn't allow her to leave!

I gave her a second pill.

About this time Schmidt came back. She asked him to stay because she didn't know me. He gave her a third pill. She was very suspicious of the medicine by this time, as if we were trying to poison her. She asked why we wouldn't take the same pills. But she did take it. And finally, fifteen minutes or so after her third pill, she calmed down. Schmidt went back to work, and I sat with her.

Four hours later she started to get agitated again, pleading "Help me!" over and over and over. So we gave her another pill. More and more, when she talks she is inarticulate and too faint for us to hear her well. Then when we can hear her, either she is repeating generic phrases like "Help me!" or else it makes no sense—like she is talking in her sleep.

For the last few days there have been isolated moments when she has seen the comforter on her bed as a dead body. 

     

Day 5: "Help me"

Today was a lot like yesterday. But Ma Schmidt added a new element to her repeated conversational fragments.

"Help me. Help me. Help me."

"Help you do what?"

"Help me."

I gave her one of her anti-anxiety pills. Then 15 minutes later there had been no change, so I gave her another. (This is what the doctor said to do.)

"Help me."  

Day 4: "Don't leave me."

Today there were more conversations that seemed to be based on dreams or hallucinations. The easiest hypothesis is that Ma Schmidt slides from dreaming to waking without noticing the change. But that doesn't cover all the cases.

At one point she saw some exotic birds on television, and thought they were in the house. She asked me to open the door to let them out.

Another time she turned to me out of the blue and said she thought Schmidt and I were hatching some kind of complex plan. Then she asked, "Who's she?" when there was no woman around.

Ma's doctor prescribed some anti-anxiety medication, to be used as needed. With this medicine, she is sleeping more. Yesterday she told me several times "I need to go to the hospital," and I told her that the hospital can't help her. Last night, Schmidt told me, "If she says that, it's an anxiety attack. So give her the anti-anxiety medicine." She hasn't said it today, but we've been using the medicine in advance, prophylactically.

Mostly she slept through the day, though she was grateful to have someone nearby when she woke. Also there were fewer trips to the bathroom, and less output per trip. Schmidt drove into town for groceries, and got some more work done on his current work order.

_____

Ma (to Hosea): Don't leave me. Stay with me. I love you. 

_____

Ma: That was loud.

Hosea: What was?

Ma: That last announcement. [There was none.] I think it was out of your mouth. [Nope.]

Hosea: I think you were dreaming.

_____

Schmidt and I watched Mel Brooks's "Spaceballs" after dinner.

     

Sunday afternoon

Many of the conversations this afternoon were lower key. At one point Ma Schmidt tried to change position to get more comfortable, and then sighed and said, "It didn't work, of course." 

At another point Schmidt was walking her back to her bed from the bathroom, naked from the waist down so that he could wipe her up more efficiently; I was standing around trying to figure out if I needed to help; she happened to catch my eye and said, "You're not supposed to be watching this part." So maybe she has forgotten my hoisting her ankles up over her head so that I could wipe her clean yesterday. (My God, was it only yesterday?)

There were other snatches of conversation distinguished only by their bland normality.

Then there were the times she asked to go to the hospital, because she felt so awful and therefore must be sick. (Bad news, sweetie, but you're not sick.) Mostly she recognized Schmidt today. She didn't remember my name, but she remembered that I'm the one whose job is to sit there holding her hand. Schmidt got a little work done in the shop.

During the evening, Schmidt explained that one of the reasons Ma is afraid of dying is that as long as she is alive she is bringing in Social Security for him. Of course, this is not a goal that can ever be satisfied; she can never lie down and relax because she has completed it. So part of her wants to live forever, so she can provide for him. 

One reason the days seem long is that so much time goes by when nothing is happening at all. So it's hard to keep track of how much time has passed when there are no milestones. I suppose that's better than chronic catastrophes. 

Day 3: "Are you trying to murder me?"

This was a new one. The funny thing is, there was nothing combative in her mien when she asked. But Schmidt was offering her morning medicines. He laid them out and asked her to swallow them with a little water. And in a very quiet, almost curious voice, Ma Schmidt asked about the pills, "Are you trying to murder me?"

"No, of course not! Your doctor prescribed these to make you feel better."

OK, no problem.

Other questions from the morning included:

"Where am I?"

"In your house."

"This is my house?"

"Yes."

"I own it?"

"Yes."

"Free and clear?"

That struck me. She couldn't remember where she was—or even, at points, who she is—but for a moment she remembered enough about home-ownership to understand the importance of owning "free and clear" rather than owing money on a mortgage.

"Yes, you own it free and clear."

And she relaxed a bit.

Sometime later she asked if we were planning to put her away in an institution somewhere, and we told her of course not. That was shortly before she asked if we were trying to murder her. So I assume that at that point she had just woken up from a bad dream of some kind, and was unclear on the difference between the storyline of her dream and the storyline of real life.

The other conversations have been repeats from previous days, or at least not particularly striking. I made another joke that got another wry scoff, which I take to be a good sign. 

"Can I have some water?"

Later when Ma Schmidt woke up again, we spent quite a lot of time in conversations that represented variations on the following theme:

"Can I have something to drink?"

"Here's some water."

"Where's this from?" 

"It's yours. I just picked it up from the table."

"Is that all there is?"

"There's lots more in the kitchen, when you finish this."

"Is there a kitchen?"

"Yes, right over there."

"Can I got get my own water?"

"When you try to walk, it's really hard. I don't think you can walk."

"How am I supposed to get water, then?"

"You've got water. I just gave it to you."

"But are you always here?"

"I'm here now. I'll be here for many days yet."

"What if you're not here?"

"Then you ask your son."

"Is he here?"

"He's up in the shop working on a job."

"What shop?"

"You have a shop here on this property. In your barn."

"Is it far away?"

"Not far."

"So I could walk there?"

"I don't think you can walk."

"Then how do I get him?"

"If you need him, you send me. But mostly you can just ask me for what you need."

"But are you always here?"

[Re-enter the conversation at this point above.]

Then there were conversations where she simply said she was afraid of being left alone, and was grateful for my being with her. (Does that mean she forgave my man-handling her to get her cleaned up? No, it probably means she had forgotten all about it. It was a full hour before, after all.) There were conversations where she said she really just wanted to converse with Schmidt for a while. Could I get him? I promised to let him know as soon as he came back down from the shop—where he's working on a job. (I tried to speak in repeatable, Homeric formulas as much as possible, in the hopes that some of it might stick.) And there were conversations where … no, I don't even remember any more. I'm trying to get this written down so that I remember it all later. But there was enough that I can't remember all of it. That's what you get when you try to recall all the elements of a day that lasts for a week. 

Schmidt did finally come back to the house. He sat with her during "Wheel of Fortune" and "Jeopardy". Now he is fixing dinner. I think she is asleep again. 

Taking Ma Schmidt to the potty

Mid-afternoon, Ma Schmidt was sound asleep. Schmidt went back up to the shop to get some more work done on this job that's so late. Five minutes later she woke up and needed to go to the bathroom. She couldn't figure out how to wipe herself any more (this is another change from a month ago) so I tried to help. Of course most of the wiping was shit that was sticking to her. (Almost none of it actually came loose to fall into the pot.) Schmidt has a technique, but I don't know it. So I improvised (while she complained long and loud) and then I walked her back to bed to finish the job. (Schmidt does that too.)

Once she was back in bed I found I had a technique that worked perfectly well: I grabbed her ankles and hoisted her exactly the way I would hoist a baby whose diaper I was changing. I think this caused her a lot of serious discomfort, probably even pain. (At least, she complained.) I don't know if she was conscious of the indignity, because I'm no longer sure what she is conscious of; but if so there was quite a lot of indignity—in spades!—as well. 

If any of you is wondering how old age affects the private parts, I can tell you this much. She still had pubic hair: it wasn't thick, but there was enough that I had to clean off any waste that had gotten stuck or smeared in it. Also, the one glimpse I got inside her showed skin that was still smooth, pink, and glistening. 

Finally I got her cleaned up, or mostly. Then I got new underwear on her (in reality it was just a diaper for adults), and a new pad underneath her. I picked up all the soiled wipes I'd used. (Quite a lot of them!) I wrapped all that up into a bundle so that I could ask Schmidt how he wanted to handle it. (When he finally got back, he burned it in the fireplace. Apparently shit burns. Who knew?) 

Ma was really unhappy. But Schmidt had given her an anti-anxiety pill before he'd gone back to the shop; so despite the pain and indignity, she soon fell back asleep. 

Day 2: "Jump! The foxes are after us!"

That was Ma Schmidt, of course, speaking absolutely clearly about something neither Schmidt nor I understood. Other times she has been speaking a lot more faintly, sometimes making lucid sense and other times not. My private suspicion is that she is dozing and drifting in and out of dream, without always noticing the border between dream and waking. She told Schmidt earnestly that she loves him and wants him to be happy; and she asked me just as earnestly why we're not allowed to talk to each other? (We're not? I missed that part, I guess.)

This morning she was adamant that she wanted to go for a walk. So Schmidt pulled some pants on her and we got her into her wheelchair. We piloted the wheelchair out the front door so she could look at the beautiful day. She asked, "Why am I here?"

"You wanted to go for a walk."

In a very faint, weak voice she pleaded, "I can't handle this. Please take me back." 

So it was back to the hospital bed.

Since then, I have been sitting with her for much of the day, so Schmidt can get a little work done up in the shop. At one point she woke up and told me, "You don't really have to sit here and watch me the whole day."

I replied, "Hey, I've got to keep an eye on you to make sure you don't get up to something!"

One corner of her mouth twisted into a wry smile and she said, "Smartass!"

So apparently she's still lucid about some things. 😀 

Her old friend called

In the early evening, Ma's old friend Georgie called. She talked with Schmidt for a while, and then he asked if she wanted to talk to Ma. Yes, sure. 

Schmidt put the phone on and set the receiver to Speaker so it would broadcast aloud. He handed the phone to Ma and told her it was Georgie.

"Georgie?"

"Hi, Ma!" [Of course she used Ma's real name.]

"Where are you?"

"I'm in my kitchen … in my house … in [the town where Georgie lives]." Then she went on to list her two long-term houseguests, and where they were.

"But where are you?"

"I'm at my home."

"I'm confused. I don't know where I am."

At this point I interrupted to say, "You are safe and sound in your own house." Ma looks at me. "Who are you?"

"I'm Hosea. I'm a friend of your son's."

"Georgie, I don't know where I am."

The conversation went on like that for a little while, and then Ma gave the phone back to Schmidt. I don't remember the whole exchange. Except that when she saw Schmidt, she told Georgie, "Oh good, I see that Pa is here!"

At another point, Ma expressed to me the worry that she doesn't know who she is! I told her she's Ma Schmidt, and that she's in her own house in her own town so she is safe and sound. She was worried about all the work she is supposed to be doing—at the very least, making dinner so the rest of us won't go hungry—but I assured her that Schmidt has the work all covered.

"Have you seen him today?"

"Yes, he's right over there in the kitchen."

When I finally persuaded her that Schmidt has her duties covered so that she doesn't have to do anything, she lay back with a sigh and a look of profound relief. 

She has also spent a lot of time asleep. 

Day 1: "Where am I?"

This morning, Ma Schmidt asked me who I am. [For simplicity, I will often refer to her simply as "Ma". But remember that I am not referring to my own mother when I do so!] I gave her my name and explained that I'm a friend of her son's from college, and she was fine with that. But then she also asked where we were. I gave her the name of the town a couple of times but she couldn't hear me, so I said "Home. We're in your home."

Puzzled. "That's in [the town where she was born]!" I reminded her that she moved to this town almost 50 years ago. "Oh right. I used to own a house there. Do I still?"

"Yes. That's where we are."

"Oh." (Pause.) "Well, duh. I'm looking out the window at my own deck. Of course. But I've been on a long trip. [No she hasn't.] Is my family here?" 

Schmidt walked into view, reassuring her.

She has also asked after Pa Schmidt, her late husband. [Again, for simplicity I will often call him "Pa".] Schmidt tells me that when she asked after Pa a couple of days ago, he reminded her that Pa died 17 years ago—and she was very upset. Now he just says Pa isn't here right now. When she asked me for Pa, I said, "I don't know but here's your son."

Last night she went to the bathroom several times, sometimes just a minute or two after getting back to her bed from the previous expedition. Schmidt helps clean her up after. At night he sleeps in her room, on his dad's side. (To be clear, she's not there! She sleeps on a hospital bed parked in the living room.) And apparently she had to go once at 4:00am, that I slept through. But only once, so that's good.

It's been 20 days since I left. 

Back to the Schmidts

Nineteen days ago—at least, as measured by blog time (the dates printed on these entries)—I wrapped up my visit to the Schmidts by writing, "we agreed that we would touch base with each other to see if it made sense for me to come back again. It's still going to be a lot of work for Schmidt."

Well yeah, no shit. "A lot of work" is putting it mildly. And Schmidt still had a job he was trying to get out, for a client who was mad that it was so long overdue. But he couldn't very well be up in the barn (er, … "shop") hand-crafting an elegant chandelier when he was also down in Ma's house looking after her. So once I had submitted my taxes and paid my bills, he agreed that he could really use some more help. On April 3, I drove back to their farm.

I ended up staying just over two weeks. I will report how the days went and what things I thought about, day by day as if they were happening in real time. Some of this is based on emails I sent to Marie, and some on notes I kept at the time. But if I wrote an email on April 4 (for example), or made a note on that day, I'll post it under April 4. This is the same way I posted about my trips to Scotland or Paris, back in 2023. In any event, the listed date represents when the events in question actually happened, and not the day my fingers tapped them out on the keyboard.

(For example, I am typing these words on the evening of Saturday, April 26, more than three weeks after the date I'm giving them here.)

Anyway, "today"—by which I mean April 3—I drove back to their farm. It's an all-day drive from my place. When I arrived, I asked Schmidt how Ma had changed in the last few weeks. He said she was frailer, and I guess so but it's only incremental. She now needs his help to wipe herself after going to the bathroom, for example. 

And we pick up the story from there.