Peg, that is. Into a new nursing home she says is wonderful. The plan is a week of rehab. She is now off oxygen completely and wolfing down meatloaf and taking her pills. She sounds bright but then cried when she talked to me, saying she missed me, and Terri says she cried earlier when talking about me. Terri who she asked to stay overnight with her there, on a chair, thank you, which makes the second night running Terri's had no sleep. Correction. Saint Terri. Who says she doesn't mind.
I arrive on Tuesday, late. Overnight with friends then onwards to Berkshire Place to maybe find Terri sacked out in the bed and Peg sitting in the chair reading.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Thursday, February 26, 2015
STILL ON OXYGEN
Well she's still in hospital and I'm still in England. I will probably go over next week. Should go over next week. And I may. Or I may not. I am what one might call indecisive regarding this matter. Of whether to rush to my very own 98 year old mother's bedside. Or not.
Peg's story is this: she has been diagnosed with CHF, also known as Congestive Heart Failure. As my nurse friend Tory told me, this in itself does not mean she'll die tomorrow, it's is a slow killer, but nor does it mean we can expect her to live to a hunfred and seven. All the symptoms she's had over the last year are there, when you think of it, the shortness of breath, the nausea, loss of appetite, bloated feeling, more and more confusion as less blood gets to the brain---and none of this helped by her rather sporadic approach to pill-taking. It is thought the latest incident may have been triggered by the fact she hadn't taken her meds all the week before. But God forbid you get on her case about this or try to force them down her...The resident told me that some patients with CHF last only a matter of months but he's seen some go for another year or two even.
So. She was in a bad way when she was admitted, and worse the next day. Going downhill. Confused. Didn't know where she was. Why no faces were familiar.
And here I sat.
The next day her voice was only a whisper. Things did not look good. Paula her GP said I might want to consider coming sooner than April 10 (the original plan). I spoke to the resident, the cardiologist, the nurse on the Telemetry floor. Saint Terri has been at her bedside from 7 AM to 8 PM, interspersed with visits from Saints Bonnie and Dominick. Peg was exhausted on Tuesday, having received over a dozen well-wishing visitors. They have now been asked not to come, for the moment, so she can rest.
By yesterday she sounded more like herself and Bonnie reports she ate a full dinner, still needing help to be fed but sometimes she managed it herself. A Hospice nurse friend who'd looked after Odd popped by to see Peg in the afternoon. Here is her report:
"She looked very tired when I arrived but she is still Peg, making others laugh and being very engaged. She is truly amazing! Her heart is full of love and has many miles on it. The numbers you reported are her EF, it stands for ejection fraction. It’s a percentage and refers to the amount of blood ejected from the heart with each beat. 65% is a typical heart. 50% is a decline. 30% causes some trouble during activity. 20% makes someone short of breath with minimal exertion"
Peg's EF as of two days ago was 15 -20%. She is still on 4 litres (?) of oxygen.
They are hoping to get her levels back to normal (or at least improved) and then dismiss her, possibly including a week's rehab back at Laurel Lake, my favourite nursing home hang- out in Lee. The doctor, who Denis, thinking it was yet another asshole telemarketer from Mumbai, hung up on the first time (after telling the guy in a silly voice to go fuck himself) will ring me again tomorrow with a progress report. Hopefully.
I have spoken to Peg every day, sometimes twice.
But here I sat. Not racing to Heathrow.
And the reason for this is that I have made a choice, and that choice has been, right or wrong, to put my husband before my mother. The proofs of DK's memoirs, to be launched April 8, came in on Monday and all 80,000 words and images need to be proofed before I return them to the publisher this week or we wont make the deadline, and the official press release has already gone out. There are a hundred details to sort out in all areas of this launch. It is a project that DK and I have been working on for three years. If it fizzles, it fizzles, but I am determined it will not be because I haven't put my all into it.
And this is why Peg must wait. If she possibly can.
CHF, though a slow killer, can of course trigger something worse, like a heart attack. If that happens, it happens, whether I am there or not. I am confident that she is well looked after in the hospital and that her staff love her (most of the time).
Although there has been much to-ing and fro-ing, Peg has now agreed to stick by the DNR (Do Not Resucitate) order she signed last year. They always ask you again though, if you're conscious, to make sure you're still happy about it. Peg wavers. She doesn't like the idea of her ribs been broken or a big metal tube being crammed down her throat if she goes into cardiac arrest--but she doesn't like the idea of dying, either. I get this.
I am her health proxy. If her heart stops, they'll ask me what to do. I've decided what the answer is.
Needless to say, no filming for Comic Relief has taken place. I am trying to re-think it. Or will, as soon as I get the back cover designed and finalized for the paperback of Key Changes.
Tuesday, I think. I can finish the work by Tuesday, and then get on a plane. And once again pretend I'm a good daughter.
Peg's story is this: she has been diagnosed with CHF, also known as Congestive Heart Failure. As my nurse friend Tory told me, this in itself does not mean she'll die tomorrow, it's is a slow killer, but nor does it mean we can expect her to live to a hunfred and seven. All the symptoms she's had over the last year are there, when you think of it, the shortness of breath, the nausea, loss of appetite, bloated feeling, more and more confusion as less blood gets to the brain---and none of this helped by her rather sporadic approach to pill-taking. It is thought the latest incident may have been triggered by the fact she hadn't taken her meds all the week before. But God forbid you get on her case about this or try to force them down her...The resident told me that some patients with CHF last only a matter of months but he's seen some go for another year or two even.
And here I sat.
The next day her voice was only a whisper. Things did not look good. Paula her GP said I might want to consider coming sooner than April 10 (the original plan). I spoke to the resident, the cardiologist, the nurse on the Telemetry floor. Saint Terri has been at her bedside from 7 AM to 8 PM, interspersed with visits from Saints Bonnie and Dominick. Peg was exhausted on Tuesday, having received over a dozen well-wishing visitors. They have now been asked not to come, for the moment, so she can rest.
By yesterday she sounded more like herself and Bonnie reports she ate a full dinner, still needing help to be fed but sometimes she managed it herself. A Hospice nurse friend who'd looked after Odd popped by to see Peg in the afternoon. Here is her report:
"She looked very tired when I arrived but she is still Peg, making others laugh and being very engaged. She is truly amazing! Her heart is full of love and has many miles on it. The numbers you reported are her EF, it stands for ejection fraction. It’s a percentage and refers to the amount of blood ejected from the heart with each beat. 65% is a typical heart. 50% is a decline. 30% causes some trouble during activity. 20% makes someone short of breath with minimal exertion"
Peg's EF as of two days ago was 15 -20%. She is still on 4 litres (?) of oxygen.
They are hoping to get her levels back to normal (or at least improved) and then dismiss her, possibly including a week's rehab back at Laurel Lake, my favourite nursing home hang- out in Lee. The doctor, who Denis, thinking it was yet another asshole telemarketer from Mumbai, hung up on the first time (after telling the guy in a silly voice to go fuck himself) will ring me again tomorrow with a progress report. Hopefully.
I have spoken to Peg every day, sometimes twice.
But here I sat. Not racing to Heathrow.
And the reason for this is that I have made a choice, and that choice has been, right or wrong, to put my husband before my mother. The proofs of DK's memoirs, to be launched April 8, came in on Monday and all 80,000 words and images need to be proofed before I return them to the publisher this week or we wont make the deadline, and the official press release has already gone out. There are a hundred details to sort out in all areas of this launch. It is a project that DK and I have been working on for three years. If it fizzles, it fizzles, but I am determined it will not be because I haven't put my all into it.
And this is why Peg must wait. If she possibly can.
CHF, though a slow killer, can of course trigger something worse, like a heart attack. If that happens, it happens, whether I am there or not. I am confident that she is well looked after in the hospital and that her staff love her (most of the time).
Although there has been much to-ing and fro-ing, Peg has now agreed to stick by the DNR (Do Not Resucitate) order she signed last year. They always ask you again though, if you're conscious, to make sure you're still happy about it. Peg wavers. She doesn't like the idea of her ribs been broken or a big metal tube being crammed down her throat if she goes into cardiac arrest--but she doesn't like the idea of dying, either. I get this.
I am her health proxy. If her heart stops, they'll ask me what to do. I've decided what the answer is.
Needless to say, no filming for Comic Relief has taken place. I am trying to re-think it. Or will, as soon as I get the back cover designed and finalized for the paperback of Key Changes.
Tuesday, I think. I can finish the work by Tuesday, and then get on a plane. And once again pretend I'm a good daughter.
Monday, February 23, 2015
TICKER ISSUES
Otherwise known as Congestive Heart Failure. Peg. I have just spoken to the nurse on the Telemetry floor of BMCenter, and emailed Peg's GP, Paula. I wait for an update.
And now must come to a decision.
And now must come to a decision.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
AMBULANCE CALLED
Peg is on her way to hospital. Terri called DK while I was out trotting Mabel around the Common with no phone. Terri thinks it's a panic attack. She has followed in her car so will ring her in an hour to see what's what. Meanwhile, have dug passport out.
Nine for dinner last night. Peg, not me. Perhaps nine too many at the age of 98. Bonnie said she had rearranged the seating plan about thirty times, one big table, then two small, then the one dragged in from the porch, and so on. Peg usually thrives on all this though, the table layout being her favourite part of entertaining, she might forget vegetables or gravy or dessert, but that centrepiece will be there, never fear. "Let them eat pachysandra!"
I don't know whether to go to a big birthday do tonight over in Southwold or hang around here by the phone. I would feel terrible in years to come if I missed Peg's last words because I was scarfing down chili in a crowded room and didn't hear my cell. Or would I?
Nine for dinner last night. Peg, not me. Perhaps nine too many at the age of 98. Bonnie said she had rearranged the seating plan about thirty times, one big table, then two small, then the one dragged in from the porch, and so on. Peg usually thrives on all this though, the table layout being her favourite part of entertaining, she might forget vegetables or gravy or dessert, but that centrepiece will be there, never fear. "Let them eat pachysandra!"
I don't know whether to go to a big birthday do tonight over in Southwold or hang around here by the phone. I would feel terrible in years to come if I missed Peg's last words because I was scarfing down chili in a crowded room and didn't hear my cell. Or would I?
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
TERMINEX MEN
Carl and Scott the Terminex Men came yesteday to assess the situation, make their diagnosis, and put forth a plan of action. Before you get too excited, you should know that Terminex has nothing to do with Hospice, say, or Digitas--they are exterminators, true, but of the rodent removal variety. Meaning they visit the Becket property once every few months to eliminate mice and while they're there spray for spiders, Peg's bete noire, and check for signs of any other infestation--bats, beetles, birds, squirrels, sudden influx of care-givers, you name it. Yesterday's Terminex visit was reported to me in full, by Bonnie, and centered around Terminex's concerns about the standing water in the basement, sump pumps, doors leading down into the basement from the outside, and the prevention of termites. Oh, and icicles hanging from the eaves.
The Terminex Men suggest--because I know you're interested in this, and will get their phone number to you soon--new "stock steel" doors for the outside cellar doors, which sound cheap; a new inner cellar door; digging deeper trenches for both sump pumps; and re-insulating the entire attic. The result of all this expense being, according to Terminex, fewer mice getting in, fewer draughts in the basement (that old constant worry), a warmer attic, and The Prevention of Termites.
I have now answered Bonnie's email, in full, the gist of it being that..
…if Outside Bob can dig a deeper hole in which to place Sump Pump 1, and or 2, fabulous, but I don't want the Terminex Men doing it (their suggestion). And if Bob can't dig one, too bad, there has been water in the basement since my parents moved there in 1970. There is in fact a river running through the basement and always has been, hence the two sump pumps. Which work fine. The water just flows through then out and down the hill. There might presently an inordinate amount of water down there because it is winter and Becket has had an inordinate amount of snow.
… in forty-five years of living in the house, there has never been any sign of termites, water or no water in the basement (a potential breeding ground, according to Terminex). Futhermore it is a house made exclusively of field stone walls two feet thick. I don't think we need worry about termites, unless they're the granite-eating variety.
…I have no intention of shelling out for two steel doors for the hatch nor a new lower inner door into the basement. There have been mice getting into the house since Peg and Odd moved in. Mice do that. It's a house in the country. Country houses have mice. They can crawl through the teeniest of gaps, they get in around pipes, through air breaks, every which way. The idea that armies of them are using the basement steps like a freeway is far-fetched to say the least. Besides which, there is no particular mouse problem at the moment, they have not been running riot in the cupboards or partying until the wee hours or doing, in fact, anything wrong at all except perhaps stepping onto those sticky traps in the attic).
…the attic which in fact does not require any more insulation, there's already 10 inches of the stuff under the flooorboards and this has worked perfectly well for forty-five years. No one has yet died in their beds of of hypothermia. And thicker insulation will not "save us money in the long run" because, well, there is no long run really, is there.
…my father always worried about icicles over the front doors so whacked at them from an upstairs window. This procedure can be repeated by Outside Bob (from inside), at no expense, not counting the hospital bill when he falls out. There is no need, that I can see, for Carl and Scott the Ace Terminex Men, Prevention of Rodent Infesdtation and Icicle Removal Our Specialty, to get involved.
So you see what happens when I'm not there? Plus Peg has just shelled out another $12 a month to get some Italian TV channel because Tina her hairdresser, who is Italian, and speaks it, which Peg doesn't, said she loved watching.
The Terminex Men suggest--because I know you're interested in this, and will get their phone number to you soon--new "stock steel" doors for the outside cellar doors, which sound cheap; a new inner cellar door; digging deeper trenches for both sump pumps; and re-insulating the entire attic. The result of all this expense being, according to Terminex, fewer mice getting in, fewer draughts in the basement (that old constant worry), a warmer attic, and The Prevention of Termites.
I have now answered Bonnie's email, in full, the gist of it being that..
…if Outside Bob can dig a deeper hole in which to place Sump Pump 1, and or 2, fabulous, but I don't want the Terminex Men doing it (their suggestion). And if Bob can't dig one, too bad, there has been water in the basement since my parents moved there in 1970. There is in fact a river running through the basement and always has been, hence the two sump pumps. Which work fine. The water just flows through then out and down the hill. There might presently an inordinate amount of water down there because it is winter and Becket has had an inordinate amount of snow.
… in forty-five years of living in the house, there has never been any sign of termites, water or no water in the basement (a potential breeding ground, according to Terminex). Futhermore it is a house made exclusively of field stone walls two feet thick. I don't think we need worry about termites, unless they're the granite-eating variety.
…I have no intention of shelling out for two steel doors for the hatch nor a new lower inner door into the basement. There have been mice getting into the house since Peg and Odd moved in. Mice do that. It's a house in the country. Country houses have mice. They can crawl through the teeniest of gaps, they get in around pipes, through air breaks, every which way. The idea that armies of them are using the basement steps like a freeway is far-fetched to say the least. Besides which, there is no particular mouse problem at the moment, they have not been running riot in the cupboards or partying until the wee hours or doing, in fact, anything wrong at all except perhaps stepping onto those sticky traps in the attic).
…the attic which in fact does not require any more insulation, there's already 10 inches of the stuff under the flooorboards and this has worked perfectly well for forty-five years. No one has yet died in their beds of of hypothermia. And thicker insulation will not "save us money in the long run" because, well, there is no long run really, is there.
…my father always worried about icicles over the front doors so whacked at them from an upstairs window. This procedure can be repeated by Outside Bob (from inside), at no expense, not counting the hospital bill when he falls out. There is no need, that I can see, for Carl and Scott the Ace Terminex Men, Prevention of Rodent Infesdtation and Icicle Removal Our Specialty, to get involved.
So you see what happens when I'm not there? Plus Peg has just shelled out another $12 a month to get some Italian TV channel because Tina her hairdresser, who is Italian, and speaks it, which Peg doesn't, said she loved watching.
Saturday, February 14, 2015
VALENTINE CATHETER
I get a call at 4 in the morning her time (9 here).
"Well, I'm in trouble…"
Peg starts phone calls like that and immediately in my head I'm racing to get my passport and figuring how to get to Heathrow the fastest--and then it turns out she's "in trouble" because one of the burners doesn't work on the stove or something. This time she woke up and went to empty her catheter bag and it was empty but the bed was wet. Putting two and two together, I said there must be something wrong with the bag, either that or the fault is inside her and she should go to the ER. She'd already awakened Dominick, it seems, bet he was pleased (mind you he is being paid) and they'd both come to the same conclusion, so off they drove at 5 in the morning over the mountain to Berkshire Medical Center where, I find out later, a "darling girl" attended to her (I'm assuming a nurse, not someone she met in the waiting room) and inserted a new catheter, and home she came, about noon.
I'm sure it's awful having to deal with a catheter (although have to say, wouldn't mind one for long car journeys) and very uncomfortable and I'm sure it must be embarrassing for her--but I really really wish she'd stop with the dramatic phone calls. She woke Bonnie at 4:30 AM it seems, too. Bonnie over in Monterrey (Mass not Califormia) who could do nothing at that distance either.
The Comic Relief red noses have not yet arrived in Becket, uh-oh, am starting to get twitchy now about the filming next week, what if they don't arrive in time, also, I can see Peg pulling out at the last minute because she doesn't understand what I want, and then Louise not showing because she has to do lunches for her B & B skiers in Williamstown, and or me conducting a long distance Arts & Crafts class with Bonnie and Outside Bob teaching them how to make red noses out of yarn maybe or ping pong balls.
And now I'm afraid I must go make a special Valentine's Dinner for hubs, pan seared scallops on a pea puree with pancetta and gremolate, none of which I feel like doing but its too late to go out.
"Well, I'm in trouble…"
Peg starts phone calls like that and immediately in my head I'm racing to get my passport and figuring how to get to Heathrow the fastest--and then it turns out she's "in trouble" because one of the burners doesn't work on the stove or something. This time she woke up and went to empty her catheter bag and it was empty but the bed was wet. Putting two and two together, I said there must be something wrong with the bag, either that or the fault is inside her and she should go to the ER. She'd already awakened Dominick, it seems, bet he was pleased (mind you he is being paid) and they'd both come to the same conclusion, so off they drove at 5 in the morning over the mountain to Berkshire Medical Center where, I find out later, a "darling girl" attended to her (I'm assuming a nurse, not someone she met in the waiting room) and inserted a new catheter, and home she came, about noon.
I'm sure it's awful having to deal with a catheter (although have to say, wouldn't mind one for long car journeys) and very uncomfortable and I'm sure it must be embarrassing for her--but I really really wish she'd stop with the dramatic phone calls. She woke Bonnie at 4:30 AM it seems, too. Bonnie over in Monterrey (Mass not Califormia) who could do nothing at that distance either.
The Comic Relief red noses have not yet arrived in Becket, uh-oh, am starting to get twitchy now about the filming next week, what if they don't arrive in time, also, I can see Peg pulling out at the last minute because she doesn't understand what I want, and then Louise not showing because she has to do lunches for her B & B skiers in Williamstown, and or me conducting a long distance Arts & Crafts class with Bonnie and Outside Bob teaching them how to make red noses out of yarn maybe or ping pong balls.
And now I'm afraid I must go make a special Valentine's Dinner for hubs, pan seared scallops on a pea puree with pancetta and gremolate, none of which I feel like doing but its too late to go out.
Monday, February 9, 2015
TROUBLE AHEAD
I'm trying to promote Peg and her shows and got it all set up with the Comic Relief Red Nose Day charity--which for the first time is bringing the USA under it's umbrella, so ideal for my purposes--and have created a Giving Page, transferred one of her old Kate Smith comedy sketches onto DVD and then into this machine, laid on new titles and the "Ethel and Albert" logo, and the only thing I need now is 15 seconds of film tops, of Peg, now, introducing it---and she is suddenly balking.
Because she doesn't get it. Even though I have explained this fifty times. Doesn't get why I want to "give away her shows for nothing". Doesn't get that the exposure for her would be fantastic. Doesn't get that Louise is coming down from Williamstown to shoot it (because I am not there to do it, and because if I ask Dawn, who lives closer, Peg will decide at the last minute that she doesn't like her and start bugging her about the Famous Collie Contract of yore, which Dawn incidentally helped create in good faith, and slam the door in her face). And she especially doesn't get why it would be in the spirit of the thing to wear a spongy red nose (2 going into the mail today, from here) while she says "Please give generously to Comic Relief".
[FYI, for more info: http://www.comicrelief.com/rednoseday]
So the next ten days, you can just tell, can't you, are going to revolve exclusively around TO WEAR OR NOT TO WEAR this red nose and will undoubtedly result in everyone getting pissed off and the whole shoot being cancelled. And or the bloody noses never arriving, having got lost in the mail.
Which again begs the question: why does one bother? One indeed wonders.
Because she doesn't get it. Even though I have explained this fifty times. Doesn't get why I want to "give away her shows for nothing". Doesn't get that the exposure for her would be fantastic. Doesn't get that Louise is coming down from Williamstown to shoot it (because I am not there to do it, and because if I ask Dawn, who lives closer, Peg will decide at the last minute that she doesn't like her and start bugging her about the Famous Collie Contract of yore, which Dawn incidentally helped create in good faith, and slam the door in her face). And she especially doesn't get why it would be in the spirit of the thing to wear a spongy red nose (2 going into the mail today, from here) while she says "Please give generously to Comic Relief".
[FYI, for more info: http://www.comicrelief.com/rednoseday]
So the next ten days, you can just tell, can't you, are going to revolve exclusively around TO WEAR OR NOT TO WEAR this red nose and will undoubtedly result in everyone getting pissed off and the whole shoot being cancelled. And or the bloody noses never arriving, having got lost in the mail.
Which again begs the question: why does one bother? One indeed wonders.
Friday, February 6, 2015
URINETOWN
I have reports from Bonnie of a recent issue concerning two of the turquoise plastic tumblers Peg likes and which usually live on the shelf opposite the dishwasher along with the other ones.
Seems Bonnie walked into the downstairs loo, smelled urine (stronger than usual, that is) and spotted two turquoise plastic tumblers on the windowsill, both with an inch or so of liquid in them. Took a whiff. Urine. No question. One glass had an "X" marked with masking tape on it, the other a sort of "T". Bonnie rand Terri, currently in Alabama moving her son into a new apartment, to ask if she knew what was going on. Terri said it was a Peg project of some sort, to ask Peg.
Peg, it seems, while observing her catheter bag, worried she was not producing enough urine, so decided to keep track. Using NOT the two plastic urinals sitting there in plain sight (leftovers from Odd), but took two blue plastic drinking glasses from the kitchen.
Bonnie, appalled, pulled on surgical gloves (which she uses for almost everything including taking meat off chicken thighs), emptied the urine into the loo and took the tumblers out to the laundry room where she proceeded to wash and bleach and disinifect nine hundred times then left to dry by the side of the sink.
Two days later she comes into work and stops dead, spying these two blue glasses--still marked with tape so she knows they're the same--on the drying rack next to the kitchen sink, indicating that Dominick, who was on call the day before, had washed them and set them there, no doubt having used the nice dish sponge they use for all the dishes--all of which was too much for Bonnie to bear, who then threw out the glasses and the sponge and scoured the sink and I think the whole kitchen and possibly county and is maybe wearing a protective jumpsuit with goggles as I write. (Hope she doesn't have a heart attack if she ever visits my house). I have to remind myself that while she may be over the top sometimes in matters of hygiene, the place always looks and smells immaculate and nothing's ever growing anything in the potato drawer or getting squishy in the fridge and Peg is still alive, having no opportunity anymore (as she did with a couple of previous housekeepers) to poison herself with stuff that should have been pitched but six months later Peg is still dipping into saying "It's pefectly FINE!", like taramasalata.
My mother, in any event, did not take kindly to her science experiments being interfered with. Not only that, at one point she claimed it was not urine in the glasses, it was "her liquid medicine" that she "always took at night", an admission which of course gave pause for thought (not to mention retching) until Bonnie finally figured out Peg was talking about coconut water, which her fan Steve suggested she take every night.
"But Peg, " Bonnie told her. "That was NOT coconut water in those glasses. Trust me."
So who knows. But heated words ensued, no surprises here, all of them Peg's, and once again, she told everyone to go home, that she didn't need anyone looking after her.
I rang yesterday evening when I got in from dinner. Peg was alone, had just awakened from a nap. Unsure of who was coming to stay that evening (join the club) and then giving me a hard time about depriving her of a dog and reiterating that she can't go anywhere (meaning England) until her legs get better. Which you know and I know ain't going to happen. And now if you'll excuse me, I need to go fill the kettle from the toilet.
Seems Bonnie walked into the downstairs loo, smelled urine (stronger than usual, that is) and spotted two turquoise plastic tumblers on the windowsill, both with an inch or so of liquid in them. Took a whiff. Urine. No question. One glass had an "X" marked with masking tape on it, the other a sort of "T". Bonnie rand Terri, currently in Alabama moving her son into a new apartment, to ask if she knew what was going on. Terri said it was a Peg project of some sort, to ask Peg.
Peg, it seems, while observing her catheter bag, worried she was not producing enough urine, so decided to keep track. Using NOT the two plastic urinals sitting there in plain sight (leftovers from Odd), but took two blue plastic drinking glasses from the kitchen.
Bonnie, appalled, pulled on surgical gloves (which she uses for almost everything including taking meat off chicken thighs), emptied the urine into the loo and took the tumblers out to the laundry room where she proceeded to wash and bleach and disinifect nine hundred times then left to dry by the side of the sink.
Two days later she comes into work and stops dead, spying these two blue glasses--still marked with tape so she knows they're the same--on the drying rack next to the kitchen sink, indicating that Dominick, who was on call the day before, had washed them and set them there, no doubt having used the nice dish sponge they use for all the dishes--all of which was too much for Bonnie to bear, who then threw out the glasses and the sponge and scoured the sink and I think the whole kitchen and possibly county and is maybe wearing a protective jumpsuit with goggles as I write. (Hope she doesn't have a heart attack if she ever visits my house). I have to remind myself that while she may be over the top sometimes in matters of hygiene, the place always looks and smells immaculate and nothing's ever growing anything in the potato drawer or getting squishy in the fridge and Peg is still alive, having no opportunity anymore (as she did with a couple of previous housekeepers) to poison herself with stuff that should have been pitched but six months later Peg is still dipping into saying "It's pefectly FINE!", like taramasalata.
My mother, in any event, did not take kindly to her science experiments being interfered with. Not only that, at one point she claimed it was not urine in the glasses, it was "her liquid medicine" that she "always took at night", an admission which of course gave pause for thought (not to mention retching) until Bonnie finally figured out Peg was talking about coconut water, which her fan Steve suggested she take every night.
"But Peg, " Bonnie told her. "That was NOT coconut water in those glasses. Trust me."
So who knows. But heated words ensued, no surprises here, all of them Peg's, and once again, she told everyone to go home, that she didn't need anyone looking after her.
I rang yesterday evening when I got in from dinner. Peg was alone, had just awakened from a nap. Unsure of who was coming to stay that evening (join the club) and then giving me a hard time about depriving her of a dog and reiterating that she can't go anywhere (meaning England) until her legs get better. Which you know and I know ain't going to happen. And now if you'll excuse me, I need to go fill the kettle from the toilet.
Monday, February 2, 2015
TIME MARCHES ON
Meaning, she is losing more strength in her legs and also arms now too. Bonnie has to help her both in and out of the car now. Her mind is becoming less clear. Well, hard to tell, granted, since it's tended to flit all over the place since I've known her but still. She panicks more now, obsesses even more over things that aren't really worth getting your knickers in a knot over. We've just had an entire day now devoted to:
"WHERE ARE ALL THE LETTERS I WORTE TO MY MOTHER???"
Meaning the letters she wrote, to her mother, in the 1940s and into the 50s, and which her mother saved, catalogued by date, in 8 black loose leaf notebooks. They're 99% typed so easy to read, and the notebooks live in two beige plastic open file folder carriers from Staples. I've read every letter. Each book averages about 80 letters so, that's a lot of letters. I would take them up to bed with me when I was there to read privately. It's good stuff, most of it. I will turn them into a book one day.
Anyhow, with that in mind, I hid the notebooks, thinking Peg wouldn't miss them. Wrong. No sooner was I back in the U.K. than she was on the phone, in a state, asking where they were. I told her. She found them. Fortuately they didn't LOOK hidden, just sitting on the lower shelf of a particle board bookcase in Command Central, with five LL Bean catalogues, a rawhide dog bone and a sweater over them. You know, looking like most every other area of the house.
My big worry was that Peg would come across a letter she didn't like or which embarrassed her and would rip it out and throw it away. Which has in fact happened. But. Aha. I am not slitting my wrists over this because, thinking ahead, as I did, I secretly scanned all eight notebooks last year, whenever she was out getting her hair done or napping or glued to the Weather Channel in the other room.
Yesterday's Peg Panic was not being able to find these notebooks, again. Notebooks which, last I saw, were on the bottom shelf of the right hand bookcase as you walked into her room (formerly the livingroom), so passed on this information. Four phone calls from Bonnie and three emails later, the notebooks were discovered, right there where I said they probably were, this time with only two LL Bean catalogues on top of them, plus a big ugly painted plywood doll in a bonnet someone gave her with some dumb saying on it's apron---the kind of stuff gift stores that stink of candles sell and which you always go into thinking goody! and are always disappointed to find that it's all tat. Anyhow my mother had apparently looped the string on this gingham girlie over a book on the shelf above and--presto, Instant Hidden Letters To Mother.
I'd even mentioned the doll in my directions, and, hurrah hurrah, four hours later, success could be reported from Becket, Mass.
I guess I need to go over there soon.
"WHERE ARE ALL THE LETTERS I WORTE TO MY MOTHER???"
Meaning the letters she wrote, to her mother, in the 1940s and into the 50s, and which her mother saved, catalogued by date, in 8 black loose leaf notebooks. They're 99% typed so easy to read, and the notebooks live in two beige plastic open file folder carriers from Staples. I've read every letter. Each book averages about 80 letters so, that's a lot of letters. I would take them up to bed with me when I was there to read privately. It's good stuff, most of it. I will turn them into a book one day.
Anyhow, with that in mind, I hid the notebooks, thinking Peg wouldn't miss them. Wrong. No sooner was I back in the U.K. than she was on the phone, in a state, asking where they were. I told her. She found them. Fortuately they didn't LOOK hidden, just sitting on the lower shelf of a particle board bookcase in Command Central, with five LL Bean catalogues, a rawhide dog bone and a sweater over them. You know, looking like most every other area of the house.
My big worry was that Peg would come across a letter she didn't like or which embarrassed her and would rip it out and throw it away. Which has in fact happened. But. Aha. I am not slitting my wrists over this because, thinking ahead, as I did, I secretly scanned all eight notebooks last year, whenever she was out getting her hair done or napping or glued to the Weather Channel in the other room.
Yesterday's Peg Panic was not being able to find these notebooks, again. Notebooks which, last I saw, were on the bottom shelf of the right hand bookcase as you walked into her room (formerly the livingroom), so passed on this information. Four phone calls from Bonnie and three emails later, the notebooks were discovered, right there where I said they probably were, this time with only two LL Bean catalogues on top of them, plus a big ugly painted plywood doll in a bonnet someone gave her with some dumb saying on it's apron---the kind of stuff gift stores that stink of candles sell and which you always go into thinking goody! and are always disappointed to find that it's all tat. Anyhow my mother had apparently looped the string on this gingham girlie over a book on the shelf above and--presto, Instant Hidden Letters To Mother.
I'd even mentioned the doll in my directions, and, hurrah hurrah, four hours later, success could be reported from Becket, Mass.
I guess I need to go over there soon.
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