The hand of fate
By MP on Sunday 24 September 2006, 16:25 - Journal - Permalink
This week dad has been slightly anxious about money. I know this because I've
had several calls from him, suggesting that it is time:
Let's take the shoes first. Mum habitually wears a worn and misshapen pair of blue house shoes. She has nicer-looking shoes in her wardrobe; she also has more comfortable shoes in her wardrobe, newer ones too. Rachel has thrown away the worst of mum's shoes so that she can see these better ones more easily, but only on rare occasions does mum wear a different pair. The concept of choosing a pair of shoes to wear each morning, with which each of us is familiar, appears to operate no longer for mum. Her morning dressing routine takes place on a deeper, less-conscious, level that is hard to introspect. A new pair of shoes? Probably a waste of money, but perhaps the act of purchase would be enjoyable for her? Perhaps the feeling of a need satisfied would be worthwhile? Perhaps. I'm prepared to wait; if the idea of new shoes persists, we can go shoe-shopping, no matter what the reason.
The hair - now there's something that could do with a bit of treatment! Mum's hair is grey-white, about page-boy length, oily (quite dirty, in fact), and plainly combed back from her face, behind her ears, to the nape of her neck. It has been like this for a couple of years now. It wasn't so long ago that we arranged for a hairdresser to visit the house. This did not go well. Mum rejected the idea completely, and sent the hairdresser off with a flea in her ear. I think it was a clash of personalities that caused the reaction. Many of my comments made in regard to shoes apply also to hair. There seems little point going to the hairdresser when you don't even bother to shampoo, but if that's what mum really wants, she can have it.
Whatever we eventually do, I shall have to supervise the entire process. I know that simply giving mum and dad the money to do things is ineffective. In fact, the last time I gave mum $50 she lost it within ten minutes. Neither mum nor dad has much idea about money any more. Mum has gleefully waved a $5 note at me, rejoicing in her wealth. At other times she's had thirty or forty times that much in her purse yet still badgered dad for more.
So, next weekend we may go on something of a shopping spree. We may just as likely have forgotten about the whole thing.
- he did some shopping
- mum bought some new shoes
- mum had her hair done
Let's take the shoes first. Mum habitually wears a worn and misshapen pair of blue house shoes. She has nicer-looking shoes in her wardrobe; she also has more comfortable shoes in her wardrobe, newer ones too. Rachel has thrown away the worst of mum's shoes so that she can see these better ones more easily, but only on rare occasions does mum wear a different pair. The concept of choosing a pair of shoes to wear each morning, with which each of us is familiar, appears to operate no longer for mum. Her morning dressing routine takes place on a deeper, less-conscious, level that is hard to introspect. A new pair of shoes? Probably a waste of money, but perhaps the act of purchase would be enjoyable for her? Perhaps the feeling of a need satisfied would be worthwhile? Perhaps. I'm prepared to wait; if the idea of new shoes persists, we can go shoe-shopping, no matter what the reason.
The hair - now there's something that could do with a bit of treatment! Mum's hair is grey-white, about page-boy length, oily (quite dirty, in fact), and plainly combed back from her face, behind her ears, to the nape of her neck. It has been like this for a couple of years now. It wasn't so long ago that we arranged for a hairdresser to visit the house. This did not go well. Mum rejected the idea completely, and sent the hairdresser off with a flea in her ear. I think it was a clash of personalities that caused the reaction. Many of my comments made in regard to shoes apply also to hair. There seems little point going to the hairdresser when you don't even bother to shampoo, but if that's what mum really wants, she can have it.
Whatever we eventually do, I shall have to supervise the entire process. I know that simply giving mum and dad the money to do things is ineffective. In fact, the last time I gave mum $50 she lost it within ten minutes. Neither mum nor dad has much idea about money any more. Mum has gleefully waved a $5 note at me, rejoicing in her wealth. At other times she's had thirty or forty times that much in her purse yet still badgered dad for more.
So, next weekend we may go on something of a shopping spree. We may just as likely have forgotten about the whole thing.
Comments
"...with a flea in her ear." Intriguing phrase! I've never heard this one...although it's obvious what it means, and an extremely vivid expression. Is it common in your part of the world, or did you pick it up somewhere else?
I also appreciate your observation that your mom's "...morning dressing routine takes place on a deeper, less-conscious, level that is hard to introspect." Interesting to "introspect", I imagine. Until I took over deciding what my mother wears and, finally, began helping her dress (she remains capable of about half the process; I don't remember when or why I began managing this area...it just evolved) it was an engaging mystery to observe her choices, all of which I allowed, until she decided she wasn't interested in initially picking out her clothes, anymore. I still run my choices by her and sometimes explain them, but she rarely refuses them. Close to the time that I began to choose her clothes, I noticed that she seemed to have developed a preference for clashing colors. This drove me to think that something untoward might be happening to her eyes, which led me to set up an eye appointment for her, but they were fine. Maybe it was the mental activity the clashes generated. Although I select all her clothes, now, every once in awhile, for fun, I'll throw in a clash. She almost always notices it and delivers a thumbs down on the outfit.
And, her shoes, ohmigod. An experienced geriatric nurse, a couple of years ago when she was in the skilled nursing facility for a few weeks of intense therapy, gave me some good advice on this: "She's wearing what's comfortable for her. As long as they don't pose a danger to her getting around and aren't damaging her feet, leave her alone about this." She repeated this advice, modified to the garment, in regard to her deterioriating bras. Since then, the bras have been replaced, although I was careful to scout out bras that were as loose as possible without her hanging out of them. The shoes, however, remain. They look like hell and you'd think they'd hamper her ability to walk, but, when I change them out to another pair (she has several she hasn't worn in years), she walks like an alien trying to negotiate unfamiliar gravity.