Beautiful Cynicism III

It’s just a small glass jar, one of many in her collection. She has a dazzling array of little pots and jars and tubes and bottles, each filled with its own magical potion and soft scent. This paraphernalia of beauty is scattered all around the house – on her dresser, in her drawers, in the cosmetic cabinet in her en suite, in the cupboard under the sink in the main bathroom… My Baba’s lotions and creams and moisturizers are everywhere in my grandparents’ house. I remember her being this way ever since I was a little girl. She was always a fervent believer in taking care of her skin. She would painstakingly scan the pages of her Avon catalogue, ordering expensive lotions and potions; in the department stores, she would spend hours poring over the counter displays and chatting with the salesgirls, gathering free samples, carefully scrutinizing every product.

As soon as she was well enough, we brought as much of my Baba’s beauty toolkit as was reasonable to her at the hospital. She couldn’t “put on her face” on her own, of course; whoever was around would do it (except for my Dzizi, who is woefully ill-equipped for the task ). I secretly loved being around at those times, being the one to administer the beauty routine. The comments about role reversal are inevitable; as she applied moisturizer and blush and lipstick to me when I was too young to do it myself, I do the same for her now that she’s unable to do it for herself.

Nowadays, my Baba is in the personal care home rather than the hospital, and my visits are almost exclusively restricted to the evenings. If I’m late enough, she asks for her “facial” (with warm water and plain face cloths it’s not exactly spa-grade!), and I gladly comply. I clean off the day’s makeup, and rinse her face with a warm cloth. After patting the skin dry, I apply vitamin C serum and eye cream, followed by the crowning glory: her Relaxing Night cream. The little orange jar has become my favourite ritual with my Baba. I give her a face massage as I apply it, taking my time. Several months ago, when she was having a rough time and she was suffering, and would cry and rage against the world almost non-stop, I would pull out the night cream in an effort to soothe her, and it usually would work. The slow, repetitive, circular movements, combined with the faintly medicinal scent, seemed to calm whatever demons were haunting her. Now, in better times, during this nightly routine we either chat, or sit in contemplative silence together: my Baba with her eyes closed, smiling; me with the trusty orange jar in hand, also smiling.

Taking joy in living is a woman’s best cosmetic. (Rosalind Russell)

People’s lives change constantly: someone’s world is shattered, someone overcomes a challenge, and all the world continues on, charging ahead, not stopping for an instant.

My boyfriend’s grandma died this afternoon.

She has been in a nursing home for a few years, suffering from Alzheimer’s and slowly deteriorating. A few days ago she developed pneumonia and was sent to hospital. I hadn’t seen her for quite some time; over a year, at least. I saw her briefly today, while I accompanied my boyfriend as he visited her at the hospital this afternoon – which turned out to be a mere hour or two before she was gone. I barely knew her, and for that I feel bad. But still I cry; still I mourn.
Perhaps there is a sense of relief, in knowing that she is no longer struggling and is at peace. But it’s also the difficult time: the goodbyes, the informing of family members, the collection of belongings, the “arrangements” to be made… I remember that time immediately following my gramma’s death, in 1994, from cancer: it felt surreal, as if it was all a dream. I worried about my grampa, I worried about my dad, I tried to adjust to not seeing her nearly every day. Even though she had been in hospital for awhile and we knew the cancer had spread and we knew her time was fast approaching, it is still jarring when it actually comes to an end. Yet, sad as it was, it was also a bit of a blessing, as she had been suffering and was in pain and in great discomfort. Reconciling the sadness and the sense of loss with that sense of relief (if I may use that word, crude as it may sound) can be difficult, but is necessary.

If only…

It’s all about adjusting – to new situations, new realities, new truths. Some people adjust more easily than others. I, for instance, am someone who is rather resistant to change, at least when it’s not of my own doing. In matters of the heart and of the soul, I am fiercely independent – in times of need, I love and appreciate and even crave the love and support and encouragement of others, but need to process my thoughts and feelings alone.

I’m facing another fall and winter filled with depression and despair – not my own, but that of someone about whom I care. This has happened almost every year for several years, between family and friends. Far be it from me to complain, but the truth of the matter is, it’s exhausting. Some people are able to completely detach, not to be bothered by people in emotional pain and distress; I can’t understand these people. I am deeply touched by the moods and problems of others, and can’t ignore or avoid them even if I want to. I wish I could take on all the sorrows of the people I love and carry them on my shoulders, even if only for a short time, so that they may rest and recover. But sometimes I just don’t know how to proceed. After weeks of me quietly insisting that I thought my Baba was depressed, a psych consult was finally ordered. Today, what looked like a small army (the psych “team”) crowded into her room. In order to assess state of mind, the first question of a psych consult is always: Do you want to live?

My grandmother answered: No.

I stopped going to church when I was 13. My father’s side of the family was mostly atheist, adamantly atheist, radically atheist, to the point where they ridiculed people who followed any religious tenets whatsoever. My mother’s side, however, was and remains quite faithful. Thus, I was a born-and-bred Catholic; my mum’s dad was a deacon in the Ukrainian Catholic church for much of his life, and her mum helped him out at funerals and at Sunday mass, singing hymns and greeting people. They believed in the values set out by their church and lived by them, and continue to do so. I, however, had begun questioning (doubting) the whole process by the time I was 10, and once I hit 13 I could no longer stomach the sermons and rituals. When I told my mother I would no longer accompany her to church, she was crushed, and angry. She blamed it on a teenage rebellion, or my father’s influence, or my laziness. But that wasn’t it – I felt like an outsider, an imposter in the church, a non-believer treading on sacred ground. It felt blasphemous, dishonest, wrong. I don’t think she ever really understood that. I couldn’t go because it felt immoral to be there if my heart wasn’t in it.

I should be at work. It’s 12:16. Instead I’ve been sitting on the living room floor, with Daisy sleeping by my side, flipping through vast amounts of paper. I’ve been reading my Baba’s hospital chart. C’est un document énorme: toutes les notes des infirmières, toutes les directives des médecins, tous les résultats des examens, du 22 juillet jusqu’à le 29 août. Ce n’était pas facile à obtenir; mais si ma famille était toujours têtue, après cette épreuve avec ma grand-mère, elle est plutôt insistante, même agressive. Le document a été lu déja par plusieurs dans la famille; c’est à moi à le digérer maintenant.

Two things are very obvious: that the staff take extremely detailed notes, and that almost nobody that ever looked after my Baba had the slightest bit of faith in her recovery. C’est un peu déprimante. Par exemple, elle était admise à l’hôpital le 22 juillet. The only problem she had at that point was a fractured sternum. It was later that evening that she went into cardiac arrest, thanks to a blood clot in her lung. Ainsi, sa condition n’était pas sérieuse jusqu’à le soir. Le médecin nous a dit que c’est l’habitude d’attendre 7 jours pour être capable de connaître le vrai état du cerveau après le type de crise dont ma grand-mère a subit. Le 27 juillet, seulement 5 jours plus tard, il a écrit ceci: “Daughter asked if we (health care team) would remove life support without family consent. I responded that there would be extensive discussions with family prior to disconnection… but that ongoing ventilator support would not be continued indefinitely.” (Une de mes tantes avait entendu les médecins parler de cesser d’utiliser le respirateur artificiel, et a demandée si ils pouvaient prendre cette décisions sans demander la famille en avance.) Et voilà. On July 27th, my grandmother’s “health care team” had already been discussion when they should “pull the plug” on her. Je le savais, mais c’est difficile de le lire, de le voir sur la page en encre. Surtout après ces derniers jours…

Demain marquera la septième semaine que ma grand-mère est à l’hôpital. Chaque nouvelle semaine apporte l’incrédulité: parfois il me semble comme ça fait sept mois; autres fois, c’est comme ce n’est que quelques jours.

Généralement, les infirmières et le personnel de l’hôpital sont merveilleux, surtout sur le 7ème étage (salle de réanimation). Mais dès le 5ème étage (l’aile pour les malades encore sérieux mais pas en danger de mourir immédiatement), la relation entre la famille et le personnel a détérioré. A présent, sur le 3ème étage, cette relation est prête à rompre.

Il faut comprendre une chose fondamentale: ma famille n’est pas gêné ni timide. Il y a plusieurs gens têtus avec des personnalités fortes. Si quelque chose ne va pas, nous essayons de changer la situation. Si nous sommes traités injustement, nous exprimons nos soucis sans hésitation. Ceci a une tendance de tracasser les autres, naturellement. Malheureusement, c’est maintenant l’hôpital contre la famille et vice versa.

The problem is that there are very strict and defined directives for dealing with my Baba, and the staff are not doing what they’re supposed to be doing. Doctors and physiotherapists and speech/language pathologists and occupational therapists are in working with her almost every day, and leave specific instructions on how she is to be handled, yet the staff consistenly ignore these instructions. We have resorted to posting notes on large pieces of bright yellow paper for all the staff to read. (Her half of the room is becoming redecorated – no more white walls for her, they’re almost covered in yellow, there are so many notes…) Everything from her specially-designed wheelchair being stolen, to her splints not being put on correctly, to neglecting to give her painkillers when needed, to leaving her for hours in one position without turning her. Every time one of us visits, we end up having to move, clean, or adjust something about her person – things that should have been done already. La famille est au bout. Nous ne savons plus quoi faire. Le plus pire c’est que maintenant, certains nous disent des mensonges. Nous aurons un rendez-vous avec le médecin, lundi prochain, pour discuter nos soucis, et aussi peut-être la transfert possible de ma grand-mère à un autre aménagement.