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Explore Now. Buy As Gift. Overview In Caring for Mother, Virginia Stem Owens gives a clear and realistic account of caring for an elderly loved one. Along the way, Owens notes the spiritual challenges she encountered, not the least of which included fear of her own suffering and death. This book will be a helpful companion to those who have recently assumed the role of caregiver, helping them anticipate some of the emotional turbulence they will encounter along the way. Product Details About the Author.
About the Author Virginia Stem Owens has written sixteen books and numerous articles and reviews. Average Review.http://mail.beetsoslo.com/along-the-wissahickon-creek-postcard-history.php
The Long Goodbye, Part 1: After dementia sets in, mom and daughter make a few more memories
Write a Review. Related Searches. Kathleen Long Bostrom and Peter Graystone provide the ultimate to do list: ninety-nine things that The airport escalator. The baggage carousel. All the restaurants and coffee spots. The taxi we took to our hotel, which was across the street from the Washington Hilton where Ronald Reagan was shot in The throngs of people.
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The speed at which everything moved. My hometown, Cynthiana, Kentucky, has a population of about 6, people. No nightclubs or big-name department stores.
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One theater and a drive-in then; one theater, the same one, now. I snapped pictures of her as she tried out the armchair. The prettiest view. The softest bed. All the things my sister had warned me about, the things she saw every day as a caregiver? Well, I got used to them fast. That yes, indeed, those bathroom calls could not be ignored. She reached for my hand again and again, or touched my leg, as we headed toward Cannon House Office Building to pick up the White House tour tickets that Rep.
This was living, she said.
Caring for Mother: A Daughter's Long Goodbye
This is living. By 10 a. So, on a day where the temperature topped 90 early, we did the town. We stood across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House and talked with other tourists.
We stopped at Ford's Theatre. The Washington Monument. And why do people keep killing each other over religion, too, she asked me? At the U. Capitol, with no one around who could take a photo for the two of us, I shot selfie after selfie. In almost every frame, Mommy is looking at me and smiling, my face reflected in her sunglasses.
She looked so happy. I hope that never happens to me. She bounded from bathroom to bedroom, trying to decide what to wear. In line, she shook her head at some of the other tourists, whispering to me at one point when she saw a hirsute man in a tank top and a woman in a slit-down-and-up-to-there dress. She was a little intimidated as we passed through Secret Service checkpoints, but schmoozed with everyone she met.
A kind U. I gratefully accepted her offer to get us on an elevator. She guided us behind the partition blocking the hall leading to the West Wing and through a huge kitchen to a service elevator. It spit us out at the top of the steps. People stared at us as we got off accompanied by a police officer, looking behind us to see if someone of importance was there, too.
The Green, Red and Blue Rooms. The East Room, where Mommy lingered to talk with the attending officer about this being the room where President Kennedy lay in state after he was assassinated. And sitting in front of the TV for days after the president was assassinated. At every stop, my mother would ask what I knew about this or that president, and told a couple of people, out of the blue, that her daughter had interviewed President Carter.
She wanted her photo taken by the paintings of Presidents Kennedy and Clinton and, as a favor to my Republican brother, by the one of Ronald Reagan. Mommy got too hot for a couple of seconds and wobbled, and I ran to a woman who was selling water. After a trip back to the hotel, a two-hour nap and lunch, I asked my mom if she felt well enough to go on another monument tour. She was most impressed, I think, by the Lincoln Memorial, where she read every word of the Gettysburg Address in a stage whisper and laughed out loud when I showed her how I could make the Washington Monument appear to be between my thumb and forefinger in a smartphone photo.
As we walked down the steps of the Lincoln Memorial toward the reflecting pool, Mommy counted each step — just loud enough that I could hear but not so audibly that anyone else would overhear and look. That night, after I downed a couple of beers while Mommy had another two-hour nap, we had dinner in the Dupont Circle neighborhood with my friends Bil Browning and Jerame Davis.
That Bil is a well-known blogger and that his husband, Jerame, is the executive director of Pride at Work, a nonprofit organization that represents LGBTQ union members and their allies.
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