| Biographical Non-Fiction posted May 29, 2022 |
  |
Remembering
The special pot plant
by Wendy G
Plant Contest Winner
It was a beautiful day in early May, with crisp cool air and blue skies.
Perfect autumn weather, I reflected, sitting on my back veranda.
I sighed with pleasure as I surveyed my garden, with pockets of bright flowers blooming amidst the colourful shrubbery. At this time of year my thoughts often returned to Casey.
Her birthday was in May. The day before her forty-fourth birthday she was given an unwanted gift; a life-changing diagnosis. Not cancer. I think it may have been easier to cope with that. She had an extremely rare, and incurable, brain disease. No-one this young had ever been diagnosed with this before in the entire country. A dubious honour to be the youngest!
Yes, she would die young, but no specialist could guess at a time frame for her life. She would gradually lose function in her feet, legs, hands, arms, and then torso. Swallowing would become difficult, then impossible. Concurrently, her mental faculties would slip away. Her dying process would be demeaning, shredding her dignity little by little, as well as very painful.
I was a volunteer with a service which provided support in such circumstances; I was paired with Casey. At my first visit I was stunned at how lively and attractive she was, with skilfully applied make-up and well-chosen clothes. How could she be dying?
We had a wonderful connection, even though I was old enough to be her mother. My role was to maintain her quality of life, and to support with her shopping and appointments. After the necessary things were done, we had coffee in her favourite café. If the weather was beautiful, I would take her for a drive to the river. Sometimes I took her to a morning music concert at our local Performing Arts Centre if she was well enough.
Casey had had a difficult childhood, with a step-father who demeaned and belittled her, and a mother who was more interested in a grand social life. Casey developed anorexia and bulimia in her teens. She survived two abusive marriages. Life had always been difficult.
By the time I met her she had other mental illness, including severe and increasing paranoia. Her thoughts were often irrational.
Within months she started to use a walking stick – her balance was deteriorating, along with her strength. Next it was crutches, which were replaced with a walking frame. Finally, a wheelchair – to her, the ultimate indignity.
As the disease ate away at her brain, more things changed. She lost her vigour and interest in the "outside world", becoming more and more preoccupied with herself and her illness. This narcissism was part of the process of deterioration.
She often just wanted to talk, mostly about how others were persecuting her. A drive to the river no longer brought her peace or tranquillity. She raged against death, and dying, and against God.
As time went on, she lost her few remaining friends, accusing them of theft, and of trying to use her. The housework and care helpers she was given (to enable her to continue caring for her young son for as long as possible) changed frequently – they were accused of stealing her groceries (and her valuables) while she was sleeping. She started to hide everything – and of course forgot that she had hidden them, and where.
She bought duplicates of high-cost items on-line and at the shops. She did her Christmas shopping early – and then did it again and again as her memory failed. Her frustration increased as her brain function decreased.
Time passed. Her brain was no longer connecting with her lower body, and soon her upper body was struggling.
Her relationship with her parents plummeted. Could I believe what she told me? Her thoughts were by now so dysfunctional that it was difficult to know. Were they really embarrassed to be seen with her in public? Did they not invite her to family gatherings and celebrations? Would her mother really make her sit in the back seat of the car because the front passenger seat was kept for the dog? Would her mother really push her out of the car at the shopping centre because she was too slow? Who knew? She even accused her parents of theft, and her son of hitting her over the head.
Strangely, I was the only one who was never accused of anything. She only ever got angry with me once. Another helper and I were trying to catch her as she fell during a seizure. She hated to be touched, as her body was very sensitive. She later apologised, which amazed me.
Her eating disorder returned with a vengeance. Coffee at the café included three sweeteners, and caramel syrup, plus cake with cream and ice-cream – and maple syrup. Her weight ballooned. Dieticians and their advice meant nothing.
Once she overdosed on her pain medications and ended up in hospital. She rarely knew whether she had taken her medications at all, whether it was the right dose, or at the right time, and certainly never took them with food as she was meant to.
She became obsessed with mites in her house. No-one else could see evidence of them, but she threw out all her kitchenware and appliances, all her books, linen, plastic storage containers, furniture, everything. Thousands of dollars worth of furnishings. She had to move house and be free of the mites. She became obsessed with the hottest wash cycle and all her new things were subjected to multiple hot washes, so that nothing would be contaminated in her new home.
By now two years had passed. I respected her need for retaining her independence for as long as possible.
At the shops one day she saw pots of chrysanthemums for sale, ready for Mothers' Day. I had frequently urged her to repair her relationship with her mother before it was too late. To my delight, she asked my advice about choosing a pot of flowers. This was a first – a gift for her mother would undoubtedly start the healing process. I hoped her mother would enjoy what I chose, and that they would become close. Her daughter needed her.
I waited while Casey fumbled for her credit card, and painstakingly tapped in the password – several times, before she got it right. Her hands were now very shaky and she had little use of them.
I helped her into my car, and folded the wheelchair into the back. She handed me the plant.
"You've been like a mother to me. This is for you. After the blooms finish, plant it in your garden. It will spread – and it will flower for years to come. Please remember me!"
I sat on my veranda and looked into the back corner – yes, a beautiful patch of chrysanthemums. Thank you, Casey, for buying a plant – for me.
It was a beautiful day in early May, with crisp cool air and blue skies.
Perfect autumn weather, I reflected, sitting on my back veranda.
I sighed with pleasure as I surveyed my garden, with pockets of bright flowers blooming amidst the colourful shrubbery. At this time of year my thoughts often returned to Casey.
Her birthday was in May. The day before her forty-fourth birthday she was given an unwanted gift; a life-changing diagnosis. Not cancer. I think it may have been easier to cope with that. She had an extremely rare, and incurable, brain disease. No-one this young had ever been diagnosed with this before in the entire country. A dubious honour to be the youngest!
Yes, she would die young, but no specialist could guess at a time frame for her life. She would gradually lose function in her feet, legs, hands, arms, and then torso. Swallowing would become difficult, then impossible. Concurrently, her mental faculties would slip away. Her dying process would be demeaning, shredding her dignity little by little, as well as very painful.
I was a volunteer with a service which provided support in such circumstances; I was paired with Casey. At my first visit I was stunned at how lively and attractive she was, with skilfully applied make-up and well-chosen clothes. How could she be dying?
We had a wonderful connection, even though I was old enough to be her mother. My role was to maintain her quality of life, and to support with her shopping and appointments. After the necessary things were done, we had coffee in her favourite café. If the weather was beautiful, I would take her for a drive to the river. Sometimes I took her to a morning music concert at our local Performing Arts Centre if she was well enough.
Casey had had a difficult childhood, with a step-father who demeaned and belittled her, and a mother who was more interested in a grand social life. Casey developed anorexia and bulimia in her teens. She survived two abusive marriages. Life had always been difficult.
By the time I met her she had other mental illness, including severe and increasing paranoia. Her thoughts were often irrational.
Within months she started to use a walking stick – her balance was deteriorating, along with her strength. Next it was crutches, which were replaced with a walking frame. Finally, a wheelchair – to her, the ultimate indignity.
As the disease ate away at her brain, more things changed. She lost her vigour and interest in the "outside world", becoming more and more preoccupied with herself and her illness. This narcissism was part of the process of deterioration.
She often just wanted to talk, mostly about how others were persecuting her. A drive to the river no longer brought her peace or tranquillity. She raged against death, and dying, and against God.
As time went on, she lost her few remaining friends, accusing them of theft, and of trying to use her. The housework and care helpers she was given (to enable her to continue caring for her young son for as long as possible) changed frequently – they were accused of stealing her groceries (and her valuables) while she was sleeping. She started to hide everything – and of course forgot that she had hidden them, and where.
She bought duplicates of high-cost items on-line and at the shops. She did her Christmas shopping early – and then did it again and again as her memory failed. Her frustration increased as her brain function decreased.
Time passed. Her brain was no longer connecting with her lower body, and soon her upper body was struggling.
Her relationship with her parents plummeted. Could I believe what she told me? Her thoughts were by now so dysfunctional that it was difficult to know. Were they really embarrassed to be seen with her in public? Did they not invite her to family gatherings and celebrations? Would her mother really make her sit in the back seat of the car because the front passenger seat was kept for the dog? Would her mother really push her out of the car at the shopping centre because she was too slow? Who knew? She even accused her parents of theft, and her son of hitting her over the head.
Strangely, I was the only one who was never accused of anything. She only ever got angry with me once. Another helper and I were trying to catch her as she fell during a seizure. She hated to be touched, as her body was very sensitive. She later apologised, which amazed me.
Her eating disorder returned with a vengeance. Coffee at the café included three sweeteners, and caramel syrup, plus cake with cream and ice-cream – and maple syrup. Her weight ballooned. Dieticians and their advice meant nothing.
Once she overdosed on her pain medications and ended up in hospital. She rarely knew whether she had taken her medications at all, whether it was the right dose, or at the right time, and certainly never took them with food as she was meant to.
She became obsessed with mites in her house. No-one else could see evidence of them, but she threw out all her kitchenware and appliances, all her books, linen, plastic storage containers, furniture, everything. Thousands of dollars worth of furnishings. She had to move house and be free of the mites. She became obsessed with the hottest wash cycle and all her new things were subjected to multiple hot washes, so that nothing would be contaminated in her new home.
By now two years had passed. I respected her need for retaining her independence for as long as possible.
At the shops one day she saw pots of chrysanthemums for sale, ready for Mothers' Day. I had frequently urged her to repair her relationship with her mother before it was too late. To my delight, she asked my advice about choosing a pot of flowers. This was a first – a gift for her mother would undoubtedly start the healing process. I hoped her mother would enjoy what I chose, and that they would become close. Her daughter needed her.
I waited while Casey fumbled for her credit card, and painstakingly tapped in the password – several times, before she got it right. Her hands were now very shaky and she had little use of them.
I helped her into my car, and folded the wheelchair into the back. She handed me the plant.
"You've been like a mother to me. This is for you. After the blooms finish, plant it in your garden. It will spread – and it will flower for years to come. Please remember me!"
I sat on my veranda and looked into the back corner – yes, a beautiful patch of chrysanthemums. Thank you, Casey, for buying a plant – for me.
Plant Contest Winner |
Her name has been changed for privacy.
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one point
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