tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31559184649301480252011-11-27T16:19:45.950-08:00Family SmattersFamily is everything. Or it should be. After spending two years being a caretaker to a mother with Alzheimer's and a father with cancer I have learned that it's important to celebrate the closeness of family and work through situations that weaken family ties.Sandra R. Harris-Gompfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15315618430618176198noreply@blogger.comBlogger111100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3155918464930148025.post-49747744843162075692008-12-11T13:17:00.000-08:002008-12-11T13:39:09.537-08:00The CEA Test Results
<!--[if gte mso 9]> Normal 0 false false false EN-US X-NONE X-NONE <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]>Sandra R. Harris-Gompfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15315618430618176198noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3155918464930148025.post-61723857954102653382008-11-20T01:48:00.000-08:002008-11-20T02:15:12.996-08:00Walking On Glass
<!--[if gte mso 9]> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]> Normal 0 false false false EN-US X-NONE X-NONE <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]>Sandra R. Harris-Gompfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15315618430618176198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3155918464930148025.post-44911472989944581912008-10-11T11:58:00.000-07:002008-10-12T02:47:23.559-07:00At The Hospital With Mom
<!--[if gte mso 9]> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]> Normal 0 false false false EN-US X-NONE X-NONE <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]>Sandra R. Harris-Gompfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15315618430618176198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3155918464930148025.post-82869236495163501012008-09-04T15:19:00.000-07:002008-09-04T15:25:19.282-07:00Just Another Day In The Life Of Inspector Caretaker: Not the Danny Elfman, Oingo Boingo Kind It’s a good thing I examined the toilet seat before depositing my delicate derriere there at 6:00 this morning. I have gotten in the habit of standing to the side of the commode each visit and tilting my head to the left, letting the light reflect off the seat, just so, to reveal its state of cleanliness. You have to be careful when you live in a house with two males and a mother with Sandra R. Harris-Gompfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15315618430618176198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3155918464930148025.post-6249817894085597532008-08-23T21:35:00.000-07:002008-08-23T21:46:39.145-07:00A Rough Start: What Next? Maybe I Shouldn't Tempt The Fates By Asking!“GOD DAMN IT! Don’t ask me again! That’s the FIFTH time you’ve asked me and I don’t want to talk about it anymore!” I hear my father shouting at my mother as I walk carefully down the worn steps leading away from my upstairs bedroom. “Oh no! It’s only 7:51 a.m. and she’s up?” I think. The first five weeks after I moved home to care for my parents, I had to wake my mother from a Sandra R. Harris-Gompfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15315618430618176198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3155918464930148025.post-60298787444120186982008-08-12T11:52:00.000-07:002008-08-12T12:03:59.918-07:00A Visit To The Red & White Store: I Hear Dead People“Let’s go!” My husband was impatient. I set the cooler full of drinks on the floorboard behind the front seat and the bag full of snacks on the back seat next to my sister. “You’re the one who gets to hand out the goodies!” I said to her. “Better be nice to me then!” she joked. I climbed behind the wheel of our rental car and turned to my husband, sitting in the front passenger seat. “WhereSandra R. Harris-Gompfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15315618430618176198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3155918464930148025.post-23832768435324957692008-08-02T12:30:00.000-07:002008-08-02T14:48:54.164-07:00Alzheimer's vs. Deafness: The Cross Dresser Conversation“Freddy has my shoes on!” my mother says. She is sitting at the table watching my husband. My husband smiles and says, “These are my shoes.” He has just purchased a pair of black Crocs. “No, I think they’re mine.” My mother argues. I start to laugh. My husband hunts down my mother’s black Croc look-alikes and holds them up. “Here are your shoes,” he says as he stands behind her Sandra R. Harris-Gompfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15315618430618176198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3155918464930148025.post-59717228268359778772008-07-30T11:28:00.000-07:002008-07-30T11:33:59.875-07:00Dreamer: I Wonder What She Dreams AboutI sit looking at my mother as she sleeps sitting up in her chair. The crooked fingers of her arthritic hand flutter against the top of her cane. Her mouth puckers and she sucks at something in her dreams. I wonder what she dreams about. Earlier she tried to give my father her chair. He’s only sat in it twice since they got it years ago. He was watching TV, caught up in the plot of a war Sandra R. Harris-Gompfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15315618430618176198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3155918464930148025.post-37629332219606608632008-07-29T16:06:00.000-07:002008-07-29T16:15:15.538-07:00My Dad Has A Brain Tumor And It's InoperableI drove my father to his doctor’s new office, yesterday, for a general checkup. We talked about the wooden beams bracing the ceiling and the glass block walls in front of the reception area as we waited. Everything seemed to be alright. After a lengthy wait in the lobby, the nurse called him in, weighed him, and showed him to an examination room where she asked him to get up on the exam table.Sandra R. Harris-Gompfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15315618430618176198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3155918464930148025.post-76102751571713613222008-07-27T14:50:00.000-07:002008-07-27T17:35:13.367-07:00You Can Never Go Home: The Poopsident Experience“Ruuuurt!” I hear my mother belch, after she pushes her empty plate away.“Oh Mom,” I say, “I forgot to give you your burp pill.” I hurry over to the medicine drawers sitting on the bookcase next to the table.“Why are you giving me a burp pill?” she asks.“You just belched a really stinky burp. These pills keep your burps from smelling so bad,”“You think I burped?” she says. “I farted.”“Well Sandra R. Harris-Gompfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15315618430618176198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3155918464930148025.post-42455086574435303422008-07-26T13:18:00.000-07:002008-07-26T21:36:08.885-07:00The Hospice Card: What Will I tell Her When He's Gone? “What’s that green card?” my mother asks. She is diabetic and has Alzheimer’s. “What?” asks my father. He is deaf in one ear and has impaired hearing in the other. “The green card…” she says softly at first and then, “THE GREEN CARD!” “What green card?” my father asks. “It says Mercy Hospice,” she prompts. The card in question is taped to a list of emergency numbers and attached to the Sandra R. Harris-Gompfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15315618430618176198noreply@blogger.com0