Just back from spending 10 days with Mom and Dad, and I feel like I have come through the fire (of hell? of pottery firing? where does that saying come from, anyway?) and am relatively unscathed. I found I could face some of my worst fears in helping care for my mom, namely a public incident of incontinence -- o.k., it was in a park, but still -- and helping her with personal care like clipping nails and hair washing.
It's ridiculous, but I have a phobia about nails. Long nails. They're dangerous, they are unattractive (to my eyes) and they harbor bacteria and dead skin, and they turn an ugly yellow when dirty. But the real trigger was helping my own mom, about a decade ago, clip my grandmother's ails. By then, Grandmother was frail and querulous from various ailments and driving Mom crazy. I tried to help, but everything about my Grandmother's surroundings, from the dusty, rickety family pictures, cluttered pill bottles, bobby pins and other ephemera under her sink, and especially her long, horned nails, was frightening and utterly depressing. (I also have a phobia about clutter, perhaps also due to those years, but we'll get to that later.)
Anyway. I was trying to clip those nails, and they were so brittle, I ended up tearing one and making Grandmother's finger bleed. Can't remember much more except the guilt and revulsion of that moment.
I did my mom's, though, and it wasn't that bad. And let me tell you, I felt a great relief after doing it, seeing her clean hands. The incontinence episode wasn't pleasant, but it was strangely a little funny; we were on a nature walk, and I ducked behind a fallen palm tree, having to pee urgently. About 1/2 mile later, Mom tries the same thing -- but this time we were at a busier juncture on the path, next to a smaller palm tree and with about a half-dozen people not far behind us. I quickly hustled her away as I saw her unbuckling her pants, but whoops! too late. Luckily Dad keeps a change of clothes in the car.
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