Tag Archives: Assisted living

One Man’s Trash…is a Girl’s Night Out!

When you spend a good part of your time or life as a caregiver you find forgetting to be a common occurrence. I have classic tales about my Nana forgetting where she put her shoes, her wallet and most disturbingly…her teeth.

My mother-in-law would hide her “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” button in ‘safe’ places. Every time we went to the assisted living facility we would be ready for a game of hide-n-seek with the magic button, a button she would never push anyway.

My brother-in-law would forget where he put bills, checks and insurance papers all the time. He was actually happy when I agreed to clean up all his paperwork and just take over.

Eventually, with all this stress, the caregiver starts to be the one to forget. We all experience this as we get older. I’ll admit, it makes me panic a little. When you are too close to forgetfulness you start to think it’s a bad omen if it becomes a part of your day.

Since my caregiving has dwindled quite a bit in the last few years, I take bad memory very personally, like my brain is betraying me. I know it happens to all of us, and it is definitely a symptom of stress. But I have always known it’s a source of hilarity. And today was no exception.

As you may recall we have a very long driveway. So we put our trash cans and recycling in my SUV and drive it to the end of the driveway. A few months ago our new trash hauler required us to start using a large container for trash.

My husband’s pet peeve is that large, unsightly container defiling our cul-de-sac. So several yards before we get to the end of the driveway we pick up the large trash container,  which is tucked in the woods, and wheel it down to the end of the driveway. Then we take the trash out of my car and put it in the container.

As the SUV is my car, my husband said,

“Hey, I loaded the trash in your car. Drive me down to the bin on your way to your dinner with your girlfriends.”

“Okay,” I said.

The real culprit

I stop the SUV where the bin is tucked away. My husband gets out. And I drive away.

Down the driveway, past the mailbox, through the cul-de-sac, down the steep hill to the end of the street.

My car makes a few weird noises. Now, I’m mad because I just got new tires. And my car stinks. What’s that all about?

I turn the corner, go around the bend, there’s that noise again. I look in the rearview mirror

A fun place to take your trash!

and see the trash. I was taking the trash with me on a ‘girls night out.’

I found a driveway, turned around, went back up my street to the cul-de-sac, and I see my husband slowly walking back towards the house shaking his head in disbelief.

I’m laughing so hard, it’s silent. I can’t speak. He just looks at me.

“I was waving my hands and yelling, ” he said so plaintively. “I called your cell phone and you didn’t answer. I couldn’t believe in a nano second you forgot that you had the trash in the car and just drove away.”

He’s officially worried.

“You Just have to Laugh….”

©2017 Cathy Sikorski

 

 

 

You sure you don’t want to go to Happy Acres?

I noticed when I was looking for assisted living quarters for my mother-in-law, that none of the residents seemed to share a cup of tea or a television show in their own apartments. The lovely place we chose had a large living room with a small kitchen area and space for a kitchen table as well as a separate bedroom.  I could never figure out why the only place the residents would socially engage was in the huge common area, the dining room or during bingo and ice cream Wednesday.

I would tell my Mom, “You can ask your friends from your lunch table to come over and watch Wheel-of-Fortune! I could get some snacks so you have something to serve.”

“Something to Serve” was very important. You would never be at the older generation’s house as company and not be offered a piece of cake, some pretzels or cookies to go with your coffee or iced tea. So I thought maybe that was the problem. These gals were feeling unhospitable.

“No, that’s okay,” she would tell me. “Besides, I have snacks right here.” Lo and behold, in those little tiny drawers in her sofa end tables were peanut-butter crackers, Goldfish, Rice Krispie treats and little bags of nuts she had brought upstairs from the dining hall. She was not a cleptomaniac, sort of. The snacks were for the taking, but she had more treats in there than Jesus made loaves and fishes. See? “something to serve!” So bad hostessing wasn’t the problem.

Space wasn’t the problem, friends weren’t the problem, even privacy or cleanliness wasn’t the problem. My mother-in-law was as neat as a pin. And if you were a slob, you could always throw everything in the bedroom and close the door. That was one of the reasons we chose this place. Not because Mom needed to hide her mess, but because that separate bedroom with it’s closed door felt like home and not a dorm room.

AHA! Then it struck me. These ladies of “The Greatest Generation” had never lived in a dorm.

Remember when we went to college? You were in and out of everyone’s room a hundred times a day. Parties were milling around from room to room. My dorm rooms were suites with two rooms sharing a bathroom between. I lived with four girls who all liked each other, so we moved all our beds into one room and our desks into the other room.  We created our own separate ‘living room’ for parties!

But my mother-in-law, my mom, anyone I know in their 80’s and 90’s never lived at college. Most of them went from their parent’s house to their own new home after marriage. Sure, they had neighbors, but visiting was a more formal affair. You always had to have “something to serve.”

Since they never lived the dormitory life, which they are living now, they don’t know the rules. I think they don’t know they can knock on each other’s door and say “Hey, you want to come over?” They somehow think that the common area and dining hall is where their social interaction must take place. But that really cuts down on gossip, which I’m pretty sure is a staple of dorm living. And what with hearing loss and forgetfulness, gossip can get loud and repetitive, which can be so embarrassing.

Did you see the babe who moved in to 309?

I don’t think I can change the status quo for these guys, but I’m feeling confident that the Second Greatest Generation is going to be all over that dorm living in the next 20 years.And since we know how to get kegs in our rooms, hide the good drugs, and snacks are already

Hey, lady where do you want these?

provided, well…… Oh!…… and we’re definitely pumping up the MUSAK to some ‘Stones, the Dead, and surely, The Boss! Hey…I might be looking forward to reacquainting myself with dorm life!

“You Just have to Laugh…..”

©2017 Cathy Sikorski

 

Terrible 92’s………..

I have been steeped in getting out my book…which you will see below! And, okay, I took a vacation. But boy, do we need some laughter now, right? And it’s National Caregiver’s Month…so, you know…….the life of a caregiver never disappoints.

I was thinking about my mother-in-law the other day and how she was seemingly so content, no matter what was happening. She would read any book you gave her and would comment, “oh that was a nice book.” I used to say I think I’ll give her a copy of  “Mein Kampf” and see what she thinks. The point is that she saw the good in everything and was pretty content with her life wherever she was and whatever she was doing.

Except that one time.

She had left her stove on in her apartment one too many times and the fire department started to know her by name like Norm in “CHEERS!”.  This was not a good thing.  We bit the bullet and started to look for assisted living quarters near our home, so we could go see her on a regular basis. She lived almost an hour away, so living within 10 or 15 minutes of us seemed like a dream come true for everyone.

We found a lovely place, which she approved, sold her condo, packed up all her things, and moved all her own furniture into her new assisted living apartment.  I really hoped it felt like home. Plus, now it was so convenient I could visit her every day, my mom could visit, and my mom could bring some of her friends to visit. Plus, my mother-in-law would now be around lots of people on a daily basis and not feel so isolated.

The day came to move her in, and for the first time in the 25 years I’d been her daughter-in-law, she threw a tantrum.

“I’m not going!” she said.

“Mom,” I reasoned, “you like it there. We went lots of times and you liked your apartment, the food, the people….remember?”

“Why can’t I stay here with you?” she countered.

Indeed, why can’t she?  I don’t have any bedrooms or shower facilities on the first floor and steps were becoming impossible for this 92-year-old.

“Mom, you can see, I don’t have a bedroom or bathroom down here on the first floor.”

“Well, I could go live with your mother. She has lots of room and she could use the help.”

Use the help? Not use the ‘company.’ Use the help. What’s she going to do, be my 80-year-old Mom’s washer woman and cleaning lady?  This was not going well. Next, she may tell me she is going to get a job and her own apartment.

“Mom…..” I was stuck, I didn’t know what to say.

“I’m not going. I’m just not going, ” she pouted, and….not kidding….she stomped her foot like a toddler who doesn’t want to take a nap.

I took my only recourse.

“Get your coat. We’re leaving now. And no more shenanigans.”

Sometimes everyone responds to MOM.

The next day I went to visit. She told me I had to leave because it was lunch time and there was no room for me at her table.

“You Just Have to Laugh…..”

Cover by Dwayne Booth!!
Cover by Dwayne Booth!!

©2016 Cathy Sikorski

 

You might be a Caregiver….Part One

Just as I was sitting down to bring you the next installment of caregiving comedy, my computer decided the last laugh would be on me. Done, died, dead. With no warning, no goodbyes, no fond farewells, just dead.

These two weeks provided lots of time to come up with all the joys that caregivers experience. So in a huge nod to Jeff Foxworthy, I bring you the first installment of:

“You might be a Caregiver……”

  1. If you know Medicare’s phone number and website without Googling….You might be a Caregiver….
  2. If your search for an Assisted Living Community for your Mom starts to look like a nice vacation spot for you and your spouse….You might be a Caregiver
  3. If you cancel your dentist appointment to attend Ice Cream Social Wednesday at your Dad’s nursing home, because you want the ice cream….You might be a Caregiver
  4. If you know your parents’ Medicare number, AARP number, United Healthcare number but not your own cell phone number…You might be a Caregiver
  5. If you feel the need to correct WebMD about all the missed additional symptoms of a urinary tract infection….You might be a Caregiver
  6. If your iPhone calendar has words on it like ‘catheters’, ‘hearing aid’, ‘urologist’, or ‘dentures’…..You might be a Caregiver
  7. If going to the Emergency Room is like Cheers where they know your first name and how you take your coffee…..You might be a Caregiver
  8. If you took the black Sharpie to your husband’s underwear to mark it for the wash instead of your Mom’s for the nursing home…..You might be a Caregiver
  9. If you’ve had more knock-down, drag-out fights with Insurance Companies, Hospitals and Doctor’s office than Muhammad Ali…..You might be a Caregiver
  10. If everyone around you thinks you are speaking in tongues because you are constantly saying, PT, OT, UTI, or DME….You might be a Caregiver

And this is only the beginning, my friends. After all, this is a new computer, so there’s lots of room for humor here now!

“You Just have to Laugh……”

©Cathy Sikorski 2016

A Gentleman is simply a patient wolf…..Lana Turner

A while ago, I commented on how, at least in the senior community, I felt like quite a catch (I still got it…sort of… ) I learned yesterday, that in those same communities, I’ve got quite a bit of competition.

As the winner of a basket of cheer at a local assisted living facility, I was invited to take a tour and claim my prize. For those of us in the writing profession, this was the mother lode: two huge coffee mugs, two pounds of coffee, flavored creamers, Starbucks Frappuccinos and European biscuits.

My daughter was home for a visit, so she went along for the ride. While we were waiting for the tour guide, a beautiful 81 year old resident stood behind the sofa, greeted us warmly and chatted all about how she loved her new living space. Jane entertained us for 20 minutes with her life story, the benefits of assisted living, and smarmy little secrets about her fellow residents.

A lovely blue eyed blonde aide appeared by Jane’s side and joined us in our lively chit-chat. Then Dr. H came along in his walker. Jane was compelled to tell us he was a physician and very brilliant.  Our blonde friend had a different take on the matter.

“Watch out for Dr. H,” she said, “he likes to grab your butt.”

“Well, yes, dear,” said Jane, “that’s true, but he’s not nearly so obnoxious as Karl.”

The aide scooted around the other side of Jane to get as far away from Dr. H as possible. With that, the good doctor comes over and tells us:

“I’ve been around a long time, but I’m never too old or too busy to appreciate a beautiful woman.”

A collective groan reverberated from all the women in the lobby…..of which there were about ten of us. Ugh.

The aide backs out of the room and Dr. G. follows her as fast as he can, but the walker just can’t keep up with the runner.

My daughter, who is in her twenties, can’t quite fathom that this is her plight well into her octogenarian years, turned to Jane and says: “So what’s the deal with Karl?”

“Oh, most of these men are harmless, even though every one of them is a dirty old man. But Karl, yes, dear you really have to watch out for him. I tell all the new ladies to stay a good distance from Karl.”

“But how much harm can he do in here?” said my daughter.

“Well, it’s like I tell all the residents. Don’t be so stupid and go into his room by yourself. He lures you in there and then he sticks his hand up your shirt. I can’t believe these girls would be so dumb as to go into his room.”

And there  you have it. We all still got it, even if we don’t want it.

“You just have to Laugh…..”

© 2014 Cathy Sikorski

 

When wine and wheelchairs don’t mix……

What do several rocket scientists, a computer nerd, a lawyer, a doctor, an industrial inventor a, a plumber and a nurse have in common? Let’s see………..

The day of the engagement party finally arrived. It was an unusually cool and delightful August evening. The bride-to-be was resplendent in an adorable white frock, the groom-to-be handsome and convivial with all the guests from young to old.  Because Uncle L was confined to a wheelchair from his MS, many things were put in place to make sure he could attend the party. He was an important part of the family and we all wanted him there, and he was game to go out and be with friends and family.

It was just lovely, We were really having a wonderful time. Uncle L had a nice Jack Daniels, his favorite adult beverage, and enjoyed several of the fancy hors d’oeuvres. When it came time for the buffet dinner, there weren’t enough clucking hens of mothers, nieces, sisters-in-law to fill his plate and keep his mustache clean. Of course, he was at the “cool table” where all the middle-aged people think they’re the coolest with lots of joking, insults and free flowing wine. Even Uncle L was not spared a joke or two…just like old times.

With so much taken away by that dastardly MS and the wheelchair, we all made allowances for Uncle L’s one vice-smoking. So after dinner, Uncle L wanted to go outside for a smoke. A couple of smoking cohorts joined him to proceed to the parking lot. No go. No, seriously, the wheelchair no go.

First they called me, the caregiver/lawyer. What did I do? I pushed the button that says “go.” That didn’t work. I thought about saying, “objection!” but was pretty sure that was a waste of time. Then we called over the rocket scientists and the computer guy. Hmmm, look at this, push that, fiddle here and there. Nope, nuthin’. The plumber, the nurse and the doctor wisely said, “well, we will all just have to push the chair.” This chair weighs a ton, even without a big guy in it.

So all the big guys got together pushed the chair to the transport, we got into three separate cars to meet at Uncle L’s home to get him back into his room in time for the  caregivers to get him to bed. We were a little late and God Bless these amazing caregivers who have never let us down at Chestnut Knoll at Home (I promised them I would give them a plug whenever I could as the minimum of thanks) who called me to find out where Uncle L was.

We get him and the super heavy chair out of the transport with lots of brawn and maneuvering, and they put him to bed.

The next morning I get a call from one of the lovely ladies of Chestnut Knoll at Home to tell me that I could call off the repairman I sent an emergency call to last night. She fixed the chair just by making sure the plug was connected in the back.

You just have to Laugh………

Cathy Sikorski

I still got it…..sort of…..

As I enter the stage of life called “aches and pains,” I am sometimes rewarded with a girlish moment.

I went to visit my mother-in-law in the assisted living facility shortly after we moved her in there. I tried especially hard to get her involved in activities that were age appropriate. She was, after all, 94 years old, so I didn’t think she needed to learn how to play bridge or try Zumba. But she could go to the sing-alongs, play bingo for 25 cents a game, and sit at the big puzzle table with other ladies and gents and gently touch the pieces while looking for their ideal slot.

So off we would go to the activity of the day. I didn’t mind playing bingo or helping with rudimentary crafts, And I loved ice cream sundae Wednesday. Yeah, that was pretty terrific. My mother-in-law loved that too. We shared a common appetite for a good sundae on Wednesday.

I would go two or three times a week, just to make sure she wasn’t sitting in her apartment sleeping while watching TV. My mother-in-law was a very social person. She was charming and enjoyed talking to people. The aides loved her because she was kind and she was interested in what you had to say. I wanted to encourage her to have places to go and people to talk with.

I became a ‘regular’. A certain contingent of the locals who engaged in the same activities were friendly and chatty with me on all my visits.

On some days, I might be dressed up, if I were going to or coming from a business meeting. It would be like CHEERS when I would go through the lobby, the activites room, the dining hall ,or down to the nurses station. People who lived there and worked there would say, “hey”, “hello”, “Hi Cathy, how are you?” Very pleasant ,indeed.

On this day, I was looking pretty spiffy, and went down to the mailboxes to check for my mother-in-law’s mail. As I exited the elevator, there was a gentlemen, who I didn’t know, walking slowly with a cane coming towards me with a small pile of mail in his hands.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello,” he said.

I thought just in that moment I detected a little sparkle in his eye. Charming, I thought.

“Well,” I said, “I see my timing is perfect.”

I glanced down at the mail in his hands to indicate that I had come just in time to get today’s mail.

“Your timing is absolutely perfect, ” he said.

I swear to you, he looks me up and down, a smile of approval slowly spreads across his withered face and he said:

“Are YOU moving in here?”

I would have flicked my hair, but it’s short. I just gave him my best girlish laugh, shook my finger at him, and moved to the mailboxes.

You just have to Laugh…….

Cathy Sikorski

Lions and tigers and Bear Hugs…Oh my……

Caregiver’s often feel like they have been cast in a Stephen King movie, and no one told them. A scare a day is not an unlikely scenario. One of our scares with my mother-in-law was when she got dramatically ill for unknown reasons. Even though in her 90’s, all her blood work, scans, and any test they could think of continued to come back negative. But she became pretty much unresponsive, landed in intensive care, and her body temp dropped to 90 degrees.

They put a huge piece of bubble wrap around her like a blanket and had a machine pumping hot air into the bubble wrap to try and get her temp to come up from it’s dangerously low hovering place.  They called this contraption, “the bear hug.” I kinda wanted to take one home. It looked so cozy and comfy and you could pop it for fun.

Even though Mom wasn’t really conversant, she would continuously shake her head back and forth and push “the bear hug” off of her and put her arm over top of the bubble wrap ,so that she wasn’t under the heat. Just like anyone would who was too warm under the covers. Whoever was visiting had to constantly put her back under the “bear hug” and hope for the best.

After the gazillion tests, the medical team decided that she was likely suffering from an infection that was coming from her toe. They discussed taking her toe, her foot, or even half her leg. I put my foot down (oh yeah, pun totally intended). I wanted to wait as long as possible before they would do anything like that. I just couldn’t see trying to train my mother-in-law how to walk or use a wheelchair with that kind of disability at her age.

The “bear hug” did it’s loving job, and she was moved out of ICU. Just as the doctor came in to look at the offending infected toe, it fell off right in his hand. Ack! Really, I was there with my teenage daughter. I wanted to yell, “cut!” to stop this horror film I was in, but I was afraid what they might do next.

So we were able to take Mom home in a few days, but she had to wear special surgical shoes to protect the injured foot until it healed. She was in assisted living. They would get her dressed and get her to meals. But as soon as she got back from breakfast, she would change out of those surgical shoes and into her sneakers.

This went on for a day or two and finally, I told the physical therapist to hide her shoes. Oh my God! My mother-in-law, the sweetest, kindest, gentlest soul went crazy looking for her shoes. She was absolutely convinced that my daughter was the culprit and I should  get her to confess and get those shoes back immediately. This was not completely unfounded as my daughter would occasionally take Grandma’s jewelry or refrigerator magnets as a joke when she was younger. But my daughter was 500 miles away in college, and there was no convincing Grandma that that made a bit of difference.

This battle went on for weeks, until the therapist gave the ok to return to real shoes. When the magic shoes finally reappeared, my mother-in-law said, “Well, finally your daughter has given me back my shoes!” Guess she felt like she was in a Stephen King movie.

You just have to Laugh…….

Cathy Sikorski

What’s in a name?

The generation that I mostly have cared for in the last 20 years is the ‘greatest generation’ born in the early to mid 1900’s. These wonderful people  were often here as children and maybe grandchildren of immigrants. We grew up as children, grandchildren and sometimes great-grandchildren of immigrants. Suffice to say that hardly any of us were far from the boats or the shores of Ellis Island. As a consequence, our parents always wanted to know the ethnic derivation of the families of our school chums, our friends, our bosses, our co-workers.

This wasn’t necessarily a point of prejudice as much as it was often a point of reference. So if that nice girl Maria came home with me, was she Italian? Who were that boy, Tommy’s, people? Does that last name end in ‘ski’ or ‘sky’ because that could be the difference between Polish and Ukrainian. Our parents and grandparents just wanted to know. In some ways, I think it made them feel worldly or cosmopolitan to ‘figure out’ just where those surnames and your people came from.

When I met my mother-in-law, my husband and his entire extended family were very proud of the fact that they were 100 percent Ukrainian. My daughters have always teased me that I muddied the waters with my crazy quilt of an ethnic background that is only half Italian and nothing else on my  mother’s side that anyone can actually attest to. And, as punishment for this transgression, my daughters threaten to bury me in the “Ukie” cemetery. Yes, the Ukrainians have their own cemetery. So maybe they do want to keep out riff-raff like me. And I will haunt my daughters from the dead if they bury me there.

Since we are so dramatically aware of being politically correct, you don’t hear this kind of conversation outside of elder care facilities too much.  But once my mother-in-law was comfortably ensconced in her assisted living facility, ‘ethnic-geography’ was the game of the day.

“So, Repko, is it? Where does that name come from?”

“Is it MacClellan or McClellan, because that would be Scotch or Irish, right? ”

“Are you Pennsylvania Dutch or are you a real German?”

These are the conversations you would overhear in the lobby, the dining room and at Bingo. It seemed harmless enough because everyone engaging in the game would just nod their head or say, “Oh” and that would be the end of it.

Since it was a long-standing joke in our family that I was not Ukrainian, I thought that my ethnicity with my husband’s family was at least on the approval list.

This particular day, my mother-in-law was recuperating in rehab for a gangrenous toe. She had been very, very sick and her recovery was very slow. But within  several weeks, she was remarkably back to her old self and on the mend so that she would be released from rehab back to her assisted living apartment any day.

We took a little stroll in her new special shoes that were necessary to protect her injured toes and feet, then we sashayed back to her bedroom for a little rest. She was in such good spirits, that I was telling her about all the great things waiting for her back at her apartment.

“So there’s bingo, and your friends miss you at your table, and since the weather is getting nice we will be able to go outside for walks in the garden. Isn’t that nice?”

“Sure,” she said. “I’m getting a bit tired now. These shoes are hard to walk in.”

“I know,” I tell her. “I’m tired myself, my back has been acting up and I just can’t seem to get comfortable to sleep.”

“Oh well,” she said with a  chuckle that I recognized as “this is about me not you.” And  as we sat there in  comfortable silence in her breathtakingly warm room for awhile,we both start to nod off. Her head was lolling to the side and I was losing the battle with my eyelids, and I sort of mumble under my breath:

“Aren’t we a pair? A Ukie and an Italian….”

She sits bolt upright and says:

“YOU’RE ITALIAN???? I thought you were Polish!”

You just have to Laugh…….

Cathy Sikorski

What those toddler tantrums were REALLY training you for……

A friend of mine recently took a job at the Assisted Living facility where my mother-in-law spent her last few years. My friend will be a great asset to the Villa, and overall, it was a wonderful experience for us, eventually.

The first day, however, was like sending your first born to kindergarten. We had taken Mom to the facility to “check it out”, knowing full well we were already going to make it her home. ( I was going to say, “send her there” but even still those words sound so harsh….even though we KNEW it had to happen). And that tour was the disaster in my blog,  Who Knew Grandma Has Great Legs…

But we persisted with the move forward since we were still afraid that she might burn down her apartment building, or not have any nutrition but coffee for days at a time. So we brought her to our house for a long weekend, telling her that at the end of the weekend her furniture, clothing and personal items would be moved in to her new apartment and then she would move as well.

The first day of school arrives…I see her at my breakfast table having her coffee and tell her I’m going to the gym and when I get back we will shower and get ready to go.

“I’m not going. I’m not going,” she says while LITERALLY STAMPING HER FOOT LIKE A TWO-YEAR OLD! Now, my mother-in-law had an amazing sense of humor. And she is really kidding me, but I know there is a sense of panic there.

“Okay,” I say, “we’ll talk about that when I get back.”

“Don’t hurry back!” she yells after me.

As I’m working out at the gym, I realize that my best arsenal might be in remembering how I dealt with my toddlers. But I am really cognizant of respecting my mother-in-law here. We tried to include her in the process, but at 94, she wasn’t really all that interested in change.

When I return home from the gym, I hustle Mom into the shower, dress her in a darling little outfit and the protests begin:

“Why can’t I stay here and help you?” In support of that, she folded my laundry while I was at the gym, which she hasn’t done in about 5 years. Tricky little devil, this one.

“Well, Mom, because I have too many stairs, I’m not home all the time”…blah, blah blah

She is undaunted.

“Well, I can stay with  your mother. She has a big house. No one is there but her and she could use the company.”

Ugh. Remember when your little ones said “why, why, why” to everything? What did you do?

“No, Mom. Just no.”

“But…..” and she goes for it a few more times.

“No.” That’s all I say.

We get to her apartment and she is pleasantly surprised to see all her own things there set up much like her apartment that we moved her from. We go to the dining room and we let her order whatever she wants.

And this is where you know you’ve done the right thing.

She looks at her food and says:

“Who ordered this, it looks delicious!”

You just have to Laugh……………….

Cathy Sikorski