Suffering, Suffering, Suffering

When I was small I would sometimes get so scared at night.  The clothes in the closet, a chair, a toy on a shelf all took monstrous proportions and frightened me.  Mother would come in and sit with me and reassure me.  I remember.  I could go back to sleep because she was there, and I knew I was safe.

Today Mother was scared and confused.  She had ended up in another resident's bed. (Not at all uncommon in the Alzheimer's unit.  People forget where their own bed is and take the first one they see.)  When I arrived I couldn't find her, but the aide told me where she was and said they had tried and tried to get her to move, but she wouldn't. I found her and when she saw me she said, "Oh, I'm in trouble."  She knew she was not where she belonged, but she was unable to do anything about it, and staying in a comfortable bed was safer than moving to what she perceived as an unknown place.

The bribe that usually works is a Coke and chocolate.  It worked today. After much coaxing by telling her that I had brought her a Coke and that her room and her bed were just across the hall, she got up and baby-stepped across.  How terrifying it must be to not know where you are.  Her own room was just four or five steps away, but she was utterly lost.  When she saw the Coke she exclaimed, "Oh someone has left me a Coke, and it's in my room."  After the Coke and chocolate, she curled up in her own bed and was cold. I wrapped her fuzzy green blanket around her, tucked her in and sat very close. "I'm suffering, suffering, suffering.  Terrible, terrible.  My mind, my mind.  It's a bad day."  And it was. 

I tucked her in and sat with her until she was sound asleep; her mind at ease at least for the moment.  It was my turn to chase away the monsters.  I wish I could keep them away forever.