The Living Dead

I have a grandson who is into zombies.  He knows all about them and often relates "information" about zombie behavior.  He knows it is fiction, but for some reason he and many others find the zombie world fascinating.  I do not.

To me the world of the living dead is the nursing home.  Today Mother insisted that she was dead.  No amount of logic or reason could convince her that she was alive.  "Did the undertaker make my face look good?" she asked.  What could I say?  "Yes, you look lovely."  She was satisfied that she looked good, but she still instisted that she was dead.  And perhaps she is right.  She and the other residents are living a kind of half life.  They are not physically dead, but like zombies they roam the halls with their ravaged minds and bodies.  It is twilight living.  Neither here nor in the beyond.  They live, but they are dead to the world.

World and local events mean nothing.  People come and go, but often who those people are depends on the momentary workings of the dementia mind.  Today I was daughter, mother and grandmother to Mother at various points of the visit.  Her world shifts and sways and her confusion grows.  Zombie? No, but part of the living dead - sometimes.  But there is no need for violence or horror either.  Only hugs and kisses, singing and praying, photos and remembrances can restore life. 

Did the undertaker do a good job on her face?  It mattered to Mother today, and just knowing that she was lovely to me was all it took to make her just a bit more alive.

Lost

Mother is lost in the fog of her ever diminishing memory.  Her focus of thought is becoming ever more narrow.  Yesterday as we sat in the living area by the front door watching people come and go, Mother said she wanted to talk about the family.  I asked her to name we girls, and she could.  I asked about her brothers, and she named them.  But the names of her sister-in-laws, her grandchildren, her nieces escaped her.  Even when I told her who they were, she just looked at me like she was very unsure of those names. She seemed to even be unsure about the relationships.  It was if she knew she has grandchildren and great-grandchildren, but she doesn't know how many or who they are.  The fog is thick in her mind.

It is impossible to "visit" with her now.  Even relating the events of the day or talking about the garden or the weather brings no real response.  She used to be able to make some kind of comment even if she had no idea about the topic.  Now there is nothing.  No comments.  No indication that what I have said has even registered with her.  More and more she speaks randomly as her brain fires here and there.  Her poor fog shrouded mind is lost not just to us but to her.  She looks out from frightened eyes and says, "I'm dying."  She is, and it is a slow, horrible death.

Laundry

For two and a half years I've been doing Mother's laundry.  As my husband keeps reminding me, Mother pays for that to be done.  But in washing her laundry, I've felt like I was helping to take care of her.  Her clothes have also lasted longer and been nicer since I don't use such harsh detergents to wash  and super high heat to dry her clothes.  I've been doing 3 to 5 loads of her wash a week.  Most of the time these were small loads, but because of her incontinence, there are often several outfits a day.

While I was gone the home did her laundry, and I've decided to continue to let them do this.  Here is the strange part.  I feel such freedom in letting someone else do this chore.  I thought it might make me feel guilty because Mother often thanked me for doing her laundry, but this is not the case.  No guilt.  I feel like I can time my visits around my schedule rather than around the laundry.  What freedom to no longer be a washing drudge.

It seems silly, but this small change has made a difference in my approach to Mother.  This small change has made me acknowledge the bigger changes in Mother.  I am no longer trying to hold off the inevitable decline into complete loss.  Doing the laundry was a symbolic act on my part, as if I could keep Mother from slipping away behind piles of laundry and detergent. I can now say that instead of trying to keep some normalcy for Mother, I can accept her limited life.  The decline is so much more pronounced.  We are now at the stage where we just try to make her moments bright.  And I can do this without a bag of laundry in my hand.

Little Things

I've been away for a week.  When I have to be out of town, I usually worry about Mother.  This time, other family members checked on her, and as terrible as it sounds, she has declined so much that I knew she would have no idea I had been gone.  She didn't.  She looked at me when I came into the room, and it was just like every other day that I walk in.  It is true that with Alzheimer's every day is just like every other. But even so, Mother finds joy in the little things that appear every day.

More and more Mother sleeps or lies in bed and looks out the window.  I have hung a basket of petunias outside her window so that she can look at them, and today she was delighted to see some bees at the flowers.  The little things of life are what bring her so much pleasure.  A cup of fresh blueberries, strawberry ice cream, a coke for "happy hour," or a bee outside her window.  Her world is very small, and perhaps I too should take more pleasure in the small delights of life.  Even in her dementia Mother is teaching lessons on life if I pay attention and see what is just outside the window.