Wonders Never Cease!

In visiting Mother at the nursing home, I also witness the decline of the other residents on the Alzheimer's Unit.  In just the three years that Mother has lived there, there are only two people who were there when she arrived.  Some have gone to other facilities, some have become bed fast and now live in the general population, and many have died. What is universal is the decline; although, the rate and presentation of decline varies.

I have written before about a resident who is a recent arrival.  She has screamed and cursed a blue streak since her arrival unless she was asleep.  She has had the most brutal mouth I have heard.  Her conversation has been nothing but filth and anger.

Today when I arrived, several residents were sitting together watching TV.  To my horror, Mother was sitting next to the cursing woman.  I have to say, I approached with caution, because she can also start slapping and throwing things.  I stood next to Mother and we began visiting.  Suddenly, a sweet voice asked, "Would you like this chair?  I can move over there."

Was this the same woman?  Smile like a jack-o-lantern with missing teeth.  Stringy hair. Skinny arms.  Yes, but she was smiling and pleasant.  I was taken aback, but brought up another chair so that I could face Mother and the woman.  

I am not one to assign the word miracle to everyday events, but this comes very close to being a miracle in my book.  The woman actually talked to Mother and me - nicely!  She laughed and rambled around in the way dementia patients do.  I looked through an old issue of Southern Living with Mother, and the woman peered over and made comments as we all three paged through the issue.  Both Mother and the woman loved the photos of cakes and cupcakes.  They got very excited and each picked the one she wanted to eat.  They didn't talk to each other, but both talked to me.  I was amazed.  

It was a good day for Mother, but it was a wonder to me that the cursing woman, Marie, was sweet and smiling.  Wonders never cease!

A Wink and a Smile

There are days when I visit Mother that weigh so heavily upon me that I cry as I drive away.  But once in a while there are extraordinary days.  They are bright days when just a glimpse of Mother as she was shines through.  Yesterday was one of those bright days.

It was warm and sunny, and Mother was willing to go outside.  So I wiggled her into her sweater and slippers, and she perched her sunglasses on her nose and off we went to the patio.  She shuffled down the hall hanging on to my arm as I balanced the glass of tea and the carrot cake cupcake.  It takes a lot of energy for her to get out the door and down the sidewalk to the patio and bench, but she shuffled along and dropped onto the bench.

It was a good thing she was eating outside.  She dug into the cupcake dropping crumbs of cake and drops of cream cheese icing all around her.  She ate and turned her face up to the sun.  Suddenly, she asked, "Where is your car?"  I told her it was parked in front of the building.  She asked again and yet a third time.  Finally, she tilted her head and flashed her wicked, ornery smile.

"We could go get it."  She bent closer holding the last bite of cupcake.
"Where do you want to go?"  I asked.
"Judon."
(Judon is a small town about 150 miles away on which she has become fixated.)
I told her it was too far to go there.  I couldn't drive there.
She leaned closer and in her best conspiratorial voice asked,  "What about your sisters?"
I had to laugh.  Through her dementia she was trying to work me, trying to convince me to pile her in the car and go for a joy ride.

If only I could have.  But she is too unpredictable to take her by myself.  I promised her that when to dogwoods were blooming we would go.
"Okay,"  she said the popped the last bite of cupcake in her mouth.

For just a moment, I had had as real a conversation as possible with Mother.  She had had a plan, and she tried to use all of her old charms to get her way.  That wink and a smile. That reaching for an alternative plan. It was a sweet moment even through the crumbs of cupcake and the smears of frosting on her face.

Oh, Mother!

It is difficult sometimes to remember Mother as she was - strong, in charge, running rather than walking, bright and sunny, ready to laugh, her interests wide as the sky.  I look at her now, frail, virtually silent, her interests limited to the moment, her memory confused and clouded.

Now Mother is more like a small child who has found a new game and cannot be distracted from it.  We sit on her bed side-by-side sharing a lunch sized bag of corn chips.  She winks.  Now we play her favorite game, noses and foreheads touching and looking into each other's eyes.  She pulls back only long enough to grab a corn chip and chew.  Back and forth we go.

Up close I notice even her once clear blue eyes are fading.  They are becoming almost white in places like a pair of long loved and well worn pair of jeans.  Only the edges of her eyes hold their true color.  I wonder if they reflect the shrinking of her brain.  Is there only a small rim left that holds her true self?

We touch noses back and forth for more than 20 minutes.  "Oh, Mother!" she sighs and cuddles into my shoulder.  I rock her and sing.  My poor Mother child.