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.

Do Not Go Gentle

"Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."  Dylan Thomas

It has been difficult to think about writing in the last few days.  The lines from Dylan Thomas keep coming to my mind.  His poem deals with approaching death, and he suggests that death should be fought.  For me, as I think about Mother, I cannot fight against physical death, but I find myself raging against the dying light of lucidity. 

I rage against the dying of the light of losing recognition.  I rage against the dying light of not distinguishing one day from another.  I rage against the dying light of losing control one's bodily functions.  I rage against the dying light of not being able to wash one's face.  I rage against the dying light of knowing where you are.

I feel like holding Mother tight and not letting go.  She is going gentle "into that good night" and I rage against it.  I want to kick and scream and shout "you can't have her!"  But the disease progresses and all the rage and love and care in the world can't stop it.   I am watching her slowly sink away from us into a dark, deep hole.  But for all my raging she goes. And it is not gentle.  It is painful.  I weep. The dying light continues to deepen.

Changes

Mother is going through a series of new changes in her mind.  Her thinking is becoming more and more confused.  The terrible part of this is that she has some awareness of it. She can tell us on any given day whether it is a good mind day or not.  Bad days are obvious.  She sleeps curled up.  Her face is a blank.  She has no idea where she is; she can't always find her room.  She sucks and chews on her thumb.

Occasionally, there is a moment when she not only remembers, but she is aware that she remembers.  This week there was a singing group performing at the home.  Mother  loves music, so I took her into the main area to listen.  They sang many old gospel songs, and Mother sang along, but she did this by watching the lips of the singers.  Like a small child, if she watches closely enough she can figure out the words.  As the group was leaving, someone began singing My Country Tis of Thee.  Mother stood up and sang every word!  She looked at me and said, "I remembered all of that one!  I sang that when I was in school."  She was so proud of herself not just for remembering but for knowing that she remembered.

A few seconds later as we returned to her room she said, "Now where are we?"  That moment of recognition was so very brief, and those moments come less and less often.  I treasure these brief moments of knowing.  I hang on to every one of them because between them are vast empty spaces of nothing.  Her mind is filled with so many vacancies which she described recently as a numbness.  Knowing is connecting, and I fear the time when there will be no knowing.