So many changes in the last few months; changes that are difficult to write about. When I put the words down, the changes don't seem so severe, but they have stolen so much more of Mother that the words stick in my throat.
Mother speaks very little. Sometimes she doesn't differentiate us from her care givers at the home. At other times, she grabs us and hangs on. She tries to kiss my hand, but often that kiss begins as an attempt to bite me. "Kiss, kiss," I say and her mouth hangs open. She thinks about it, tries to bite and then puckers up and kisses my hand. I kiss her hand. We both smile. But those times are becoming more rare.
Mother doesn't walk anymore. She sits in a reclining wheel chair, and even then she can't sit up straight for very long. She leans to one side and slowly slides down. We prop her up with a pillow. She slides down. She sits on a special sticky pad. She slides down, her left arm and hand clenched from the stoke two years ago.
Mother can no longer eat regular meat. Chicken, pork and beef all choke her, so her meat must be pureed or mechanically chopped into very small bits. She doesn't seem to mind the texture, so she eats. Nevertheless, she has lost weight and looks more like a small bird curled up in her chair.
The list goes on, but the thing that weighs on me, the thing that hurts my heart is that more and more of Mother is gone. She sits and stares and chews her clothes or the corner of her blanket. This beautiful, smart woman is being reduced to a hollow shell. This is not that way any life should end.
Showing posts with label memory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memory. Show all posts
Monday, June 16, 2014
Friday, September 13, 2013
Fragrance Past
They say smell is a strong trigger for memories. I believe it is true. The smell of a gas cook stove and bacon sends me right back fifty years into my grandmother's farmhouse kitchen.
Mother's mother died young, and Mother put some of Grandma's clothes in a plastic bag to keep. One day I found the bag and asked Mother why she was keeping the clothes. She confessed that from time to time she would open the bag to smell the clothes. Then she let me smell them. The clothes smelled like my grandmother, and Mother was keeping that smell, that part of Grandma locked up for as long as she could. It was a comfort to her.
Now when I visit Mother, I find myself smelling her hair and inhaling her scent when I hug her. It is the one part of her that hasn't been lost or become changed beyond recognition. Her smell, despite the nursing home and the institutional soap, is still the same. It is still her. I can close my eyes and remember the Mother who comforted me as a child when I was sick or afraid. I can still smell the Mother who walked in the woods. She still smells like the Mother who made my clothes and ironed my dresses for school. I can still smell the Mother who kept me from wiggling in church by resting her hand on my knee.
The smell is the same, and sometimes, for just that briefest of moments, I can have my mother back. It is a comfort to me.
Mother's mother died young, and Mother put some of Grandma's clothes in a plastic bag to keep. One day I found the bag and asked Mother why she was keeping the clothes. She confessed that from time to time she would open the bag to smell the clothes. Then she let me smell them. The clothes smelled like my grandmother, and Mother was keeping that smell, that part of Grandma locked up for as long as she could. It was a comfort to her.
Now when I visit Mother, I find myself smelling her hair and inhaling her scent when I hug her. It is the one part of her that hasn't been lost or become changed beyond recognition. Her smell, despite the nursing home and the institutional soap, is still the same. It is still her. I can close my eyes and remember the Mother who comforted me as a child when I was sick or afraid. I can still smell the Mother who walked in the woods. She still smells like the Mother who made my clothes and ironed my dresses for school. I can still smell the Mother who kept me from wiggling in church by resting her hand on my knee.
The smell is the same, and sometimes, for just that briefest of moments, I can have my mother back. It is a comfort to me.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Looking at the Mountains
When I was about eight years old, we took a family vacation to the Rocky Mountains with friends. I loved the whole experience and didn't want to leave. But as with all things, the vacation had an end point, and we loaded into the cars and headed east. I was riding in our friends' car with their daughter, and as we headed into eastern Colorado, my friend's father told us to turn around for our last glimpse of the mountains. "You might never see them again," he said. To never see the mountains again struck me as an impossibility, and being the stubborn child I was, I refused to turn to look. I knew in my heart, I would see them again.
And I have seen them again. I lived in them for five years and have enjoyed many visits since that time. But as I grow older, I do turn and look at the last blue fingernail of mountains as we head east. I watch in the mirrors and turn in my seat, trying with my whole being to keep my eye on them. I don't want to miss the last glimpse as the disappear below the horizon.
Mother gets that look in her eye now too. On some days she will stare deeply into my eyes and say my name softly. She really looks at my face as if she is trying to memorize each feature. It is as if she is turning to look because she may never see me again. I wonder if somewhere deep in her mind she is trying to hang on to every last bit of her memory. She is trying to emblazon the images into her mind because at some level she knows she is dipping below a horizon and may never see the images again. Each face, each moment is looked at intently. For Mother, every day is possibly the last day she will remember.
Turn and look, you might never see them again.
And I have seen them again. I lived in them for five years and have enjoyed many visits since that time. But as I grow older, I do turn and look at the last blue fingernail of mountains as we head east. I watch in the mirrors and turn in my seat, trying with my whole being to keep my eye on them. I don't want to miss the last glimpse as the disappear below the horizon.
Mother gets that look in her eye now too. On some days she will stare deeply into my eyes and say my name softly. She really looks at my face as if she is trying to memorize each feature. It is as if she is turning to look because she may never see me again. I wonder if somewhere deep in her mind she is trying to hang on to every last bit of her memory. She is trying to emblazon the images into her mind because at some level she knows she is dipping below a horizon and may never see the images again. Each face, each moment is looked at intently. For Mother, every day is possibly the last day she will remember.
Turn and look, you might never see them again.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Stealing Mother - Again
Alzheimer's disease steals. It is stealing my mother from me. Parts of her remain, but so much of who she was is gone. The disease steals slowly. Oh, at first it seems like it rushes off with great chunks of its victims, but that is only because the chunks it steals are the big, most noticeable parts. In reality, it steals slowly. It inches away with mere molecules of the victim. Then one day, you notice that even more of the person you love is gone.
Alzheimer's disease continues to steal Mother. It has stolen her ability to know us at times. Yesterday, I was Mama to her. Usually she finally recognizes me as me, but not yesterday. I was her mama for my entire visit. She is the frightened little girl who wants to cling to my neck crying mama. She is the little girl who wants to hold my hand and look in my eyes and say, "Mama, mama, mama."
Alzheimer's disease has stolen Mother's ability to recognize where she is at times. As we walked down the hall to her room, Mother stopped and grabbed my arm harder. "Where are we?" She was lost in that one hall. She couldn't recognize her room until she saw her name beside the door. She continued to walk with me, but her grip didn't relax until she saw her name. She was frightened. To her, it was like stepping into the unknown. She was unsure, but willing to trust me to guide her. Mother had always been the one to know exactly where she was, which direction she was headed, how far she needed to go. She was never lost. Now she is lost most of the time.
Alzheimer's is a thief. It steals, and nothing can stop it. I hold on to the small pieces of Mother that it hasn't taken because I know that in time, Alzheimer's will steal those too.
Alzheimer's disease continues to steal Mother. It has stolen her ability to know us at times. Yesterday, I was Mama to her. Usually she finally recognizes me as me, but not yesterday. I was her mama for my entire visit. She is the frightened little girl who wants to cling to my neck crying mama. She is the little girl who wants to hold my hand and look in my eyes and say, "Mama, mama, mama."
Alzheimer's disease has stolen Mother's ability to recognize where she is at times. As we walked down the hall to her room, Mother stopped and grabbed my arm harder. "Where are we?" She was lost in that one hall. She couldn't recognize her room until she saw her name beside the door. She continued to walk with me, but her grip didn't relax until she saw her name. She was frightened. To her, it was like stepping into the unknown. She was unsure, but willing to trust me to guide her. Mother had always been the one to know exactly where she was, which direction she was headed, how far she needed to go. She was never lost. Now she is lost most of the time.
Alzheimer's is a thief. It steals, and nothing can stop it. I hold on to the small pieces of Mother that it hasn't taken because I know that in time, Alzheimer's will steal those too.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Unmarked Path
Mother is back. This last month has been a difficult journey as Mother recovered from the flu. Today she was talking again. I didn't think I would hear her be herself again, but she was back today. She knew me when I walked in the room, and she said my name. She commented on the TV show that was airing. I was amazed.
This journey with dementia is an unmarked path. Many have traveled the path before, and there are generalities that apply to many people, but each person's journey through dementia is different. I had no idea that the flu could cause such profound changes, and after three weeks I was losing any hope of Mother regaining speech or interest in the world. The virus that the rest of us throw off in a matter of days knocked her down completely. It led us into deep shadows. I was trying to process what kind of a life Mother might have in the depths of that shadowy place. It was bleak.
But now the path is brighter. She watches the activity in the hall and comments. She is interested in the advertisement on TV for Shirley Temple movies. She wanted to hold hands while we watched TV. She sipped her Coke and said, "Whoa, Nellie!" as the first sip stung her throat. She was back.
I'm profoundly happy to have her back. The shadow has been pushed back into the corners, but I know it is still there. Something else, some virus or fall, could send her back into the shadow and onto another unmarked path. Now even in the happiness of the moment, I have to acknowledge that at some point it may come again. So, I stack my mental cairns along the way trying to mark the path. Trying not to be surprised. Trying not to be frightened the next time it comes.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Leaving the Ship
There is a new woman at the home. She is in the first stage of adjusting to living in a nursing home. She is confused, and she wants to leave. She is wandering the halls asking everyone if she is "free to leave the ship." Another resident replies," This isn't a ship. This is a building. Your folks put you here, and you have to stay until they come and take you out." The woman looks blank and wanders toward the end of the hall and rattles and shakes the door saying, "I have to get out of here."
I remember that stage well. Mother was more angry than the new woman. Not only did she rattle the door, she picked up chairs and threw them. She tried to break the glass. In the first place she lived, she tried to climb the fence in the outside area. She pulled a patio table to the fence, climbed on it and tried her best to get over the wrought iron fence. Thank goodness Mother was too short to do so. When she first arrived where she now lives, she did the same thing. She couldn't climb over an outside wall, but she tried to climb over a wall in her unit that doesn't quite go to the ceiling and adjoins the main dinning room. She stood on the sofa and tried her best to climb the wall desperate to escape.
At first, we tried to take Mother out of the home for short drives. We thought it would ease her transition. She got so confused when we did. Once she thought she was Vietnam. Often she thought she knew the people in every car that passed us and it would upset her. Sometimes she thought we were in a different town. Finally a nurse told us we were not doing her any favors. It was easier on her to just stay in the home. It was less confusing. In our own way, we were denying that she was on that ship that only sailed farther and farther away from normal life.
No is "free to leave the ship" once they are in the Alzheimer's unit. It simply sails off into the fog. No amount of beating on doors or throwing furniture or climbing walls can facilitate an escape. And no matter how much we want to, even the "folks" can get you out. It is a one way trip.
I remember that stage well. Mother was more angry than the new woman. Not only did she rattle the door, she picked up chairs and threw them. She tried to break the glass. In the first place she lived, she tried to climb the fence in the outside area. She pulled a patio table to the fence, climbed on it and tried her best to get over the wrought iron fence. Thank goodness Mother was too short to do so. When she first arrived where she now lives, she did the same thing. She couldn't climb over an outside wall, but she tried to climb over a wall in her unit that doesn't quite go to the ceiling and adjoins the main dinning room. She stood on the sofa and tried her best to climb the wall desperate to escape.
At first, we tried to take Mother out of the home for short drives. We thought it would ease her transition. She got so confused when we did. Once she thought she was Vietnam. Often she thought she knew the people in every car that passed us and it would upset her. Sometimes she thought we were in a different town. Finally a nurse told us we were not doing her any favors. It was easier on her to just stay in the home. It was less confusing. In our own way, we were denying that she was on that ship that only sailed farther and farther away from normal life.
No is "free to leave the ship" once they are in the Alzheimer's unit. It simply sails off into the fog. No amount of beating on doors or throwing furniture or climbing walls can facilitate an escape. And no matter how much we want to, even the "folks" can get you out. It is a one way trip.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Visiting Mother
It is cold here and threatening snow or rain or ice, but in the nursing home it is a constant 72 degrees. Even in the toasty rooms, Mother huddles under her blanket. It is as if she can feel the cold, wet weather approaching. Or maybe it is just the loneliness.
When Mother sees me, she always starts calling my name over and over. I hustle out of my coat and sit beside her on the bed as fast as I can because she calls my name louder and louder until I am at her side and patting her back. I kiss her head and she is happy. Today I have brought three Clementine oranges for her. The bright orange peels fall into the trash can as she yells, "Hurry, hurry!" The sweet orange fragrance only increases her urgency to get a section into her mouth. I have to make her sit up to eat, and by holding the oranges away from her, she is willing to sit up to get them. So I pass her a section at a time as I sit beside her. She ummmms and the juice runs out of the corner of her mouth. More. I peel and she eats until they are all gone. Even then she looks at my hands to see if I might still have one more section for her. It takes a couple of times of telling her that they are all gone and showing her my empty hands before she is satisfied that she has eaten the last of the oranges.
We walk down the hall to look out the window. Beyond the wooden privacy fence we can see the woods. "I love the woods," she says. She smiles and for a moment she remembers. I don't think she remembers her woods, but she still knows that she loves the woods and nature. It is a peaceful moment. As we turn to walk back down the hall she asks,"Where are we?" I tell her she is at the nursing home and it is where she lives. "I live here?" She is amazed, but then sees her bed and her room and she remembers them.
Mother gets into bed by putting her forehead down on the bed first then crawls in on her knees and finally flops over onto her side. It looks awkward, but she makes it every time. Now she wants to be covered again, and we go through the ritual of the back rub and the singing. One song makes her sad, so I find a happy song to sing and just as quickly as she was sad, she is happy again. Lassie Come Home is on the TV, and Mother starts calling for Lassie over and over saying how much she loves Lassie. But Mother never even liked dogs. Not even a little. Something about the story pulls at her heart even now.
Her eyes begin to flutter, and she is ready for a nap. I kiss her and tell her I will be back later. Telling her I will be back tomorrow seems impossible for her, so I tell her I will see her later, and she is satisfied. More kisses. More tucking her in as she cuddles and chews on her new stuffed animal. She smiles the drifty smile of coming sleep. See you later alligator. This time she doesn't answer, and I make my way down the hall and toward home.
When Mother sees me, she always starts calling my name over and over. I hustle out of my coat and sit beside her on the bed as fast as I can because she calls my name louder and louder until I am at her side and patting her back. I kiss her head and she is happy. Today I have brought three Clementine oranges for her. The bright orange peels fall into the trash can as she yells, "Hurry, hurry!" The sweet orange fragrance only increases her urgency to get a section into her mouth. I have to make her sit up to eat, and by holding the oranges away from her, she is willing to sit up to get them. So I pass her a section at a time as I sit beside her. She ummmms and the juice runs out of the corner of her mouth. More. I peel and she eats until they are all gone. Even then she looks at my hands to see if I might still have one more section for her. It takes a couple of times of telling her that they are all gone and showing her my empty hands before she is satisfied that she has eaten the last of the oranges.
We walk down the hall to look out the window. Beyond the wooden privacy fence we can see the woods. "I love the woods," she says. She smiles and for a moment she remembers. I don't think she remembers her woods, but she still knows that she loves the woods and nature. It is a peaceful moment. As we turn to walk back down the hall she asks,"Where are we?" I tell her she is at the nursing home and it is where she lives. "I live here?" She is amazed, but then sees her bed and her room and she remembers them.
Mother gets into bed by putting her forehead down on the bed first then crawls in on her knees and finally flops over onto her side. It looks awkward, but she makes it every time. Now she wants to be covered again, and we go through the ritual of the back rub and the singing. One song makes her sad, so I find a happy song to sing and just as quickly as she was sad, she is happy again. Lassie Come Home is on the TV, and Mother starts calling for Lassie over and over saying how much she loves Lassie. But Mother never even liked dogs. Not even a little. Something about the story pulls at her heart even now.
Her eyes begin to flutter, and she is ready for a nap. I kiss her and tell her I will be back later. Telling her I will be back tomorrow seems impossible for her, so I tell her I will see her later, and she is satisfied. More kisses. More tucking her in as she cuddles and chews on her new stuffed animal. She smiles the drifty smile of coming sleep. See you later alligator. This time she doesn't answer, and I make my way down the hall and toward home.
Monday, November 12, 2012
It Is All Relative
There is a new resident on the Alzheimer's unit. Almost everyone who begins living on an Alzheimer's unit experiences a period of adjustment. Some people sleep, some cry and others are more aggressive. Mother screamed and hit and tried to get out. She picked up furniture and threw it and beat at the doors. Before long, she became more passive with her aggression. She threw water on the staff and would refuse to bathe. It was many months before she adjusted.
What amazes me, is that residents who have lived on the Alzheimer's unit for a while are so tolerant of the behavior of new residents. This weekend the new lady on the unit was cussing a blue streak. She waved her glass around at lunch and screamed, "That's my g-- d--- pillow! Give it back you s-- o- b------!" Of course there wasn't a pillow in sight, but she ranted on. Mother just rolled her eyes along with the other residents who are still cognizant enough to know that the woman was ranting.
Mother and I were walking to her room when they wheeled the new resident out of the dining room. She was still cussing and threw her glass of water on another resident. She kept screaming, " Get out of here you g-- d--- s-- o- b------! Get out! I am the king, and you have to do what I say you g-- d--- s-- o- b------!"
Mother said, "She is cussing everyone out." I told her yes, but that the lady didn't know what she was doing.
"Well," Mother replied," At least I haven't lost my mind."
It was all I could do not to laugh. I just hugged Mother and thought to myself, it is all relative. That's the thing about Alzheimer's, the residents all think it is the other person who is crazy. But maybe there is a lesson in that for all of us.
What amazes me, is that residents who have lived on the Alzheimer's unit for a while are so tolerant of the behavior of new residents. This weekend the new lady on the unit was cussing a blue streak. She waved her glass around at lunch and screamed, "That's my g-- d--- pillow! Give it back you s-- o- b------!" Of course there wasn't a pillow in sight, but she ranted on. Mother just rolled her eyes along with the other residents who are still cognizant enough to know that the woman was ranting.
Mother and I were walking to her room when they wheeled the new resident out of the dining room. She was still cussing and threw her glass of water on another resident. She kept screaming, " Get out of here you g-- d--- s-- o- b------! Get out! I am the king, and you have to do what I say you g-- d--- s-- o- b------!"
Mother said, "She is cussing everyone out." I told her yes, but that the lady didn't know what she was doing.
"Well," Mother replied," At least I haven't lost my mind."
It was all I could do not to laugh. I just hugged Mother and thought to myself, it is all relative. That's the thing about Alzheimer's, the residents all think it is the other person who is crazy. But maybe there is a lesson in that for all of us.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Faded Memories
Mother's memory is becoming a shadow. She has only lingering glimpses from her past. Like faded wallpaper slowly peeling away from the sure structure of the wall, her memory is peeling away from the structure of her life. She can no longer share the memories large or small from her past. She can only ask questions.
"When I was little, we had popcorn and Pepsi every Sunday evening while we watched TV," I say.
She smiles and sips her Pepsi through the straw because drinking from a can is difficult and says, "Was it good? Did we like it? Was it fun?"
I've stopped saying "do you remember." I just tell her how things were, and she asks questions. I tell her how much she enjoyed popcorn or old movies or working in her garden. Sometimes a light of recognition comes on. Just a faint remembrance - a shadow that flits across her mind. She will nod, but just that quickly the memory is gone.
I visited a museum once where people walked in front of a light that would capture their shadows. They could step away and see their shadow lingering on the wall, but very quickly those shadows faded and nothing was left to say that they or their shadows had existed. Mother has only the shadows of her life left, and those are quickly fading.
"When I was little, we had popcorn and Pepsi every Sunday evening while we watched TV," I say.
She smiles and sips her Pepsi through the straw because drinking from a can is difficult and says, "Was it good? Did we like it? Was it fun?"
I've stopped saying "do you remember." I just tell her how things were, and she asks questions. I tell her how much she enjoyed popcorn or old movies or working in her garden. Sometimes a light of recognition comes on. Just a faint remembrance - a shadow that flits across her mind. She will nod, but just that quickly the memory is gone.
I visited a museum once where people walked in front of a light that would capture their shadows. They could step away and see their shadow lingering on the wall, but very quickly those shadows faded and nothing was left to say that they or their shadows had existed. Mother has only the shadows of her life left, and those are quickly fading.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Remebering Too Much
Sometimes stimulating Mother's memory is worse than watching her forget. This week I found a coffee table book with beautiful pictures of our part of the country. It was filled with photos of the places close to her home and scenery from the region that were stunningly beautiful. I thought she would enjoy the book, so I took it with me when I visited.
Mother was in a quiet mood and just wanted to lie on her bed, so I sat beside her and in bedtime story fashion I held the book while we looked at the pictures and talked about the places. She got excited about some of the scenes and even seemed to remember some of the places, or at least she reacted to the names when I told her what the photo was. Then what seemed like a pleasant experience just broke my heart.
She started crying and howling as she does when she is upset. "I'm getting homesick," she said. I closed the book, but it was too late. The beautiful photos had caused her pain, and worst of all it caused her emotional pain. I moved the book out of sight and diverted her attention to her new wind chimes. Like a small child she was easily distracted, but the experience has haunted me.
Some memories are still with her, and she is still aware enough to know that she can't participate in those places or times again. It is difficult to know where to go with helping her remember pleasant times, but I have found one line I will not cross again. It is okay to remember briefly a time and place from the past, but immersion in it is only painful for her. I can remember, and I will remember her cries of homesickness for a long time.
Mother was in a quiet mood and just wanted to lie on her bed, so I sat beside her and in bedtime story fashion I held the book while we looked at the pictures and talked about the places. She got excited about some of the scenes and even seemed to remember some of the places, or at least she reacted to the names when I told her what the photo was. Then what seemed like a pleasant experience just broke my heart.
She started crying and howling as she does when she is upset. "I'm getting homesick," she said. I closed the book, but it was too late. The beautiful photos had caused her pain, and worst of all it caused her emotional pain. I moved the book out of sight and diverted her attention to her new wind chimes. Like a small child she was easily distracted, but the experience has haunted me.
Some memories are still with her, and she is still aware enough to know that she can't participate in those places or times again. It is difficult to know where to go with helping her remember pleasant times, but I have found one line I will not cross again. It is okay to remember briefly a time and place from the past, but immersion in it is only painful for her. I can remember, and I will remember her cries of homesickness for a long time.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Happy Birthday to Me
Mother just had a birthday. We had talked about it for days, but when the day arrived, she didn't remember that it was her birthday. We arrived with cupcakes, presents and some of the family to celebrate with her, but her room was empty. I went looking for her and found her sleeping in another room in someone else's bed. But she roused, and I told her it was her birthday and there was a party for her in her room. I sang Happy Birthday to her as we went down the hall. When we arrived at her room she announced, "Happy Birthday to me, me, me, me, me, me, me" while beating her chest and smiling. We sang again and ate chocolate cupcakes. Like a small child, she had frosting all over her face and hands and thoroughly enjoyed each bite. We called my sisters so that she could talk to them, and then she opened her present. By then, she was tired, but happy. I know that by the time we were in the parking lot she had probably forgotten all of it, but she was so happy. When we gave her her package she said, "My family is my best present." That is why I try to visit almost everyday. She forgets so easily, but she still remembers her that her family is important to her, and I want to her have those moments as often as possible.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Piece of Mind
The brain, the walnut shaped organ that allows us to be, is a mystery. I try to read what I can about brain function, growth, learning, etc., but no matter how much I think I might understand, how the brain actually works in any individual remains a mystery to me. Mother's brain, ravaged by dementia, is even more of a mystery than the brain of my thirteen year old grandson. My grandson's teenage brain at least follows a pattern that is recognizable; Mother's brain snaps and flashes in ways that leaves me grasping for some kind of pattern or for some kind of sense.
Yesterday, Mother was listening to a recording of my youngest grandchild singing. He had learned a song at Bible school and sang it so sweetly that I recorded it and played it for Mother. Her face lit up as she listened. I told her who was singing and what the song was. It was an old song, and she was familiar with it. She mouthed the words as she listened. Then she looked up and said, "And he is only six years old!" How did she remember that? He had just had a birthday, and most of the time she doesn't know who he is or who his parents are. We had told her about his birthday, but it made no impact- or so we thought. Somehow, that tiny piece of information stuck in her mind and for that moment, she could remember.
I told her she was right and reminder her that she had a birthday coming up soon herself. "When is your birthday?" She gave me a date. It was wrong. She has no idea when she was born or how old she is. Yet for that one split second she could remember that her great-grandson was six. Her mind is in pieces, and we never know what piece will be working. Neither does she. How terrifying to live with only random pieces, yet we keep feeding her broken mind information. Who knows what she might remember. It is a mystery.
Yesterday, Mother was listening to a recording of my youngest grandchild singing. He had learned a song at Bible school and sang it so sweetly that I recorded it and played it for Mother. Her face lit up as she listened. I told her who was singing and what the song was. It was an old song, and she was familiar with it. She mouthed the words as she listened. Then she looked up and said, "And he is only six years old!" How did she remember that? He had just had a birthday, and most of the time she doesn't know who he is or who his parents are. We had told her about his birthday, but it made no impact- or so we thought. Somehow, that tiny piece of information stuck in her mind and for that moment, she could remember.
I told her she was right and reminder her that she had a birthday coming up soon herself. "When is your birthday?" She gave me a date. It was wrong. She has no idea when she was born or how old she is. Yet for that one split second she could remember that her great-grandson was six. Her mind is in pieces, and we never know what piece will be working. Neither does she. How terrifying to live with only random pieces, yet we keep feeding her broken mind information. Who knows what she might remember. It is a mystery.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Sweet Lies
As a child, lying to one's mother was such a grievous offense that it merited the worst of punishments. I learned the ethic so well that as a rule I don't lie, but I lied today, and worst of all I lied to my mother. Even though the little "guilty" bells went off in my head, my heart knew it was a small series of sweet lies that simply averted the grief the truth would have brought to her.
Today Mother was sitting and watching MTV, and while we watched some program about teenage mothers, she ate her orange and talked about the people from her past. She said she had had a visit from her cousins, Glen and Lyle, and that they had had such a good time. I asked some questions and acted like I was pleased that they had come to visit her. Lyle died in WWII and Glen died several years ago. I didn't tell her they were dead - essentially a lie. She was so excited by having had a visit with them. Perhaps she did - I would not like Scrooge try to deny the presence of any Christmas spirit - but the rest of the details of the visit were mixed up in accounts of the Vietnam War and wives and children they never had. But she was happy.
She asked about my father - dead many years. She wanted to know how he was doing and what he looked like now. I lied again. I named the town where he "lives" - rather where he is buried, and I made up the rest. She was pleased. So many times we've told her that he is dead. It just makes her cry and mourn all over again, so today I lied.
She asked about other friends and family so long gone. But I lied and we talked about them as if they were still here. And what I've learned is that they are still here in her mind. They live and breathe and have new adventures and can have lives that she makes for them It brings her great joy, and so I will continue the sweet lies told out of love.
Today Mother was sitting and watching MTV, and while we watched some program about teenage mothers, she ate her orange and talked about the people from her past. She said she had had a visit from her cousins, Glen and Lyle, and that they had had such a good time. I asked some questions and acted like I was pleased that they had come to visit her. Lyle died in WWII and Glen died several years ago. I didn't tell her they were dead - essentially a lie. She was so excited by having had a visit with them. Perhaps she did - I would not like Scrooge try to deny the presence of any Christmas spirit - but the rest of the details of the visit were mixed up in accounts of the Vietnam War and wives and children they never had. But she was happy.
She asked about my father - dead many years. She wanted to know how he was doing and what he looked like now. I lied again. I named the town where he "lives" - rather where he is buried, and I made up the rest. She was pleased. So many times we've told her that he is dead. It just makes her cry and mourn all over again, so today I lied.
She asked about other friends and family so long gone. But I lied and we talked about them as if they were still here. And what I've learned is that they are still here in her mind. They live and breathe and have new adventures and can have lives that she makes for them It brings her great joy, and so I will continue the sweet lies told out of love.
Monday, November 7, 2011
It Happens
Mother has adjusted fairly well to life in the nursing home. Occasionally she asks about her house, but most of the time she asks where she is. She just can't remember where she lives. And as sad as that is, sometimes these everyday forgetting episodes take a funny turn.
Last week when I visited was one of those days when Mother didn't know where she was or who the people around her were. Her solution to not knowing is to give the people she lives with the identities of people from her past. I think for her it is a comfort to have old friends and long-dead relatives "living" there too in her mind.
One of the residents who wanders constantly was in the sitting area with us. She tried to move furniture and pushed the coffee cart out from the wall and was carrying on a conversation with someone. She approached us and told us to "come on" or we would be late. She then walked across the room and walked directly into the wall! Poor thing! She wasn't hurt, and she came back and sat with us and talked about so-and-so not coming and something about a cash register not working. It was nonsense, but she expected an answer. I replied, "Well sometimes that just happens." She looked at me and yelled, "S- - t happens!" I said, "Yes, it does." She yelled it again, got up and wandered out into the hall. Mother then proceeded to tell me which "family" member she believed the woman to be and said, "She doesn't know anything. She has lost her mind."
Sometimes you just have to laugh. I think maybe the woman spoke for everyone who has Alzheimer's that day. It happens.
Last week when I visited was one of those days when Mother didn't know where she was or who the people around her were. Her solution to not knowing is to give the people she lives with the identities of people from her past. I think for her it is a comfort to have old friends and long-dead relatives "living" there too in her mind.
One of the residents who wanders constantly was in the sitting area with us. She tried to move furniture and pushed the coffee cart out from the wall and was carrying on a conversation with someone. She approached us and told us to "come on" or we would be late. She then walked across the room and walked directly into the wall! Poor thing! She wasn't hurt, and she came back and sat with us and talked about so-and-so not coming and something about a cash register not working. It was nonsense, but she expected an answer. I replied, "Well sometimes that just happens." She looked at me and yelled, "S- - t happens!" I said, "Yes, it does." She yelled it again, got up and wandered out into the hall. Mother then proceeded to tell me which "family" member she believed the woman to be and said, "She doesn't know anything. She has lost her mind."
Sometimes you just have to laugh. I think maybe the woman spoke for everyone who has Alzheimer's that day. It happens.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)