Changes

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.

The Lights Are Gone

There has been a definite change in Mother. She is much quieter, and the light, the mischievous light, that persisted in her eyes despite the dementia is barely there.  It happened so quickly.  One day she was lively and talking; the next visit she was not there.  Oh, she smiles and can still call me by name, but something has changed.

My sister has compared it to having packed her bags and left.  You know the saying, "the light's on but no one is home."  Well, the light is just a single dim bulb for Mother right now.  The light in her eyes is much dimmer.  She moves differently too.  She may be walking down the hall and just stops.  We have to prod her to keep walking.  It is as if she has forgotten that she was walking - not just where she was going, but she has forgotten that she was even in the process of moving.  Sitting is the same way.  She will stand in front of a chair, but she forgets to go ahead and sit.  I have to keep encouraging her - bend you legs, lower yourself down, I will help you, the chair is right here.  She looks at me like I have lost my mind.  She has forgotten that she was going to sit down.

I hung a stocking for her in her room.  I hung it because I wanted her to have a bit of Christmas in her room.  But the change in her is so dramatic that I am not sure she even notices the stocking.  It used to be that she would have taken it down and chewed on it or put things in it.  It just hangs there untouched.

Yet despite the change, musics still touches Mother.  Many people come and sing and play for the residents of the home during the holidays.  Mother still enjoys the music.  She will pat her knee during a lively song and sometimes she even can remember a few of the words to sing along.  We are treasuring these times.  I am afraid that next Christmas she may not even be able to enjoy the music. 

The light, the music, the joy of life are shutting down for her.  The curtains slowly draw closed, and she will be shut out from all that she has loved.  So for now, we sing.  We sing during every visit.  Music is the piece of light we cling to, and we sing with vigor hoping to stave off the coming darkness.