Today is my mother's 80th birthday. I wanted to take her out for ice cream to celebrate, but the temperature was so close to frigid I just couldn't bring myself to take her out. So, my husband and I took flowers to her.
"Do you feel any different at 80 than you did at 79?" I asked.
"I can't believe I'm 80 years old!" she said. And I immediately thought about her mother's 80th birthday.
Grandma never told anyone her age. And when she had to go to the emergency room for treatment the doctor asked her how old she was. "Don't you know you aren't supposed to ask a woman her age?" She refused to tell him how old she was. But on her 80th birthday--which party was at my home--she kept saying, "I can't believe I'm 80 years old!"
I reminded Mom of that again. She doesn't remember. When I was there a couple of days ago she couldn't remember that Dad has been gone for nearly two years. "Did you see your dad go over there?" She pointed toward the other side of the room.
"No. Mom, Dad is gone. He will be dead two years in March."
Today I looked into her blue eyes. She still knows us, and I can't explain what I saw there. I looked at the table settings and asked who she sits with for supper. She asked, "Don't you remember Fred?" And I felt silly for asking the question I did. Nobody else was brought to her table. I wondered why as we got ready to leave.
She isn't argumentative as she used to be. Someone mentioned it was her birthday and other residents called Happy Birthday to her. And Sunday, we will bring her to my house for a birthday party with family and she will receive more greetings and enjoy food unlike what she eats at the nursing home. And maybe for a little while we will forget that things have changed so drastically. I understand she's top winner at Uno even though she tells them she has never played the game before.
Happy Birthday, Mom!
Friday, January 21, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Reasons
It’s a cold January day. I haven’t gone to see Mom for a few days. I’ve had that nasty cold that’s going around and I didn’t want to give it to her or anyone else at the nursing home.
When I sit down to post here, I am not sure what to write. Things are different. Our visits, Mom’s and mine, are never for more than an hour or two. She can’t follow conversation very well, and forgets we’ve spoken of things just a moment before so we speak the same things over and over and I try to answer differently each time, though I don’t know why because she won’t remember any of the variety of answers. And when I leave, she will not remember that I have been there. She will tell the staff that her daughter hasn’t been there to see her in a long time. I began to look for things to take with me for us to do together. Like jigsaw puzzles. The 750-piece puzzles are too much for her. The 300-piece puzzles also are difficult for her, but she does manage to find homes for some of the pieces. I think we’ll try a smaller number of pieces.
She doesn’t crochet as much as she used to. I asked her why.
“I can’t find my hook.”
I found it in a bag of yarn, and gave it to her. She was delighted! But forgot about it quickly.
I met with the staff last week for her quarterly care meeting. She’s gained 40 pounds since she went there. But much of the weight gain probably is because she was unable to walk and spent most of her time in a wheelchair. They noted that she doesn’t crochet as she used to. I explained she can lose me sitting beside her. She needs help to “see” the hook and yarn so she will do it. Just like she needs someone to guide her to the toothbrush and take care of her teeth. At Christmas dinner she had to go to the bathroom. I helped her to the sink. She was going to wash her hands with toothpaste.
Christmas dinner went so well that, after New Year’s, my daughters Christie and Beth and Beth’s daughter, Aubriana, and I, took Mom, aka Honey, to lunch. That went well, too. I can manage the walker, but the wheelchair was too big to fit into my car and I couldn’t manage it at all because of its size. They told me the wheelchair has been taken away because she doesn’t need it any more. Wonderful news! Now I can take her to lunch or bring her to my house to spend the day and visit here with family and eat supper with us before I take her back to her existence at the nursing home. I’m not sure I can call it ‘life’ there because I’m not convinced that anyone spends much time with her there. And I have asked that they do little things with her every day to help keep her brain functioning for as long as we can.
I had a terrible battle with guilt about putting Mom in a nursing home. I was told it would be better so I wouldn’t have to take care of her around the clock. Caregivers often are NOT taken care of. That I would be able to get my rest, too, and our visits would be better.
I often hear people say, “Things happen for a reason.” I believe it’s true.
One day Mom said to me, “I wonder if we’re too close.” She was sincerely concerned and troubled by that thought.
“What do you mean?”
“If something happens to me, it’s going to hurt you very deeply because we are so close.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about that?” I suggested. “We’ll make memories that will get me through the times I will have to face later. I’ll take the memories.”
That was a long-ago conversation. Years ago. Of course, I thought we were referring to her death…the death of the body. And sometimes now I think death of her body would be better, easier, than the slow progression of the theft of her mind by Alzheimer’s, that subtle thief that steals her memories from her and mockingly steals our mother and grandmother from us in its own sweet time.
When I walk in the door, her eyes light up with recognition and her smile spreads all over her, all over me, all over the room like warm sunshine.
“You know me?”
“You’re my daughter, Cathy. I will never forget you.”
Why does that make my throat close and send tears burning to my eyes. I so hope she is right.
Having her live separate from me is perhaps a tool to help me to begin to sever the earthly ties that bind us so when God does take her home I will be able to cope with losing Mom. And perhaps last year’s gout episode that kept her in a wheelchair for most of 2010 was God’s way of preventing me bring her home too much when I need to be preparing for the life changes ahead. And to not use Mom as a way to ignore the decisions in my own life that need attention. And to take time to breathe and just be, to smell the roses. To enjoy my grown children and their children, and to pursue my own dreams that have always been pushed to the back burner and off of the stove.
“Do you remember me?”
“You are my daughter, Cathy. I will never forget you.”
When I sit down to post here, I am not sure what to write. Things are different. Our visits, Mom’s and mine, are never for more than an hour or two. She can’t follow conversation very well, and forgets we’ve spoken of things just a moment before so we speak the same things over and over and I try to answer differently each time, though I don’t know why because she won’t remember any of the variety of answers. And when I leave, she will not remember that I have been there. She will tell the staff that her daughter hasn’t been there to see her in a long time. I began to look for things to take with me for us to do together. Like jigsaw puzzles. The 750-piece puzzles are too much for her. The 300-piece puzzles also are difficult for her, but she does manage to find homes for some of the pieces. I think we’ll try a smaller number of pieces.
She doesn’t crochet as much as she used to. I asked her why.
“I can’t find my hook.”
I found it in a bag of yarn, and gave it to her. She was delighted! But forgot about it quickly.
I met with the staff last week for her quarterly care meeting. She’s gained 40 pounds since she went there. But much of the weight gain probably is because she was unable to walk and spent most of her time in a wheelchair. They noted that she doesn’t crochet as she used to. I explained she can lose me sitting beside her. She needs help to “see” the hook and yarn so she will do it. Just like she needs someone to guide her to the toothbrush and take care of her teeth. At Christmas dinner she had to go to the bathroom. I helped her to the sink. She was going to wash her hands with toothpaste.
Christmas dinner went so well that, after New Year’s, my daughters Christie and Beth and Beth’s daughter, Aubriana, and I, took Mom, aka Honey, to lunch. That went well, too. I can manage the walker, but the wheelchair was too big to fit into my car and I couldn’t manage it at all because of its size. They told me the wheelchair has been taken away because she doesn’t need it any more. Wonderful news! Now I can take her to lunch or bring her to my house to spend the day and visit here with family and eat supper with us before I take her back to her existence at the nursing home. I’m not sure I can call it ‘life’ there because I’m not convinced that anyone spends much time with her there. And I have asked that they do little things with her every day to help keep her brain functioning for as long as we can.
I had a terrible battle with guilt about putting Mom in a nursing home. I was told it would be better so I wouldn’t have to take care of her around the clock. Caregivers often are NOT taken care of. That I would be able to get my rest, too, and our visits would be better.
I often hear people say, “Things happen for a reason.” I believe it’s true.
One day Mom said to me, “I wonder if we’re too close.” She was sincerely concerned and troubled by that thought.
“What do you mean?”
“If something happens to me, it’s going to hurt you very deeply because we are so close.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about that?” I suggested. “We’ll make memories that will get me through the times I will have to face later. I’ll take the memories.”
That was a long-ago conversation. Years ago. Of course, I thought we were referring to her death…the death of the body. And sometimes now I think death of her body would be better, easier, than the slow progression of the theft of her mind by Alzheimer’s, that subtle thief that steals her memories from her and mockingly steals our mother and grandmother from us in its own sweet time.
When I walk in the door, her eyes light up with recognition and her smile spreads all over her, all over me, all over the room like warm sunshine.
“You know me?”
“You’re my daughter, Cathy. I will never forget you.”
Why does that make my throat close and send tears burning to my eyes. I so hope she is right.
Having her live separate from me is perhaps a tool to help me to begin to sever the earthly ties that bind us so when God does take her home I will be able to cope with losing Mom. And perhaps last year’s gout episode that kept her in a wheelchair for most of 2010 was God’s way of preventing me bring her home too much when I need to be preparing for the life changes ahead. And to not use Mom as a way to ignore the decisions in my own life that need attention. And to take time to breathe and just be, to smell the roses. To enjoy my grown children and their children, and to pursue my own dreams that have always been pushed to the back burner and off of the stove.
“Do you remember me?”
“You are my daughter, Cathy. I will never forget you.”
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