WWF

Checked in on mom last night and there she was, watching wrestling on a tv much bigger than mine. There were others in the tv arena, all more or less watching the box as well. I wonder what people with dementia think about wrestling. It's such a bizarre 'sport', sort of beyond explanation. The outfits, the announcers, the prancing about and posturing. And, of course, I couldn't get a straight answer out of Mosey about her feelings toward WWF or anything else, for that matter. She was a bit dreamy last night.

I do remember watching wrestling on tv as a kid and she would shame me into turning it off, saying there are better things to do than watch 'crap on tv'. So I imagined that her former self thanked me last night when I guided her away from wrestling and into her quiet little room. I kissed her good night, said I was going to take the trash out and that I'd be right back. She asked why I was taking my purse out to the trash and, since I didn't have a good answer, I laughed and said I didn't know. She seemed to think that was a good enough answer so she let me go without another question. Sleep tight, Mosey.

Side Effects

A recent visit with Henry in tow proved to be predictably nuts.  First, there was the dearth of candy in mom's designated snack tin.  It's the first thing Henry puts his tractor beam on when we get to her room.  So H and I prepare to go on safari to the Walker Gift Shop to stock up on sweet supplies.  We leave mom tucked away doing an incredibly slow moving activity with her fellow friends in dementia.  I wave at her across the room, she gives me a broad smile of recognition, then she gets distracted by some other sensory input and tunnels back into the immediacy that is dementia.

We buy the goods after many dramatic efforts from Henry to get me to buy some crappy toy or other.  We careen back to the unit, eating candy along the way with only a couple side trips: one to the bingo corral and one where Henry spreads eagle on the carpeted hallway just to feel the power of stopping the slow moving foot traffic.  

Bingo is a hard thing to explain to a four year old.  He watched and kept asking what all the old people were doing.  

"B-29"  

"It's a game", I say.

"G-10"

"Why?"

"Some people think it's fun", I try again.

"O-31"

"What are they doing?"

I start walking away, out of answers.  Remarkably, he follows and holds my hand and I shower him with praise for doing so.  

Back in the unit and waiting for lunch.  Mom is planted at the table with her friends and we take a seat.  One of her table mates is a lovely woman, the northern Minnesota version of my mother.  Pleasant, pithy and quick to smile.  She's pretty lucid too which is a rare commodity on the dementia unit.  Mom is pretty quiet in groups now so talking with her is tough at the lunch table.  I bring out some magazines for the ladies to peruse before mealtime and to get them to engage a little.  It's something to talk about when topics are hard to come by.  Mom is happy enough to track on Henry so I ask her table mate, M, if she likes to cook.  M looks at me, her eyes sparkle and she lands this beautiful morsel:

"It irks me that I have so many side effects from the stroke and none of them prevent me from cooking."

I laugh and laugh.  Henry laughs and so does mom though I don't think either of them heard or understood M's witty remark.  But we laugh together anyway and we carry on.

 

Vulnerable Adults

My mom was born on the summer solstice 87 years ago.  

After searching the unit for her I call my sister thinking she's got her out in the world for her birthday.  Indeed, they've been out all day, to church, out for a walk and finally over at her apartment.   My sister's been cooking and my mom's been sitting and snacking and obsessing over piles of paper strewn about the floor.  Mom still likes order even in her scrambled state. 

So I go and mom is there looking out the window and she sees me and my now visible baby bump, smiles and says my name.  And she tells me I'm pregnant and she touches my belly and I tell her it's a boy and we'll call him Joe, named after her.  

My mom has a plate of cubed beets that she's been slowly working on and I settle in near her.  I eat a few beets from her plate and the sisters talk.  Slowly, mom meticulously stabs three cubes on a fork and holds the plate to me.  At first I refuse then I see her look of determination so I thank her and eat the beets.  Another few minutes and mom has loaded up the fork again, holding the plate and admonishing me.  I eat three more beets and smile at the birthday girl, glad that I'm pregnant so she could enjoy my belly too.  She looks at it a lot and puts her gentle old hand on it, slowly moving it around waiting for an elusive kick or nudge that doesn't come.  I think that Baby Joe sits a little more still in her presence, getting his first lessons in patience and compassion from the master herself.  

Then it's time to go, mom ambles down the dark hallway, inches her way down a flight of steps and the two of us settle on a bench outside to wait for my sister to get her car from the garage. And it starts to rain hard and fast and straight down and we look at each other and smile pitiful smiles.  She lifts her jacket up a bit in a symbolic gesture, looking at me and motioning me to duck in out of the rain.  The shelter she's created with her jacket is enough to protect maybe a small child, not me.  So I dash to my car and retrieve a blanket and as I trot back I see her silhouette hunched and patient in the rain and I feel incredibly sad that I can't really protect her from this.  I throw the blanket over our heads and she says that's nice.  Another couple minutes and her chariot has arrived.  Mom inches down another set of steps in the rain, she's in the car and they're off.  I drive home in the downpour, worrying that she'll get pneumonia again.  I arrive home to a child unwilling to let his parents have a conversation about the day's events and the inevitable sadness that comes when I see mom so vulnerable. 

And I realize that I'm a vulnerable adult, too, magnified by the surging hormones.  I'm more sensitive and raw these days and I consider it a byproduct of the pregnancy.  My child throws a toy, a rock, a truck at me.  K and I systematically take toys away from him for his behavior and he screams, settles down and throws another object at me.  K removes him for a couple time-outs, more toy removal, more tantrums and yet we, the parents, hold it together for an hour or so, trying to stay patient, knowing that he's four and selfish and is just trying to control his universe.  A common trait for humans.  I finally just start to cook dinner, never really finishing our conversation.  Then I get very hungry, lay on the couch and start to cry.  Dinner is nowhere near completion.  The boys go out to get me a slice of cheese pizza while I sit in a quiet house and wonder when mom will get sick again, when my boy will learn compassion, whether Baby Joe will get to meet his namesake.

Hello, Mom. You seem so small and far away.

Off the oxygen and forgetting how to walk.  I'm now unable to toilet mom when Henry's around because she's too wobbly and he's too unpredictable.   I started getting her up out of her comfy chair on our last visit and H darted to the door, starting to go out into the zombie-filled unit.  I actually raised my voice to him saying, "Close the door, Henry, right now" and locked my 'mean mommy' eyes on him for emphasis.  He shut the door and waited.  Once H was no longer a flight risk I focused on coaching mom to stand.  She needs a lot of help now.  I count to three, my forearm under her armpit and I lift and she struggles.  First one hand on the walker then I coach her into putting her other hand on the walker.  This can take some time.  She seems nervous about moving so her motions are slow and unsteady.  I can see her hand gripping the chair arm, waiting for direction from an unreliable brain.  After her hands are on the walker grips then I tell her to stand up straight and strong.  I ask her how her legs feel and if she feels confident enough to move and once she says yes, we start our journey around the bed, past the bathroom and out her door.  By the time we are twenty paces down the way, with frequent stops and gentle reminders about putting one foot in front of the other, she is winded and weary.  I get her settled into a chair between her friends and she looks at me like she just climbed a mountain.  I get real close to her, look her in the eyes and ask her how she feels. Mom starts searching for words in that look I've learned to recognize so I ask, "Do you feel pain or do you feel weak?"  She looks right back at me and says quietly, "I feel weak."  I pat her leg and hold her hand and say I'm sorry.  Another couple moments of silence and I tell her that Henry and I have to go now and we'll be back soon.  We drift away, Henry running ahead and me lagging behind, looking back and waving good bye.  Mom waves back and smiles and so do I.

Oops! I nearly killed my mother.

My mom nearly choked to death last week on a teaspoon of water that I gave her through a bendy straw and a tiny plastic cup.  Of course, Henry was there blithely playing with his cache of toys that the staff gives to him every time he visits.  And there I was giving mom a sip of water that she asked for.  She was in bed and upright and slowly sipped and swallowed her first drink of water.  The next drink and her mouth opened in that horrifying way, her tongue out and her face turning beet red.  I struggled to get her sitting even more upright, hit the emergency call button and ran out the door looking for a nurse.  One was right there, I told her what was happening and she sprinted in and I started crying and Henry kept playing.  We thumped on her back, she was beginning to turn ashen and blue, then she took a breath.  The fear and panic left her face within a minute, she had already forgotten  what happened.  She settled back down and Henry commented, "Grandma was choking" without too much concern.  A couple nurses were milling around the room, everyone was trying to remain calm and I just cried as I looked at my mom and held her hand.  When she noticed that I was crying she looked at me like every mother looks at their grieving child, with worry and concern and she leaned in a little to provide some comfort. Which, of course, made me cry some more at the irony of it all.