Thursday, April 16, 2014 

Last night, my neighbor Barbara and I went to a discussion about Alzheimer’s and dementia over at Rittenhouse, a local nursing facility. I wasn’t sure I would learn anything new, but I was wrong. Nothing new about the disorders themselves, but I did learn a bit about how to handle mom. I had intended to take her with me to Cheryl’s for Easter. How great to celebrate the holidays together, but when I heard the other women talk about that time when their parent wants to “go home,” I was taken aback. Mom was always nervous about getting home before dark, hurrying to be home. Apparently now it has more to do with the dementia and not feeling comfortable in their surroundings and seeking to back back to where they are more familiar. Rob protested, saying that she likes to see baby Lucas, Steve, and Jamie. But I told him that her efforts to make conversation are ways of hiding her confusion. She really doesn’t know them, nor does she remember ever being at Cheryl’s house (Were you ever here before? Rarely does she ask if she had ever been here before. This is a way to mask confusion. Somewhere in there might lurk the memory or a memory, but ever so unclear.)

So I am making plans for someone to come here and sit with mom while we have Easter dinner. Of course I will feel guilty, but my own feelings do not reflect where my mother is. And that’s the key to dealing with demented patients—trying to understand where they are, not where you think they are. 

Betty and I walked the pups this morning as usual at 7:00 am. When I returned, mom was watching television. This is highly uncharacteristic. She usually sleeps until around 9:30 or 10:00. Beside that, she was able to turn the television on despite the myriad buttons and choice of two remotes. I was momentarily heartened, until she spoke:

Whose house is this?
It’s my house, mom. But it’s your now, too.
Oh, I thought it was Margie’s house. (This is mom, masking her ignorance.) How long have I lived here?
Nearly a year, mom. You came last June. You were here through the summer, the fall, and the long, cold winter.
Oh no, I wasn’t here that long. Where’s my house? Has it been sold?
Yes, mom (my heart sinks—I try not to cry). It was sold.
Oh. I didn’t think I lived here that long. (I touch her face.) Oh your hands are so cold.
I was outside walking the pups and it’s cold out there.
Go put your hands under hot water. Go ahead. Hurry now.
OK mom.

She’s still my mom! 

She’s still my mother from time to time. But I am not sure she knows I am her daughter, even though I remind her diligently. I want so much for her to know me. I want so much to avoid that moment when she doesn’t know me at all. I am not sure I could bear it. I listened to others talk about it last night, but it was terribly hard and also terribly foreign. I think mom still knows me, but she does refer to my father as “her husband” and my brother as “her son.” Sometimes I think that works me out of the equation. Sometimes. But I still hope, while I have a little hope. 

Have a new job. Just came in last night. Huge and it’s due on Tuesday EOD. On top of that, I have two short articles to edit for Linda. Doing those first. Mom keeps calling me. She wanted to tell me that Rob is good to her. I need to go in and see her. She’s still lying in bed, but she needs to tell me things. I must listen. Mom needs company. She asks what I am doing. I tell her I am working. She tells me to go back to work. Oh, OK, you go ahead. She’s disappointed that I cannot stay and chat with her about how Rob does the dishes or about how quiet the dogs were this morning. (The heck they were! Today is garbage day again!) 

Back to editing. I can’t find my sweater. So cold in this office. Below freezing during our walk. But I cannot take the time to look for it and chance letting the pups out of my office, so I put on my parka. At least they are quiet and I am a bit more comfortable.