Wednesday, December 24, 2014 

Last night, I sent emails to my cousins, reminding them about mom’s birthday and urging them to give her a call. They did. All of them. It was a wonderful barrage of calls. Unfortunately, mom didn’t remember one of them. I could see by the caller ID who had called and I reminded mom. She looked perplexed—and I know it’s not good to challenge her—so I let it go. She was dressed and had insisted earlier to Rob that her son was coming to take her out. When I returned home from market, I reminded her that John had been here on Monday. I should have said that we had had lunch with John on Monday. Her response was to cry because she thought she had missed seeing him. Well, in a sense she did miss him. We had lunch together, but she has no memory of it. I called him and she told him how much she missed him.

This was an early day for all of us. I awoke at 3:33 and then at 5:30. Mom needed help and was rummaging through the bathroom looking for a change of “panties,” as she calls them. There we were again: Mom, me, Rob, and Valentino. I chastised Rob; told him to go back to bed. We don’t need two people to find a pair of Depends. Before I left for market, I gave mom a quick shower so that she would spend at least part of the day fresh.

This evening, I spoke with cousins Carol and Jeri, two of the birthday callers. Was nice to hear their voices and catch up a bit. Then off to church, where we had a lovely candlelight vigil, with the master of lights. Our pastor is our neighbor and his house is highly illuminated. Such fun! This year, I limited my decorating to the back porch, where the tree is. It’s easier to clear it all out then, too. Mom has not seen the tree yet and probably doesn’t even know it’s Christmas.

The other day, she received a lovely package from Seniors Helping Seniors. Some smart items. These people know what older folks like to munch on. Instead of being happy about the gift, mom fretted for hours.

We need to go to the bank. I have to buy them a gift.

No, mom. You don’t. This was just a nice Christmas basket. They don’t expect a gift in return.

Oh. Well, when can we go to the bank later?

We don’t need to go to the bank. I have loads of money right here.

But I need to buy them something. What should I buy them? Will you buy them something?

Yes, I will buy them something.

You need money. I’ll go to the bank and get you money.

OK, mom. You can go to the bank and get me money. Tomorrow 

Of course, moments later, she started anew. It just doesn’t end. I promised I would take her to the bank in the morning. And of course, in the morning, she forgot about it entirely. Her faulty memory is one thing you can bank on.

And today, she is 98 years old. But mom does not remember a thing.

Do you know how old you are, Mom?

92?

Nope. A little older.

You’re kidding me.

No, you’re 98 years old.

Oh my God.

And you’re still pretty.

70?

No, 98.

Oh my God.

There you have it. The answer to every woman’s vanity. Aging actually makes you think you’re younger!

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

I have repaired to my office to drink a fine port and eat some walnuts. I [you] deserve a break today, as the saying goes, but a McDonald’s hamburger would never do. Here’s the story: Mom and I went to the chiropractor—hardly a bonding experience. So after I had run several errands, I took mom to lunch. We ate at “Say Cheese,” a wonderful little place in West Reading. And here was our delightful conversation:

I like this place. It’s very nice.

You were here several times before with John and Marcy and me.

Oh, yes, I remember now. [Don’t bet on it]

Is this Pennsylvania?

Yes.

Where did I live before?

You tell me.

Newark?

Nope. You never lived in Newark.

Oh tell me where I lived.

Well, you lived someplace all your life.

Oh yeah. Does Rob work?

No

Oh, I thought he worked.

No

What does he do all day?

He waits on you and rakes leaves and runs errands.

Oh

Where do I live now?

In Reading. Do you know whose house you live in?

Let me see. Sandy’s house?

I am Sandy. Do you live in my house?

[Shrugs her shoulders]

We eat, then talk some more.

Are we in Pennsylvania?

Yes

Do you like it here?
Yes

How long have you lived here?
Nine years

Nine years? That’s a long time. Where’s Rob?

At home

Does Rob work?
No. He takes care of you.

Oh

Do you like it here?
No

Oooooh!

Of course I like it here. I keep telling you that.

I know. What’s this for [pointing to catsup on the table]

That’s catsup for your hamburger.

I’ve never had that before.

Yes you have.

Well, maybe a long time ago. Is this Pottstown?

No

I like Pottstown. Do you?
No

No? Oooooh!

You have never seen Pottstown.

Oh yes I have.

No you haven’t. You have only been to Cheryl’s house.

Does she live in Pottstown?

Yes

Oh. I like Pottstown. It’s very clean.

Do you remember her house?

I am sure I would if I saw it. 

Where’s my furniture?
It’s in storage.

What about the piano?

It’s also in storage.

Oh. That’s terrible. Does Rob work? 

This went on an on through her one-third of a cheeseburger and two cups of chai. She asked me several times about how long I have lived in Pennsylvania, whether I like it here, whether this is Pennsylvania, whether Rob works, and where her furniture is. 

If any of the above sounds as though it made sense or followed a stream of thought, then I have recorded this inaccurately. Mom’s thoughts just wandered all over the place as things came to mind—like Newark. She never did remember that she had lived nearly all her adult life in Bayonne. But places like Newark apparently occupy one of those little memory boxes stacked in her mind.

On the way home, I blasted the King’s College Choir singing the Kyrie Eleison to drown out mom’s smacking lips. Not exactly a boombox special. Oh well, back to my port and walnuts!

Monday, December 8, 2014 

Valentino was the first to be awakened. He let out a moo, instead of a bark. Must have been in a deep sleep. Mom was busy yelling for me. Rob responded. I responded. And Valentino responded. The three of us stood at her bedside, while she complained about finding “Sandy.”

I’m Sandy, mom. What do you want?

Where is Sandy? She said she would be here?

Well, I’m here now and it’s 4:00 am. What do you want? Are you OK?

Where is she?

Mom, it is 4:00 in the morning. You woke all three of us. Now go back to sleep and let us sleep. 

What a strange moment it was. The three of us, standing there in a stupor. And the three of us remained in a stupor most of the day. At least I did. I had to take my car into the shop, run to the bank, pick up the lamp from Kevin the repair man, go to Bed, Bath & Beyond for drawer dividers, drop off my check with the accountant (and beg for mercy), drop off the plates for Becky and Brian with Mark, buy pretzels for the my clients, and send them to Tokyo. I received two jobs today from a client and worked as hard as I could, considering the cloud in my brain from lack of sleep. At least these are preliminary drafts.

I warned my mother to stay awake and not go to bed too early. I explained that I cannot afford another sleepless night, nor could Rob, nor could faithful Valentino.

We have cleaned the bathroom numerous times today. It’s doubly exhausting when you have had little to no rest. I am actually delighted that we are expecting a storm tomorrow—just ice, no snow. But it will mean that I can stay home and get work done here. No traveling. I am slated to be in Pottstown at the hospital in the morning, but I shall not venture out if the roads are icy. Not worth it. And tomorrow night, I will have to give my regrets to my client. No dinner discussion. Too dangerous. On Wednesday, I was supposed to visit with Anne. Was looking forward to it, but it’s a 2-hour drive, and we have already canceled owing to the miserable forecast. I am relieved to be spared the drive, but sorry not to see Anne. Nonetheless, we will reschedule and I can recover from last night.

Mom asks as usual—nearly all through the day—Where’s Rob? I haven’t seen him all day. After a while, I no longer make excuses. I no longer try to explain. I just tell her that he made her breakfast. He served her coffee. He gave her cookies. He made her bed. She doesn’t remember.

When she asks why the towel is missing as I hand her a paper towel, I no longer hide the truth: It was covered with poop. It’s soaking and will go into a special wash. I no longer coat the truth. She won’t remember anyhow.

When she asks if I will sleep with her—as she does every single night, several times a night—I tell her emphatically No! You sleep in your bed, and I sleep in mine. There is only room for one person in your bed. And I need to sleep upstairs. When she responds, You don’t like me do you? I say, You live in my house. I buy you clothing. I feed you. I do your laundry. I keep your bedding and clothing and body clean. I cut your hair. I take you to the foot doctor, the GP, and the chiropractor. How can you say that I don’t like you! 

I just found mom in bed again. This might sound cruel, but I told her to get out of bed now! It’s 6:30 in the evening. She rests all day and is awake at night. There is no way in you-know-what that I am going to spend another sleepless night!

Can you tell that I am exhausted?

Oh wait, yet another trip to the potty. Another turn at cleaning mom and the bathroom and yet another turn to say, Get out of bed now! It’s too early. I want to sleep tonight! I cannot tolerate another foggy day!

Tuesday, December 2, 2014 

I am almost ready for Christmas. All of the decorations are on the porch, which I cleaned and readied just 2 days ago. Was thinking of switching on the gas fireplace and bringing mom out to the porch to watch me decorate the tree. But she is still my mother. I can hear her now: Put another red one there. Move that one. Yeah. That looks better. But then, why not give her the chance to “organize” something “on her own.” This is all presupposing I can actually get her out onto the porch. There will be a mixture of sleet and snow and rain today; so who knows how comfortable the porch will be, even with a robe and a blanket. I can manage it, but I know my mother won’t.

She has been getting up early each morning when I am about to walk Valentino or about to go to church. I avoid putting on lights, and I try to move about quietly. But sometimes Valentino barks impatiently. Can it be that she hears or has she become acclimated to our going out at that time? Mom calls constantly once she is awake: Sandy! Sandy! Often it’s only to hear the time. I have thought of putting a digital clock in her room, but that is sure to frighten her. At times, even the light on the television becomes terrifying. By now, however, “the man in the tree” outside her window is not a bother. Did you see him? He’s been up there all night! Sometimes I humor her. Other times, I am short with her: There is no man. There never was a man in the tree. Think about it mom! How can a man stand in a tree all night long? Well, maybe she was a survivalist in a former life. But even as I say the words, I know how preposterous I sound. Think about it? How can she think? That faculty is long gone. Thinking occurs on some level, but her brain is no longer fully functioning. She is a child becoming an infant. And there is where I have the greatest difficulty.

 

Tuesday, November 25, 2014 

You know how wireless phones are: they have many buttons. Why, when I visit another person’s house and am required to answer the phone for them, I sometimes have to search for the TALK button or the SPEAK button or the ON button. At home here, Mom often asks who is calling and why the light is blinking. I explain each time that the blinking light indicates that I have a message. This information doesn’t stick, of course, and she asks again and again and again. Her hearing is so impaired, she usually cannot even hear the phone ring.

But yesterday, mom not only heard the phone ring, she actually answered it. “Aunt” Betty was calling. Betty was as surprised as anyone that mom had answered. When mom asked who was calling, Betty explained it was she. So mom invited her over and told her she was very lonely. I was out shopping and Rob was in the yard raking leaves. He came in every 30 minutes to offer her juice or water, to help prevent dehydration. But we did not keep her constant company. How mom answered the phone is a mystery to us. Today, she looks at the instrument and does not hear it, does not know what the red blinking light means, and can only take the phone when I hand it to her to speak with her son. He’s the only person she knows over the phone. Mom doesn’t even know Ann, who lived with her for more than 2 years and who fed her and bathed her and dressed her. Yet, yesterday, mom called me Ann. There are residual memories locked deep within her brain somewhere. I am not sure if one can be happy when these memories surface; they must be so fleeting as to be foreign, or present as pictures of another lifetime, or perhaps someone else’s lifetime.

But there you are: on one minute and off the next—able to answer a phone, not able to hear the phone at all.