Wednesday, February 18, 2015 

Mom arose early today. She’s up and our day has begun. A quick trip to the bathroom, and I tried to remove a wad of soiled toilet paper from her diaper, which she too quickly grabbed.

Mom, don’t touch that!

It’s clean. There’s nothing on it. I showed her the mess.

Oh.

Thus began the morning. The mess, the smell. It’s another glorious day of wiping and washing, laundry, and prayer. Oh Lord, why am I such a mess? Why can’t I be more pleasant to this woman? You know how I feel about a dirty home, and now this!

At the kitchen table, mom started her clocking. She reads the clock nearly continuously.

It’s only 8 o’clock.

Yes, mom.

Oh migod, it’s only 8:01.

Yes, mom.

Mom turns toward her word search puzzle. Sandy, see if you can find this word.

No, mom. You usually find the words.

I didn’t do this book. Someone else did. Look! 

This reaction brings me back to the wonderful Maggie Smith film, “My House in Umbria.” A lovely child lost her memory after a “timed device” exploded on the train she and her parents were taking to Milan. She lost her parents and any memory of the incident. Later when Chris Cooper (her distant uncle) came to claim her from Mrs. Delahunty’s (Maggie Smith) home in Umbria, he remarked that her drawings were quite wonderful. When the child denied having done them, another one of the train’s survivors (Werner) also living there said that he had done them. The uncle then speaks with the child’s doctor who later explained that Werner took responsibility for the drawings “out of kindness. If the child didn’t know she did them, then it would be sort of worrying to her.” I often think of this scene. Mother has not clue that she has done the word search puzzles. Yet every day, I tell her that she did them. She doesn’t worry. She doesn’t even remember from one minute to the next what I just said. I often wonder if I am going to spend the rest of my life regretting that I could not be kinder to her. The day is filled with her needs; demands for her sweater, water, tissues, something to eat, something to drink, to change the channel; to cover her.

She is a woman with a mother and a needy child inside: Where are your shoes? You need a coat! Wear your hat! Where are you going? When will you be back? What are you doing? Where are you? Why is that dog barking? Where is the white dog? Who’s at the door? Is the phone ringing? Who was on the phone? What did they want? What did my husband die of? Did my husband die? Is Rob your father? Who is Rob? Is Rose still alive? Where does she live? Why isn’t she here? Where is Sandy? Where did she go? Where is Rob? Is he still sleeping? What time did you get up? What time did Rob get up?

And each answered question is followed by her Oh! 

Right now, she is fugue-ing. Unfortunately, I told her that we were going to the podiatrist today. While Rob assures her that we have four hours before we have to leave, she will endlessly ask: Where did she go? I have to go! I have to get dressed. Where is she? I have to get ready.

You don’t have to go for four hours, says Rob in an attempt to soothe.

Oh. But where is she, I have to get dressed. 

I should not have said a word. A caregiver friend remarked how the cared-for live a 24-hour day, while the caregiver trudges through a 36-hour day. It’s endless. Nancy knows this, too. Every day, the routine lengthens. What took 20 minutes the day before seems to take 40 minutes some days. And when you hit a good day, you become lulled into thinking that you can handle it. Then for some reason, she calls endlessly through the night and all during the day. You wish there were some way to stop it. You wish that one day you did not have to wipe feces from the lightswitch plates and the woodwork and her cane and her clothing and the table or wherever she has been. You wish that you had never said a word about going out, because she will not call you every 30 seconds—yes, every 30 seconds or maybe 15 seconds, or if you’re lucky, every minute—to determine where you are going, why you are going, when you are going, what she should wear and to hurry, hurry, hurry.

My office door is closed, but I can hear her questions. And what’s worse, Valentino is not in here with me. I need my pup. I want him to be close to me, and I don’t want him to feel shut out. I’ll go look for him. Frankly, I would much rather be with Valentino than with my own mother. And I don’t feel a bit guilty about that at all.