Thursday, January 7, 2016
I work out of my home. My office is next to my mother’s room, the erstwhile dining room. The only remaining vestige of a dining room is the chandelier, now hoisted as high up as possible, and some oil paintings. Mom sits in there most of the day on her rocking chair, watching television. Sometimes she sings—the same songs over and over and over again, even while watching the game shows. She knows only the first lines and usually hums the rest. I have tried printing out the correct lyrics in large print, but she ignores them and merely laughs and offers her usual response, “Oh yeah.”
Someone once cheerily suggested that I enjoy this time together with mom and sing along to experience the joy of it all and deepen our relationship. As mom’s musically active times vary through the day and night and often coincide with my work time, singing along is rarely an option. And I, for one, am loathe to sing along in the middle of the night when what I seek instead is a decent night’s sleep. I sometimes play the piano for mom, who talks through it. And I play CDs, but mom neither listens nor enjoys them, but sings her own songs. She is truly a woman who sings and dances to her own tune.
For the nonce, I have my CD player turned up so that I can better hear Wolfgang Holzmair sing Beethoven folk songs and nothing else. Sanity dictates such measures.
thecaregiversdiary 
A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Mom marches to the beat of her own drum, anyway. Hurrah for all the musicians of the world! Sing your own songs just as she does…just as long as the two of you are still singing is all that matters!
Thinking of you, Sandy, and sending love!
Martha, you missed my point entirely. Surely singing can be joyous and lighthearted. I am also certain that someday I will miss hearing my mother sing; however, having her sing while I am working or trying to sleep is quite another thing. Do you not see that an inappropriate activity or an unwanted noise can lead to another’s frustration? I am still the wage earner here.
And if you meant that my mother and I should raise our voices in glorious song figuratively, I know I need not remind you that caregiving is not, on the whole, a joyous activity: Seeing one’s mother descend into the pit of dementia is a horror. Did you miss the part where I had to administer anti-anxiety meds for the first time? Administering such meds goes against my grain very seriously. As of this writing, mom has had two small doses of Ativan–both quite necessary. Her need for anti-anxiety meds marks still a greater decline. It is difficult to sing while you are mourning the loss of your mother in bits and pieces.
When this is all over, I will certainly remember happy times, and they will almost all be long before my mother was destroyed by the demon, Dementia.