Monday, February 6, 2017

Mom has been in rare form since yesterday when she saw “a man” in her room. While “he” was in the room, I heard her say, “Cheryl. Cheryl is her name.” Then she called me and asked if Cheryl was the name of my friend. I told her that it was. Later, we agreed that Cheryl’s dad, who has just passed, was visiting mom, as he knew that she, living between two worlds, could see him. He might have mentioned that Cheryl was my friend. It was a way to confirm that it was he who was visiting.

Today, more of the same in a different vein. At the moment, mom is screaming endlessly for me. She is worried that “Sandy is alone!” Unfortunately, I cannot convince her that I am Sandy. It’s funny and maddening at the same time. I am trying to work in my office above her constant, loud, and sometimes shrill calls for “Sandy.” When I tell her that I am Sandy, she will not believe it. She is now shouting, “I need to pick up my kid. You can’t do that. I never leave her alone.”

I know it must be painful to be locked in her world, fearing the worst or whatever is going on in her head. She thinks I am lying about being Sandy. She really has no idea who I am. But she did say, “They should be grateful they have blankets and shoes and socks.” Indeed, we are grateful. And this is something I say in thanks every night: “Thank you for the pillow under my head, my blankets, my warm clothing…” I know there are no guarantees in this life. And for mom, there are precious few in her mind.

Mom is now shouting endlessly for Rob, having given up on me and my insistence that I am Sandy. We are reluctant to give her Ativan, as she falls and becomes unstable when given such meds. What to do? What to do?

I am so sorry for my mother. I am sorry for her anxiety, and yet I know it’s all a part of dementia. What a hell this is—for her and us! There are no answers, no solutions. Mom is calling me/Sandy constantly, without stop, without stop.