It's Friday morning and it's been a long week. Thinking that things can't get much worse, I jump out of bed and head downstairs. I do my usual morning routine for mother, say my goodbyes and prepare to leave. I can hear the chatter of my daughter and her children as they enter "Nana's house." My oldest daughter Blythe, does the honors of sitting with mother while I'm at work half a day. In return, I drop off her girls at school on my way out.
As I exit mother's room, I turn off the kitchen light. A hush comes over her apartment. Everything goes still. The television is blank, the lights are out. What have I done? I grab my phone and call my husband frantically, knowing I have less than 20 minutes to drop the girls off at school and get to work. No answer. I finally reach him several hours later, assuring me that it's something minor and not to worry.
Thinking the day will only get better, I do my duties at work, stop by the grocery store and head home. Mother's previous home is on my way, so I stop by to feed her faithful friend (dog) Annie. Turning into the drive, I stop and check her mailbox. I had been doing a lot of "self talk" on my way home and had just about convinced myself that possibly GOD isn't watching out for me like I thought HE should be.
Heading on up the driveway, I pull up to the house and notice Annie sitting in front of the garage, licking her leg. Fearful that something is wrong, I cram the car into park and jump out. Leaving behind, my keys, pocketbook and cell phone, not to mention a backseat full of groceries, including ice cream and butter. I quickly do a back step, with my hand over my eyes. Knowing that my car only sports one set of keys to it's name, I fear for the worse. As I peep inside, my fears are founded. The doors are locked. Here I am, a mile off the beaten path, wearing dress pumps and nursing a right knee from weedeating days prior, did not make my heart jump for joy. What to do. There was one last hope; my car happens to be equipped with an electronic key pad, however, it has been ages since it has worked properly. Knowing that I wasn't exactly batting a 1000 today, I figured "par for the course" would be my slogan. Just as I thought, it wouldn't budge the locks. With nothing else to do, like a captain leaving his ship, I take out walking. That had to have been the longest mile I have ever endured. With thoughts of hitchhiking if the neighbors were gone, I knocked on the door, luckily, they were there. What a Good Samaritan Ms. Brenda was for taking me home.
Entering the house, I see that my daughter still had mother out on an errand. This gave me a moment to call my husband and give him some more bad news of his wife's calamities, again. "Triple A" was called, and daughter Blythe arrived home with mother. Knowing that it should be time for her to use the facilities. I instruct mother to the bathroom and say goodbye to Blythe. I glance to the right and see my 83 year old mother getting ready to sit down about a foot short of the commode. Screaming out "MOTHER!" I sprint to rescue her, tossing both of us out into the shower below. Knowing that mother could be hurt, I jump up, rush to see if Blythe had pulled away yet and with my first luck of the day, see her just getting into her car. We hurry back in, and pull mother to safety. With no more than a bruise, she is fine.
The day finally comes to an end, with butter and ice cream a mere mushy mess. I remember the doubts I had earlier of GOD's faithful presence. My prayer has always been and will always be through this crazy "up and down" journey with my mother, is that I can serve HIM while serving her.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Scream V
It's the month of October when all kinds of spookiness is out and about. Trick or Treat'n for the kids, jack-o-lanterns on our front porches and eerie screams in the Edwards' household.
Time and time again, I have told you in my posts that I am a chicken of major proportions when it comes to scary things. Lately, I have screamed with high intensity more than I can ever remember in my life and my 83 year old mother is the culprit.
I am having trouble figuring out, just how can someone who creeps at a snails pace, make it into my body space within 5 seconds of my turning around without a rope being tied to my body and carrying her behind me.
I had just put mother down for a nap on her couch, when I decided I would hurry to the kitchen and prepare our supper. I had just made it in, bent down to grab a pan and felt the presence of someone. Knowing it couldn't possibly be mother, I slowly turned and low and behold there she stood with a "can I help you do something?" Dropping the pan to the floor, I let out a blood curdling scream that would wake anything, living or dead.
It was getting late in the evening and I decided to rush outside and do some needed weedeating. Since I would be just outside the window in mother's room, I told her to stay on the couch and watch me as I did the dreaded deed. As I made my way toward her window, I cast my eyes through the panes with hands to the glass. There before me were two big mother eyes, staring right back at me. Screaming so loud that everybody in the neighborhood could hear I nearly fell over backwards.
Entering mother's apartment early in the morning has taken on a new meaning lately. I jumped out of bed, ran down the stairs, gathered her pills in my kitchen and opened her door. Heading on in to open the blinds and do my usual routine before tapping gently on my sleeping mother's door, I paid no attention to my mother sitting quietly on her couch. As I raised my hand to knock, a voice called my name, "Jean, I'm here!" I turned to my right and there she sat with that all knowing grin. Once again, a blood curdling scream came out of my mouth with a jolt of adrenalin that would last me the rest of the day.
As I write this post, I have to say, it makes me smile to think that the one person who has chased away countless ghosts and goblins from a little girls nightmares, is the one thing that now makes her scream.
Time and time again, I have told you in my posts that I am a chicken of major proportions when it comes to scary things. Lately, I have screamed with high intensity more than I can ever remember in my life and my 83 year old mother is the culprit.
I am having trouble figuring out, just how can someone who creeps at a snails pace, make it into my body space within 5 seconds of my turning around without a rope being tied to my body and carrying her behind me.
I had just put mother down for a nap on her couch, when I decided I would hurry to the kitchen and prepare our supper. I had just made it in, bent down to grab a pan and felt the presence of someone. Knowing it couldn't possibly be mother, I slowly turned and low and behold there she stood with a "can I help you do something?" Dropping the pan to the floor, I let out a blood curdling scream that would wake anything, living or dead.
It was getting late in the evening and I decided to rush outside and do some needed weedeating. Since I would be just outside the window in mother's room, I told her to stay on the couch and watch me as I did the dreaded deed. As I made my way toward her window, I cast my eyes through the panes with hands to the glass. There before me were two big mother eyes, staring right back at me. Screaming so loud that everybody in the neighborhood could hear I nearly fell over backwards.
Entering mother's apartment early in the morning has taken on a new meaning lately. I jumped out of bed, ran down the stairs, gathered her pills in my kitchen and opened her door. Heading on in to open the blinds and do my usual routine before tapping gently on my sleeping mother's door, I paid no attention to my mother sitting quietly on her couch. As I raised my hand to knock, a voice called my name, "Jean, I'm here!" I turned to my right and there she sat with that all knowing grin. Once again, a blood curdling scream came out of my mouth with a jolt of adrenalin that would last me the rest of the day.
As I write this post, I have to say, it makes me smile to think that the one person who has chased away countless ghosts and goblins from a little girls nightmares, is the one thing that now makes her scream.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
"Once a Man, Twice a Child"
I must say, things have been a little more relaxed around the Edwards' household than in the past four months since mother has come to live with us. I still have my days, but for the most part, I am adjusting.
I am able to see mother's dementia in a different light now, not to say, I don't still have my moments, because I do.
Recently, my youngest daughter made a statement to me which I already knew but couldn't fully grasp, "Mother, Mema is a child again." On many occasions, this statement has played true. I recall the morning I had given her pills to her, leaving her to take them with a cup of water, while I busied around. Entering the room, I can see that her water cup was missing. Many mornings I had experienced this event; the missing water, just where had mother thrown it. The answer to this question could be, in the gas log fireplace, down an old churn which held dried flowers or out on the deck. All of these have occurred. This morning I ask, "mother, where did you put your water?" "O, I threw it out to the chickens" she replies. As I open the door to the deck, I glance to my right and see water splattered all over her bedroom. Apparently mother had been the owner of chickens in her pass life and an urge to feed them played out this morning.
It's a long awaited weekend away for my husband and I and mother will be staying with my sister Sue. We are taking her to their house which is an hour away. Mother seems perfectly content. After a quick nap, I notice that she seems unusually confused. "Where are we going Bobby?" she asks. We tell her over and over but nothing seems to answer her question. We arrive and enter the house, mother sits like a little child whom her parents have taken her to camp for a week and will soon be leaving. "Where are the people that live here at?" she inquires. "Will they care if I eat their food?" We answer her questions and try to assure her that she is at her daughter's house. Pointing out pictures of her grandchildren who we reminded her, grew up in this house. While we are away, my sister and husband tell of many inquiries from mother about Daddy and Normer, mother's stepmother, who had brought her there, in reality; my husband and I. Upon our return, mother seems fine. Heading back home, she asked if Daddy had us to come pick her up.
The role of mother and daughter has become reversed and it is not an easy task. This in itself is a mind bender. Giving your mother a set bedtime at night and enforcing it with her sassing you, arguments over time to take a bath, "eat your food," "put your shoes own before going outside," "remember to brush your teeth," "Wash your hands." I could go on and on.
In my darkest times I have asked the Lord, "Why have you handed me this cup?" "Mother and I had such a beautiful mother daughter relationship through the years, why didn't You just let her grow old and die and then I would be able to cherish the memories that we had made with fondest thoughts." Every time, my answer is the same; it is in HIS will. "Thank you God, for allowing me to have my mother, even as a child."
I am able to see mother's dementia in a different light now, not to say, I don't still have my moments, because I do.
Recently, my youngest daughter made a statement to me which I already knew but couldn't fully grasp, "Mother, Mema is a child again." On many occasions, this statement has played true. I recall the morning I had given her pills to her, leaving her to take them with a cup of water, while I busied around. Entering the room, I can see that her water cup was missing. Many mornings I had experienced this event; the missing water, just where had mother thrown it. The answer to this question could be, in the gas log fireplace, down an old churn which held dried flowers or out on the deck. All of these have occurred. This morning I ask, "mother, where did you put your water?" "O, I threw it out to the chickens" she replies. As I open the door to the deck, I glance to my right and see water splattered all over her bedroom. Apparently mother had been the owner of chickens in her pass life and an urge to feed them played out this morning.
It's a long awaited weekend away for my husband and I and mother will be staying with my sister Sue. We are taking her to their house which is an hour away. Mother seems perfectly content. After a quick nap, I notice that she seems unusually confused. "Where are we going Bobby?" she asks. We tell her over and over but nothing seems to answer her question. We arrive and enter the house, mother sits like a little child whom her parents have taken her to camp for a week and will soon be leaving. "Where are the people that live here at?" she inquires. "Will they care if I eat their food?" We answer her questions and try to assure her that she is at her daughter's house. Pointing out pictures of her grandchildren who we reminded her, grew up in this house. While we are away, my sister and husband tell of many inquiries from mother about Daddy and Normer, mother's stepmother, who had brought her there, in reality; my husband and I. Upon our return, mother seems fine. Heading back home, she asked if Daddy had us to come pick her up.
The role of mother and daughter has become reversed and it is not an easy task. This in itself is a mind bender. Giving your mother a set bedtime at night and enforcing it with her sassing you, arguments over time to take a bath, "eat your food," "put your shoes own before going outside," "remember to brush your teeth," "Wash your hands." I could go on and on.
In my darkest times I have asked the Lord, "Why have you handed me this cup?" "Mother and I had such a beautiful mother daughter relationship through the years, why didn't You just let her grow old and die and then I would be able to cherish the memories that we had made with fondest thoughts." Every time, my answer is the same; it is in HIS will. "Thank you God, for allowing me to have my mother, even as a child."
Saturday, August 27, 2011
"Packing Up"
It's been a while now since mother has come to live with me and my husband, leaving her home, three old cows and trusted canine friend "Annie" behind. Many tears have been shed over the fore mentioned, but sometimes, you must do what's best for those you love, regardless of the sadness that follows afterward.
Each morning before work, I head up mother's driveway only to see "Annie" frolicking through the yard on her way to greet me. Previous plans were made to bring Annie up to my house in a small fenced in back yard, allowing her to come in and visit with mother as often as possible. Reality sat in and as much as I wish it could have came to fruition, it just wasn't feasible. With mother in a small confined area and a dog of Annie's stature and energy, would soon make a fall for mother. Not to mention, the confined space Annie would have to endure, opposed to the spacious farm to which she was accustomed. I feed and water Annie and head on to work.
It's becoming time now for mother's house to be put on the market. Attempts have been made to clean out and dispose of the most personal items which mother and her late husband Yates held so dear. It seems uncomfortably eerie, sorting through and tossing out. As time goes by, it becomes unbearable for me to remove anything from the house. On one occasion, my husband and I had gone down in late evening, to try to sort through some items in the basement. I'm not sure what came over me, but I suddenly burst into tears and ran up the stairs ordering my husband Bob to take me home. Every item tells it's own story; from the curtains to the rugs, remembering the pride and joy that each of these "things" had meant to my mother when first purchased, breaks my heart. Who am I to dispose of these personal treasures as if they were yesterday's garbage.
Today, my family and I have finally completed the transition. New flooring, a fresh coat of paint inside and out and thorough cleaning has made mother's house suitable for a new family to move in.
I often ask mother what she remembers about her past home of some 20 years. Receiving a reply of "well you know, I lived over there in that house with your daddy on Skyuka road." I have mentioned in previous blogs that there are times when dementia can be your friend. This is one of them.
Glancing around at precious items in my own house. I'm aware that the day will come when my three children will be in the same shoes that I wear today, disposing of my belongings which I have held so dear in days gone by. Somehow, just knowing this to be true, makes it a little easier to say goodbye.
Each morning before work, I head up mother's driveway only to see "Annie" frolicking through the yard on her way to greet me. Previous plans were made to bring Annie up to my house in a small fenced in back yard, allowing her to come in and visit with mother as often as possible. Reality sat in and as much as I wish it could have came to fruition, it just wasn't feasible. With mother in a small confined area and a dog of Annie's stature and energy, would soon make a fall for mother. Not to mention, the confined space Annie would have to endure, opposed to the spacious farm to which she was accustomed. I feed and water Annie and head on to work.
It's becoming time now for mother's house to be put on the market. Attempts have been made to clean out and dispose of the most personal items which mother and her late husband Yates held so dear. It seems uncomfortably eerie, sorting through and tossing out. As time goes by, it becomes unbearable for me to remove anything from the house. On one occasion, my husband and I had gone down in late evening, to try to sort through some items in the basement. I'm not sure what came over me, but I suddenly burst into tears and ran up the stairs ordering my husband Bob to take me home. Every item tells it's own story; from the curtains to the rugs, remembering the pride and joy that each of these "things" had meant to my mother when first purchased, breaks my heart. Who am I to dispose of these personal treasures as if they were yesterday's garbage.
Today, my family and I have finally completed the transition. New flooring, a fresh coat of paint inside and out and thorough cleaning has made mother's house suitable for a new family to move in.
I often ask mother what she remembers about her past home of some 20 years. Receiving a reply of "well you know, I lived over there in that house with your daddy on Skyuka road." I have mentioned in previous blogs that there are times when dementia can be your friend. This is one of them.
Glancing around at precious items in my own house. I'm aware that the day will come when my three children will be in the same shoes that I wear today, disposing of my belongings which I have held so dear in days gone by. Somehow, just knowing this to be true, makes it a little easier to say goodbye.
Friday, August 5, 2011
"A Better Me"
It's been a really good day, as my two youngest grandchildren had come to spend the afternoon with me and mother. I was really amazed at how nice and well behaved she was in dealing with them for on many occasions, mother has been less than pleasant to say the least, when any of my grandchildren would come to visit. Since dementia, she seems to have no patience with children or teenagers, contradicting her very fiber as she has always been a loving, and devoted grandmother throughout the years.
It's getting time for me to take the children home. My husband Bob has called and informed me that he is only five minutes away from his return from work, so I decide to leave mother safely in her apartment and head on out. When I return, I see that it's not long from being time to give mother's evening medications. I run upstairs to leave my purse and hurry back down. At the bottom of the stairs awaits an irate mother. "What in the world am I doing here?" she questions. "I need to get home, I have folks waiting on me!" she continues. "Mother, just have a seat in your blue chair over there while I get your medicine and we'll talk." I tell her. As I make my way into the kitchen, I hear her call to me, "Do I need to call Jean and tell her to come get me?" she says. I pause for a minute and say, "Mother, I AM Jean." "Well, I know you are, but I'm talking about the "other Jean" that lives with me and Bryson.
I have written in previous blogs about mother thinking that she has someone in her life that looks like and bears the same name as her late husbands, Bryson and Yates, but they're not really them she says, just looks like them. Lately, she has mistaken me for her late Stepmother, Normar and various caregivers who have come to stay with her for awhile, but for her to say that there's "another Jean" somewhere, has really grabbed my attention.
I walk into the livingroom to see her sitting there in the blue chair with a lined brow, as if she is trying fervently to figure the whole thing out. I assure her again that I'm the only Jean there is, but add on that if she ever sees the other one again, to let me know and I'll come and change places with her. Mother gives up a little grin at that one and seems to come out of her rage. I have oftened wondered just why mother's mind has made up duplicates of the people in her life. Is it because she longs for them, but "better" ones. Possibly she thought I wasn't satisfying her need at that moment, remembering the person I used to be, the little girl that followed her around all day, idolizing her every move. Would "that Jean" come and rescue her from this dreaded place?
I think we all strive our whole life through, to become a better person. How unfair it is to those suffering from dementia who never have a chance to fulfill that quest.
Years ago, I was asked to sing at a funeral for a beautiful lady in our community who had met with a tragic death. I was taken by a poem that was printed in her memorial which she had penned and have kept it all these years. Many times when I felt that I was being a little less than what I should have been, I would take it out and read it, just to remind me that we are all human and yearn to be a little bit better.
A Better Me
The me I wish I could be
Would never harm a soul,
Could never speak in angry tones,
Or have a selfish goal,
And no more wrong of harmful deeds
I'd ever want to do,
If this perfect ideal me
Could be a picture true.
The me I wish I could become
Will never really be,
But simply wanting such a thing
Will make a better me.---Dianne Jackson
Friday, July 22, 2011
A Monumental Task!
Today has been a hard one to say the least. A whole suitcase packed full of calamities from mother, work, family issues, coupled with all the chores of the day, I am ready to cry UNCLE!
I have informed my brother and sister that when I cry UNCLE...I will mean it... One day I must admit, I actually texted my sister Sue, the letters UNC, signalling to her that I was half minded to give up, but got to thinking that she would think I was talking about my youngest daughter who had just left for college at UNC-Wilmington, and didn't send it.
If anyone out there who reads this blog is considering caring for a loved one with dementia in their home,I must tell you, that it is a monumental task. In all honesty, it is much more than one or even two people can handle 24/7. No matter the stamina, willpower, determination that one may have, nothing can prepare you for what lies ahead. I could be less than honest and tell you that it will be worth it all, but quiet frankly, I'm not sure.
My day begins at 6:00 a.m., when I crawl out of bed,shower,dress. There is never a day when I can roll back over and say, wake me in an hour. Not even on the weekend. I head on down the stairs grimacing as I sneak to the bottom step, hoping not to see my mother peering at me through the glass doors which separate my house into her apartment. Several mornings, I have awakened to knocks on those doors, scaring the life out of me and others.
I head into the kitchen and gather her medicine for the morning. Opening the doors, I smile when I see that she's still in her bedroom, giving me a moment to open the blinds, adjust the air conditioner and take a deep breath. I quietly knock on her door as I call "You awake?" "Just a little bit" she'll say. "Hoppy jump" I say. Knowing that mother can barely roll over and get out of bed, I encourage her to perform this awesome task each morning so that she can stay independent as long as possible. Not that helping her would be beneath me, I just want her to continue doing certain things as long as possible. She finally is able to put her feet on the floor and stands to waddle across the room to the bathroom. She cloth bathes herself with necessary instructions each morning, finishing up with my dressing her, step by step. I instruct her as to where to sit as I go for her morning meds, which lay on her small kitchen table. With water in hand, I place her most important pill on the tip of her tongue, "the happy pill" or Haloperidol. Making sure mother takes this pill has become more and more important to me and others as her dementia progresses. The remainder of her meds are placed on the sofa beside her and she will take them one by one. I hurry to the kitchen to make her coffee and collect a small do-nut, knowing very well that she will only take two sips and one or two bites of the do-nut, and out they'll go to the cat.
Preparing her lunch is simple, but thinking of something that she will actually eat is another thing. I quickly make her lunch for the day and place it in the refrigerator.
Giving her the daily instructions, I leave her as my daughter takes over until I return from work.
Mother's dog Annie remains on her farm, so I stop by feed and water her for the day. It is now only 7:45 am.
My part-time job has become my salvation as being there is the easiest part of my day. Heading back home, I am tired and long for a few free moments to call my own. As I drive up to my house, I take a deep breath and wonder what lies ahead as I enter mother's room. My daughter leaves and mother and I are at home alone until my husband arrives from work, around 5:30 p.m. I have found myself glued to mother's room, watching television, making small talk or just keeping her company, all the while my house and dirty laundry of my own lies stagnant, as they yearn for me to do my duty.
After hours of dementia episodes, questions that have no answers, words with no rhyme or reason, bed time arrives at 8:45 pm. The routine begins with my bossy instructions and end with a goodnight and "I love you, mother."
My husband and I head upstairs to grab a few words in privacy about events of the day, retiring to bed, only to awake the next morning to do it all over again.
My writing this blog today, feels a little uncomfortable. My intentions are not for you to feel sorry for me,but to share my daily ups and downs with mother. Which is the reason I decided to share with you in this blog from day one if you are a child, spouse, friend or caregiver of someone who suffers from dementia. I just want you to know that you are not alone as well as telling you that if your efforts are for any reason other than a committed love to your loved one, you are not going to survive. It is not a part-time or full-time job, but an ALL-time job.
A friend of mine repeats this saying to me from time to time. "Mother took care of all seven of her children, and all seven of her children can't take care of mother." I'm beginning to believe it.
I have informed my brother and sister that when I cry UNCLE...I will mean it... One day I must admit, I actually texted my sister Sue, the letters UNC, signalling to her that I was half minded to give up, but got to thinking that she would think I was talking about my youngest daughter who had just left for college at UNC-Wilmington, and didn't send it.
If anyone out there who reads this blog is considering caring for a loved one with dementia in their home,I must tell you, that it is a monumental task. In all honesty, it is much more than one or even two people can handle 24/7. No matter the stamina, willpower, determination that one may have, nothing can prepare you for what lies ahead. I could be less than honest and tell you that it will be worth it all, but quiet frankly, I'm not sure.
My day begins at 6:00 a.m., when I crawl out of bed,shower,dress. There is never a day when I can roll back over and say, wake me in an hour. Not even on the weekend. I head on down the stairs grimacing as I sneak to the bottom step, hoping not to see my mother peering at me through the glass doors which separate my house into her apartment. Several mornings, I have awakened to knocks on those doors, scaring the life out of me and others.
I head into the kitchen and gather her medicine for the morning. Opening the doors, I smile when I see that she's still in her bedroom, giving me a moment to open the blinds, adjust the air conditioner and take a deep breath. I quietly knock on her door as I call "You awake?" "Just a little bit" she'll say. "Hoppy jump" I say. Knowing that mother can barely roll over and get out of bed, I encourage her to perform this awesome task each morning so that she can stay independent as long as possible. Not that helping her would be beneath me, I just want her to continue doing certain things as long as possible. She finally is able to put her feet on the floor and stands to waddle across the room to the bathroom. She cloth bathes herself with necessary instructions each morning, finishing up with my dressing her, step by step. I instruct her as to where to sit as I go for her morning meds, which lay on her small kitchen table. With water in hand, I place her most important pill on the tip of her tongue, "the happy pill" or Haloperidol. Making sure mother takes this pill has become more and more important to me and others as her dementia progresses. The remainder of her meds are placed on the sofa beside her and she will take them one by one. I hurry to the kitchen to make her coffee and collect a small do-nut, knowing very well that she will only take two sips and one or two bites of the do-nut, and out they'll go to the cat.
Preparing her lunch is simple, but thinking of something that she will actually eat is another thing. I quickly make her lunch for the day and place it in the refrigerator.
Giving her the daily instructions, I leave her as my daughter takes over until I return from work.
Mother's dog Annie remains on her farm, so I stop by feed and water her for the day. It is now only 7:45 am.
My part-time job has become my salvation as being there is the easiest part of my day. Heading back home, I am tired and long for a few free moments to call my own. As I drive up to my house, I take a deep breath and wonder what lies ahead as I enter mother's room. My daughter leaves and mother and I are at home alone until my husband arrives from work, around 5:30 p.m. I have found myself glued to mother's room, watching television, making small talk or just keeping her company, all the while my house and dirty laundry of my own lies stagnant, as they yearn for me to do my duty.
After hours of dementia episodes, questions that have no answers, words with no rhyme or reason, bed time arrives at 8:45 pm. The routine begins with my bossy instructions and end with a goodnight and "I love you, mother."
My husband and I head upstairs to grab a few words in privacy about events of the day, retiring to bed, only to awake the next morning to do it all over again.
My writing this blog today, feels a little uncomfortable. My intentions are not for you to feel sorry for me,but to share my daily ups and downs with mother. Which is the reason I decided to share with you in this blog from day one if you are a child, spouse, friend or caregiver of someone who suffers from dementia. I just want you to know that you are not alone as well as telling you that if your efforts are for any reason other than a committed love to your loved one, you are not going to survive. It is not a part-time or full-time job, but an ALL-time job.
A friend of mine repeats this saying to me from time to time. "Mother took care of all seven of her children, and all seven of her children can't take care of mother." I'm beginning to believe it.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
"Daddy"
It has been a very hot and humid summer and the grass seems to be growing relentlessly. I have grabbed my weedeater as soon as my husband Bob got in from work so that mother would have some company while I do this dastardly deed. Even though it is a little late, I head on out.
As I climb the bank at the road, I notice Bob leaving. I suddenly remember that tonight is his Rescue Squad meeting. Not wanting to leave mother alone, I hurriedly finish up and notice that my watch says 7:15 pm. Being in such a hurry to rush out and begin my summer chore, I had forgotten to give mother her evening medications, putting her behind approximately two hours or more.
As I open the kitchen door, I see her sitting in the livingroom with a Windstream phonebook in hand. I call to her and let her know that I'll be bringing her p.m. medications to her as soon as I get them prepared. Walking over to her, I can see that she has no concern about her medications being late. She continues to thumb through the pages of the phonebook. "What are you looking for mother?" I ask. "Well, I was wanting to call your daddy and see why he hasn't been to see me since I moved here" she answered. "I'm trying to find our telephone number, do you remember it?" she asks. How heartbreaking it is to see your mother looking through a phonebook for a telephone number that has been long removed as well as the person for whose name she searches, "Bryson Gibson."
It's been some 20 years now since daddy left us for a much better place, "Heaven."
Many times, my siblings and I had felt our daddy a little slighted, since she had fell madly in love with her second husband Yates. Watching our Dad take the back seat in mother's affections even though we all loved Yates, felt a little strange.
I've been noticing lately that mother hasn't made reference to her second husband Yates or anything pertaining to their life together of nearly 19 years.
All that's on mother's mind tonight is "where is Bryson?" Going down the list of Gibsons in the phonebook, mother comes across my Uncle Lawrence, daddy's baby brother's name. She acts as if she's found an Easter egg as she exclaims, "Here's Lawrence's number, we can call him and see if he knows where Bryson is." I finally feel the need to remind her that daddy has passed, thinking that this will end her fantasy. "He didn't die did he?" she inquires. "Yes mother, he's been gone for about 20 years now. "Are you sure? I just can't believe he's dead. Let's look and see if Aunt Ruth's number is in here, is she still alive? "Yes mother, but I'm telling you that Daddy isn't with us anymore." Just as soon as it leaves my lips, she comes up with another idea of how we can find out where daddy is.
As the night wears on, it's soon mother's bedtime, and I must say, I'm ready for it. Worn out from explaining to her over and over again that daddy is no longer with us and just how it all came about, I am exhausted. I have promised her if she goes to bed now, that we will go visit his gravesite and have lunch out tomorrow. This seems to appease her and she gladly crawls into bed.
I have fondly given mother a nickname, "Snuffy" which is short for "Mr. Snufflelupagus" a character off Sesame Street, which reminds me of her as she climbs into bed each night at the pace of a snail.
It seems that mother isn't the only one as slow as a snail around the Edwards' household today. It will be a long time before I'm slow to give mother her evening meds again.
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