"Happy Birthday!"

Today is mother's 83rd birthday. Lot's of discussion has been had in anticipation of this day. Thoughts of how to celebrate with someone who will only forget what was done ten minutes later, doesn't give much incentive for elaborate celebration. My husband and I have decided to take mother for some food and Christmas light viewing late in the evening.

I enter mother's bedroom singing "Happy Birthday" I have a range of songs from "The most beautiful girl in the world," "Little LuLu I love You Lu...to "Rise and Shine and Give God the Glory, Glory!" that I greet mother with each morning. Some of these will draw a smile, others seem to annoy her without end. But today is special, it's her birthday and I want her to be reminded of it.

In years past, I have entered mother's bedroom many times, but in another place. Growing up, mother's bedroom was furnished with a huge round unframed mirror. I can remember many a day, joining her in that mirror watching every movement and motion she would make, from brushing her beautiful hair, to lining her lips with garnet red lipstick, preparing herself for the day. "Do I have a hole in the back of my hair?" she would ask. Checking to make sure, she would hand me the hairbrush and either my sister or I would do the honors of putting the finishing touch on a woman who in my eyes "was the most beautiful of all!" As I have mentioned in previous posts, mother was not only beautiful on the outside, but on the inside as well.

Today, I gently pull mother from her lying position and encourage her to sit up straight. Her once beautiful oval face is swollen to one side where she sleeps and fluid gathers. Her beautiful hazel eyes are barely visible through the swollen eyelids that eyeshadow and mascara once adorned.

She finally rises, and slow but sure, makes it to the bathroom door. I stand behind her, and can see in the mirror which hangs on the adjacent wall, an image of a small frail woman that I barely recognize as being my mother. As I wash her face, change her clothes, give instructions for teeth brushing, I visualize myself and mother in earlier years when the roles were reversed. I reach for her hairbrush and stroke from front to back, trying my best to close the "hole" in the back of her head, just like I had done some 50 years ago. The hole won't close as easily as years before. My sister and I jokingly call it now, "the great divide" where mother spends hours a day, lying on her couch, giving permanent division.

This woman that I have loved and adored all my life, now sits before me; dementia riddled and barely a glimpse of the beautiful mother I once knew. I thank GOD in the good times and question HIM in the bad. But today I am thankful that I can say "Happy Birthday, Mother!"

"Keep the Change!"

It's a new month and I must admit; time is going by fast. Having mother at my house brings minutes, hours and days of endless, chores, bewilderment and tons of laughter. I am learning through baby steps, to accept them all.

Basketball season has begun. Knowing that my mother has always catered to this sport, gives me a bit of satisfaction, thinking that this will provide me with an incentive to make her want to stay up a little later at night without begging to go to bed with the chickens. Entertaining a person with dementia for a length of time is next to impossible. For my mother, it's more than that. Along with Basketball season, came the end of daylight savings time. Keeping mother up until 8:30 each night has always been a formidable task. Now that we have moved our clocks back one hour, one practically has to stand on their head and juggle oranges in front of her to keep her from saying those four words; "I'm going to bed!" It's not that I don't want her to go to bed early, it's the knowing that if she does, there's a good chance that her sleep will run out sometime in the wee hours and you will be the recipient of it all.

It's two hours prior to mother's bed time and I have already heard those dreaded words. I start out by asking if she's hungry. Mother has always been a fan of anything chocolate or nutty. Here lately, she will not touch either. I continue down a long line of things she might be interested in. Nothing doing. As I've mentioned before, due to agitation, mother sits and rises at least 10 times within a time span of 5 minutes. She'll get up, walk over to an object and mumble some unusual words that have no rhyme or reason. Tonight, my dog Sophie, lies sleeping in the middle of the floor. Mother gets up, walks over and points. I ask her what she needs. "Well, I just thought that dog needed winding up" she says. To say the least, this brings a chuckle from me and my husband. I coach mother to go back and lie down on the couch til bedtime. She obliges me. Lying there with legs outstretched, she says her knee is killing her. Well, mother does deal with a bum right knee so I assure her that I will give her a Tylenol before bed. She continues on with her complaining, so I say, which leg is it mother, she answers "You, know, my middle one!" Of course I laugh so I say, your middle one, which one is that. She says, "well, I mean the one on the outside!"

It's only a few more minutes before bed and we are all very much thankful. Since mother's dementia, she has a way of making you feel a little bit less of a nice person with her choice words. Before dementia, my mother would have never said a harmful word to me or anyone. Mother's little living space consists of a loveseat, which she sits on, a recliner, which my husband has claimed, and a wooden rocker which you guessed it, is mine. I am sitting pushed back watching TV, when I notice mother getting up. I don't turn, but just keep notice in my peripheral vision that she is walking over to me. I decide I had better take a look, since my husband Bob is stacking "Z's" in the comfy recliner and isn't paying attention to what his mother-in-law might be doing. When I turn, mother is standing before me. She has an unusual look on her face. I ask what she's doing. With a studdard or two, she says she is going to pass..to pass..I jokingly say..."Pass what..gas?" "No" she says..."I'm going to pass you some flesh." Well, as I keep telling you, I am a huge chicken. These words surprise me. I begin thinking what flesh, mine? Just a week prior to this, I had walked into mother's room and she began saying to me that there had not been a killing on her couch. I assured her that indeed she was right about that. Mother's television plays from morning to night, and my husband and I have figured out with all the murders and atrocities that are reported on the news, she must be storing this information and verbalizing it during times of distress.

Bedtime has arrived and no one is more thankful than I am. I, for one do not like the new time change, but as I have come to understand, if we live long enough, we will see that life itself is "full of change" some good, some bad!

"Ups and Downs"

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.

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.

"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."

"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.

"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