"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.

"Bobbie and Normar"

I want to start my post today by reminding you who the characters of Bobbie and Normar are in my mother's life. Mother's mother, Hannah died when she was three years old and her dad John, married a woman named Norma "Normar" Chapman. Eventually John and Normar had two children, a daughter Bobbie and a son, Don.

It's getting pretty late, and my husband and I are watching television with mother in her livingroom in her small apartment which is conveniently located through a set of double doors just off my livingroom. I'm yawning and so is mother, signaling to me that it's bedtime for both of us. I ask mother if she's ready for bed and she says "yes." My husband Bob who has always been called "Bobby" as long as I can remember to friends and family alike is sitting back in the recliner just to the back right of mother who lies on the loveseat. "Do you want to sleep with me, I have a nice double bed just right in there" mother inquires. "No mother" I reply, I have a bed upstairs I sleep in with Bobby." "Bobbie!" she exclaims, what in the world are you going to sleep with Bobbie for?" "Mother! Bobby is my husband silly." "Bobbie who?" she asks. "Bobby Edwards of course." "Oh, I thought you were talking about my sister Bobbie." Bobbie, mother's youngest sister who died with breast cancer at an early age of 62 has been gone for some fifteen years now, but mother's dementia won't allow her to retain her passing.

Monday has arrived and I'm wanting to cook something that mother really enjoys eating as well as something that will last a couple of days so I won't have to cook every day. Chicken 'n dumplings have been a specialty of mine for a while now and mother seems to agree. I've announced to her that I will be going by the grocery store when I get off work today to purchase the ingredients and will hurry home to make them in time for supper.

Making my way through the diningroom, I catch a glimpse of mother sitting reared back in my once favorite sitting chair by the piano in my livingroom. "Howdy!" I call to her. "How was your day?" I ask. "O, pretty fair" she answers back. "How was yours?" ""Bout the same, I guess." I follow. I step on into my kitchen, which blocks the view from mother as I unpack my groceries and proceed to make my dumplings. "Do you drive or does somebody bring you home?" comes a weird question from the livingroom. "I drive of course!" "O, well I thought somebody carried you back and forth," she snaps. A little inquisitive, but figure it's par for the course, I continue my cooking.

After some forty-five minutes later, and many strange remarks to me from mother, I declare that my dumplings have been made. Walking into the livingroom, I see that she has stepped into her apartment for some reason or other and is waddling back through the double doors. Mother looks at me and says, "Normar, I could have helped you in there if you'd just let me!" she says. "Normar!" I shout. "Mother, I'm not Normar!" "Well where is she?" Mother hurriedly goes into the kitchen calling for Normar. I assure her that Normar is no longer among the living and that I was the one who was slaving in the kitchen. She cannot believe that Normar is not here. "Well, I was just talking to her, and she answered me," she says. "Mother that was me, I tell her. "No it wasn't, I know you, I was talking to Normar and she was telling me that she had been to that place in Columbus working all day." "That was me!" I try to convince. I call for her to come into her place. "Jean, what in the world is wrong with me" she asks. "Well, you just got a little confused mother, I tell her." With a blank look on her face, she sits looking into the distance as if she is reliving her conversation with her long departed step-mother, pausing to remind me of things she had asked and "Normar" had answered as she prepared the dumplings just hours before.

Once again, dementia has played a cruel trick on me and mother. That night while readying myself for bed, I take a close look at myself in the mirror and wonder why mother thought me to be her stepmother Normar. Was it my hair which I had just cut the day before. I hold many memories of spending the night at "Normar's house, watching as she slept with her arm propping her head up, off the pillow, so as not a hair would touch, keeping every strand in place. Or was it because Normer liked to cook chicken 'n dumplings for her family? Knowing that I would never have an answer in this lifetime, I jump into bed and have a quiet chuckle to myself as I fall asleep, head on pillow and not a strand in place.

"Mother and Me"

Well the week that I have dreaded for a while now, has come and gone. Mother's first day of Senior Day Care has occurred and the sky didn't fall after all.

The sight of my 83 year old mother, standing in front of the Senior Day Care, practically trembling with fear that she would be left with strange people for hours on end brought back uncomfortable memories of my own.

It was 1960, and mother has informed me that I would be starting first grade the next day. Being the baby of the family, as well as a huge mama's girl, created a mixture of anxiety and fears not yet known to a small frail six year old. Mother took a job outside the home the year prior to my starting school. She is in a hurry to get to work and has no time to take her youngest daughter to the first day of school. My Aunt Bobbie, mother's youngest sister, has agreed to do the dreaded deed. Mother hurriedly drops me off at Aunt Bobbie's and I am told to behave and go with her or else.

I remember well, the tears and tight fist clinching of the kitchen chair as I was warned to let go and get in the car or the sheriff would come and hunt down my mother and put her in jail due to neglecting to take her children to school. I quickly complied and off to Stearns Elementary I was hauled. Entering the room, I could see children with their mothers, hand in hand, as they began their first day of school. My Aunt Bobbie had a job of her own at the County Courthouse, so she said her goodbyes as I was left alone to spend a day of eternity with a pit of strangers. As I spied around the room, I could see one lady who seemed to notice me, Mrs. Cleo Geer. How ironic that this woman would one day serve as my eight grade basketball coach. I started to walk closer to this woman who was almost as beautiful as my mother, and I decided to really get noticed. Flopping down in her lap, my 50 lb body went limp as I pretended to faint. Mrs. Geer promptly snatched me up and ran for fresh air. Some 50 years have gone by, and I still fill those all familiar butterflies when I find myself meeting new people.

As we wait for the door to open, I chant to my mother "my poor little mommy it will be alright, don't worry." We are greeted at the door and mother seems to be all accepting. I remind her that I will return at 1:00 pm and head off to work. As I return, I can see that mother is putting on one of her acts. No one is the smarter to her, but me. We say our goodbyes and as we leave the room, mother whispers that she will NOT be going back.

It's Thursday and time for the second day of Senior Day Care. Mother can't remember anything that's happened two minutes prior, but she can remember that she does not want to go back to Day Care. I am unable to get her to agree to go, so I quickly dial my sister Sue's number. I can see mother's expressions as she argues with her on the phone. I never asked what my sister said to her, but she told me that she had reminded mother that I had been good to her and that she should do as I asked. I would have imagined that she had mentioned some things that included assisted living or nursing home for a turn around in mother that was shown. "Well, I guess I'll go, but I sure don't want to!" she smarts. Off we go for our second day. Mother seemed to enjoy this day a little more, even though she whispered the same remark to me as we were leaving that afternoon, "I'll NOT be coming back!"

This past month has brought many tears to both me and my mother. But with the Lord's help, I will survive this awesome task that lies ahead. Some days are good, some are not.

My mother and I were watching a Television Evangelist last Sunday morning as he played the piano and sang "The Love of God." To my dismay, mother began to sing along with him, knowing every word by heart. Knowing most things about my mother, I couldn't believe that she knew this song. As I have mentioned in earlier blogs, I work in a Baptist Association office. Just today, my Director of Missions entered the work room and announced that he had gotten in the mail, a free CD with sample songs for the Christmas season and asked if I would like to listen. I agreed and the CD began to play. "The Love of God" came on. How could it be that this song was playing when I had only heard it one other time in many years days before when my mother sang along with the TV Evangelist. Only one thing made sense to me, God was speaking. He said, "Jean, be patient and kind to this dear woman that I've entrusted in your care. She's been mine for many years now and I love her as I love you. All day long, I have thought of this incident. How small I felt as I sat there listening.

A new song has come into my heart now, as I go about the daily task of caring for mother.

"The Love Of God"

The love of God is greater far
Than tongue or pen can ever tell
It goes beyond the highest star
And reaches to the lowest hell
The guilty pair, bowed down with care
God gave His Son to win
His erring child He reconciled
And pardoned from his sin

Could we with ink the ocean fil
And were the skies of parchment made
Were every stalk on earth a quill
And every man a scribe by trade

To write the love of God above
Would drain the ocean dry
Nor could the scroll contain the whole
Though stretched from sky to sky

Hallelujah [3x]

O love of God, how rich and pure!
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure
The saints' and angels' song

"God Give Me Strength!"

Today is Friday and instead of my usual night out with my husband for supper, I stay home with mother and watch the RFD channel. I'm getting a little more comfortable with my homebound feelings than last week, but am torn between the love of my mother and the freedom that I once cherished. It's been a long week and enough dementia shenanigans to last a month.

It all started last Sunday when we decided to take mother to a restaurant after church. What in the world were we thinking. My husband made the unfortunate decision to take us all out to eat in a town that included traveling on the interstate. If you ever decide to drive a dementia person on a trip, make sure they're in the back seat, or blind folded. My mother rarely has a bad word to say when it comes to my husband Bob, but this time, she spared no one. As we stand in line, I can see my mother visibly shaking. "What in the world is wrong with you mother?" I ask. "I'm mad at Bobby!" she snaps. "What for?" "I can't believe he brought us up here!" I look the other way as we are escorted to our table. As we are seated, spurts of "I wished I'd stayed home" to "this is the last time I'm coming here" are overheard by whispering onlookers. The same person that catnapped in church that day, retorted back at her "well, no one will ever bring you back mother, if you don't hush." As the waitress takes our order, Mother becomes more and more outraged,forcing me to make her food choices. We wait an unusual long time for our food and mother is irate. With remarks about the tea to the decore of the room, she was not a happy camper. The food finally arrives as mother taunts the waitress "well, it's about time!"

A visit to the doctor this week indicates that mother has low hemoglobin and needs a colonoscopy to rule some things out. She has agreed to the doctor and myself that she will comply. Appointment dates are made, only to get her home and statements of "You can forget that!" are rolling off her lips. I'm not sure about you, but forcing someone with dementia or no dementia, to drink a gallon of yuck is not on my priority list. I will need much prayer to pull this one off.

Mother spends much of her days, watching the squirrels, doves and crows, eating acorns and shelled corn which my husband has carefully placed around the firepit just so his mother-in-law can have a first hand view of all the wildlife at her new surroundings. Mother rarely mentions the live nature, only to complain about the ugly old wooden bear that stands six feet high outside her window. "Why in the world would anybody want something like that near their house is beyond me" she complains.

Next week will bring a change. I have decided to take mother to the new Senior Day Care Center in the town where I work, just for a trial visit. I fear that mother will have many choice words for me and those folks before the day is over.

Only God knows how much I love my mother. Only He can remind me of this love as I care for her. I pray for much needed strength and patience as I make my way down the stairs each morning.

Mother Goes to Church!

It's Sunday morning, and a lot of things have changed around the Edwards' household since mother has come to live with us; with Sundays having no exemption. I am taking mother to church today and have gotten up early to give her a shower and make sure I give her all the amenities. Choosing her clothes carefully, thinking that if given the chance, she might have chosen the same for herself. I have bought ample make up to use on her, with just the right color of lipstick, making for a beautiful pallet on my mother. Adorning her with my silver necklace and hair curled and sprayed to a tee, I take a look at this woman of 83 years, seeing a glimpse of the beauty she once was.

It's been seventeen days now since mother's arrival. I must say, adjustments have been made and I am feeling a little more settled but still a little addled. I have asked my sister Sue to come after church services for her weekly visit so I can continue the tradition of dining out with family on Sunday afternoon.

Mother is a little hesitant to go to church, but with words of encouragement and her "happy pill", I can maneuver her in most things. It seems that dementia isn't the only trickster in the house.

I've decided to take mother for preaching only until I see how she fairs in public. It's been about three years now since she has attended church services. With questions as to where I attend church and just how long it takes to get there, we head off to Silver Creek Baptist Church. Mother is a very independent lady, who frowns at wheelchairs, canes and walkers. I gently lead her up to the ramp and tell her to be careful going up. "Well,what are you putting me on this thing and you high tailing it up the steps for?" she barks. Mr. Duke greets mother with a "Hi darling!" and mother's tone changes. Walking into the church, I see that she is in her element. Well wishers, old friends alike, gather to mother's pew. Everyone is glad to see this lady who has taught Sunday School, sang in choir, a deacon's wife to name a few.

As we stand to sing, I whisper to mother that she can remain seated, since she has a hard time getting up and down. With a "what did you say?" beating me to my feet, I chuckle quietly. Mother's beautiful alto voice is still audible, singing every note as loud as she can. As the message is delivered, I notice that mother is nodding. With a slight elbow, I give her a nudge. She opens her eyes and shakes her fist at me with a tight lip; a look that I've seen in my childhood days when my sister and I would be misbehaving.

The Lord's Supper is being served today and the juice tray is passed. Empty holes where cups of juice should sit are visible but mother cannot see them since she won't wear her glasses. She sticks her finger in the hole thinking a cup is there. With several unsuccessful attempts to snare a cup, I quickly grab one and pass it to her. It's time to go and the pastor announces for us to sing a song and go out. I whisper to mother that we can slip out now to get a start on the crowd, knowing that it will take me a while to get her to the car. In her stern voice, she says "No, we're supposed to sing a song, didn't you hear what he said!" She begins to sing "Blest Be the Tie" in unison, rather loudly with that smug look on her face that only she can give when she has out smarted her "bossy" daughter.

All in all, it has been a good day. We arrive back home and my sister and husband relieve us for the afternoon. I just know that God had a big smile on his face today when mother came to church.

"I Must Be Dreaming!"

Today is the fourth day of mother's arrival at my house. If you have read previous posts, you'll know that we have built her a "granny flat" to live in, connecting just through the french doors in my livingroom.

So much anticipation of mother's arrival had kept me awake many nights. Never having to sleep away from home at mother's house again, jumping up at 4:30 am to the call of the alarm clock was something that would not be missed.

Visions of my sister and I taking mother on a long awaited beach trip when all was settled in lay hidden in the back of my mind. Many times had the Gibson family, traveled to "Crescent Beach" which was located just north of Myrtle Beach, SC. A quaint little motel called "By the Sea" equipped with cabanas for those wanting to beach watch, housed our family of 6 on many summer days. My sister had informed me that the motel was far from what I had remembered and would not be inviting to stay at any longer. I also believe that Crescent beach itself is long gone from the landscape as well, becoming "North Myrtle Beach." Nevertheless, I still dreamed of taking mother back to the beach just one last time, watching her sit in those breezy cabanas. Even though she probably wouldn't even remember being there five minutes after we had left.

Thoughts of sticking my head into mother's room to just say "hi," inviting her to go for a ride to the grocery store or to a child or grandchild's event were just some of the things I envisioned us doing. Not to mention cooking and baking for her, lots of yummy things to eat, just like she had done for me so many times in the past.

As my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Swain might have said..."Jean, wake up and quit dreaming!" Popping my head into mother's place was indeed just a dream. With every waking hour, the creak of my french doors has startled the best of us, morning, noon and night. Thinking that you have done all you can for her and she's situated safely and contented on her old comfy love seat with snacks in hand, I rush off upstairs to do some long needed ironing. Asking my daughter a question from my bedroom, a voice comes from downstairs with a quick answer to my question. I lay down my ironing and rush down to see if it indeed was my mother who could hardly get about yet, had made it into my livingroom in that amount of time. This scenario has played out for most of the four days that she's been here. For some reason, mother's dementia won't let her understand that she lives in one space and we live in another. Her flat houses a small kitchen, living area, bedroom and bathroom, yet she insists on coming in and using our facilities.

Another dream that has come to a sudden halt, is all the cooking I wanted to do for her. Spending most of my day baking on Saturday, chicken casserole, slaw, green beans, cornbread, strawberry salad and sweet tea, some of mother's past delicacies, are pushed aside for a craving of a blt or hotdog.

My youngest daughter has been accepted to a teaching fellowship at UNC Wilmington. A trip to "the beach" is suddenly a dream come true. I will finally get my chance to take mother on that long awaited trip next week. While going for a Sunday ride around our community with my husband Bob as our chauffeur, we begin to tell mother of our plans to go check out our daughter's new graduate school located near the beach and that she would be traveling with us. "Well, have fun!" she says. "I've had enough of the beach to last me a lifetime!" were some of her laments. Dream bubble number 23 burst!

My husband and mother sit down in her "granny flat" watching old reruns of "Hee Haw" while I steel away to do some blogging. I'm not sure what kind of dream it is I'm having but I must say, I'm ready to wake up!

Changes

While devastating tornadoes have demolished many areas in our southern states, and Osama Bin Laden has been brought to justice, a whirlwind of change has been encircling my mother as well.

Since my last post, I have hardly had the time or effort to record anything which has transpired. Some, I'll write about, and some I choose not to.

A new doctor, a stay in the hospital,new medications and a week away from mother's move to my house, seems to be bringing dementia more and more to the front burner in my life. I find myself with a tiny buzz inside my brain and stomach most of the day. If you've ever used one of those personal face fans and remember the tiny motor sound that it makes as you fan, you can know that this is what it feels like. Tears, panic attacks, chicken little episodes are all just a thought away. Another word for this is "stress."

I have learned lots more about dementia in these past weeks. Some helpful, some worrisome. While talking to some dementia specialist and just those who are going through the same issues as I am, I have found some answers to questions that I thought had none.

I was able to speak with a nurse who cares for dementia patients and is well informed. She told me that even a change of my voice, the way I walked into the room or turned my head, could all cause my mother to go into an "episode." But one of the most helpful answers I have come across, to a question I have had for a long time now is "where is the home that mother longs for?" A friend told me that she had discovered the answer in a dementia training. "Home" is really not a place, but a "state of mind." The feeling of being insecure, unsafe, possibly unloved, causes this "wanting to go home." I have gone back to the most recent episodes of mother's wanting to go home, and agree that it has been when she had reason to feel insecure.

A friend who works with dementia patients in a nursing home environment, sent me a packet of wonderful information as well. Included was lots of very helpful tips on how to caregive. My husband said that I didn't have to read the material, that all I had to do was the "opposite" of what I had been doing and it would be what the info said. As I began to read, one thing stood out to me. Never give dementia patients more than two choices, because it will confuse them. I would imagine that during the time of one of mother's rantings and ravings, when I gave her two choices; either to go to a nursing home or to jail, didn't count. So many things I have said or done that was merely a human reaction and not neccessarily the right one, can cause feelings of guilt. I have been told that these feelings and reactions are only human and a part of it all through trial and error.

I have come to realize being a mother myself, there are many parallels to a dementia patient and a young child. While on a trip back from mother's new doctor in a different town, we encountered a thunderstorm that seemed to follow us all the way home. Mother was already in the back seat due to her fear of my "driving skills." As the rain battered down and cloud to ground lightening flashed everywhere, mother became unconsolable. I began to sing the song "My Lord is Near Me all the Time," and reminded her of words she had said to me many times through out my life. "If God can't take care of us now, when can He?" I must admit, it felt a little unnerving to hear myself in the role of her parent. As we pulled into the garage, I ran around the car to help her exit. "Just get the little boys out first," she ordered. Just as a little child would do, with her mind, she had created imaginary friends during her time of distress.

Mother's "granny flat" is almost completed. We should be having our final inspection within days. I know that I have enough love for my mother to care for her on a daily basis, I just hope I have enough strength!