"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

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.

"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.