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!

"The Hersband"

The time is getting closer now for the completion of mother's "Granny Flat" as we have come to know it. If you've read my previous blogs, you know that my husband and I spend the night with mother each night except for weekends when my sister and her daughter come down. This alone has become very taxing on all of us, to say the least.

Mother's second husband Yates, was well described as a simple gentleman who loved all children and would always have a silly song for them. He would sit quietly with a grin, but hidden intelligence was not far away. My husband Bob might very well have some of the same qualities as Yates had, quiet, a grin or two and all knowing about most things, although I would never let him know I thought this. Since he never reads my blogs, my secret is safe.

One evening, I had come to mother's ahead of my husband Bob. Mother seemed antsy as to when he would be coming and just where he was as she sat on the corner of her couch peering out the window for the first sign of headlights. As we sat together, mother began to talk about her "Hersband." She started with a couple of words such as "well, you know I have a man that's been staying here, don't you?" You can imagine my response to this information. "What do you mean?" I said. "Well, you know, we're not married or anything, he just lives here sometimes. "Ah, mother, you don't have a husband" I said, "you must be thinking about Yates and he passed away, years ago!" "No I'm not" she replied. This is a man that comes here and stays with me and he tends to the cows some, but he sorta looks like Yates." "Are you talking about Donald, mother?" I asked. Donald was Yates and mother's longtime friend and cattle partner. "No Jean, do you not think I have better sense to know who Donald is!" she snapped.

The night went on, and Bob finally came in. Feeling a little more tired than usual, I decided to go to bed early. Mother felt the same, so she followed my cue, leaving Bob to watch TV and cat nap. I had just closed my eyes, when I felt someone's presence at the door. I sat up in bed and saw mother's silhouette from the night light in the hall. I quickly inquired as to what she wanted. "I have two quick questions to ask you," she said. "Alright, but hurry up." "Well, I was just thinking, if I had a husband that was in there in the livingroom, would you know it?" she sheepishly asked. "Yes, mother and that's my husband Bobby in there, you know that!" "Are you sure? she asked. "Yes I'm sure, now what's the second question, so we can go to sleep?" "Well, I was just wondering whose house this is." That last question was one that I had heard hundreds of time and wasn't surprised, but I must say, the first one threw me a little. Mother went on back to bed and we both seemed to get a good nights rest.

A couple of nights later, the same scenario had happened with my mother and I going to bed before my husband Bob. Mother had developed a bad cough and administering cough medicine to a dementia patient is not a good idea, as it could alter their state of mind even more drastically. I suddenly remembered the many times that I had awakened as a child, coughing my head off when mother would appear with a spoon full of honey or jelly. I crept into the kitchen and looking through the refrigerator, spied a jar of peach jelly. I grabbed a spoon and headed on down the hall. "Mother, I whispered at her door, I'm coming in to give you some jelly for your cough." "Alright, come on in," she said. I opened the door and walked over to her bed. She sat up and looked at me standing there with my spoon and jar of jelly. A strange look came over her face as she leaned her head over and looked into the dark of her vanity room behind me, saying, "Jean, there's somebody back there that's trying to talk to you." I turned to see just who she might be seeing, with first thoughts of her newly found "Hersband!" Seeing nothing but her vanity, I high tailed it out of there and jumped in bed pulling the covers over my head like a little child.

As the days went on, mother began telling anybody and everybody about her "Hersband." Comments of, "should I ask him if it's alright" or "do you think he'll mind if I do." Were ever presence on mother's lips.

My husband and I had been called out of town on an unexpected family emergency. While traveling back, my car began to run hot. The next day was a Monday, and car repair was on the front burner for me. A car repair shop is within walking distance of my work, so I was able to leave my car there and pick it up the next day after the repairs had been done. Mother has a fairly new car which just sits in her garage, so I knew it would be a good choice for me to use. As I left her house, I informed her that I would be driving her car, but would return this afternoon. "O, that's fine, just make sure it has plenty of gas, do you need some money to fill it up?" "No mother, the tank is full," I said. "Well, just keep it as long as you need to." she invited. Feeling relieved that I had a second car to drive while mine was being repaired, I began to have a strange feeling that mother would go out and see her car gone and call the police. As I arrived at work, I made a call to remind her that I had taken her car and would return it later on in the day. As I returned, mother met me at the door and all up in arms. She had been pacing the floor with pocketbook on arm, anxiously awaiting for her "Hersband" to return with her car.

Weeks have gone by now and mother is still talking about "the man that stays here some." I just grin to myself as I look at my innocent husband sitting over in the recliner at mothers, knowing that she thinks of him as her "Hersband."

"The House that Built Me"

Webster defines the word "home" as "one's place of residency." To my mother and others, home is much more than that. I'm sure that each of us could come up with our own definition of "home." Since mother's dementia, I have given more thought to, written more about and spoken more of the word "home" than ever before in my life. I dare say that for most of us, our home can and will be the place that defines the very person that lives inside each of us. It is where we were "built."

A friend of mine tells the story of an elderly man, who while confined to the local nursing home, would walk up and down the halls continuously chanting the words, "My name is Wilburn Clayton, and I want to go home." Authors have penned the word, songwriters sing about it, films have been made about it, children beg to go there and now I have learned that most of us yearn to return there; "home."

Here lately, we have been dealing with mother believing that she is in another town or state, living behind old store buildings, begging for someone to come and take her home. Through all of this, I have learned something new about Dementia. It is very important to keep the patient; or victim as I sometimes call it, as calm and pleasant as possible, with a daily routine that is familiar to them. Just one change in their surroundings or a switch in their usual day can trigger an episode of pure mayhem! I have come to realize that these "episodes" mostly happen when they become agitated, due to a change in routine. It is really strange to witness your own mother, sitting before you, in the same room, seeing a different place. Her surroundings are a total fabrication of the mind, as if she had designed a stage in a play and is living there. I have often asked mother, as to just which "house" it is that she is wanting to go home to, but rarely get the same answer.

I'm sure it's fair to say that all of us have lived in a special house that had a hand in shaping who we are today. It might not have been the most beautiful or most expensive house, just the one that we became "one" with. For me, it was the old house I grew up in, situated on Skyuka road in Columbus, NC. This is the house that "built me."

This past Christmas, my husband and I attended a Rescue Squad Banquet where we were seated with a man and his wife and their teenage son. The lady's elderly parents had bought my old home place back when mother married her late husband Yates. We began to talk about the old house and how it may become vacant in the near future due to failing health of the proprietors. I was enthralled in talking about this house to the point that my husband had to nudge me several times during the conversation. Imposing annoying questions on almost perfect strangers concerning certain little quirks about my old home didn't sit very well with him.

I directed my inquisitions at the son, who I thought might have paid closer attention to the small details of his grandparents house. I began on the line of "is it still there?" My first question was directed towards the old rose bush growing just to the left of the driveway. My sister Sue and I would hurry down there every Easter morning just to see who could find the biggest and prettiest red rose to pin onto our Easter dress, informing everyone that our mother, was living. This was important as a little girl, since my mother was everything to me.

Next, my thoughts meandered to the front porch. There to the right as you walk up the steps was an unusual marking, made with stucco. It was fourth grade, and my teacher, Mrs. Coleena Smith was coming for a visit. Up to this time, my house's exterior was ugly cinder block. The word coming from mother and daddy was that our house would soon be "stuccoed" with a new method that would actually look like "real brick!" I hoped and prayed that it would be completed in time for Mrs. Smith's visit, so she wouldn't think that I was just a poor little girl living in a cinder block house. Finally, the day had come for my teacher's annual visit in the home. The workers had completed stuccoing my house the day before and I was so excited. As a child, I sure couldn't tell that it wasn't real brick and I felt sure Mrs. Smith wouldn't either. As I took a tour of the worker's job, I noticed a strange marking, unlike the brick pattern, on one of the steps that resembled an "Indian symbol." I cried, knowing that this unusual marking would alert Mrs. Smith to the fact that our house had been covered in "stucco," instead of real brick.

Now, I enter the house. "Are the counters in the kitchen still orange?" I ask. The mother interrupts, to comment that she could never understand why anybody would put "orange" counter tops in a kitchen. I'm not sure of the reasoning behind that. I might mention that my mother also drove an "orange Volkswagen beetle" in those days as well. To the left as you enter the hallway was my mother and daddy's room. This room became a beacon to me growing up. Cracking the door and gently calling my mother's name on a sick day or a return from the prom, letting them know that I needed to share. The small bathroom housed an attic door, where I envisioned monsters peeking out at me when I was a child. On down was my brother Jay's room. Many a night, my brother would work hard to come up with schemes to scare the living daylights out of me and my sister Sue. One night in particular, he had tied a string to the clothes basket which sat directly outside our bedroom door. When lights had been turned out, brother Jay began to pull the string to his bedroom, giving the appearance of the basket moving all by itself. For two little girls, a "ghost"was in the house! At last my questions end with my bedroom. A room that had meant the world to me. Of course I had to ask about a certain hole in the sheetrock located in the rear of the clothes closet. The young man smiled as I told him the story of the love notes which had been stashed in that old hole as I was growing up.

Ever since that evening, I have had a fever to go back to that old house just one more time. It seems that mother isn't the only one who longs to to go home.

A Cow's Tale

For some time now, my siblings and I have been wrestling with the idea of selling mother's cows. With her move to my house in upcoming months, it would not be feasible to keep them. My mother has always been a lover of all animals, but not as much as she became after marrying her second husband Yates.

Yates had lived on a farm all his life, so when they wed, the cows and farm were already in place. Through the years, mother began to think of her cows as "family," naming the calves at birth and nursing those whose mother was unfortunate enough to not survive the birthing process.

I recall such an incident with one little bull who Mother and Yates named Toro. Every day, they would give Toro his feedings through a bottle which closely resembled one like "Shrek" might have drank out of. With mother and Yates' good care, Toro grew and grew until he was ripe for market. Mother struggled with giving him up, but eventually, she would agree. After all, this was the whole idea of a cattle farm. Even though it hurt to let him go, she said her goodbyes and off he went. For days, she would cry at the thought of her baby, Toro becoming someone's Saturday night barbecue. It was around that time that mother gave up eating red meat altogether. To this day, we have to sneak beef into her food, but even with dementia, mother can usually point it out.

Another cow that was special to mother and Yates, was a heifer named "Babysitter." Yates gave her this because she had been on the farm so long and had cared for so many little stray calves who had become motherless for some reason or other. Mother had asked Yates many times before his death as to what would be done with "Babysitter" when she got really old. His instructions were that she was to remain with the farm until she died.

With "Babysitter" remaining on the farm, the decision was made to sell the rest of the cattle except for two other heifers which would keep "Babysitter" company. With no bulls in sight, these three would live the rest of their days in mother's pastures.

What a sad decision it was to sell the cows, but all the while knowing that it was the right decision. Becoming a middle aged child, has brought along with it, many responsibilities that I have not been prepared for. The awesome task of caring for aged parents is one of the things I had never really given much thought about. I suppose I just thought they would live until it was time to die and then go on to Heaven. Not once did I think about me and others filling the role as a "caregiver." Dementia or no Dementia, it is a trying time in life which no doubt is inevitable for all of us. One thing for certain, we all have parents and will soon have to make decisions for them that we had rather not make.

When the day finally arrived, mother's long time farm helper Donald, was consulted as to just how we would go about this deed, without making mother the wiser. We decided that he would gather the cows up for market just like he had done every year and when mother inquired as to what was happening, we would just say that "Donald is just taking them to the market, mother."

It was a Wednesday, and we had planned for him to take the first load off when I would have mother away for her weekly hair appointment. The timing got off somehow and I arrived to drive her to the salon. Upon arrival, I noticed that Donald and helper were down loading up the cows. As I exited my car, mother awaited me at the garage door with a puzzled look on her face. We could hear noises of metal clanking and banging, cows bellowing and mooing as they were loading up. "What's going on down there?" she asked. With the answer as planned, I replied, "now mother, you know that Donald takes off some cattle every year, and this year is no different." With one look at mother's face, we both broke into tears. She heads on into the house, sobbing and talking about how she can never get use to them being sold, knowing that they would be killed. I have to say, I was really caught off guard with my feelings and would catch myself days later, in tears as I relived this scenario.

It's been several months now since this grim deed has taken place. Mother has not once mentioned where her cows have gone. Once again, Dementia has come to the rescue.

Every time I come up mother's drive, I can spy her three cows. Looking at "Babysitter," I remember her days on mother and Yates' farm as that faithful mother and caretaker of the little ones. I am comforted to know that she will remain here until she moves on to greener pastures.

"Remember Me"

It's Friday, and I have gotten the word that my sister Sue is coming to spend the night with mother. An added bonus is that her daughter Shelly and son Noah will be coming on Saturday to stay the night as well. This will give my husband and I some much needed rest from caring for mother. No matter how much I love her, the idea of a little free time away feels really good.

My husband and I have decided to go out for supper for the evening, before heading off to our newly found favorite shopping stores; Lowe's and Home Depot. Spending Saturdays working on plumbing and electrical for mother's new addition, comes with several costs; financially as well as physical. Upon returning home, I notice we have several calls. Pressing the "play" button, I hear my mother's voice. She begins by saying, "Sue, Sue and Bill are coming to spend the night with me. If you want to come and visit for a while, come on down. " Second call: "Sue, thought you would want to know that Sue is coming to spend the night with me, but if you still want to come, you can." Third call: "Sue called and she and Bill are coming to spend the night...wait a minute, I guess you are Sue, well I don't know then...this Dementia is really working on me Jean" finally she calls my name, only because she has said that phrase many, many times.

Sue arrives and mother is excited that she has come. The weekend goes by fast, and it's Sunday already. It feels really strange being away from mother for even two days. My sister and niece have kept me informed via text messages along the way, but not to see mother or talk to her, seems really weird. The only thing I can liken it to, is being away from your child. You're so glad for the time away, but it feels as if a part of you is missing.

A friend of mine gave me the following poem. Reading it, I was humbled and reminded of the many things that my mother has done for me, and now I've been handed the baton:

Remember Me

by Kenneth Chafin

When you forget your own address
and find yourself on strange streets, we'll sell your car,
and I'll drive you to all the places you need to go,
like you did for me when I was a child.

When you forget how to dress
and end up with three sweaters, two sets of panty hose, and a slip on over your dress,
I'll help you to look proper when you go out,
like you did for me when I was a child.

When the words on the menu don't match the pictures in your mind,
and you keep ordering things you won't eat,
then I'll order the food that I know you'll enjoy,
like you did for me when I was a child.

When finding your way at church is frightening,
I'll take you to your class and pick you up and let you sit with me in big church.
If the sermon seems long and you get sleepy,
I'll let you put your head on my shoulder,
like you did for me when I was a child.

When hot and cold faucets confuse you,
I'll put you in a tub of warm water and give you a bath,
like you did for me when I was a child.

When you forget who people are
and can't tell your family from total strangers,
I'll be your memory and tell you their names
like you did for me when I was a child.

When they're having a party for all the residents,
and you want to go but don't know what to wear,
I'll make you a costume that everyone will envy
like you did for me when I was a child.

When you forget who I am,
not just my name or my birthday, but that you ever had children,
then there isn't much I can do but go somewhere and cry,
like I sometimes did when I was a child.