My turn to forget...

There are hard days, and there are hard days, we say.

It's been a hard week.

Last Saturday I picked Mom up early. We had lunch with my brother in law, Tim then came back to my house to hang out for the afternoon. When I'm working around the house on the weekends, I like to have her here, for a little socialization on both our parts, even if she decides to go take a nap. It gets her out of the house, we spend real, normal boring family time together.

We had a mundane interruption to the day, when I had to run to Office Depot for toner. I was locking up the house and herding her down the sidewalk when she asked me "do I have Alzheimer's?" I distractedly answered, "Yep."


When I say I was completely inconsiderate, I mean I was just that. I didn't put one iota of thought into my response. She knows she has Alzheimer's, so I simply figured there was more to the conversation. She might then declare "but I can still do things!" It would be a typical conversation

About 1/2 hour later, we were on our way home, and she suddenly burst into tears "why...why...would you love me? Why would you like me?" I was stunned with the outburst, but began giving her a list of reasons I love her, and asked her where this was coming from.



She sobbed harder. "With what I have. I'm not a good mother."
It wasn't until then that it hit me: She hadn't known she had Alzheimer's. She knew at one time, but she'd forgotten, and I had completely pulled the rug out from under her with my nonchalant answer to her question.

And for the last week, I have not been able to undo this; she just found out she has a disease, and she cannot be cheered. She a failure. She can't drive. She is supposed to be in a role of helping me, and she—she can't do anything!!!!

There is some light, today, after a week of convincing her that she is beautiful and worthwhile. "You know," she says, "I can do a lot of stuff." I joined right in on all of the stuff she does, "You read the paper every day, and you always know the weather. You take care of Buddy, and take care of yourself all day long until I get here"

"I can't take a shower," she reminds me.

"Yes you can! The faucets turn backwards, and it's hard to get the warm water right, that stupid thing is half-broken!" I tell her. "Don't I just get the water right and you wash yourself?" It's kind of true, and she's gleeful. And she can answer the door, and she can call me on the phone, and...

...and it was a tough, tough week with Alzheimer's. There is simply a point of no consolation, where you do and say what you can, and you have to let go and let God, and this will work itself out, and she'll come to terms with her situation.

Someday, she will forget again. And then...I will either be ready for it, or I'll have forgotten also, that she doesn't know.

Tomorrow is always a new day.

Gasp!

One thing that I appreciate about Mom's current state of mind is that she still gets the joke. Teased lovingly, she will understand and laugh right along. This afternoon when we were near the mall, sirens in the background set her to speculating. "Someone probably fainted at Bed Bath and Beyond," I teased her. (Long story short, if you don't want to read all of that: She had a cramp, held her breath, fainted, and took a ride in an ambulance.) She recognized that I was teasing her immediately, and said "I don't ever want to do THAT again!"

And there are times that *she* gets *me.* And she damned well knows it, which makes it all the funnier.

We were sitting at five-points yesterday (for you townies), when someone, somewhere, honked their horn. "Shut up" I said. She chimed in "Yeah!" "Yeah, Mom! Tell them `Shut the hell up.' " 

"I would never say that!" she chided me. I assured her: "I know you wouldn't."

"No!" she said, "but I would say `YOU BASTARD!!' "

It was then that I almost fell right out of my car door, which is exactly what she'd been anticipating. We both screamed with laughter, me still out of total shock, and she for having gotten one over on me.

My mother, she does not swear. She rarely gets angry, and when she does it's almost humorous for it's lack of frequency. Any family and friends that know her can now testify that they, also, upon reading this just fell out of their computer chairs.

Hand on the Bible, yes she did.

She said the b-word.

She got me good.

Going bananas?

Mom has a barky little Pekinese named Buddy that keeps her constant company. She adores him, but occasionally gets aggravated when he barks at strangers. "Next time I'll get a cat," she threatens him.

I was washing her hair today, and when done, had her bend over so that I could get her hair wrapped up in a towel. She was yakking away about Buddy's barking, and said, "you know what I want after Buddy?"

A cat, yes, I knew it was going to be a cat, but I bit anyway, and asked her what she wanted.

Dead serious, from underneath her towel, she yelled "A monkey."

Taken off guard, I guffawed right in her face.

She defended herself: "Monkeys have to eat too. Plus, they don't bark."

Hm. I think her new book may have just backfired on me. If you have a box full of Monkeys free to a good home...please don't call us.

Teeth Real Fast

Oral hygiene has been an interesting endeavour as Mom's Alzheimer's progresses. Brushing her teeth is do-able, but finagling toothpaste confuses her. Our best solution this far is for me to put the paste on the brush for her every day, and hand her one of these:

The electric toothbrush has been a Godsend; it does a lot of the work, and she gets a kick out of using it. It's also easier for me to help her with it when she decides to skip the back.

Friday evening I got her all gussied up for dinner. After shower and hair, I told her "Let's brush your teeth real fast and then we can go." While I was squeezing the toothpaste out, I heard quite a clattering in my right ear, and turned to find Mom standing about 1 inch away, doing what can only be portrayed by this 3-second video:

I gave her a look of utter confusion and some amusement, and she explained:

"You said `teeth real fast!' "

And then she collapsed into giggles. Once again, I followed suit; she can be kind of clever sometimes.

Bookworm Mama

My mother was always an avid reader and library patron. She still enjoys reading, although I'm not always sure what she comprehends. She reads aloud now, working over words and sounding them out when necessary.

She enjoys reading the newspaper, which is great—any cerebral exercise is good.  She does not, however, remove the newspaper from the plastic bag it's delivered in, in inclement weather. She simply reads through the plastic, and hones in on words that disturb her: Burglary! Murder! Articles about children put her in a tailspin. I've considered starting a Good News Newspaper for Alzheimer's patients.

Anyhoo, Mom's been repeatedly questioning me lately, "Where do you get books?" When I tell her they're available at the bookstore, she exclaims "Oh!" as if she'd never heard of such a thing. The topic has come up often enough that I informed her, yesterday, that we were going to the bookstore. "Yipppeeeeee!" she said.

When we arrived at Barnes & Noble, she informed me that she likes Murder She Wrote. Murder mysteries. Hm. Murder. Based on her tendency to get upset at what she reads, sometimes, I steered her away from murder books. And books with bad words.

 "Ooooo, that's wrong!" she told me, calling me back to show me this one she'd spotted.

 

"Bitch!" she exclaimed, a bit too loudly. Tsk, tsk, I agreed, that is a bad word, let's keep looking.

We browsed through technical books, and then I found a section of books suitable for her. She decided to keep looking, and we browsed through other aisles. After awhile, I nonchalantly strolled back through the Mama-suitable books. "Oh, look!" she said, exclaiming over a book she'd rejected before. I gushed also: "Oh, how cute, would you like to buy this one?"

Yes, yes she would like to buy this one!

 

Off we went, then, with her bag o' goodies.

Ahhhh. There's nothing like settling in under a warm afghan with a cup of tea and a good book.

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy...

...or rather, "Banker, Groomer, Gardener, Chef," if you find yourself in the role of caretaker for an Alzheimer's patient. Throw in grocer, maid, dental assistant, handyman, manicurist, chauffer, recordkeeper, tax accountant, veterinarian, receptionist, dishwasher, and laundress.

Oh, and let us not forget: Nurse.

I have always had a bit of queasy nature; nursing is one job that I could never pursue because of it. Puke makes me puke. Snot, spit, pus, pee, poo...ugh, take my lunch away, I can't eat anymore. And blood! Blood and bones should always remain inside one's body. I don't want to see, read about, hear about, or even imagine either of those two things outside of anybody's body. True story: I once fainted over movie blood.

It is to the great amusement of my family, then, that I always seem to be the one present when Mom has any issues with any of these things. Could it be my niece, who has a degree in forensic science, and would love to play in pus? Noooooo, the big boil on Mom's back had to explode while I was there, leaving me gagging and cleaning up...ugh, God, I can't write any more.

That nasty infection turned out to be a very contagious MRSA, and washing my hands in boiling water for 45 minutes didn't keep me from contracting it. It took me 4 months and lots and lots of medicine to get rid of. See, a nurse would have recognized those possibilities, and wouldn't have touched that thing with a 10-foot pole, or at least without rubber gloves.

There has been a giant box of rubber gloves on Mom's counter ever since. I wear them to clean the house, and if she has so much as an inflamed freckle, I'll put them on before poking it to see if it hurts. Rubber gloves are my friend.

Enter then, our latest dilemma:

Hemorrhoids
No graphic appears here.
Do yourself a favor, and do NOT do
a Google Image search for hemorrhoids.
Trust me: There are no "cute" ones.

Super. Wonderful. Couldn't be happier.

Believe you me, I went the route of handing her a Preparation H wipe before resorting to anything that required me and a glove. Alas, certain discomforts weren't being alleviated with a witch-hazel soaked tissue, so I was forced to buy a tube of Preparation H.

Me and  Mom

[Censored-censored-censored, I'll leave the details up to your imagination] and then I snapped off my gloves, and said "God, Mom, did you ever imagine I'd be sticking my finger up your butt?"

She said "Well, at least I can still put deodorant on by myself."

Oh, yeah, thank God for that; I sure don't look forward to the day I have to point an aerosol can at your armpits and press a button.

Sighhhh. The thing is that we just do what we have to do, and usually the idea of something is worse than the actual something. When you get right down to it, it's just a butt, big damned deal. I know that someday I'll look back and wish that a little butt cream is all I had to deal with, with my mother. As bad as a day may seem, I know that someday I'll miss that day.

And it's true: At least she can still put on her own deodorant.

Mom's book of baby names...

Phone call from Mom:

Mom: Hi, I was just thinking something.

Me: What were you thinking?

Mom: If a person had a baby, could they name it Harley?

Me: Sure, they can name their baby anything they want.

Mom: Oh, ok. Well, that's all I wanted.

Me: Ok. Love you. See you when I get off work.

Mom:I love you too. Bye.