This has been my summer of travel. For pleasure, my husband and I took several days and meandered down the east coast, then we bee-lined across the state of North Carolina to my favorite southern lake for a family Fourth of July party. I went on a working adventure with my daughter to help her move into her new apartment before she starts law school. I discovered, while I traveled for The Scotia-Glenville Traveling Museum, the varied regions around the upstate New York area that until now were unknown to me.
During all of those hours of wandering I let my mind wonder, hoping to be inspired. To my disappointment no words jumped out of me begging to be put to print. But, a realization did occur. I have written, over the course of several years, my feelings, frustrations and the day to day surprises that helping an elderly parent with dementia can bring. Consequently, I feel it is time to share some of my words as they form into my forthcoming book.
Recently, I recalled a conversation I had with Mom on more than one occasion. This was several years before any of us suspected something was wrong with her.
“Rosemary, I seem to be forgetting things a lot.”
“Oh, Mom, that’s normal. Heck I forget things all the time.”
“Yes, but this seems to be more than normal.”
“Mom, I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Thus, I brushed her concerns away before she could elaborate more. I suppose I didn’t want to hear about anything being wrong with my mother. So I felt dismay when I recently heard a doctor on a news program say that many people know that they are having early signs of dementia. They realize something is not right. It pains me to think my Mom was alone in this knowledge and that I avoided that conversation more than once.
Eventually, my siblings and I did become aware that Mom was struggling and that something needed to be done. I recall vividly the day I entered Mom’s house to pack her suitcase and bring her to my home for what I thought might be just a long visit. It turned into so much more.
The following is an excerpt from:
A Slow Slide into Nothing
I arrived at the Indianapolis, Indiana airport, rented a car and drove to Wabash. As I pulled the car into the driveway and parked, I realized it was already warm for a day in May. I walked up the sidewalk; I could smell the fertilizer being spread on the fields just outside of town. My nose crinkled and I sucked in and held my breath so I wouldn’t smell the ripe aroma of manure in the air. When I stepped onto the porch, I expected to see Mom at the door, but, instead I had to let myself in. There she sat in the dark living room. I glanced around, remembering the salmon pink limestone fireplace that fills the wall at the far end of the living room, the family portraits, and my wedding picture. I waited for the years of childhood memories to come flooding back but they did not, could not as I looked at my mother. She looked frail, tired, and scared. Her clothing was dirty and full of stains. I was taken aback. How had Mom let herself get to this state? Mom always took pride in her clothing. She had dressed competently for her job as a high school counselor, later sternly as the city court judge. Now she wore clothing that did not match and food had dribbled down the front of her shirt. Seeing her this way was terrifying. I took a deep breath; I struggled not to appear shocked. Mom seemed embarrassed by the way she was dressed; the mess the house was in. Yet, she was unable to make any decisions or act to change it.
In a few short hours, it became apparent that Mom was far worse than I had thought. When she had mentioned on the phone she couldn’t pack her suitcase I assumed, it was not that she couldn’t but that she didn’t want to. I quickly realized she didn’t have the stamina, or the power to decide what to pack. Our past phone conversations raced through my mind, and I concluded she must have been lying to me about her lifestyle. I attributed her condition to depression about my father’s death and her forced retirement after losing her re-election as city court judge. Instead of haunting familiar places and reminiscing, I spent four days visiting Mom’s doctors, getting her car in working order, throwing out rancid food and packing. Mom sat on her bed and weakly told me which clothing she might want to pack. Most of her clothes were not clean, so I stuffed them in a suitcase knowing I would need to do laundry once we returned to my house. Just going through her medication was over-whelming. There were many duplicate prescriptions, some unopened bottles; others were empty with no replacement for them. I was frustrated trying to decide what prescriptions Mom actually needed to take and why.
Over the next few days, besieged with decisions about Mom, I was the picture of business on the outside. But, on the inside emotionally, I was falling apart. I suddenly realized that Mom was now the child and I had become the parent.
On the last day, I helped Mom climb into her packed car. We pulled down the driveway. She barely looked back. I gazed at the house I had grown up in, literally since birth, swallowed my tears, put on a good face for Mom and drove away.