I’m sad today. I was supposed to have lunch with my mom at
Parkside Village where they were having an early Thanksgiving buffet with
turkey and mashed potatoes and stuffing. Probably even cranberry relish. Not
that I’m a big fan of cranberry relish – but it’s an “official” Thanksgiving
meal if there is cranberry relish.
But I don’t have turkey. Or mashed potatoes. Or stuffing. Or
especially cranberry relish.
Why? Because when I arrive to get mom for lunch, she doesn’t want
to go.
My first clue that the day isn’t going to go as planned happens
before I even reach the nurse’s station. I am met by an aide who tells me how
glad she is to see me.
Uh oh.
Well, it’s not that people aren’t just stinkin’ delighted to see
me all the time, but that particular aide has never said that to me before.
So that is my first inkling that there is trouble afoot. She then
tells me that mom refuses to get out of bed, refuses to take a shower, refuses
to eat breakfast, and refuses to get dressed.
That’s a lot of refusing from a 92-year-old and, frankly, it sounds
rather like a temper tantrum a 2-year-old might have let alone someone 90 years
her senior.
So then and there I realize we are probably not going to see any
turkey or cranberry relish today.
I mean, it’s one thing if you pop over to a friend’s house to
pick her up for lunch and she has inadvertently overslept. Unless she’s your
most diva-ish friend who requires 2.3 hours of hair and makeup prep time, she
could probably grab a quick shower and be ready to head out the door in a few
minutes.
But a 92-year-old with dementia? “Quick” is a word that will not
be uttered at any time. Ever.
Cursing myself for not having prepared a back-up lunch plan like
slapping together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and throwing it in my bag
before leaving home, I sigh as the aide and I head down the hall to mom’s
apartment.
There, we find her sitting in her rocking chair all bundled up
in her flannel nightgown and blue puffy robe that has seen better days. Heck, it
has seen better decades, truth be
told. But mom refuses to part with it.
The aide, finding mom at least upright and out of bed, heaves a
sigh of relief and leaves the room.
So I sit down in the chair across from mom and ask her if she is
interested in having lunch with me as I’d made reservations and everything. But
she says no.
So, sighing a little myself, I hand her the daily newspaper to
read while I start “fussing.” This is
Jane-speak for gathering up old newspapers, collecting dirty coffee cups, making
her bed, setting clothes out for her to (hopefully) change into, and generally making
myself busy because I know I have a couple hours ahead of me of sitting in a
sweltering room trying to stave off hot flashes. Which is almost impossible to
do when the thermostat in there is set on “sauna.”
After about a half hour of mom constantly asking what day and
time it is, I gently tease her about how late it is and coax her into getting dressed
for the day. It is now a little after twelve-thirty in the afternoon.
But the sad part is, I realize that mom no longer knows how to get herself dressed and ready for the day.
She looks at the clothes on her bed and then looks at me and asks me what she
should do. So I tell her I’ll help her.
But seeing her like that breaks my heart a little bit more.
What happened to that strong, intelligent woman I’d known my
whole life? The one who raised four children and who almost single-handedly
kept my dad’s defective heart beating in his chest almost 50 years after it had
wanted to give out on him in his early 40s. The one who could stretch a dollar until
it cried “uncle” and the one who could tell if one of her kids was fibbing just
by the inflection in their voice when she asked them a question. And this was, mind
you, when she wasn’t even in the same room as the fibber.
I then thought about mom in her later years – the woman who
loved meeting new people and who couldn’t wait to pack a suitcase to go on
their next adventure. Whether it was to some exotic location or an Elderhostel
at a university to learn something new – or simply to head to one of their
grown children’s homes for a visit – she was the first to suggest a road trip
because she couldn’t stand sitting still for too long.
And now I couldn’t get her to walk down the hall with me simply to
have some lunch.
After I help mom get dressed and I hang her ratty blue robe in
the closet, we sit down again – mom in her rocking chair and me in the upright purple
chair across from her. I look at this once proud and dignified woman who now can’t
even get herself dressed and I try to keep the sadness from my face. She looks up at me and raises her hands in
supplication and says, “Now what?”
I smile at her gently – and this time we both sigh.
After a while, I start gathering my things and I tell mom I have
to leave to run some errands. I hug and kiss her goodbye and tell her I love
her.
She asks me when I am coming back and I tell her I’ll be back
tomorrow. At 2 o’clock.
She can no longer tell that I’m fibbing.
Because, you see, I don’t know if I’ll be back tomorrow at 2 o’clock,
but it appeases mom to have me say it. She won’t know the difference if I show
up at 1 o’clock or at 3 o’clock. Or if I don’t show up at all until the following
day.
But I blow her a kiss as I head out the door. And, because she
can hold on to this thought for another fleeting moment, she quickly says, “I’ll
see you tomorrow at 2 o’clock, dear.”
And when I shut the door, it’s all I can do not to start crying
as I walk down that long hallway to the nurse’s station and then out to my car.
And, oh, how I wish the tears were because I didn’t get any
cranberry relish today.
