Repetitive Days

She sits at the counter fingering her food.  My mother...devoid of understanding of what she is eating.   She takes a small bite of a piece of toast held at the tip of her fork, then picks up some cottage cheese with her fingers.  We correct her, telling her that the toast is a finger food while the cottage cheese is not.  This confuses her and we see her brows knit together as she unsuccessfully tries to comprehend what we are telling her.   I walk away from the kitchen shaking my head, trying to clear the thoughts that cause my impatience, my temper, my frustration.  Returning to the kitchen I see that Mom has now lifted the toast holding it like a sandwich in both hands.  Her thumbs and forefingers grip the bread while she extends her pinkies and fans out her remaining fingers perhaps envisioning herself as a person of refinement.  She is a picture of contradictions; old characteristics mixed with new habits, bad manners, good manners.  Deep within her the need to be the lady of old, with perfect hair, perfectly buttoned clothes, impeccable etiquette, everything just so.  But Alzheimer's has consumed her brain, her memories, her motor skills.  She can no longer button herself, remember to throw a used tissue away in the trash, or wash her hands.  A cloth dinner napkin becomes a Kleenex for her nose and then is folded neatly beneath her plate at the end of a meal.  Meanwhile I bluster and blow, complain and bellow.  I run interference for fear that others will be disgusted by her behavior while knowing that it is I who am the most offended.

Mom is not the person she was, nor am I.  What used to be an amazing mother and daughter relationship has now become a care giver and care receiver arrangement.  My feelings of daughterly love and devotion have diminished to custodial efficiency.  I am saddened by this but also accepting and understanding of the process.  It has taken a while to arrive at this conclusion.  For each of us who is in that position, we fight the tendency to look for a glimmer of hope when our loved one remembers something.  "Ah!  she's not so far gone after all," I say to myself.  Then a moment later, when my mother becomes oblivious to her surroundings I remember how the disease toys with all of us giving the afflicted small moments of awareness before casting them back into the abyss of forgetfulness.

The newest stage: she rocks in her chair on the porch from morning 'til night.  She closes her eyes and sleeps for fifteen minutes awakens, stares at the sky and the trees for a few minutes, then falls asleep once more.  Her days go by, sadly dragging on while she loses more and more of her worldly attachments.  I regard the quality of life and wonder about the cosmic purpose.  Is it that we are not ready to lose her...to let go?  Is it that she cleaves to life for some unknown reason?  I feel the presence of ancestors surrounding her now.  They are at the ready to lovingly assist her on her journey as she transitions.  I hear her speaking with them at night.  Who are these departed ones who crowd her room?  

It is time for tea and a freshly baked scone.  The sweet fragrance of warm chocolate and orange awakens her and excites her taste buds.  She mouths the scone with enthusiasm dipping bits into the clear liquid; knowing only that it is sugary, forgetful that it is something she has had before.  "Remember when you used to bake scones?" I ask.

She shakes her head bewildered by the question.  There is no memory of her baking, of her life, of her actions.  Forlorn, I retreat indoors to continue working while I keep an eye on her through the windows.  She becomes restless and stands up, moves around, circles inside then back out.  Caged within herself she doesn't understand what is happening.  There is no logic, no interest in doing anything (though I offer activities that she declines). There is just motion and repetition, a continuous loop of awakening, moving, sitting, sleeping, eating, sleeping , awakening, sitting, moving.

And then, just as I feel that the hopelessness is too overwhelming to bear, there is the smile, the comment, the engagement.  "Oh, what is it you just said?" she asks with interest.  She leans forward with interest as I repeat myself, and then comments back;  intelligible words, words that make me laugh.  I am grateful for the moment and embrace it...cherish it, unsure of when (or if ever) there will be another.   How much longer does she have here on Earth?  How much do any of us have?  We tell ourselves to make the most of the moment...this moment.  And so, in this moment I remind myself to be grateful that Mom uses her fingers to pick up her cottage cheese and her fork to pick up her toast.