Friday, November 16, 2018

EXHAUSTIPATED

A nod to a fellow writer, Irene Francis Olson who shared a new word she learned after attending an Alzheimer's conference: 'EXHAUSTIPATED'.  The meaning: (as a caregiver to someone with dementia) When you are too tired to give a crap!  I laughed out loud when I read that.  It was so true.  Caregivers are continuously exhausted.  As far as how constipated they might be; well...I can't speak to that.  Suffice it to say, we don't have much time alone for personal care. Of course the double entendre didn't escape me.  I don't seem to care as much any more.  I am really, really tired.  But still I muscle through the days and look for the things I can laugh about.  It's really all we have left--humor.  Beneath it all there is, of course, love. The love is for the woman I used to know, and for the poor soul locked within the withering body and mind of the person who lives with us.

The challenging moments throughout the day create singular events that weave an interesting fabric.  It's...uh...shall I say, colorful?! They offer glimpses into how we do or do not cope depending upon our own current mental state.  When we lack sleep, Skip and I are less patient, more reactionary, and less likely to find the humor in something my mother says or does. Allow me to illustrate with a few examples:

First of all, I think that it might be noteworthy to share that our dog has put in her notice that if things don't change she might consider leaving home; this, over the fact that my mother has now taken a liking to Kira's dog bones.  As my mother scans the floor for fallen objects she picks up the rawhide bones and places them on her walker.  Evidently she has decided that they might make good snacks and so we have now caught Mom nibbling on the rawhide bones that Kira leaves around the family room. Good grief!  Now we have one more thing to supervise.  In the unending string of surprises and departures from normal, we have had to hide all edible and even inedible items that might be construed as potential food sources.  Oh it's not that we are starving Mom.  On the contrary; she is eating more now than ever...VORACIOUSLY!  She treats each meal as though it were her last with lip smacking, slurps, gulps, and industrious shoveling of every crumb.  I have even caught her licking the plate and her placemat.  If we leave the kitchen to escape the noise and bad manners, we run the risk of Mom helping herself to any food that is left out.  If left unattended Mom overeats.  She doesn't remember that she has eaten nor does she employ an inner switch that reduces her appetite. After overeating, Mom suffers from indigestion and we sometimes deal with the occasional eruptions of Mount Etna as Mom spews forth in vomitous explosions.  Our carpet has become one big stain. 

Moving on with my litany of complaints, Mom has taken to leaving her dirty tissues in various inappropriate locations.  I opened the cabinet door to extract a plate for lunch and found a used tissue sitting atop a clean dish.  I have found them in drawers, on top of dish towels, tucked into magazines and books, and always...ALWAYS on the countertop where I cook and prepare food.  Being the fussy germ-a-phobe that I am, I should own stock in Clorox Wipes. I certainly use enough of them to keep them in business.

All of this is enough justification for me to use a word such as exhaustipated, what with Skip and I having to clean up after her, do several loads of laundry each day, clean the floors, the carpet, cook, unclog the toilets, change her diapers, and so on.  But the thing that makes me cringe the most is how my mother's attitude has changed.  She is downright combative when we confront her with her misdeeds. 

Today, I caught Skip telling Mom that leaving her used tissue on the kitchen counter was as bad as pooping on the counter. (He does that for shock value but the result is often a fiery exchange.) Mom took great umbrage as she told him, "You're a disgusting person! 
I would never do that!"  Skip argued that she left her used, wet tissues on the counter all the time.  Of course it was futile to tell her.  Mom insisted that she NEVER did that.  Then, as the argument continued and escalated, Mom began to threaten him saying that she was going to kill him.  (Probably by throwing a wet tissue at him.)  Almost everything we say to Mom these days is fodder for dispute.

"Hey Mom, it's time for bed," we announce.
"No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"Ah baloney!" she huffs in response.  "I'll decide when I want to go to bed."

We have tried to walk away from engaging in any disputes but sometimes our inner child comes out.  That's when we do things like we did this evening. "Okay.  If you don't want to go to bed we'll just leave you in here by yourself."  Then we turned off the lights in the family room and left her sitting in the dark.  (We stayed nearby to observe her.)  After brooding for a while she forgot the argument and was quite ready to toddle off to bed. It doesn't always work like that though.  There was one night that was so bad when I was trying to get her ready for bed that I finally said, "Mom, I am trying to help you.  I am your daughter and I care for you.  But if you continue to act mean and angry..." (she was shoving me and calling me names, telling me that I was terrible to take her clothes off of her and how if her sister were here she's take care of me) "then I will just leave you here and let you stay dressed.  You can put yourself to bed."  Then I turned off the lights and walked out.  She began screaming all kinds of horrible things.  She threw a complete temper tantrum.  It was awful and yet somehow laughable.  I was deeply shaken but was also somewhat amused by the depths to which her behavior had sunk.  You see, Mom was always a sweet woman.  She was happy and loving.  I very seldom saw her cross about anything. She was sensitive and caring. Her nature was to be hurt by others' misspoken comments rather than to hurt others.  These days were so different, with behaviors so unexpected, so unusual, so bizarre.  Living with Mom is rather like riding through a carnival fun house.  There is always a little apprehension over what we might encounter around each turn.  I awaken each morning with dread, my stomach doing flip flops. I wonder what the day will bring.  What new assault will she fire at us? What misguided accusation will she level?  Will there be another mess to clean up in her room? (Most certainly!)  Will she allow me to bathe her? (Probably not without a fight.)  Will she balk about sitting on the chair lift, argue that I am trying to kill her as I take off her nightgown, grab her socks and hide them in her walker as I turn to throw away the wet diapers? Will she remove her pants that I have just put on her, try to put her nightgown back on or pull at the sheets and covers in an attempt to wrap herself up?  She seems to have a million hands and the strength of twenty weight lifters.  I can't subdue her and I can't deal with her but still I must.  I am...oh yes, I am most definitely EXHAUSTIPATED!

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