Thursday, February 7, 2019

Why I'm Not Laughing

A friend saw me today and inquired as to why she hadn't seen any funny blogs from me lately.  I grimaced as I told her that there was nothing funny to write about.  My friend's sympathy was immediate.   I hated the fact that what I said evoked a sympathetic response.  Yes, my mother is going downhill quickly, and, yes, it is incredibly difficult for both my husband Skip and for me to deal with the changes, the outrageous anger, the screaming and the dangers that accompany her manic episodes.  However, I am seeing the light at the end of the tunnel and humor will soon creep back into my life.  We have been told by everyone--all of the nurses, CNAs, hospice workers, and social workers that Mom should be in a skilled nursing facility.  She is a danger to herself and to us.  So I set aside any guilt that I might have had surrounding placing her in a nursing home and began calling to see who could take her. We found a home that was recommended by another friend and began the paperwork.  There were forms to fill out...lots of forms. Navigating my way through the process was, and still is, a learn-as-you-go feat.  The most difficult part is leaving messages for people and then waiting for them to call back (usually when I am in the shower, walking out the door, or on the road without ability to make notes.)

So, what I am saying is this; I have spent 20 years observing my mother's slow descent into oblivion.  It began a a few cognitive slips that caused me to raise my eyebrows.  Then there were some memory issues that crept into conversations and again, I took note.  After Dad died it was apparent that Mom had a brain dysfunction that prompted me to take her for tests and that was when she was officially diagnosed.  As time slipped away Mom grew more and more confused, forgetful, and childlike.  Four years ago, when we took her into our home to care for her because she was no longer capable of living independently, I began my journey as caregiver in earnest.  But it was not without humor and love.  Always, there has been laughter, playfulness, and joking that cheers us. Always...always...always.  Until now.  The past six months have been unbearably difficult--a nightmare from which we do not awaken.  I have described things in other blogs or at least alluded to incidents.  They are daily, even hourly now.  Hospice was called in because, well, she's dying. (We just don't know when.)  Hospice prescribed medication to control her unfounded anger, her hysteria.  We tried different pills, different amounts, different ways to administer medication to no avail.  She is drugged, she can't speak, she can't hear, she is fearful of everything, and now she is completely dependent on two strangers (us) whom she thinks are trying to kill her every time we gently assist her by touching her.  She sits in wet diapers not allowing us near her to change her.  She punches, kicks and slaps me when I try to help her into her nightgown.  She flails about when we are on the stairs and I fear that one or more of us might take a tumble.

This leads me to my original point.  There is light at the end of the tunnel because with as bad as things are, I cannot see any reason to continue to try to care for her at home any longer.  She had a good run but I know that if she were cognizant she would tell me to put her somewhere so she could spare us any more heartache.  Oh...but there IS heartache.  It is the knowledge that my mother's last years are providing an indelible memory of the hiddeous nature of Alzheimer's, of the images of a broken woman reduced to immodesty, all dignity removed by the situation of having her diapers changed, of being fed, of being bathed, dressed and toileted.

The thing is, before I celebrate my newfound freedom, I am already beginning to wonder how it will feel having our home back.  How will I adjust to my new role as non-caregiver?  I know that when she enters the nursing home she will never return to us.  Her last time at the kitchen counter, the last tissue I will remove from her breakfast dishes and throw in the trash, the last diaper I dispose of, the last time we change the sheets on her bed--it will all hit me and I know that for a while I will feel like something has been torn out of me.

I sit here evaluating.  Is it true that the stress and daily turmoil has become so much a part of me that I will miss it when it is gone?  I remind myself that just like any other form of grieving, I must take time to allow for the adjustment, the tears and the loss. I take a deep breath and go to bed wondering if tomorrow will be the day that all of the paperwork is ready, that Mom is admitted to her new
home--her last home before she is called to her eternal home.  I said my 'Good-byes' many years ago, but now, with this final decision I want to hold her for just one more minute, one more day because when she leaves us she takes a lifetime with her, a bond, a mother-daughter relationship, a presence.  I know that I will live the next few weeks on tenterhooks waiting for that phone call.  It will come sooner rather than later.  It will be from her nursing home, some kind soul will deliver the news and I will cry regardless of how I have prepared myself, how I have hated these past few months.  A loving child always cries.  We cry for our mothers who used to be, for the child within us, and for our own mortality.  So today, if you ask me why I am not laughing, you will know.

2 comments:

  1. Sorry for this chapter as I know it is a HARD one to face. Its been a long road hasn't it - at time's seeming endless. Just know she is going home to a better place.

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    1. Yes, it is a HARD one but I agree that (eventually) she will be going to a better place. Thank you for your comments.

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