Grandma Stole My Wallet!

"Where's my wallet?"  Our son stood in the doorway looking confused and frustrated.
"I have no idea.  Why would I know where your wallet is?" I asked defensively.
"Check Grandma's walker," he answered.  "She probably took it."
ARGH! My son was accusing his grandma of stealing his wallet! I began to object but then remembered how she had 'lifted' his mail, his keys, and other objects she had found sitting on the table in the entry to his apartment.  I walked into the family room and lifted the walker seat to access the storage pocket.  With trepidation I reached in knowing full well that there would be assorted tissues and napkins that were both clean and used.  Tentatively, I fingered the top tissues feeling for something more substantive.  I dug deeper and my fingers touched something solid, something long, hard, and unrecognizable.  It wasn't a wallet.  It wasn't keys.  It was cold...metallic...a utensil.  I pulled it from the dark pocket to examine it more closely.  It was an ornate silver spoon.  I examined it with curiosity.  It was not a spoon I readily recognized and yet it was curiously familiar.  Where had I seen that before?  I turned to my mother and inquired, "Where did you get this?"  (What a foolish thing to ask since my mother's Alzheimer's disease severely limited her memory of ever having seen the object in question.)
"I don't know," she replied.  "I've never seen that before."
"Well you took it from somewhere!" I argued.
"No!  Someone else must've taken it and put it in my walker."
Exasperated, I removed the spoon and placed it on the counter telling myself that I would ask my husband, Skip about it later.  When I saw him I showed him the spoon and asked if he recognized it.
"Nope.  Maybe someone who brought something to our house over the holidays had a spoon with them and forgot to take it home."  This was a logical conclusion since we often found trays, plates and serving utensils that assorted guests left behind.  (Let me digress for a moment as I explain that we have had to limit much of our socializing to at-home events because of the need to care for and supervise Mom.  We invite people to our home because to visit elsewhere is difficult and often impossible the last minute.  We must arrange for and pay for a sitter to be with my mother, to prepare her meal, and assist her to undress and get ready for bed.  If we are gone for several hours, the cost begins to escalate and I find that we often have to cut our visit short.)

I puzzled over whose spoon it might be, where and when Mom had found it, and how she had managed to put it in her walker without us being aware that it was missing.  Suddenly it struck me where I had seen this silver pattern.  I picked up the phone and called our daughter.  "Did you lose a spoon?" I asked.
Dorie sounded confused as she answered, "I...uh...I don't know.  Why?"
Because I think that we may have it.  After explaining what I had found, I turned the spoon over and read the engraving on the back.  Yes, it was our daughter's silver pattern!  Now the question was how it had ended up in Mom's walker.  In the spirit of true detectives, Skip and I reconstructed the events at the 'scene of the crime.'  We had ventured out with Mom to go to Christmas dinner at our daughter and son-in-law's home a couple of weeks prior to my discovery of the pilfered object.  Mom sat at the dinner table fingering the napkin ring at her place.  It was beaded and appeared to be a bangle bracelet.  She was entranced with the texture, the visual appeal, the crush, movement and rotation of the beads woven into the round shape.  Skip was seated next to Mom at the table and when he got up to take a second helping of a delicious dinner, Mom reached over and grabbed Skip's napkin ring.  When he noticed that she had his napkin as well we laughed and joked about it. Skip teased her that she was a kleptomaniac.  Little did we know that Mom had also taken a spoon off of the table when we weren't looking.

I wonder what other things we might find if we do a thorough search of her drawers, her pockets, and of course the black hole of her walker seat where I fear to explore.  Haven't I found pilfered pens, mail
, money, laundry, towels, cups, photos, cards, glasses and other assorted items belonging to us in Mom's possession?  Hasn't she squirreled away things left on counters, on tables, anything within her sight and/or reach?  Hadn't I noticed that some of her panties that she was wearing looked exactly the same as my own undergarments until I realized that I hadn't seen my panties recently?  Yes, that is what my mother had become: a thief!  My son was not so far off with his accusation after all.  It hadn't happened yet, but I knew with a growing certainty that if left out for her to find, my mother would most definitely be the culprit if Bill's wallet went missing.  I imagined the moment to come when I might hear, "Grandma stole my wallet."
'Sticky fingers' are just one more side effect of dementia.  I will definitely have to 'frisk' Mom before I put her to bed tonight.

"There's Someone Sleeping in My Bed!"

My mother is convinced that there are people sleeping in her bed when she is not up there.  We keep the door between our home and our apartment (that houses our son and also Mom's room on the other side) locked so that she will not wander up or (worse) down the stairs. Still, whenever our son opens that door to say "Hello" of "Good-bye" she shoots him an accusing look that says, "Who are you and why are you sleeping in my room?"

This evening it happened again.  As our son unlocked the door and greeted us I noticed my mother glaring in his direction.  As is the norm these days, she fluctuates between recognizing him and being confused as to who her grandson is.  This evening he was a stranger and he was clearly usurping her right to go upstairs to her room because he was occupying that space.  Why?  Because evidently he shared her room with her.  When I tried to correct her she remained firm on her opinion.

"You don't know!" she told me.  "I've seen him in my bed."
"Really?  When?"
Mom thought for a moment struggling to recall the incident.  "It was a while ago but he was sleeping in my bed!" she replied emphatically.
I tried not to laugh.  I reminded her that she is not in her room during the day and would never have seen her bed other than when we take her upstairs at her bedtime. "I can assure you, Mom, Bill has NEVER slept in your bed."

Mom remained unconvinced even when I explained that Bill lives on the other side of the apartment.  My husband Skip and I decided to take her upstairs a few minutes early to take her on a tour of  the apartment (both sides) to remind her of where Bill lived.  This was not the first time.  We had done it a week before with the same results.  She looked around like she was seeing it for the first time. Then she rolled her eyes and said, "Well I know that he was in my bed.  In fact, I've seen two people in my room," she added as she embellished her story with a certain indignant delight. She was so convincing that I felt like I should be chastising Bill for going into Grandma's room to take a nap. I also felt like I should be searching for the other 'stranger' who was obviously visiting Mom's room while our backs were turned..  Meanwhile we keep reminding ourselves that Alzheimer's disease causes hallucinations.  So...before we rush out to buy keyed locks to put on Mom's bedroom door, we will continue to indulge Mom's fantasies until we grow impatient and take her for the tour.  We will also hold our breaths and hope that she doesn't choose another route to handle this (perceived) intrusion in her boudoir by taking a stroll to the other side of the apartment and going to sleep in our son's bed!

YUP...it could happen!

The Empty Nest?

The Empty Nest ?

There are 10 living breathing beings in our home this morning. The head count varies from day to day.  Our daughter, son-in law, our two granddaughters (visiting from Charlotte) our son, his overnight guest, my mother, our dog and Skip are all asleep.   I am enjoying the quiet moments of the early morning as I often do.  It is the calm before the storm.  How many mornings have I sat alone, writing, sipping coffee and enjoying the peaceful silence?  I relish this time and acknowledge it as a very special part of my day.  For some, this silence lasts throughout the day and night...but not for me.  I have always enjoyed a houseful of people yet longed for that time when my thoughts were not interrupted by others.  Then I am reminded of something.

The concept of the empty nest is not part of my life; the words are not in my vernacular.  I recall thinking that my husband Skip and I were 'Empty Nesters' for about one week back in the 1990s. 

How did it feel? 

Lonely, quiet, boring!

Since then, we have had a revolving door of house guests, visitors, (ALWAYS) pets, and adult children who come and go, visit, bring their friends, and spend the night. There is never a dull moment.  I do not know what it would feel like to be alone, yet I covet those quiet moments...those idle days that others take for granted.  I am conflicted.

Our nest is never empty!  Sometimes it almost bursts with life, the doors and walls straining to contain humanity, the rooms echoing the voices, the laughter. 

I look at the clock and muse over this temporary calm...the stillness...the eye of the hurricane.  Soon I will hear my mother stir and call to me.  Her progressing dementia will cause her to wander around her room until she remembers to call out to us to help her dress, assist her out of her room and down the stairs.

Our daughter will emerge next followed by our two granddaughters -- two chirping hungry birds wanting breakfast.  Our son-in-law will take longer while our son and his guest try to sleep through the bedlam.

At some point we may all converge.  It will be hours from now and may not happen at all.  There are schedules, activities, meetings that send all of us in different directions.  We are a stopping place on the way to a destination, a family hotel, a welcome center.  Do we mind?  Absolutely not!  We are thrilled to house them, to provide shelter, to dispense loving hospitality.  To relish the fullness of our home, to embrace the happy mess, to anticipate the noise and pandemonium without resentment is the life we cherish.  It is bloated with love and brimming with life. 

Some day our home will feel empty, but not today.

Dance Grandma

Dance competition season has begun and our 12 1/2 year old granddaughter went to her first day of dance competition yesterday. Wild horses couldn't keep me away. You've heard of Dance Moms? Well I am a card-carrying Dance Grandma. If I could I would go to all of her competitions. I do keep myself under control though. I do not 'trash' the other dancers. I do not brag; I do not point out flaws. However, I cannot say who else was dancing. I do not see anyone but our dear sweet Julie. For me, the sun rises and sets on her little dancing toes. I cannot explain the pride and love I feel as I watch her dance. It takes me back to the days of our own children performing. As a mother I always had butterflies in my tummy just before the children stepped onto the stage. My heart would beat rapidly and I would worry, watch, and pray as they performed whatever it was. When they were finished my joy was kept in check so as not to appear too proud, too doting, too caring. I would try to be objective, to help them with small corrections. I was the stern task master always wanting them to perform to their highest level. Now, as a grandmother, I can relax a little. I can enjoy with the wild abandon allowed a grandparent. I do not have to justify uncontrollable applause. I make no apologies for hooting and hollering. I see no flaws and sit back as a totally appreciative audience.

Anyway... there we were lined up in a row. Skip, me, my mother (Great Grandma to Julie and Lilly), Dorie, Gregg, (Julie's parents) and little sister Lilly. Four generations were seated and watching as Julie stepped out on the stage. My heart did not race because there was nothing to be nervous or worried about. There was pure enjoyment as she took her turns, twirls, steps, leaps and jumps. She was brilliant. She was beyond brilliant. When her performances were done I waited to see her as she changed and emerged from the dressing room. I was glowing, smiling from ear to ear. I rushed to her with a huge hug and then looked at her face. She was upset. She was devastated. What was wrong?! Why wasn't she smiling? A moment later she told me how she missed her turn because of a prop blocking her. I barely noticed. It was nothing; but not to her. For our granddaughter it was the worst blunder a person could make. She had let her dance team down. She had single-handedly ruined the dance. UGH! Was there no convincing her that no one noticed? Couldn't she read my sincerity as I told her she was wonderful, beautiful, perfect? I took a step back. There was no need to reassure her that we loved every single thing that she did. She KNEW that. It was her parents turn to deal with the drama. We loaded Mom in the car and began our 2 hour trek home. We had come to see what we wanted to see and regardless of the outcome, we were fulfilled. Later I texted our daughter to find out how Julie was doing. Dorie told me that Gregg had gotten the performance on video and showed it to Julie. Dorie sent me the video to watch as well. There! See? The purported 'HUGE' blunder was barely noticeable. What I saw was a young girl giving her dance everything she had and then some. What I saw was a sweet young thing who had talent, charm, ability, technique, stage presence, and love of dance. What I saw was what I had waited all my life to see. A grandchild performing to my utmost unfailing joy, pride, and awe!

Yes. I admit it. I am a Dance Grandma, and proud of it!

You see her, don't you?  She is the blurry one in the middle with moonbeams dancing on her head, with sunshine illuminating her face, and with starlight lighting her smile.