The old John Lennon song comes back to haunt me when I get so far behind. You know the kind of feeling. You are on auto-pilot, not paying attention. The only things that get done are the necessary obligations, and the pressing emergencies that come from everyone’s distress. So it has been a month since I have sat down to type.
It has been a really hard month. It seems like each day I see a little more erosion of mom’s personality. She has no zest at all. She won’t even talk to me unless I really insist on a verbal response. More often than not I have to spoon feed her to get her to finish her meals.
I think the worst development in the past month is how I have come to really dislike my own reactions. I can get impatient with Mom when she “changes her mind” and becomes uncooperative in the middle of a transfer to the commode or while I’m trying to file her nails. I find my self raising my voice when she forgets to swallow her pills, while I am reminding her not to chew them. Of course the whole time she is saying, “I am not chewing it…” as she grinds away on a capsule. I know she is not lying when she tells me “I did swallow it.” Her brain can’t fill in the gap between the pill in her mouth and my instructions. So she tells me what ever will make me stop giving her the pills. But that is not intentional, that is typical of the disease. Why do I get frustrated. I should be kinder.
Well, this is kind of a pointless post, isn’t it? But that seems to be the tenor of my times lately. It all feels pointless. Thank you to everyone who helps with Mom, who prays for her, couldn’t do it without you.
peace
Posted by rjblackburn under Life with Mom
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It seems to me anymore, that every good day is followed by a bad day. I am very grateful for the good days, the days when it is easy to take a breath and enjoy the little simple things. I am grateful for the grace that lets me remember the good ones. I need to remember when there is no time to take a breath, when just putting on Mom’s disposable underwear is an ordeal. I am grateful that, when Mom looks me in the eye with her “angry eyeballs” because I need to move her from the commode to her bed, I can remember that it is the Alzheimer’s that I am fighting, not her.
Most people have never seen Mom give anyone a nasty look. They always tell me what a sweet thing she is. And she can be so nice, very polite, gracious even. This past 5 years, since Dad died, she has pretty much reserved her anger for me. And when being stubborn and angry wont get her out of standing up, she turns on this panicked expression. When she looks at me that way, it will bring help from every corner of the room to tell me why I am expecting too much of her. When I was helping her into the car tonight after our family night at Swarthmore Pizza, Mom flung herself down across the center console and turned on the look. I told her she had no reason to be afraid, I helped her sit upright, I told her Alan could see everything was all right, so turn off the look. Her face softened, I got her upright in the car seat, buckled her in, and she said sweetly, “thank you very much.”
What scares me is the reality of what can come out of us, when our guard is down. Mom’s veneer of civilization is being eroded by her disease. And 90 percent of the time, even with her guard down, she is genuinely nice. But when she does not get her way, something else sneaks out. I ask myself what I will be like at 89? Will I be in a murky fog of dementia like Mom? More importantly, will I be nice even 75 percent of the time? When reason and discipline have lost to physiology and pathology, will my heart be filled with mostly good, or mostly bad? Mom does not listen well, when I read the Bible. She seems disinterested and a little impatient when we put a preacher on TV. But the old hymns still have a powerful effect on her, I like to start each day with the good old songs of faith. I hope that I will be mostly nice and love the old wonderful songs of the church when I am as incapacitated as she is. But perhaps that wont be necessary. Oh how I long to have this mortal to be gobbled up by immortality. How I wish I might see Him coming in the clouds. Instead of breaking down and wearing out, I want to be transformed, remade into the image of the savior. What a day that will be. But tomorrow is another day, and unless He comes tonight, I will need to deal with bandages and disposable underwear, lotions and medications, the stuff of everyday, one more day. So I am off to bed. Shalom
