The other day, Mom wanted me to ask John to find her winter clothes. He told me where they were and I retrieved the two large plastic storage containers labeled by Mom, "Winter Cloths-Sweaters" and "Winter Cloths-Pants" and lugged them up to Mom's apartment before I left to babysit Ava and Anna. "Here's your winter clothes, Mom. Maybe Nancy can help you sort through them today and you can figure out what still fits and I'll wash them tomorrow."
When I returned home that afternoon and went up to see how Mom's day had gone, the first thing she said to me was, "Donna, I don't know whose clothes those are, but they are certainly not mine!"
"Yes they are," I said. I motioned for her to come with me as I went to the containers sitting on the floor beside her bed. I took the covers off and began pulling her polyester comfort slacks out one by one. "These are yours, Mom. These are the pants you order from Haband. You don't recognize them?"
"No. I don't think they're my clothes."
"Mom, look at these sweaters--this Christmas one--remember this?" I held it up. She shook her head no. She insisted again they weren't hers.
"Yes, these are your clothes, Mom. Look at the writing on these covers. Is that your handwriting?"
As I looked into her aging blue eyes, I could tell she was finally convinced they were her clothes. "It's the Alzheimer's, isn't it?" she said.
"I think it is, Mom. I'm so sorry."
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
What Was I Thinking?
One day, Mom and I were in the car together heading home from a trip to Manchester. She had strolled the isles of Michael's while I got my hair cut. As we visited in the car, I told her how my hairdresser tries to get me to color the gray out of my hair but I don't want to be married to having my roots done every six weeks.
Mom said, "The only time I ever colored my hair was for Mary's wedding. And that was before you were born." I didn't say anything right away as I tried to think what she might be referring to.
Mom said, "The only time I ever colored my hair was for Mary's wedding. And that was before you were born." I didn't say anything right away as I tried to think what she might be referring to.
Then I asked, "Are you talking about Jo-Ann's daughter, Mary?"
"Yessss," she insisted, "Mary."
"Mary Rogers, Rich's wife, my niece?" I couldn't hide the edge of incredulity in my voice. "Mom, I think I was born. I went to Mary's wedding with you."
Mom grew quiet for a few moments and I knew she was thinking about it. She finally said, "Oh Donna, of course, you were born. What is wrong with my thinking?"
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Look What I'm Reading
Logan and Claire are spending the afternoon with me. I take them up to see "Mamie" because Mom always loves having the little ones explore all the fun things she has out on her shelves. She says as Claire heads for the windowsill where the clear glass paper weight with a lavender lily entombed within it lives, "There's nothing there that she can hurt." I run behind Claire and grab the hefty ball before she tries to lift it and drop it on her toe! At 16 months, she is easily redirected back to the toy box under the desk.
Mom holds up a book. "Look what I'm reading." I bite my tongue when I see the title, Healthy Aging by Dr. Weil. I honestly don't know how many times over the past couple of years Mom has read that book thinking she has never read it before. We've had conversations about how I remember her reading it. In fact, I've told her twice that I received a hard copy of the book for Christmas one year.
"Have you ever read this, Donna?"
I simply shake my head up and down as I say yes.
Mom holds up a book. "Look what I'm reading." I bite my tongue when I see the title, Healthy Aging by Dr. Weil. I honestly don't know how many times over the past couple of years Mom has read that book thinking she has never read it before. We've had conversations about how I remember her reading it. In fact, I've told her twice that I received a hard copy of the book for Christmas one year.
"Have you ever read this, Donna?"
I simply shake my head up and down as I say yes.
The Test
Mom was referred to a geriatric neuropsychiatric practice called "Generations" for Alzheimer's testing. On the days leading up to the test, she would ask me to remind her who the vice president of the United States is and did I think she would have to count backwards from 100 because she never could do that anyway. I said, "Mom, this isn't a test you study for."
The testing itself was impressive. Mom and I were interviewed together for 15 minutes by Dr. Bouregard and then I was excused and he continued with Mom for over an hour. On the drive home, Mom said, "It wasn't bad at all. He told me a story about a little girl who wouldn't eat her spaghetti and then asked me to tell him the story again a couple of times. He showed me pictures of animals, like lions and elephants and I had to tell him what they were. Can you imagine, Donna? But he said I did real good. I don't think I have Alzheimer's, do you?"
"Maybe not, Mom. We'll have to wait and see what they say."
At the follow-up visit, both Dr. Bouregard and Dr. Vadalia, the head of the practice, sat down with us in a small conference room to go over the test results. After explaining that the test is designed to identify whether people have normal aging memory loss or Alzheimer's, they said the words Mom didn't expect to hear: "You are in early stage Alzheimer's." As she sat beside me, I could sense her shutting down, growing very quiet and frightened at the news.
"Why doesn't God just take me right now?" she murmured to me. I put my arm around her. I knew how devastated she was. Dr. Vadalia asked her what she knew about Alzheimer's and Mom told him about people she had seen with it in the nursing home she worked in as a nurse's aide many years ago. How they didn't know anyone and couldn't feed themselves. She said she didn't want to be like that. Dr. Vadalia explained the stages of Alzheimer's and reassured her she was no where close to being like those people. He told us about the value of medications, socialization, and exercise that helped slow the progression of the symptoms. Mom grew very quiet.
Thoughts raced through my head about how to increase her socialization. Did I hear him say she needed socialization of a minimum of five hours a day, five days a week? Her long phone conversations with her sisters didn't count. She needed to talk to people face to face. No, television certainly didn't count either, in fact, she shouldn't watch much TV at all. They were optimistic that if we could do these three things--the medication Aricept, increased socialization, and get her out walking--then the symptoms, e.g., memory loss, could be controlled and manageable until she progressed through to second stage Alzheimer's. And the disease would progress; nothing will stop that. And there were other medications for the advancing stages.
We talked some on the drive home as I tried to help her understand what they had said. "I just hate the thought of going into a nursing home, Donna. I've worked in them. I know what they're like." It was clear her greatest fear was giving up her life in the apartment over our garage. "That decision is way in the future, Mom. We will do everything we can to keep you in your apartment as long as possible."
The testing itself was impressive. Mom and I were interviewed together for 15 minutes by Dr. Bouregard and then I was excused and he continued with Mom for over an hour. On the drive home, Mom said, "It wasn't bad at all. He told me a story about a little girl who wouldn't eat her spaghetti and then asked me to tell him the story again a couple of times. He showed me pictures of animals, like lions and elephants and I had to tell him what they were. Can you imagine, Donna? But he said I did real good. I don't think I have Alzheimer's, do you?"
"Maybe not, Mom. We'll have to wait and see what they say."
At the follow-up visit, both Dr. Bouregard and Dr. Vadalia, the head of the practice, sat down with us in a small conference room to go over the test results. After explaining that the test is designed to identify whether people have normal aging memory loss or Alzheimer's, they said the words Mom didn't expect to hear: "You are in early stage Alzheimer's." As she sat beside me, I could sense her shutting down, growing very quiet and frightened at the news.
"Why doesn't God just take me right now?" she murmured to me. I put my arm around her. I knew how devastated she was. Dr. Vadalia asked her what she knew about Alzheimer's and Mom told him about people she had seen with it in the nursing home she worked in as a nurse's aide many years ago. How they didn't know anyone and couldn't feed themselves. She said she didn't want to be like that. Dr. Vadalia explained the stages of Alzheimer's and reassured her she was no where close to being like those people. He told us about the value of medications, socialization, and exercise that helped slow the progression of the symptoms. Mom grew very quiet.
Thoughts raced through my head about how to increase her socialization. Did I hear him say she needed socialization of a minimum of five hours a day, five days a week? Her long phone conversations with her sisters didn't count. She needed to talk to people face to face. No, television certainly didn't count either, in fact, she shouldn't watch much TV at all. They were optimistic that if we could do these three things--the medication Aricept, increased socialization, and get her out walking--then the symptoms, e.g., memory loss, could be controlled and manageable until she progressed through to second stage Alzheimer's. And the disease would progress; nothing will stop that. And there were other medications for the advancing stages.
We talked some on the drive home as I tried to help her understand what they had said. "I just hate the thought of going into a nursing home, Donna. I've worked in them. I know what they're like." It was clear her greatest fear was giving up her life in the apartment over our garage. "That decision is way in the future, Mom. We will do everything we can to keep you in your apartment as long as possible."
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Old Pictures
Today I decided to organize my office closet. Nestled in the back for the past eight years was a box of Mom's papers. I settled onto the floor to see what was there. The first manilla envelope I picked up had "Larmie, George" written on it in Mom's handwriting. I figured it would be some of my dad's stuff. Instead it was an envelope full of pictures of my oldest brother, George. Pictures of him all decked out in a white suit and white Buck's on his feet standing with one arm around his first girlfriend, Virginia. Looks like a school dance picture. There were pictures of George and his wife, Judy, their kids Keith and Lona when they were babies and toddlers. A note from Judy.
I kept exploring the contents: a journal of Mom's notes to Dad after they had gone to the Marriage Encounter Weekend back in the early 1980s; genealogy notes for Dad's side of the family that Mom had collected from various relatives over the years; a journal of writing for her grandchildren with stories from her life; and lots and lots of miscellaneous photographs.
I got them all organized into a new box and took them up to Mom's apartment. "Look what I found," I said as I put the box on her couch. Her forehead crinkled at the sight of the unfamiliar box. "Oh this is just a new box I found that is perfect for all that stuff that was in that old white box you've been looking for." Mom knew what I was talking about and she immediately put away her crocheting so she could dive in and see what was there. I sat on the couch as she opened the envelope with "Larmie, George" written on it. She pulled out the pictures and quickly thumbed through them.
"Do you know who those kids are?" I asked.
"Not really."
"Keith and Lona when they were babies. Don't you love that picture of Dad with Keith?" I held it up for her. She murmured that she liked it. Then she picked up the picture of George in his Army uniform. She studied it. She turned it over and found no name on the back. "Do you know who that is?" I asked. She paused again. I waited. "I'm not sure. Is it Dad?" I told her it was her son, George. "Oh that's right!" she said.
 |
| I love this picture of my Dad from 1968 with my nephew Keith. |
The Reluctant Servant
(I wrote the following piece a short time after my mother was diagnosed with early stage Alzheimer's. It seems a fitting piece of writing with which to begin this new blog.)
Grabbing the steaming iron, I force it down on the thick polyester pant leg. I have pinned my mother’s slacks a hem-length shorter. This is an easy project and, even so, it’s taken a good deal of self-talk to finally be standing here at the ironing board.
Eight years ago when she was 77, Mom moved into the efficiency apartment over our garage. Back then I thought, she is across the drive way, not 2 ½ hours away anymore. It’ll be easy. I made sure it was easy—for me. “I can’t be your companion, Mom. I’m here for you, but I work, I need down time.”
Mom had her own car, her license, her independence. It worked well. She got her own groceries. Drove herself to White River to see her old friends and neighbors, visit her sisters, spend a night or two with my brother Dana, and sometimes had lunch with her niece Susie who was suffering from metastatic breast cancer. I always worried when she pulled out of the driveway. I’d whisper a prayer for her and all the other drivers’ safety for the hour and a half trip. In those early days, I knew deep down it wasn’t really going to be easy. Receiving the news last month that Mom was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s made that sentiment a gross understatement.
I have decided while steaming the new hem into place that I will do the hand stitching as I visit with Mom. “Did you bring my book up from the car yesterday?” Mom says, alarm in her voice, as I trudge up her stairs. No “Hello.” No “How are you?”
I picture the 8X10-inch hard covered, blue spiral-bound sketch book bulging with loose papers; a thick rubber band around the middle keeping it together. It had been on the back seat of my car and I remember grabbing it and hugging it to my chest like I used to carry my books in high school. I had carried it and two bags of groceries up her stairs and deposited everything on her kitchen table.
“Yes. I’m pretty sure I put it on your table.”
“No. It wasn’t on the table. I’ve looked and looked everywhere. I don’t even remember seeing it after we got back from Mary’s.”
Several years ago, Mom began to illustrate some of the stories of her life that she’s written about. We pasted typewritten copies of the stories with the illustrations in the sketchbook. And in recent months, she has expanded it to be more of a scrap book with pictures of all her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. It is Mom’s big project. She often speaks about how much fun it will be for people to look through it. We had taken it to her granddaughter Mary’s house a couple of months ago. We brought it home yesterday.
I check my car. The sketch book isn’t there. I go back to my house, her laundry in hand. After throwing her dirty clothes in the washer, I look for any sign of the sketchbook at my house. Did I absentmindedly take it home and put it on my dining room table? Nope. I go back to her apartment.
“Mom, are you sure you didn’t pick it up and put it somewhere? I’m positive I set it down on your kitchen table!”
“No, Donna. It’s not here,” she insists.
I look on her storage shelves in the garage. Nothing. I return to my car, look in the way-back, look on the floor of the back seat. Nothing. I’m beginning to think I’m crazy. Perhaps we didn’t have it with us when we left Mary’s after all.
“Do you remember us actually taking it out of Mary’s house, Mom?”
We both do. I know it has to be in Mom’s apartment somewhere. I look in the refrigerator. I look in her bureau drawers, her closet, the bathroom. I scan her shelves full of magazines, arts and crafts supplies, self-help books, Tupperware containers full of who-knows-what. It’s not in sight. Then I spot it. It is neatly tucked onto a shelf with magazine-size craft books down behind her rocking chair.
I sink onto the couch across from her, positioned so that I am lined up with her good ear—the one with the hearing aid. Mom is watching Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader? I proceed to hem her slacks. Mom sits in her recliner and tells me for the second time that the people at the senior center want her to paint another scene on their storefront window. I had dropped her off in the morning at the senior center for several hours. We are experimenting to find out if she will find companionship there at least three of the recommended five days a week. This is one of the three-pronged approaches we need to embrace during these early stages of Alzheimer’s: 1) a medication called Aricept, 2) 4-5 hours of socialization each day, and 3) physical exercise.
Three years ago, Mom failed the mandatory driving test when she tried to renew her license. After much discussion, she decided not to try again after the required 10 days’ waiting period. She gave up driving and now I have a new role, chauffeur. As I drove the 15-mile round trip to the senior center earlier, it felt like my life had played some kind of trick on me. In my late-thirties and early-forties, I gladly chauffeured my two young teenagers to various school functions, music and dance lessons, or back and forth to friends’ houses. I was invested in their futures. Sacrificing my time was not only my duty, but my calling. This is altogether different and I balk at the thought of sacrificing three mornings every week to transport my mother back and forth. Is this a glimpse of what life is going to be like? I wonder.
These are the early days following a serious diagnosis. Even though it wasn’t unexpected, it still is new and I’m on a learning curve. I suddenly find myself much more patient and understanding, no longer so annoyed by her behavior. Only a few weeks ago in the grocery store I badgered her about a bag of pitted dates.
“Oh my! Look at how they are packaging those dates now,” she said.
“Mom, you have been buying these, two or three at a time, for the past three years. You seriously don’t remember?” She seriously didn’t remember and I wanted her to remember, so I kept trying to jog her memory. I wouldn’t let it go until another shopper who was within ear shot glanced our way and I realized how I must have sounded. So, I finally said, “It’s gotta be the new packaging that’s throwing you off.”
I continue to hem the pants as we half pay attention to the game show on TV. During a commercial, Mom asks me, “What would you do with a nice chicken breast? How would you cook it?”
I hear her question but am distracted with visions of multiple weekend visits with her after Dad died when she cooked parmesan chicken breasts with mashed potatoes and a can of green beans for our dinner. “You used to make parmesan chicken.”
Mom looks at me and I can tell she’s trying to remember. She says she doesn’t. I realize another startling and complicated aspect of what the future might hold: Mom may not be able to continue to cook for herself before too long. I recall she recently said, “I’ve never made apple sauce before. How would you go about making it?” Mental note to self: keep an eye on more than just making sure the oven is turned off.
“Let me show you that chicken breast,” Mom says. She goes to her freezer and hands me a frozen, plastic-wrapped, fully-cooked turkey breast that has a date from nearly a year ago. I explain what it is and she exclaims how thankful she is to have me to rely on. She opens the refrigerator and says, “I’ll put it here in the bottom part and let it thaw. I’ll heat it up tomorrow.”
Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader? ends, the hemming project is complete, and an hour has elapsed. Mom has come up with several options for her dinner. “Pancakes wouldn’t be too many calories, right?” she asks.
“Well, it would be better if you had something with vegetables.”
“Oh, I eat vegetables every day. Fruit too.”
“You wouldn’t have a vegetable if you had pancakes for dinner and you didn’t have a vegetable for lunch,” I remind her. I wonder if I should take more of an active role in her menu planning. I don’t want to. I want to believe she will be able to take care of her own meals for a while longer. She has been gaining weight. Perhaps I need to pay more attention. It was clear I needed to take control of her medications a couple of months ago. Probably should have done that a lot sooner. But I am a reluctant servant and I decide I won’t decide about her meals today. It is time to leave and let her cook what she wants for her dinner—at least for today.
Grabbing the steaming iron, I force it down on the thick polyester pant leg. I have pinned my mother’s slacks a hem-length shorter. This is an easy project and, even so, it’s taken a good deal of self-talk to finally be standing here at the ironing board.
Eight years ago when she was 77, Mom moved into the efficiency apartment over our garage. Back then I thought, she is across the drive way, not 2 ½ hours away anymore. It’ll be easy. I made sure it was easy—for me. “I can’t be your companion, Mom. I’m here for you, but I work, I need down time.”
Mom had her own car, her license, her independence. It worked well. She got her own groceries. Drove herself to White River to see her old friends and neighbors, visit her sisters, spend a night or two with my brother Dana, and sometimes had lunch with her niece Susie who was suffering from metastatic breast cancer. I always worried when she pulled out of the driveway. I’d whisper a prayer for her and all the other drivers’ safety for the hour and a half trip. In those early days, I knew deep down it wasn’t really going to be easy. Receiving the news last month that Mom was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s made that sentiment a gross understatement.
I have decided while steaming the new hem into place that I will do the hand stitching as I visit with Mom. “Did you bring my book up from the car yesterday?” Mom says, alarm in her voice, as I trudge up her stairs. No “Hello.” No “How are you?”
I picture the 8X10-inch hard covered, blue spiral-bound sketch book bulging with loose papers; a thick rubber band around the middle keeping it together. It had been on the back seat of my car and I remember grabbing it and hugging it to my chest like I used to carry my books in high school. I had carried it and two bags of groceries up her stairs and deposited everything on her kitchen table.
“Yes. I’m pretty sure I put it on your table.”
“No. It wasn’t on the table. I’ve looked and looked everywhere. I don’t even remember seeing it after we got back from Mary’s.”
Several years ago, Mom began to illustrate some of the stories of her life that she’s written about. We pasted typewritten copies of the stories with the illustrations in the sketchbook. And in recent months, she has expanded it to be more of a scrap book with pictures of all her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. It is Mom’s big project. She often speaks about how much fun it will be for people to look through it. We had taken it to her granddaughter Mary’s house a couple of months ago. We brought it home yesterday.
I check my car. The sketch book isn’t there. I go back to my house, her laundry in hand. After throwing her dirty clothes in the washer, I look for any sign of the sketchbook at my house. Did I absentmindedly take it home and put it on my dining room table? Nope. I go back to her apartment.
“Mom, are you sure you didn’t pick it up and put it somewhere? I’m positive I set it down on your kitchen table!”
“No, Donna. It’s not here,” she insists.
I look on her storage shelves in the garage. Nothing. I return to my car, look in the way-back, look on the floor of the back seat. Nothing. I’m beginning to think I’m crazy. Perhaps we didn’t have it with us when we left Mary’s after all.
“Do you remember us actually taking it out of Mary’s house, Mom?”
We both do. I know it has to be in Mom’s apartment somewhere. I look in the refrigerator. I look in her bureau drawers, her closet, the bathroom. I scan her shelves full of magazines, arts and crafts supplies, self-help books, Tupperware containers full of who-knows-what. It’s not in sight. Then I spot it. It is neatly tucked onto a shelf with magazine-size craft books down behind her rocking chair.
I sink onto the couch across from her, positioned so that I am lined up with her good ear—the one with the hearing aid. Mom is watching Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader? I proceed to hem her slacks. Mom sits in her recliner and tells me for the second time that the people at the senior center want her to paint another scene on their storefront window. I had dropped her off in the morning at the senior center for several hours. We are experimenting to find out if she will find companionship there at least three of the recommended five days a week. This is one of the three-pronged approaches we need to embrace during these early stages of Alzheimer’s: 1) a medication called Aricept, 2) 4-5 hours of socialization each day, and 3) physical exercise.
Three years ago, Mom failed the mandatory driving test when she tried to renew her license. After much discussion, she decided not to try again after the required 10 days’ waiting period. She gave up driving and now I have a new role, chauffeur. As I drove the 15-mile round trip to the senior center earlier, it felt like my life had played some kind of trick on me. In my late-thirties and early-forties, I gladly chauffeured my two young teenagers to various school functions, music and dance lessons, or back and forth to friends’ houses. I was invested in their futures. Sacrificing my time was not only my duty, but my calling. This is altogether different and I balk at the thought of sacrificing three mornings every week to transport my mother back and forth. Is this a glimpse of what life is going to be like? I wonder.
These are the early days following a serious diagnosis. Even though it wasn’t unexpected, it still is new and I’m on a learning curve. I suddenly find myself much more patient and understanding, no longer so annoyed by her behavior. Only a few weeks ago in the grocery store I badgered her about a bag of pitted dates.
“Oh my! Look at how they are packaging those dates now,” she said.
“Mom, you have been buying these, two or three at a time, for the past three years. You seriously don’t remember?” She seriously didn’t remember and I wanted her to remember, so I kept trying to jog her memory. I wouldn’t let it go until another shopper who was within ear shot glanced our way and I realized how I must have sounded. So, I finally said, “It’s gotta be the new packaging that’s throwing you off.”
I continue to hem the pants as we half pay attention to the game show on TV. During a commercial, Mom asks me, “What would you do with a nice chicken breast? How would you cook it?”
I hear her question but am distracted with visions of multiple weekend visits with her after Dad died when she cooked parmesan chicken breasts with mashed potatoes and a can of green beans for our dinner. “You used to make parmesan chicken.”
Mom looks at me and I can tell she’s trying to remember. She says she doesn’t. I realize another startling and complicated aspect of what the future might hold: Mom may not be able to continue to cook for herself before too long. I recall she recently said, “I’ve never made apple sauce before. How would you go about making it?” Mental note to self: keep an eye on more than just making sure the oven is turned off.
“Let me show you that chicken breast,” Mom says. She goes to her freezer and hands me a frozen, plastic-wrapped, fully-cooked turkey breast that has a date from nearly a year ago. I explain what it is and she exclaims how thankful she is to have me to rely on. She opens the refrigerator and says, “I’ll put it here in the bottom part and let it thaw. I’ll heat it up tomorrow.”
Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader? ends, the hemming project is complete, and an hour has elapsed. Mom has come up with several options for her dinner. “Pancakes wouldn’t be too many calories, right?” she asks.
“Well, it would be better if you had something with vegetables.”
“Oh, I eat vegetables every day. Fruit too.”
“You wouldn’t have a vegetable if you had pancakes for dinner and you didn’t have a vegetable for lunch,” I remind her. I wonder if I should take more of an active role in her menu planning. I don’t want to. I want to believe she will be able to take care of her own meals for a while longer. She has been gaining weight. Perhaps I need to pay more attention. It was clear I needed to take control of her medications a couple of months ago. Probably should have done that a lot sooner. But I am a reluctant servant and I decide I won’t decide about her meals today. It is time to leave and let her cook what she wants for her dinner—at least for today.
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