Was it just a year ago that I was staying at my Mom's house? I'm really bad with time. And so very much has happened in the past year. Anyway, for a while I spent time with Mom in her house when she was deciding to move to an assisted living apartment.
She had a very nice house, in which she lived for 15 years, by herself. She had great neighbors and a special friend, with whom she shared a dog, Baxter. Her friend, Derwood, would come in the morning and take Baxter, surely the most spoiled dog ever, out for a walk. He'd spend the day with Mom and Baxter and then return to his farm house. It was a good arrangement. Sometimes after dinner and after Derwood went home, Mom would have dessert with her next door neighbor, an extremely nice widower. In other words, Mom had a good thang going.
Then, as happened in her family, she began to get a bit confused. Not always. Mostly she was very sharp. She continued to create beautiful quilts for all her grandchildren and great-grand children. She continued to cook meals for herself and Derwood and Baxter, and she continued to have a very active life.
She was 92 when I went to stay with her for extended periods. I wanted to spend time with her and she wanted help going through and getting rid of stuff. Of course, she had shed most of her belongings when she moved from her Illinois home of 42 years, but she'd been in her North Carolina home for 15 years and you know how stuff accumulates.
In late summer and autumn we began encouraging her to consider assisted living apartments. Most of the time she was fine, but now and then she'd forget to turn off the stove. Eventually she sold her car. I spent more time with her. Nancy, my sister, was always Mom's anchor. Nancy went to all Mom's doctor appointments with her, and she and her husband, Chip, enabled Mom to stay in her home long past the time when she would have been able to if Nan and Chip hadn't been so willing and able to assist her.
My position, my job in all this, was different. Mom trusted Nancy completely, which is only right. Nancy, who is a saint, made the drive through the mountains near daily to check on Mom, take her shopping, to see her doctor, etc. I would go stay for a week or two at a time and observe Mom 24/7. Because there were gaps in the time I spent with her, I noticed more, I think, than Nan. It's sort of like that horrid experiment when you put a frog in a beaker of water and slowly raise the temperature until the frog boils. It's easy not to notice the gradual decline of mental function when you are with it all the time. I, however, would see changes.
There are a couple of other factors that came into play. Nancy is just a kinder, gentler person than I and had a closer relationship with our mother. Also, our mother, though she didn't finish high school, was one of the smartest people I've ever known and she could fake it with the best of them.
During the times I stayed with Mom, she often thought I was "the help." She fired me more than once. She told me to "get back to the kitchen and get to work." She asked me my name. It can be funny, or it can be devastating, when your mother asks you what your name is. I once yelled at her when I caught her about to take a drink from a bottle of hand cleaning gel. She was very angry with me for yelling. She constantly asked me when Nancy was going to come back.
The three of us went to her primary care physician during that time. Her physician loved Mom and the feeling was mutual. Mom would be dressed up nicely - she was quite the fashion plate - and really with it when she went to see the doctor. I stayed in the room after Nan and Mom left and talked to the doc. I told the doctor about forgetting to turn off the stove, about asking my name, about asking what cottage cheese was. It's just so easy to want people to be well so badly that we overlook some things. Mom was angry at me for "telling on her."
Nancy found a wonderful apartment for Mom and at the last minute Mom decided that she was just going to stay in her house. We arranged help for Mom over and over again and she'd fire them over and over again. She was as independent and stubborn as only a Shubert can be. So Nan and I did what we had to do. We brought in the big gun - Number One - Paul, her first born. He talked to her on the phone and by the time Nan and I arrived at her house, Mom was ready to move.
This is all so poignant now because I see so much of Mom in me. I've taken over the pie baking for Thanksgiving. I've saved so much of her fabric to make my opus quilt. I even have her sewing machine, though I'm sure it will never perform for me the way it did for her for so many decades.
It's painful for me to admit that I've left the hose on over night. I'm normally a bit of a nut about water conservation. I sold my car because I had trouble with shifting and all the other details one has to do to drive. I couldn't find my way across town anyway. I got lost on many occasions. I have stood in the shower crying because I didn't know what I was supposed to do. But for the most part, the simplification of my life, medication, and the endless support of my husband, family, and a few close friends, enables me to carry on, faking it with the best of them. I've relearned much and I now drive an automatic transmission car around town using GPS.
I consider myself a pioneer in navigating this shit because I fully intend to continue writing about it. There is also a whole other dimension to my condition, that I may get into at another time, but right now, I'm content to report how it feels to have my thinking dulled and my memories gone.
I can still be quite bitter about stolen memories. I don't remember the first time I held Bump, my perfect grandson. I have glimpses of memories from the past six or so years. Much of it is just blank. I'm not going to get that back. I understand that. But I really work at keeping those neurons popping now. I do what I can do. I remember chuckling at work when I realized the true meaning of the phrase, "I've forgotten more about therapy than you know."
A friend told me today that he thinks I'm very fast-witted and sharp. It's true. I am. Much of the time I am. And I can tell you in detail what was going on in rural America in the 1970s, but don't ask me me too much about two weeks ago. And as I said, I take after my Mama. I started out smart and I am one hell of an actress. I'm an expert at interpersonal communication and the nuances that make all the difference. But I can't trust that the words that come out of my mouth are what I intend and I can't remember squat from recent times.
I intend to continue to have adventures. I intend to continue to travel and learn and experience. I just realize now that I may need to take more pictures in order to remember my adventures. I'm working on my photography skills. (See, that was a bit of a joke, and you can laugh now.)
Whew! Overall, it's just ding dang good that I'm still relatively smart, good looking, and fun to be with, eh? I am grateful. This is interesting, albeit confusing and frustrating and more than a bit sad. Let's focus on the interesting.
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