Listen to thisWe put Mom in a home a year or so ago.
It was a hard decision, of course – these things always are. But at the last, it seemed the best for everyone – most importantly, for Mom.
It’s funny. I remember growing up, we’d see people who were in the throes of Alzheimer’s or some other similar dementia, and my Mom would say, “If I ever get like that, just put a pillow over my face.” And as much as she’d joke about it, you could tell it was one of the things that scared her most being here but not “here”.
Well, my family’s sense of humour being as dark as it is, this became a sort of running gag for us all. Mom would forget her purse and I’d say, “Is it time for the pillow yet?” She’d scowl and tell me to do something that was anatomically impossible. (You don’t live a life as a military wife without acquiring some colourful expressions.)
After a while, it fell into that kind of shorthand or code that every family has. Mom would stumble over a name or a song lyric or a word and my sister would reach behind herself, pull out one of the pillows on the chesterfield, and start plumping it up. And we’d all laugh and Mom would snarl something about ungrateful children and laugh right along with us.
For a long time, it was funny. Then, it wasn’t.
I guess it stopped being funny about five or six years ago. Alzheimer’s is a creeping menace. I’m sure it’s different for every person, but in my Mom’s case, it trickled into her mind in ways that alternately frustrated and amused her. For the longest time, she’d blame it on being a senior, or what she called “my C.R.S.”. (C.R.S. stood for “Can’t Remember Stuff") (Although Mom never said “stuff” – remember, she was a military wife.)
I live a long way from Mom and Dad – halfway across the country. So while the fog crept in slowly and quietly for my sisters, who saw Mom every week, it was different for me. I’d see her once every six or eight months, sometimes even less frequently. And every time I’d see her, the change would be more dramatic, the loss of memory and conversational skills and presence more pronounced.
God forgive me, but I began to dread visiting them.
Well, this kind of thing is a slippery slope. And while my sister would help, in the past few years it became clear that as old and infirm as Dad was getting, Mom was getting to be too much for him to handle on his own. Safety and health issues became the main concern. So – with my Dad reluctantly accepting this new reality – my sister made arrangements for Mom to be on a waiting list at a lovely facility nearby, where she’d be comfortable and safe and Dad could get up to visit her easily. And the call eventually did come.
There was a period of adjustment, of course. Mom was distressed and outraged that my sister would be so mean to her, wouldn’t let her go home. My sister said, “We just can’t take care of you the way you need, Mom.”
Mom sneered balefully. “Take care ofme? I can take care ofyou! Why, you haven’t even come to see me this week!.”
It was my sister’s third visit that day.
But once that adjustment was made, things began to look up. There’s no smoking in the home, but that worked itself out nicely – Mom’s forgotten that she’s been a chainsmoker for sixty-five years. Now, instead of sitting in her chair puffing, she walks the halls with two of her friends in the home – the only other residents who are able to move around. The Three Amigos. Which is a problem for the nurses, because these three think they’re in their own homes, and that every room belongs to them, and that anything left out in those rooms is something stolen from them, so they better grab it and take it back to the room they sleep in for safekeeping.
That’s right – my Mom is a gang leader, head of a roving band of kleptomaniacs terrorizing the local senior’s home. And while I feel badly for their victims (and to be fair, the nurses make sure everything gets back to its rightful owner), I can’t help feeling just a little proud of Mom.
I visited her in the residence about a month ago. She introduced me to her new homies. Then she took me aside and whispered conspiratorially.
“Don’t say anything,” she said. “But I think they may be just a little ... you know ...” and she twirled her finger beside her head.
It’s OK, Mom. Your secret is safe with me.
This feature: From Nils Ling’s book Truths and Half Truths. A collection of some of his most memorable and hilarious columns. Write to him at RR #9, 747 Brackley Point Road, Charlottetown, PE, C1E 1Z3, Canada.
