Midlife’s A Trip

Mom, Dementia & Me — I Am My Purse

Posted on 01. Sep, 2008 by Karen.

  My mother is 89 years old and has severe dementia.  It’s not Alzheimer’s — or so the doctors say — but whatever it is has impaired my mother to the extent that she has to live in an assisted living environment.  There so many things Mom forgets these days that trying to list them here would be exhaustive.  But suffice it to say, that her short-term memory is completely gone and her long-term memory is little better.

One thing Mom doesn’t forget, though, is her purse.  She asks for it constantly.  If she can’t find it, she’s been known to pick up someone else’s and not be happy when you try to get it back.  Now you’re probably asking “well why don’t you get her a purse”?  We did but she always misplaces it or packs it away.  I think the reason that the purse is something she remembers is because she carried one with her for her whole adult life.  As have I.

If you’re like me, you don’t leave the house without the darn thing.  You have purses for daytime, for evening, even little tiny ones for the times when you don’t want to carry a purse but do anyway because how can you not have your purse with you?  For women in our society, a purse isn’t just an accessory — it’s a badge, an outward manifestation of our being.  And I think that’s how it is with my mother.

Some part of her that hasn’t been damaged by the erosion of her brain intuitively knows that life can’t be lived fully without her purse.  It’s not that she needs to carry anything in it, because these days hers is usually empty.  And it’s not to complete her outfit, because my mother’s wonderful sense of style left town with her memory.  No it’s just real basic.  I think if Mom could put it into words she would simply say:

I am my purse.

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Mom, Dementia and Me — Rolling Eyes

Posted on 17. Jul, 2008 by Karen.

My mother is now 89 and suffering from severe dementia.  She lives in a small assisted living facility where they are very kind to her.  But the wicked impact of her dementia has left my mother with — well, behavior problems that sometimes make her as obstinate and difficult as my four year old niece. 

This evening I was by to visit Mom.  We were sitting at the dining room table eating grapes together as the caregiver gave me a brief update on my mother.  The scene gave me a feeling of deja vu as I remembered the days when my siblings and I would be on the “hot seat” as my mother regaled my dad with our shortcomings while he tried to eat his dinner. 

According to the caregiver, Mom was refusing help on some daily tasks that she really does need assistance with.  So, in an attempt to mediate, I patiently explained to my mother that the caregiver was only trying to help.  Mom sat in her chair slightly turned away from me.  As I talked, I watched a veil of boredom slide over my mother’s face as she ignored me and picked at her nails.  At one point, I asked Mom if she understood what I was talking about.

In response, she slowly glanced in my direction — and rolled her eyes.  It was the same eye-rolling I used to treat her to when I was a teenager and supremely tired of hearing whatever Mom was saying.  I was a good kid but like we all did, I sometimes gave my mother the blues.  And I remember how she’d say:

Just wait until you have children.  Then you’ll appreciate what we have to put up with as your parents.

Neither Mom nor I could have known that the “retribution” she promised for my teen-age defiance wasn’t me becoming a parent but me becoming the parent of my parent.

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Mom, Dementia and Me — Moments of Decline

Posted on 19. Feb, 2008 by Karen.

I was out visiting my mom in her assisted living facility.  After we shared a snack together, we walked around to Mom’s room so she could brush her teeth.  Her toothbrush was nowhere to be found even though I checked the usual hiding places where my mother stashes her belongings.

As I was about to give up my search, I noticed the little potted plant my mother somehow manages to keep alive and healthy despite her dementia.  Something about the plant looked weird though and as I looked closer, I saw that among the green leaves was Mom’s toothbrush, planted firmly and deliberately in the dirt. 

I rescued the toothbrush which luckily had been planted brush side up.  As I washed and put it in the medicine chest, I had tears in my eyes because it struck me that this was another small moment of decline.  Can’t say I ever get used to it.

What about those of you with loved ones affected by dementia?

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Mom, Dementia and Me—You Can Have the Remote

Posted on 11. Jan, 2008 by Karen.

I was out visiting my mom recently.  As I’ve mentioned she has severe dementia and lives in a memory care center.  Because Mom believes that she is perpetually being evicted from her “dorm room” as she calls it, she packs everything in the room–everyday.  The thing we have the hardest time finding is the TV remote.

So each visit I try to ferret the thing out from its latest hiding place to support my fantasy that my mother actually watches her television.  She doesn’t.  But for some reason it gives me comfort to think that, despite her dementia, she has the ability to concentrate on a television show.

As I started looking for the remote, Mom just sat there and watched me intently.  After going through the closet with no luck, I headed to the dresser.  Mom continued to watch.  I pulled out drawer after drawer with no success.

Now for the squeamish and those who believe that possession of the remote is a sacred thing, like my dad did–you may want to stop reading here.  OK, don’t say I didn’t warn you.  I pulled out the last drawer and there was the remote in all its glory lying next to the toilet brush from Mom’s bathroom.  Eeeewww!!

As I gingerly plucked the toilet brush and the remote out of the drawer, I saw a little smile curve the corners of Mom’s mouth.  She didn’t say a word but I’ll lay you a dollar to a donut that she remembered those days when Dad used to hog the remote and was thinking—

“You can have it honey.”

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Mom, Dementia and Me; The Power of the Purse

Posted on 17. Dec, 2007 by Karen.

I went to visit my mom today in the memory care facility where she lives due to her dementia.  It’s always interesting to me that the ladies in the facility always walk the halls with their purses.  Most of them are very elderly and have severe dementia like Mom.  But the one thing they remember is that they’re supposed to carry a purse.  And so they do.

It seems that the ravages of the disease can’t wipe the imprint of years of carrying a purse.  Now from time to time, the ladies lose their purses or end up with someone else’s.  And sometimes there’s nothing in their purses but Kleenex and a piece of bread from the sandwich at lunch.  But dementia or not–the purse remains a sacred accessory.

So today Mom had her purse on her arm as we walked around the halls–one of her favorite activities.  As we strolled along I realized I had my purse with me too.  I had to laugh because this was a snapshot of my future.  Me thirty years from now still carrying my purse, still recognizing the power of this sacred accessory no matter what the state of my memory. 

Do you feel the power of the purse?

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Mom, Dementia and Me–Whatever

Posted on 21. Nov, 2007 by Karen.

I visited my mother the other day at her assisted living facility.  Usually when I arrive, Mom’s face lights up.  In turn I light up because she still remembers me.  This day though I didn’t see that look.

Instead she looked at me like I was an annoyance, an interruption.  She was very focused on packing her room, as she does daily.  I know I’ve blogged before about my mother’s obsessive packing so don’t think I’ve forgotten.  It’s just that sometimes the shock of how bare her room is spills over yet another time into my postings here. 

During our visit Mom was completely focused on a wall shelf.  Now nothing’s on it but her dementia had her stuck in the observation that the shelf needed to come down.  Every time I explained to her that it was a fixture of the room, she looked at me with the look my son used to give me as a teenager.  That look of disdain.  That look that says "whatever".

Funny how I go through these experiences with my mother in her dementia that remind me of raising my son.  My sister says the same thing as she finds herself comparing her 3 year old with Mom.  Sometimes we laugh about this experience of parenting our parent.  And sometimes we just say "whatever." 

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