Mom for Mayor

One of the most difficult tasks I have ever encountered in my life is being the caregiver for my mother the past ten years as her vascular dementia developed into Alzheimer’s.  However, one of the greatest joys I have is ironically being the caregiver for my mother for a decade.  The role reversals, the mind-blowing, heart-wrenching decisions, the rollercoaster ride of emotions,  the sacrifice my family makes and the tears.  Tears of sadness, tears of frustration, tears of exhaustion, just tears, sometimes for days on end.  

It hasn’t all been tears and sadness.  There have been countless smiles accompanied with much laughter.  My mom (Norma Jean) has a quick wit and loves to interact with people by kissing, hugging, pinching, tickling, elbowing and who knows what else she has done when I’m not looking. Her playfulness is an instant attraction to young and old alike.  She is a people person and enjoys being with acquaintances, strangers, friends and as often as allows, her family.  Her beautiful smile has always drawn people to her and more often than not, friends recount her smile as one of their favorite things about her.

One such incident happened one weekend when I took her to a popular seafood restaurant called “Steamboat Bills,” and as we walked into the restaurant, there was a long line of people waiting to be seated.  With no regard or understanding for the protocol to be followed, my Mom just barged through the line all the while shaking hands, patting children’s heads, kissing babies and sometimes the occasional adult and giving everyone hugs.  I thought to myself; she missed her calling in politics!

With many more stories to share, I invite you to come back and visit this page as I share my on the job training as I care for not only an Alzheimer’s patient but someone near and dear to my heart.

I am not a healthcare professional.  I have no training specific to Alzheimer’s.  But I am a daughter who knows it is my calling to take care of my Mother and honor her all the days of her life.

Don’t be a stranger,

 

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You Never Know What You’ll Find

I’m often asked why I feel the need to see my Mom in the Special Care unit every day, twice a day.  This week is a prime example, and one most folk would never grasp unless, well, you’ve been a caregiver for some time.

I typically see Mom every morning and every evening at shift change, so I can keep the lines of communication open between the employees, Mom’s sitters, Hospice and myself.  The sheer number of things that can change in 24 hours can be astounding, perhaps not life-threatening, but changes nonetheless.

 

Take last week, for example, my sisters came into town to visit and noticed Mom did not get her 8 p.m. medicine.  No worries.  She slept fine that night.  They asked about it and were told they were out and had left a note.  (Hmmm, I wonder who will do “something” with that note?).  The next morning, they were informed that she doesn’t take anything in the evening.  Really?  That’s funny cause she has been for months now.  The second day had some hiccups with med administration again and by Monday Mom had lost an entire night’s sleep, sleep through almost all of Sunday and finally gotten everything back to normal by mid-Monday.  Next, we notice a line of bruising on the back of her knee/leg area.  We have no idea exactly what happened but blame getting her in the wheelchair when she’s like a 2×4 and unbendable.  A couple of nights later, while putting on her sock that had slipped off, it was discovered that one foot and ankle were twice the size as the other foot.  No other symptoms, but we are watching it, and yesterday, she started wheezing in the shower and not again until last night.

That’s just in the scope of seven days.  So much can change in the elderly, and if they are unable to communicate with you, you have to play a Columbo-type detective while caring for your loved one.

Don’t be a stranger,

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My Little Girl. Where is she?

Yesterday,  Mom had her six-month checkup with her internist. I’m happy to report all is well. Upon the conclusion of the check-up, I had the receptionist call for a wheelchair.  Unfortunately,  I had to park farther out than I wanted to due to the unavailability of nearby handicap parking.  Gone are the days when I could drop Mom off at the door and go park because as her Alzheimer’s progresses, her inability to remember who she was with or what she is supposed to be doing increases.

Hand in hand we walk this journey

Take my hand and I’ll lead the way.

So back to the wheelchair, the attendant is standing with Mom outside waiting on me as I retrieve our car.   I pull up, go around to the passenger side and open her door. I help Mom stand up from the wheelchair and all the while I’m talking to her and using the word ‘Momma,’ so she’ll know who I am. I try to direct her to the car, and she stops. Looking all around, forward, backward, above and below. I asked what she needed. She says, “My little girl. Where is she?” I said, “Momma, I’m your little girl!” She cupped her hands around my face and smiled so brightly. The aide began wiping tears. I thanked her for her assistance and Momma turns to her and kisses her on the cheek. 

These are the moments that keep me going.  Norma Jean doesn’t even realize how much I live for times like this.  A touch, a word, a “bone.”  My friend, Kathy, calls it, “throwing me a bone!  Giving me something to chew on.”  Norma Jean can throw me all the bones she wants.  I love how she can say things that let me know she knows who I am, although she has long forgotten my name.  I also love how she loves on people with no effort at all.

With a smile and a happy heart,

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