My 93-year-old mother is going south
They tarped over her window, put a giant scaffolding against her apartment and made constant noise (they are repairing the siding on her senior living community building); now the tarp is off the window and she noticed her patio set is out on the lawn (away from the siding which is under repair). This is the last straw. They moved her patio furniture and did not take her seriously when she demanded it be put back.
Worse, when we explain why the tarp, why the noise, why the displaced patio furniture, she can only remember the explanation for a moment. Then the words flow through the cracks of the aging, stiffened crevices of her brain and she is left with only the insults. The noise. The tarp. The displaced furniture. We explain again. The explanation disappears like vapor. The anger remains.
She remembers a time when she was happy. She was somewhere else. She had so many friends. She was warm. Maybe she was in the sun. Dad was there for sure. Now Dad is gone, but that place - it must still be out there somewhere. That’s where she is going.
I would explain to her that she has no car. That she can’t lift her suitcase. That she is unable to catch a bus, send for an Uber, call a cab. I could try to get her to give me more specifics about this place in the south - where exactly? With who? Where would you live? But it would just make us both sad.
So I’m trying to give her time. Time to forget how angry she is right now. Time to get used to the view of her patio furniture, out on the winter grass behind stacked lumber and tools. Time for her to forget how angry she was at me for trying to explain that her patio furniture was out of reach for now, which is not a great inconvenience as it is a cold and wet January and there will be no picnicking.
But she cannot be good company for her dining companions. I worry about how much patience they have. I have been at her table. She forgets what she has ordered. She forgets whether she has ordered. Yet despite the fact that she may or may not have already ordered, or whether she remembers her order, she complains that the wait staff is too slow. It must wear on her table mates.
I have attended a few workshops on being the caregiver of someone with Alzheimer’s. From what I gather from Alzheimer’s specialists and her own doctors, this is not Alzheimer’s but run-of-the-mill forgetfulness that comes with advanced age. Once someone told me don’t worry if they misplace their keys. Start to worry if they forget what their keys are for.
The fact that she can still work a door key does not make it any easier to help her, or to know what to do next. At some point, the manager of her “independent living” retirement home will come talk to me about finding a place for her that provides a more assisted living situation. And believe me, at that time, she will still understand what a key is, and that another key will have been taken away from her.