Note to readers: This story is not meant to be a guide,
self-help list, or how to re: moms getting ready to die. It’s one individual’s
recollection, a dabbing of love on a not so fresh yet hopefully healing wound.
The assisted living facility was on
an unassuming tree-lined street, opposite a neighborhood park. Its front door opened to an anteroom of
sorts, complete with two loveseats forming a popular “conversational grouping.” The facility also had a large family room and
a dining room/kitchen area. The space was
not fancy or impeccably furnished, but was clean and functional for the
residents and staff. The venue, however,
familiar to me due to previous visits, was of minimal importance.
On this visit, my sister Linda and
I travelled together from Tucson, flying into Chicago’s Midway airport. On the south side of Chicago we rented a car
and left Illinois, entered and left the northwest corner of Indiana into
Michigan. We crossed Michigan from west
to northeast to arrive at our parent’s vacant home late one April evening in
2007. Their winterized cottage sat on a
cliff overlooking Lake Huron, on the outskirts of a small tourist town. Our parents lived in the above mentioned
assisted living facility, called adult foster homes in Michigan.
We were making a semi-annual visit
to see them. I can’t recall now why we
chose April. Most likely it was a matter
of convenience, since Mom and Dad were reported to be doing “about the same”
per the facility staff. Whatever the
reason, I am forever grateful that the Universe/our Higher Power conspired to
support this springtime travel.
The following morning Linda and I
set out for the facility, about 25 miles away in (another) rural Michigan town. We called the facility en route, letting
staff know we were on our way.
We rang the doorbell, and a
caregiver greeted us. Mom and Dad were ‘awaiting’ our arrival in the anteroom.
My mouth fell open upon seeing them. Within 10 minutes I was fighting back
tears and having a difficult time not bolting from the facility.
My dad had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s
in 1994 and moved into this foster facility in early 2004 after a brief and
horrific initial placement experience elsewhere. I had been involved in looking for facilities
for Dad in the summer of 2003 and had vetoed this facility for its lack of aesthetic
appeal. How wrong I was, and how
grateful I was for the staff and their care as Dad’s stay lengthened into
years.
Mom was diagnosed with
multi-infarct dementia in 2005, and I had actually been the one to ‘move’ her
to dad’s facility in spring of 2006. I refer to the 175-mile moving trip as a
“Thelma and Louise” adventure for Mom and me—minus the convertible, alcohol, hot
guys, and full consciousness of my travelling partner. Other than that, a movie remake!
As I “took in” my parents seated on
the loveseat that morning, my brain was desperately trying to correct the
information my eyes were providing. My
dad’s decline had been gradual yet steady, so I had more or less adapted to the
progression of his Alzheimer’s visit to visit.
What I couldn’t seem to grasp was how significantly Mom’s status had
deteriorated. Multi-infarct dementia has
a much less predictable disease progression, and while my head held that fact
somewhere or another, my heart was definitely experiencing a delayed
‘understanding.’
Mom’s eyes were closed,
and the few times they did open, no true focus was evident. She engaged minimally in the conversation,
and showed no animation when any of her ‘favorite’ things were mentioned. She could no longer walk unassisted, taking
halting steps while leaning backwards.
Walking assistance for her consisted of holding her hands and pulling
her along.
My mother was one of the most
grounded aka spiritual people I’ve known, in fact, irritatingly so. She was totally about her husband and
daughters. She loved music and sang in some choir or another most of her life.
She enjoyed reading and ballroom dancing. She believed in and lived a ‘body in
motion’ life. Lake Huron was her holy
land, and she loved to garden. Oh, and she
napped most days after lunch, which made her ridiculously cheerful in the evenings.
The woman, the mother just
described, was not in the anteroom that April 2007 morning. That mother had begun a process both internal
and external, one unique to her. Linda
and I were privileged to have witnessed a small part of it. OK, that morning we didn’t feel privileged. We were horrified, frightened, indeed feeling
very vulnerable and small. When one of
the caregivers announced that lunch was ready to be served, we couldn’t make
our excuses fast enough. We would leave
and return mid-afternoon.
The good news is that Linda and I
are sisters in more than the biological sense.
Most certainly our biology and growing up together dovetail with our
current powerful ‘sisterhood’ relationship—one that we work on and cherish.
That evening, on the way back to our parent’s home, we stopped for take-out-something
at the local bar/restaurant. Yes, we picked up some wine, and Linda insisted on
a DVD. We sat laughing and crying watching
Little Miss Sunshine. That evening of wine and entertainment and
being with a sister/best friend did not change my mom’s course. However, it did
seem to help Linda and I start to get our heads around what was happening to Mom.
We did return to the AFH after
lunch that first afternoon, and continued daily visits (not always together)
until we careened off to Midway and back home to Tucson. During those visits, no surprise, Mom wasn’t
suddenly bustling about asking about the grandkids. However, our initial shock took a backseat to
an attempt to be present with both parents.
The key word here is ‘attempt,’ as the impulse to engage them, especially
Mom, on a more familiar (and functional) level was powerful. We had to remind ourselves, “This is where
she’s at now…be with her where she’s at…” That was pretty much our mantra.
Peace.
By Patti O’Keefe-Downs, RN
