I have titled this “Lessons learned from caring for my elderly parents”. You will be old someday so please be advised and do not dismiss what I have written as unimportant. Someday you or your children will live and learn from this life lesson.
There is an unspoken understanding that happens when you hold someone’s hand and don’t say a word. It’s a sense of knowing and compassion, believing and hoping that what you are doing is right. And yet we still doubt ourselves. This is how it was the evening I drove my dad slowly under the light of the full moon to the Nursing home that he would come to call his home for the next month. He was being released after a 3 day stay in the hospital for confusion and weakness related to his dehydration secondary to his vascular dementia. Forgive me if I sound like a nurse…but I am. I have prided myself in being my father’s advocate not only for his health but his well being. I have been toting around with me a very large bag filled with important papers and documents containing, financial, medical and personal information much like a social worker. I am his case manager, his caregiver, his council, his child. On this particular night I drove my dad ever so slowly to the place that may be his final destination. Observing every speed bump I tried to delay as much as possible his delivery to the front door of the Phoebe home. It was quite an unusual night as it was dark rather early and had been raining throughout the day. We pulled up to the front door and I assisted him out of the car and watched carefully his slow progression up the stairs, somewhat unbalanced and falling backwards until I caught him and pushed him forward towards the railing. “Oh Dad please don’t fall!” I said. This is all I need right now… Back in the hospital his doctor strongly recommended assisted living as his dementia was progressing. Prior to this my dad was living at home alone in the house that he and my mother built 50 some years ago. They hammered the beams in place, painted closets, installed dry wall etc. It was a place that I called home for many years – a place that held family celebrations, happiness, good times and good food. Many memories were created and left there as I grew older, started my own family and avoided what I identified as the beginnings of dementia in my mom. My mom had always been very pleasant. She loved to bake and cook and create. As she got older she started to have hallucinations of people trying to break into the house and steal her possessions. She wanted to go home and was always packing things and sorting things according to size and shape. I found socks in the refrigerator. Tops to ketchup bottles were replaced with those of the dishwashing liquid. Candy wrappers were neatly saved. Many recyclables cluttered and filled the house much like an episode of the TV show “Hoarders”. Things were dirty, dusty, dark and closed- in tight. Pathways were lined with boxes of papers and trinkets from deceased relatives that my mom could not part with. After cleaning out the houses of deceased relatives my parents brought home clothes, knick-knacks and furniture. These items caused clutter and havoc in the house. There were mice droppings, holes in the ceiling of the downstairs bathroom from water leaks, dust and inches of dirt everywhere. I was not allowed to remove any of the clutter as my mom would get upset and bring the removed item back into the house. One time she made my dad haul a recliner back into the house from the curb as we had put it out for garbage. I got very good at the art of distraction as I would hide items to be removed or take them out another route of the house for disposal after getting my parents interested in a TV show or movie. Many times my Mom dressed inappropriately for the weather wearing warm items in the summer and skimpier items in the winter. It was always a concern to find her without a warm coat or bundled too warmly in the heat. My dad often kept coats in the car for her in case she fought him to put one on. Most times she did not know who my dad was. Many times she thought he was her brother or boyfriend. One conversation is prominent in my mind. My mom said to me: So how’s your mom? I told her - you are my mom! She said I am? It’s so nice to meet you! I was 45 years old at that time…
