Jan21

Rehab Nightmares

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 Sorting out and organizing my mother’s belongings took several weeks, not days.  As we got into the higher bedroom cupboards we found boxes and boxes of greeting cards sent from our families, many with little child signatures and I love yous to Mommie and Daddy or Gamma and PaPa.  These I had to quit reading  in order to stop crying and finish what I started.  On the shelves in the den were my father’s slides and photographs.   Unlike my system of “throw ‘em in a box, sort ‘em later” my father had rows and rows of slides and photos neatly arranged and labeled by date and subject.  

But it was when I started sorting through the piles of papers my mother had collected from events she had attended over the years that I came face to face with what my mother has been experiencing over the last few years.  I began to pull out the funeral brochures and obituaries until I had a large stack of close to 75.  These each represented the ending of a life, someone who had played a part in my mother’s life.  In these I saw three women my mother  met with each week to play bridge, pot-lucking lunch, laughing and sharing family stories.  Her very best friend is here; they talked every week and reminisced about their junior and and high school years together.  Also are my aunts and uncles, friends that died young and neighbors and colleagues.Though many were on the periphery of my life others were part of  it;  I can remember them clearly and mourn for them anew.  It must be hard to lose all your friends.  Mom has a few acquaintances that she sees or calls , but no one she can call with a history; someone that she can laugh and be honest with.  How lonely it must be to be the last one.

Rehab Nightmares

My mother comes through her hip operation just fine.  For a ninety-two year old it was fantastic!  A few years ago they probably would not have opted to operate on anyone that age.

We are  told that after she leaves the hospital she would have to stay at a nursing/rehabilitation center for a few months for extra care and physical therapy.  Since I live the closest to her it fell to me to check up on her and visit.  Because it did not matter what facility she went to we decided to have her come to a rehab center where I live to save me all that driving.  It would also be an hour and a half closer for my sister and brother when they come to see her.  So she is transported by ambulance to a rehab hospital only five miles from my home.  We are there when the ambulance arrives.  She seems a little mixed up, but considering it is an unfamiliar place in a different city it is understandable.  It is only the next morning when we realize how mixed up she really is.  At 1 AM the next morning the phone wakes us up. It was my mother.

Are you coming to get me? 

What do you mean?  You’re in the hospital, Mom.

I know.  But I’m out in front waiting for you.  

You hurt your hip, Mom, and are supposed to stay in bed.

No, I’m at the YMCA and and need to get home.

Of course, I get a picture of my mother dragging herself out of bed, down the hall and flinging herself out the door onto the front sidewalk.  But I know this probably could not happen.  I call the nurse’s station and ask them to check  on her.   They call back half an hour later.  Your mother is in bed and she is OK.  I think she is hallucinating.  We have put a band on her arm so if she does try to get out of bed it will sound an alarm. 

This is just the first of many strange conversations we have with my mother over the next few weeks.  She tells us there is a basement and they have taken her there for tests.  (There is no basement) People are out to get her. She claims the nurses aides that help her take her shower are Marines.  (Wow!) She calls friends and they call us.  They are worried about her.   What we did not know before but learn is that people of her age sometimes have problems with the anesthesia and they may exhibit bizarre behavior and hallucinations for a time afterward.  My mother is a classic case.

She does finally begin to get back her sanity and has to start physical therapy.   I go to visit her.  Most of the time I find her in bed.  I look at her daily schedule. “ Why didn’t you go to your therapy session this morning?,” I ask.  I was too tired. becomes her mantra.  I start visiting her every morning right before her therapy session to make sure she follows through.  I know this is hard on her. My mother is not an exerciser.   She has never even taken a walk around the block!

 

Jan2

We Told You So

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As I entered my mother’s house it was the same as I always remembered it.   Everything was neatly arranged as if she were receiving company any minute. Her china doll reclined in the child sized rocker; my dad’s army picture along with the triangle encased flag stood in its place on the dresser; pictures of my brother, sister and I as babies hung on the walls beside those of grandchildren now grown.  But this time it was different. My mother was not there; I was not a guest.  I was there as an intruder, someone who was going to search through cupboards and drawers, mess up her neatly kept house, and make decisions about her belongings.  It wasn’t as if my mother was gone.  She was safely away in her assisted living quarters unaware of my deed.  I had to keep my feeling of invasion of privacy at bay; this needed to be done.  

As I start my sort and begin handling her possessions my mind drifts back to stories behind each one . It is then realize I was not only going to get rid of her treasures, but memories attached to them.  Not just hers, but mine as well. 

 

We Told You So

One morning at 9:30 I received an unexpected phone call.  It was my mother’s minister.  At first I couldn’t understand what he was talking about.  Do you want me to break down the door or call 911?  He said my mother was inside and couldn’t be reached by phone.  She was probably laying on the floor hurt.  “Break down the door if you have to,” I told him, “then call 911 if you think she needs help.”  I spent an anxious hour before he called back.  She had indeed fallen and was laying on the kitchen floor and couldn’t get to the phone.  She had lain there all night.  A neighbor and fellow church member had stopped by and talked with my mother the night before when she was sitting on the floor and my mother told her she did not need any help.  She didn’t want to bother the woman!  The next morning when the neighbor got no answer on the phone she alerted the minister.

When he called me back that morning it was from the emergency room.  He had carried her out to the car and driven her to the hospital himself.  She didn’t seem to be in much pain and he and I concluded that it probably wasn’t anything serious.  He volunteered to stay with her until she was released.  I considered driving up there, but was reluctant to leave.  My pregnant daughter was due to have our grandson induced the next morning.  We had volunteered to stay with our two year old granddaughter.  It was afternoon when I got the third call.  They had taken X-rays and my mother had broken her hip.  They were contacting a surgeon and were in the process of obtaining a hospital room for my mother.  I felt rather embarrassed that the minister had stayed with her all that time through all the examinations and procedures, but he assured me it was O.K.  I then knew I would have to make the drive up to see her.   I told him I would be coming and thanked him profusely for his help.  I left shortly thereafter and arrived at the hospital early evening.  My mother was settled in her room and as I was talking with her the surgeon came in to talk with her.  He explained to us exactly where the hip bone was broken and said they had scheduled surgery for the following day.  I stayed and visited with my mother that evening and left early the next morning.  My brother was driving over from Phoenix to be there for the operation.  As it turned out, our daughter was delivering our grandson at the same time my mother was undergoing her operation.

After all the nagging  my mother to keep her cell phone charged and repeated pleas for her to get a lifeline emergency system, this was a painful lesson that proved we were right.  I wish I could say that my mother changed her ways and listened to our suggestions about her safety, but her strong determination to be independent kept that from happening.

Dec22

Let Your Mother Live in the Comfort of Her Own Home

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It is Christmastime!  My mother remembers what she has done in the past and it is hard for her to do what she would like with her limitations.  She decides she wants to give money to the grandchildren so I take her to the Hallmark shop in the mall. After looking at boxes of cards we decide to find individual ones.  I have made a list of the six grandchildren and eight greats along with their ages.  She sometimes forgets and sends cards inappropriate for the age.  It is very, very difficult for her to make decisions and I know this could be a long process.  She looks at the cards and then at the list many times and I can tell she is getting mixed up.  She says she is tired and wants to find a place to sit down.  I stay looking and find a pack of cards that would be appropriate for the grandchildren and then find individual ones for the greats.  I look outside expecting to see her seated in the bench in front of the store.  Instead I find her still in the store wandering up the aisles looking at the Christmas displays.  I approach her and show her the cards I have gotten for her. She is mad.  ”I wanted to pick them out myself!”  ”I know, Mom, but you said you were tired and I wanted to help.”   After much grumbling she pays for them.  I slip the list into the sack.  I just hope she is able to tell which ones should go to who.  I will give my sister the twenties to put inside.

Let Your Mother Live in the Comfort of Her Own Home

Even though my mother’s arthritis continues to worsen and  she finds it difficult to go into the yard to water her plants or do simple tasks like changing the bed even with her walker she insists on living at home.  One day she put something on the stove and forgot about it.  The house filled with smoke and the smoke alarm went off which brought over several concerned neighbors.  We knew we were coming close to having “the talk”.  She could not live by herself anymore; she needed someone to help her.  We were delighted when I took her to her doctor for a check-up and he told her she should not live alone.  He told her that he knew many patients who made the move into assisted living and were happy.  We should have known it would not convince my mother.

After she stopped driving she definitely needed help.  My sister or I tried to come up every couple of weeks and help her shop, but that was not enough.  It was a drive for both of us and she could not have the fresh fruits and vegetables that she loved. We were going to hire some help; someone to look in on her and go or take her to the store.  I thoroughly checked out nine senior homecare agencies in the area.  I called each one and personally talked with the owner or director.  I wanted to chose the best one.  I finally decided on one that seemed professional and caring.  Their care givers had on-going training and kept daily logs when at the client’s home.  A woman came out from the agency and talked with my mother; my sister who was there at the time thought it went well.    They worked out a schedule and were due to start the next week.  On Monday morning a caregiver arrived at the house. My mother refused to let her in. “I don’t need any help,” she informed her.  After several failed attempts the agency director called and said they couldn’t do anything if she wouldn’t cooperate.  We thought given enough time my mother would see that see needed help, but she would call the neighbors or the one friend that still drove, and ask them to pick up things for her at the store or take her places.  These same people who had seen the way my mother was and said she should not be living on her own, told us they helped her out because they felt sorry for her.  She also tried to work on their sympathy by complaining about us.  We were so awful.  We took her car away from her. “They just snatched my keys away from me,” she would say.  We were trying to control her life.

After a few months I tried another agency and a different approach.  We said we were hiring someone to drive her on her errands. She did not have to have them help her if she didn’t want to.  This worked for a while.  We envisioned a pre-arranged weekly schedule when she would be picked up to go to the store or get her hair done, etc.  This is not the way it was carried out.  My mother would call shortly before she needed someone and expect them to come right away, like a taxi.  When a schedule was set up she would either cancel or not be ready.  One night my sister tried to call her. She received no answer on either her land line or her mobile.  She called the agency to check on her as well as the neighbor.  When they arrived she didn’t understand what the fuss was all about.  She was just fine.  Her mobile phone had not been charged and her land line phone was off the hook.  This just wasn’t working.

Dec11

There’s Nothing Wrong with My Driving

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Real time update: We are selling my mother’s house.  She doesn’t know it, can’t ever know it.  She loves her house and everything in it.  She has lived there for 59 years and is very attached.  We are sorry it has come to this point, but we have run out of options.  
It was my hope to tell my story in a fairly chronological order.  It made sense.  The events unrolled so neatly.  In the meantime the present and its ramifications caught up with me.  Therefore, I will still tell the experiences that led to this point as well as my reactions to what is happening now.

There’s Nothing Wrong with My Driving

Unlike Europeans with their extensive rail and bus systems, to Americans their car is almost an extension of themselves.  With its myriad of freeways and suburbs this is even more so in Southern California.  You take a Californian’s car away it is almost like sealing them off from the outside world.  So it was for my extremely independent mother.

We had tried to talk with her for several years about her driving.  We noticed her reactions were slower and she got mixed up when she drove somewhere not on her regular routes.  When she talked about having the great grandchildren over and driving them to the beach the summer she turned 89 we cringed.     Later that year after driving the 70 miles to visit us she told us about the “awful driver” who had suddenly stopped right in front of her on the freeway on ramp.   Her car bumper was caved in and part of the hood raised. She also had another accident that we found out about later, that she neglected to tell us.   One evening when she arrived at CVS pharmacy to pick up some prescriptions her car kept going when she pulled into a parking place and it ran into some bushes.  The car received some damage then also, and she had it repaired.

The deciding moment came when she drove 260 miles to visit my sister in Yuma.  I was out all day, but was home in the afternoon when my sister called.  “Have you heard from Mom?” she inquired. Mom had started out that morning and ran into some “car trouble” along the way.  She told my sister that she wasn’t sure she would be able to continue, but she was going to call me because I was closer.  I did not have my cell phone with me that morning so I was not aware of any calls.  Just as I yelled to my husband to check for messages on my phone, my sister said, “Oh good, Mom just drove up.”  Before I had time to even react to her comment, she exclaimed, “Oh no, she just ran into the house!”  My mother had indeed come into their yard and run into two pillars of their carport, knocking one off its base.  She was OK, but she easily could have hit her 15 year old great grandson who had opened the driveway gate for her.

AAA was called to tow the car away.  When it was explained to her that she might cause an accident and hurt herself or a child it fell on deaf ears.  What I have discovered about someone with dementia is you cannot reason with them.  Trying to talk to them is like trying to talk to a three year old.  The car never came back from the repair shop. My brother and nephew came up from Phoenix and drive it to their house. My mother was furious that her car “was taken away” from her and moped for three days.  In fact, she is still mad at us and can’t believe how horrible her children are treating her.

Nov27

The Check's in the Mail

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The Check’s in the Mail

My mother’s  dementia starts  out slowly.  I first notice it in phone conversations.  I hear the same stories I heard the week before. I also hear about the bills she needed to pay and how she was writing out her checks that day. A few days later when I call she is still “working on those bills”.  Several times Verizon or the gas or electric company did call her about her bill and she had to pay it over the phone.  We worry that someday she won’t pay in time and her utilities will be cut off.

My mother has always been  very independent, even when my father was alive.  She has definite ideas about the way things should be done and she is extremely organized.  In contrast to my sporatic record keeping, she kept a balanced checkbook and a journal where she wrote down everything she spent for that month.  She likes to boast that she has  journals for every year since she married, fifty-nine in all.

When I go up for a visit I find her latest journal in the den and have a look.    Her last entries are in sharp contrast to her earlier ones.  My mother’s usual neat, precise handwriting is light and shaky.  She had gotten mixed up on some of the months and a few times had even written the wrong year.  I knew I needed to do something, but would have to proceed slowly.  When I first make the suggestion to help she reacts as I knew she would.  “I have been paying my bills all my life,  I don’t need any help!”  After awhile I do convince her to let me take her utility bills and set them up to be paid automatically.

I take her bills home, but what seemed to me like an easy job turns out to take hours of phone calls, computer time and paperwork.  I am put on hold and  they won’t talk to me unless I am my mother. Half of her accounts are still in my father’s name.  They don’t know that he has been gone for 12 years.  On the websites I have to know or create numerous account passwords and give out out personal information and  I am required  to mail numerous Power of Attorneys.   My Mother’s SS#?  I have it memorized!  What have I learned, though don’t say you heard it from me:  It’s much easier to just pretend to be my mother.

I gradually take over all of her banking and have sole use of her ATM card to deposit and withdraw money she needs.  She’s mad about it, although she doesn’t complain to me. She does bemoan to my brother and sister that “Kathy tries to control me.  I can take care of my own money; I have been paying bills for years!!” She is always griping about needing money, but she can’t keep track of it.  She has two small coin purses as well as her wallet and glass case in her purse and money can be found in any one of them.  She also sometimes hides money in her nightstand drawer and forgets she put it there.  Her checkbook is a mess.  Though I hate to do it, I think that’s going to go too.

 

Nov23

We're in It Together

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Do you have a parent that can’t do many of the tasks he/she used to do easily?  Is your mother or father requiring more of your help?  You are not alone.  My mother is 94 years old and for the past ten years I have noticed a steady decline in her abilities.  It is hard to watch a vibrant, capable person undergo changes that they struggle with and may deny.

Thanks to the advancement in medicine more people like my mother are living longer healthy lives.   Those in my generation who are into our sixties and seventies have raised their children  and we are ready to enjoy retirement.  However, we are sometimes faced with caring for an aging parent.   This parent may have physical health problems, but the ones most vexing are the mental ones.  We hear a lot about  alztheimer’s and sometimes joke about it when we have a “senior moment,” but we know the reality of it is sad and awful.  What we don’t hear about as often is the more common form of memory loss that affects far more of the eldery population: Dementia.  This form of memory loss is often explained by your brain has accumulated so much information it can’t hold it all.  The truth, however, is that the electrical synapses or cells in the brain are breaking down.  While you can remember events from the past clearly, your short term memory starts to deteriorate.

It was only after relating my many stories to friends about  difficulties with my mother and hearing  stories back about problems with their aging parents that I decided to share my story.  Believe me, I don’t have all the answers.  What I would hope to achieve is to create a forum for those of us who are having to make these difficult decisions for our parents where we can share or vent.  I will post resources that I have found helpful and I encourage others to do the same.
This is my mother’s experience and my story.