Mom & Me Four Archive

    Yes, that's tongue in cheek. But, I'm wondering, where do I begin explaining how this particular title came about?
    Night before last. That's when it started. Mom and I were talking about family...nothing and no one in particular, just reminiscing, I was catching her up (stuff about which she'd already been informed but forgotten), we were having a good time recalling past family incidents that defined endearing quirks of character inherent within individual family members...you know the type of conversation I'm talking about. Somehow, Mom worked around to "wondering out loud" why we hadn't seen "anyone" for so long, meaning, of course, anyone in our family.
    I follow two policies in regards to responding to these particular wonderings of hers. The first is that if I have anything to do with us not having seen family I own up to it. The second is that I make no excuses for family members' lack of visiting. If I don't have anything meaningful or true to say in response, I express a combination of "I don't know" and/or "Why don't you call them and find out why they haven't visited, lately?" We've finally gotten to a place where Mom doesn't question why we don't do the long distance traveling that would be required to visit two arms of our family (she's not interested in it, anymore) and why I've cut our short distance visiting to Phoenix down to a minimum (these trips are exhausting for both her and me and require double, and even triple duty of me in regards to caregiving), so those concerns don't usually come up anymore.
    So, needless to say, I didn't respond much to her out loud wonderings. Usually, this closes out these sections of conversation pretty quickly. Night before last, though, Mom decided to expand upon my non-responsiveness. "Well," she said, "they have their husbands and children. And their careers. Those are important."
    I can't explain why it happened on this particular night, but, for some reason, this response bothered me, so I decided to explore it. "Well, yes, Mom. But, listen to what you're saying. From an objective, the-world-as-standard point of view, you're saying that since there are no husbands or children here, and since neither of us is pursuing a 'career' in the standard sense, what we're doing here isn't important."
    I expected her to take slight offense, correct herself and insist that, of course what she and I are doing here is important. She didn't, though. "Well, it's not important," is what she said.
    I choked. I stuttered. It took me a few minutes to catch my breath, regain my ability to speak. In the meantime I thought I detected something that made me even more uncomfortable. Not being, anymore, the kind of person to leave squirming dogs alone, I said, "You're saying that, in comparison to [her other daughter's] lives, our lives aren't important."
    She thought about this for some seconds. "Yes. That's right."
    "Because there aren't husbands, and children, and careers going on in this household."
    She became impatient. She looked at me squarely. "Yes," she said.
    "Well then, Mrs. Hudson, you shouldn't wonder why we get no visitors. You've successfully taught you're children that we're not important enough to visit!"
    Now she was sputtering and gasping. "No. No, that's not what I meant."
    "Well," I said, ready for a confrontation, "the truth is, this is the message we all clearly got while we were being raised, Mom. The gods only knows why I didn't pay attention to it, and, frankly, I thank the gods that I didn't, but, you know, now some things are becoming clear to me. Considering that I didn't, and don't, have a husband and children, what do you think I've been doing with my life all these years?!? What do you think I was doing in Seattle, when you called and asked me to come live with you for the rest of your life?!?"
    She was clearly surprised but had no trouble answering, "Nothing important." Mom sat in her rocker, self-satisfied, looking at me as though there was absolutely nothing wrong with what she'd said.
    "Arrrgh! I can't believe this!" My mind reeled. My heart felt like it had been bludgeoned. Not only, I thought, did my entire family think, underneath all the guilty thank-yous, that I am simply maintaining a pre-death holding pattern for Mom, Mom obviously is thinking that I'm wasting my time here with her. I didn't take this well. I got angry. Really, really angry. "Okay. Well, if that's how you feel, guess what. For as long as I can stand it, I'm going to take care of you as though what I'm doing for you isn't the least bit important. Let's just see how that works."
    She, having absolutely no idea what this could possibly mean, agreed.
    In order to keep her in the zone I'd established, I explained ahead of time how considering everything I do and everything about her life unimportant was going to affect every act I took on her behalf, or mine. I started that night. The last thing necessary before she retired was rubbing her legs down. This is always a relaxing time for her and I lavish both lotion and care on her, during which we have winding-down conversations to ensure a pleasant retirement. Instead, night before last, I hurried through rubbing her legs down, which wasn't hard, I was angry. I rebuffed all her attempts at conversation. As a coup de grace, I did something that she used to do, that always annoyed me, when she would massage us as children; I delivered a light slap to each leg when I was done. She tensed up at each slap, just like I used to do, completely spoiling the effect of the massage.
    I rounded her up for bed as though I was rounding up a herd of cattle. Push, push, push, nipping at her heels, putting her through the paces. Once she was sitting on the edge of her bed I put her oxygen on as though I was hooking a robot up to a power source. "No good night kiss," I said, "you're not important enough for expressions of love, and neither is what I'm doing for you." I left her, flabbergasted, staring at me, as I abruptly walked out of her room.
    Truth be told, this was very difficult for me and felt awful, but I was so angry and hurt that I was determined to make sure she understood.
    Yesterday, all day until a little before midnight, I continued. Although we performed all the mechanics of her day, I was determined to make sure everything she experienced was more than matter-of-fact; I went out of my way to imbue everything with an air of unimportance. I kept myself from making eye contact with her. I didn't bother to explain anything. I hurried. I pushed. I ordered. I feigned impatience when she was too slow for me or balking. I reminded her over and over and over that our life together "wasn't important", thus, there was no reason not to be perfunctory about everything.
    Interestingly, I've never received so many expressions of gratitude from her as I did yesterday and, believe me, saying thank-you is automatic for her, anyway. So, after breakfast I decided to make yet another point. I presented her with a notebook and pen. "Mom," I said, "every time you feel you want to thank me for something, I want you to write down the 'thank you' in this notebook and indicate which of your other daughters you want to thank for leading very important lives in the light of which our unimportant lives are allowed to be persevered as afterthoughts."
    She stared back at me in disbelief. She was beginning to get the point. Finally, after a served-like-it-meant-nothing supper during which I ate in the kitchen because, you know, it isn't necessary for us to eat together, where I eat in relation to her is unimportant, she relented. As I was removing her plate and utensils from her TV table in the living room she said, "Sit down, child."
    I sat.
    "I'm sorry," she began. "You're absolutely right. What you do for me is important. It's important to me that you're here. The way you do things is important. The fact that you're here is important. You're important. To me."
    Needless to say, by the time she finished I was in tears. "You forgot one thing, Mom. You're important, too. That's why I'm here. I'm not saying that you're more important to me than my life in Seattle was. That's not the point. That's not why I'm here. I tried to have us be together in Seattle but you were too miserable there and I knew that you were too important to me to make you suffer the weather just so I could be where I liked, and I knew, too, that I was much more comfortable in Arizona than you would ever be in Seattle. I didn't 'abandon' my life there. I didn't think it wasn't important. It still is important to me. My heart is still there, and my heart is still completely invested in my solitary life."
    "I know," she said, a little watery eyed, herself. "I knew that then. I didn't ask you to live with me because I didn't think you weren't doing anything important. I'm sorry it looked that way."
    "Mom, the thing is," I said, trying, more, to explain this to myself than to her, "we live in time and place, here, as humans, and at some points we have to arrange things in time and place so that we can fit in all the things and people that are important to us. I haven't stopped doing what I did in Seattle. I haven't stopped surviving on my terms, and developing, and exploring, and seeking solitude in order to do that in my own special way. I haven't even left Seattle, really."
    "I know. I see that in you every day."
    "In Seattle, Mom, I was with you, even as you were here. We kept up with each other. Your weekly calls were as important to me as they were to you. It was important to me, when you needed me here, to be here for you. Not more important."
    "As important," she suggested.
    "Yes," I confirmed, "exactly. So, I rearranged things in time and place a little, because it was possible for me to do that. And, when it becomes possible again, I'll rearrange things again."
    That was pretty much where our confrontation, much lengthier than what I wrote but I hit the high points, ended. By that time it was getting on toward midnight. Mom wasn't at all interested in retiring. I found a perfect distraction, a midnight showing of Jesus Christ Superstar. I knew it would intrigue Mom and I was curious to see it again. I was right. We rebonded over the movie...spent a good 20 minutes discussing it afterward.
    The reason I say, a few paragraphs previous, that this was "pretty much" the end of our confrontation is that it came up again when I roused her today (she was already awake) at 1400, the twelve hour mark.
    She'd remembered yesterday clearly. "Are we squared away about yesterday?" she asked.
    I laughed. Then, I sobered. "Yeah, we are. But, Mom, one way or another, I'm going to continue to remind you that husbands and children and careers and busy-busy lives do not necessarily make 'more important' lives. Beleive me, I had to learn this the hard way after coming here to take care of you. I spent the first several years constantly downplaying the importance of your and my lives to everyone, not just family, but everyone. I finally realized I was not only being unfair to you and me but was belittling and hurting both of us. So, I'm not going to go easy on you, anymore, when you slip into that 'we're not important' area. Look, I know that it is impossible for you not to consider your other daughter's lives important, and I don't want you to resent them, or anything like that. I want you to continue to hold them all in high esteem. But, I'm not going to let you belittle us, anymore, either. And I'm certainly not going to let you belittle me, or you. Your life is not unimportant. Neither is mine. I didn't respond to your desire to have me with you because I thought my life was unimportant. I did it because I wanted to expand my very important life to include yours the way you wanted me to. You were, and are, important to me, too. And, if I am ever again hurt by any attempts by you to belittle me, or you, or what I'm doing here, or what you're doing, I'm going to fight back, again, until you get it, again."
    "Good," she said. "Do that. Sometimes I need to be reminded of things like that. I'm glad you're here."
    "That's why I'm here, Mom. That's why I'm here."

    There is a moral to this story. Don't be afraid of Dementia-Lite when it comes to asserting such things as necessary amounts of self-esteem and self-importance. Don't assume that Dementia-Lite stands in the way of your loved one understanding and dealing successfully with your legitimate expressions of anger and hurt. Don't assume that Dementia-Lite will keep your loved one from reevaluating the importance of her own life or the importance of yours, especially as it relates to hers. Don't assume anything about Dementia-Lite until you've had it proven to you through experience. You might be surprised at how flexible the state of Dementia-Lite can be.

    I'm currently looking up medical terms used in an article sent to me by the author of The Yellow Wallpaper. It's from Annals of Internal Medicine and can be downloaded and accessed for free in pdf format as Nun Study.
    Many of you may have heard of the study, as it has been mentioned in a variety of sources throughout the years. I vaguely recall hearing about it some time ago. In a nutshell: The study continues to follow 678 nuns, an extremely homogeneous population, since 1992. All the women participating in the study have allowed their brains to be examined after death. This particular article briefly and lightly focuses on the preponderance of dementia within the population and some of the results for a few of the sisters' brain examinations after death, correlating them with clinical measurements of dementia throughout their participation in the study.
    Although my investigation of and thinking about the article and study are only in early stages, I want to record some of my initial impressions and thoughts here for my own further access and whatever interest they may be to my readers:

• I'm especially interested in the often mentioned involvement of the lower left anterior quadrant of the brain, as this is where my mother's mini-stroke occurred, which is probably what set off the development of her dementia. Apparently, this part of the brain is involved in language skills, which, oddly, seems to have lesser involvement in my mother's dementia than should be expected.
• Of course, we won't know much about her neuropathy until she dies. She's donated her body to science so there is a fair to good chance that her brain will be autopsied. I wonder if I'll be able to get a rundown of her results.
• As well, I've noted that the article focuses briefly on the possibility that a nutrient rich diet, especially rich in folic acid, might help one resist cognitive impairment despite the existence of physical neuropathy. I note with wonder that my mother has been been a vitamin and supplement freak from middle adulthood on.
  • So, however, was her mother, the grandmother who was afflicted with severe dementia; my mother picked up the dietary supplement habit from her mother.
  • As well, my grandfather, who, according to this article probably suffered from mild dementia, hardly noticeable "in polite company", was notorious for eating mostly refined carbohydrates most of his life [a short description of which can be found here and here.] and considered his wife's habit of vitamin and mineral supplements a waste of money.
    • My mother, for significant portions of her life, not including her marriage and the raising of her children, has indulged herself in the same diet. It is only within the last six years that her diet has incorporated much fewer refined carbohydrates, a much higher amount of fresh fruits and vegetables, high amounts of uncured meats and significantly lower amounts of -ose laden condiments.
  • Their other daughter also developed pronounced dementia. In her case, it was documented and speculated early on that her dementia was a result of severe, long term malnutrition caused by advanced, long term alcoholism. Later, however, she was diagnosed as afflicted with Alzheimer's. It is also true, from my observation, though, that her dementia plateaued (at a much high level of disfunction than my mother's) after she was in a position where she could no longer drink and was treated to a balanced diet.
• It is also interesting for me to note that that the nuns were and are, it seems, all teachers, as was my mother, and the mother of the author of The Yellow Wallpaper. I'm not sure that this is significant, but it's provocative for me to consider.
• From what I know of my mother's dementia, I'm guessing that her brain has been able to resist, for whatever reason, some of the expressions of dementia that are inherent in her causes and has not been able to resist others.
• The article briefly notes the possibility that brain "exercise" could have a salutary effect on the lack of demential development. From my observations of my mother, I'm not convinced of this and consider this to be more of a pie-in-the-sky hope at this time. I've noted before in this journal and comments to another that although my mother continues to do crosswords (during which she indulges in a lot of cheating, which she's always done), reads a lot, all kinds of material, continues to enjoy wry discussions and is nobody's fool when it comments to ironic and cynical commentary, I have no evidence that any of these "exercises" is responsible for her long term demential plateau and tend to doubt this possibility. The only aspect of her life that I think might have some effect on her ability to remain at a plateau might be that she lives with someone (me) who pays a lot of attention to her and expects her to respond to this attention. I am willing to admit, though, that this might also be a pie-in-the-sky consideration.

    The article does not include comparison with any (probably very few in existence at this time) studies of other populations or the population in general. Thus, it makes no apologies for it's lack of conclusions. It was sent to me in response to my wonderings, a few posts previous, about dementia, especially among people who follow spiritual disciplines.

Comment that couldn't be posted while Blogger's been down:
Gail--I've just read your post of today. One thing that pops into my mind immediately is a recent theory that Alzheimer's and diabetes are linked. I think this is based mostly on the observation that cholesterol-lowering meds also seem to ameliorate the dementia. I wonder if it's really true, and if it's connected with dementia caused by strokes or Parkinson's? My mother was never diagnosed with diabetes but was on cholesterol-lowering meds for many, many years. Interestingly, her (previous) GP suddenly took her off them because her liver function readings were high. Looking back, I do think the dementia symptoms preceded his taking her off the meds, but now that I think of it, right afterwards was when we started noticing symptoms we could not ignore. Her diet has always been heavy on the carbs. If I weren't here she'd eat cookies and candy all the time. And my mother's physical health is excellent--she's not even on blood pressure medication.
posted by Deb Peterson on 6/08/06 @ 18:55

Response to comment that couldn't be posted while Blogger's been down:
In response to your comment above, you've given me the idea of a memory rundown, probably using the journals, comparing the control of her diabetes and her dementia at any given time.
I do know that prior to being, once again, diagnosed as diabetic and deciding to take it as seriously as she could, I often wrote about her sugar daze. Later, after the essay to which the previous link refers was written, I remember mentioning, probably in the histories somewhere, that her doctor of the time mentioned that her what I call her "sugar daze" would lift. I remember being relieved that he immediately understood to what I was refering with that phrase; it must, I figured, be a common phenomenon.
This, however, took place in 2000. By April of 1997 I was conducting all her life business, except collecting her tax stuff, which I undertook the following year, because of her dementia.
I also know, from blood tests residing with her previous doctor, that she was indeed not diabetic in 1997, 1998 or most of 1999. It developed within a six month period and began to show in the latter half of 1999. She, however, decided, for a year, not to have the pills refilled and to ignore it. That wasn't dementia, that was orneriness: She constantly talked about that physician having diagnosed her as diabetic, giving her a pretty sturdy regimen of glucophage, the now famous advice, "You can eat all the popcorn and peanuts you want" and sending her home. In the early summer of 2000, though, my mother developed a raging bladder infection. She refused to go back to the same doctor, who she knew was going to scold her for not controlling her diabetes, not believing she had it. After spending day after day washing her bed and her chair cushions in her wake because she had absolutely no control over her bladder (this was before she needed Depends) I found a geriatrician and set her up for the appointment about to take place when I wrote an essay about her sugar daze.
posted by Gail Rae on 6/24/06 @ 23:40

Comment that couldn't be posted while Blogger's been down:
Another idea I've been mulling over regarding dementia and spiritual practice--I've had a few discussions with my clique at work about Medieval mystics (Teresa of Avila, Catherine of Siena), and how we in this day and age would probably just put them on thorazine to "cure" this. The psychosis of one age might be the mysticism of another. Closer to our situation--there's a famous Medieval text called "The Booke of Margery Kempe" and Kempe is not so much a mystic as she is driven by what are seen as troubling convictions. I wonder if that might be analogous to dementia? What I'm thinking is--aside from psychopathic, sociopathic behavior--so-called "mental illness" is mostly the mirror image of the norm. Whatever the "norm" is. I'm not saying that it's ALL relative, but I'd be interested in hearing the ideas of a culture that values its Ancients, like Native American culture. And Buddhist--as far as I know the Chinese and other Asian groups are more respectful in general of their oldest members. So maybe in this roundabout way, spiritual/cultural settings have an effect on what is considered dementia??
posted by Deb Peterson on 6/08/06 @ 18:55

    Happy Birthday, MFS! Do you realize, as of May 22nd, we're all in our 50's now! [Imagine musical note and think "Late Twilight Zone Theme"]Do do do do, do do do do![Imagine musical note and stop thinking "Late Twilight Zone Theme"].
    Looks like tomorrow isn't going to be Blood Draw Day, either. Mom noticed and remembered the weather cast, tonight. As she was retiring and we were discussing what clothes I should put out for tomorrow I suggested her green ensemble, which I call her "go to meetin' suit" for her Blood Draw, after which we'd go out to breakfast.
    "It's going to be raining tomorrow, don't you think we should wait until Friday?"
    "Well, Mom, it isn't going to rain until the afternoon and, anyway, when did the weather ever keep you from wanting to go to a restaurant?!?"
    "It's going to tomorrow."
    So, I guess she's planning on spending yet another day "under the weather", regardless of what the weather is. She even coached me that she'll be wanting to wear her "winter" flannel pants, which are actually pajama bottoms, tomorrow. I have no idea what her sleep plans are, but whatever they are I'll just go with them. Until I get nervous.
    Earlier today, June 7th, that is, I reminded Mom that it was her mother's and one of her granddaughter's birthdays.
    "Oh, that's right," she said. "I wonder where the folks are, now."
    "In Heaven, Mom," I responded, very matter of factly.
    She adjusted her focus and said, "Oh, that's right. Well, I hope they're having a good time. I suppose Dad's looking for a place to fish. I hope he doesn't insist on taking Mother along." Very matter of factly. Whereupon, she reminisced about the time her dad insisted on taking her mother along on an early morning fishing trip. Her mother brought a lantern on the boat so she could read while he fished. He never insisted on her company when he fished again.
    That's it. I'm heading for bed.
    Later.

Comment that couldn't be posted while Blogger's been down:
If I had a nickel for every time my mother wanted to talk to me about what heaven was like...! Usually in terms of what the loved ones are doing up there and very often she wonders how old we'll all be. At this point I have to stifle myself--I once tried telling her about my view of the afterlife, in which there was no time or space, and the look on her face stopped me. So now we're back to thinking about my father playing with his model trains all day up there.
posted by Deb Peterson on 6/08/06 @ 17:05

    I was fine with this. I slept fitfully last night for a couple of reasons: Odd dreams, miscalculating how cold it would become deep into the night and a kitten whose spirit was co-opted by the storm gods and simply wouldn't leave me alone to sleep for very long. I turned off my alarm about 0330. Awoke with a start at 0841.
    The weather, while muggy (which I love but my mother hates), was clear so I decided to aim for Blood Draw Day anyway, even though I had to scrounge for the energy that would be needed to prepare my mother for public presentation. I figured the consequent endorphin production would rev me up for the rest of the day.
    At 1000, since she wasn't already awake (why I thought she might rise early I have no idea) I headed in to call her. She wasn't having any. Really wasn't having any. "Let's do it tomorrow." This isn't an unusual response and, factoring in the heavy air and our bouncing atmospheric pressure, I wasn't surprised.
    I agreed. "I'll let you sleep 'till noon, then." I calculated this time based on the time her light went out last night. I should have taken into account that at the word "noon" Mom's eyes fluttered open in surprise, but I didn't.
    At noon she still wasn't having any. I wasn't alarmed (frankly, her prodigious sleep habits never "alarm" me anymore, although sometimes they concern me). I figured, if I gently bother her every half hour, she'll be up by sometime between 1300 and 1400, not unusual, lately.
    After ignoring my gentle botherings six times, she decided, at 1530, that, "I guess it's about time for me to get up."
    Although it seems like such a day would not only be easy for my mother but for me, it's one of the hardest types of days I have to endure. Although prodigious sleeping is perfectly natural for my mother, considering her health profile (according to The Wondrous FNP and related researched literature), and can be expected to not only continue but increase, it's not natural for me to consider prodigious sleeping natural. I believe, in fact, that it is natural for anyone not in the grips of a health profile like my mother's to assume that some of her physical problems could be allayed if I'd just badger her to get up and/or stay up; plan activities; refuse to let her sleep, etc. Guess what. Doesn't work. If you've been reading me for any length of time, you know this.
    This should be bone knowledge for me, now, considering that I've been living and writing what you've been reading. It isn't, though. I think, no matter how much experience both professional and avocational caregivers accumulate, if one isn't Ancient and one's body isn't dancing to the tune of, say, as in my mother's case, CRF, ADCD, mild COPD, occasional symptoms of CHF, vascular dementia, and/or any of a number of other conditions that happen when someone approaches the end of life, it is impossible to believe that there really is nothing one can do, as a caregiver, to keep someone who is bound to sleep from sleeping. No matter how many times one has failed in keeping the care recipient "up", no matter how many techniques have worked once or twice then never again, no matter how perplexing and "wrong" it seems that someone, anyone, should sleep as much as my mother does, including her lighter and heavier sleep periods, no matter how clear it seems that you as caregiver must be at fault, you must not have stumbled upon the right technique, you never really let go of the possibility that there must be yet something else you can do.
    In a sense I've given up. I believe The Wondrous FNP and the related research to which her pronouncements led me. I can see that she's right, both about my mother's prognosis and the fact that pitched battles are a waste of both energy and do nothing but disturb the peace. And yet, when days like today occur, whether we encounter a close spate of them or they pop up less frequently during a surprise of extended energy, while my mother spends an extra three and a half hours in sleep-bliss I spend that time chewing internal fingernails. It is never easy to let her sleep. In some ways, it isn't even easier to let her sleep than to harass and force her out of bed, as I used to when gentleness didn't work; to try to shame her into wakefulness and movement when suggestion and example didn't work. Failing health and Ancienthood are so against the nature of the younger and healthier that it's just never easy. No caregiver ever steps back in gestures of acceptance comfortably and willingly, unless they've mastered Buddhist detachment.
    For those of us who are ensconced in the stages of life in which it is natural to need to do something, it's disquieting to admit that, for some people, stages exist in which it is natural to need to do nothing. My mother used to respond to company. Now, not even company keeps her from her beloved inertia and sleep. Novelty used to stimulate her to a kind of interest that would assure a bit more activity and wakefulness than she now manages. Anymore, though, she rarely recognizes novelty. A few years ago, "supervising" me in a variety of activities and chores in which she can no longer directly participate would turn her head. Now, when I suggest supervision, she is likely to say, "I can supervise from my bedroom."
    Still, occasionally, she takes a keen interest in something; like tax preparation this year, or baking last holiday season. My hopes are raised. Then, the inevitable inertia of Ancienthood tightens its embrace and my mother says, "Hmmm...seems like a good time for a nap."
    I can't help but think that if we were more familiar, all our lives, as families and communities, with our Ancient Ones, those of us who find ourselves involved in the tasks of primary caregiving to them would find it easier to relax with the natures of The Old and Those of Declining Health.
    This morning, after Mom's bath and breakfast, hoping that she might feel somewhat more enlivened than usual as she has the last more than a couple extended sleep nights (which have all happened within the last couple of weeks, which is unusual), I pulled out the Sorry game and tried teasing her into something other than just sitting by saying, "I feel like beating your pants off in a couple games of Sorry. What's your lucky color today?"
    She gave me a comic grin, "Not a chance. I feel kind of blah, today."
    As she shuffled from the table to her rocker in the living room, a bolt of anxiety split my soul. It lasted only a second, though, the thunder was delayed and muffled and I knit together so quickly I barely noticed the rent. I still shudder like I used to on days like this and the storms still threaten, but more often, now, they're staying to the south.

    Wanted to record a few details of one of my dreams last night so I can think more on it later. Since we live in a community that is truly one where if you forget to lock your doors it doesn't matter, the dream was not just frustrating, it was a nightmare: In the dream I was obsessed with protection, of both myself and my mother. The entire dream found me discovering that I was unable to close and secure any of our doors and windows. None of the locks worked. None of the doors or windows fit securely in their frames. The harder I tried to secure the doors and windows, the more wobbly and resistant each became. There was no climax, no denouement. I awoke in the middle of the frustrating, terrorizing feeling that I had to protect us from something imminent but was unable to bring the structure of our home into compliance and cooperation.
    Later.

Comment that couldn't be posted while Blogger's been down:
Gail, once again I felt my head nodding as I read this. The Sleep Issue. My Mom is in that zone, too--and as I read this I realized that this is the real reason I hired a homemaker: so my mother wouldn't be able to sleep as much as she wants to. You're right, it goes a little farther than our concern for their mental and physical health. It bothers me in a big way, and I'm not sure why. Maybe I think she's giving up? Maybe life is better for her in her dreams? As cluttered as I am (you should see my house) I'm still a "rules" person, and this much sleep is breaking some kind of rule. And I know it's a shallow rule, like not wearing white after Labor Day, but it reflects my upbringing. I have to agree with you--there's a point where acceptance of the biorhythms of the Ancients has to be seen as right, and not capitulation. Considering how little institutional attention is paid to that stage of Life, I don't know why we fret over advice we get from "the professionals." Wow--who would have thought this would stir up so much psychological turmoil! But I do think it's one of the biggest stresses of caregiving. I wonder how directly your dream reflects the realization that you (or I) cannot keep Mom awake (ie restore her old life to her). In my dreams a house always seems to symbolize my self, so I read this as you struggling with some encroaching realization, trying to batten down the hatches against it.
posted by Deb Peterson on 6/08/06 @ 16:59

...considering that I deal with my mother's dementia every day? No. I'm not even afraid of the more grasping types of dementia wherein the afflicted appear to those of us who consider ourselves dementia free to have "lost themselves". I don't know why, but for some reason dementia, itself, doesn't scare me, nor does the way I expect I will be viewed by the undemented many.
    What scares the willies out of me is the kind of care I am liable to receive once having developed dementia. This is the main reason why I try so hard to remain in touch with my mother in her dementia and hope that if her dementia develops beyond where it is, now, that I can, at the very least, see to it that she continues to feel safe and comfortable within this environment we've created for her.
    Random thoughts about dementia:

• I wonder if any Bodhisattvas have ever developed classical dementia. I wonder, as well, how common classical dementia is within communities of highly dedicated Buddhist monks in comparison with standard communities.
  • I wonder, if and when classical dementia appears within these communities, how the various Buddhist disciplines explain it and care for those who display it.
• I wonder how often other types of highly disciplined, highly dedicated religious communities experience dementia among their members. Is there a higher, lower or comparative rate of classical dementia within these communities of people?
  • If there is any significant variation in the appearance of dementia in spiritually disciplined communities and people, are there also any theories as to why these variations may exist?
• I wonder if it is possible to teach meditative practices to the demented (assuming, of course, that dementia is not a deeply meditative state, which it may be, just as deep meditation may be a willfully demented state when compared with the state of being "normal").
  • If it is, and if this has been done, I wonder what effects of meditating are on the demented and whether only certain types and levels of dementia are amenable to meditative practices.
• I wonder if there are any recorded cases of any type of dementia spontaneously remitting.
  • If so, I wonder how the remitted view their experience of dementia, once it has remitted.
• I wonder if there are cultures, past or present, who view any or all types of dementia (aside from shamanistic states) as advantageous, rather than disadvantageous.
  • If so, how do these cultures incorporate and care for their demented?
• I wonder how often pets who display dementia are euthanized rather than being cared for by their hosts?
  • If the tendency to euthanize demented pets is low until the dementia becomes severe, at what point do most pet hosts euthanize their pets, and what reasons do they give for doing this?
• When someone in a Westernized culture codifies specific instructions that they do not want to be euthanized or have their plug pulled, as it were, want to be kept alive as long as possible, regardless of their condition, by any means possible, how often are their wishes honored once they have lost control versus how often do the wishes of their relatives and/or caregivers supercede their own?
  • Reference thoughts on this issue expressed in Boston Legal, Season 2, Episode 16, Live Big; not the actual trial (although some thoughts expressed by the prosecuting attorney are cogent), but a discussion between Alan Shore and Denny Crane, provoked by the trial, in which Crane reminisces about the 'euthanization' of his father, who was afflicted with dementia, the fact that his father did not appear to be living a tortured existence but was, rather, "blissful", and that Crane considers that "they" (meaning the family) 'euthanized' his father not to end the father's suffering, but their own.

    Later.

    While I was finishing off that last post Mom was just getting into What About Bob?, which, surprisingly, she loved, thought it was hilarious. She usually doesn't go in for those types of comedies. Anyway, I had been explaining to her, between the rest of the post and the last paragraph, what to expect from the movie after I surfed to it for her and I guess I got "Bob" on the brain.
    Later.

    I notice that links in lists are a little strange; wrong font and too big. But, I'm working on that and I'm tired of thinking in CSS, at the moment.

    Day before yesterday we had an interesting "Who Am I?", as in the podcast, incident. If you've listened to the podcast you know that Mom finally came around to a semblance of who I really am and how long I've been around (in the world), as well as my relationship to her. No such luck, though, during this most recent incident.
    It began, as these incidents usually begin, after she slept, this time, a nap. "I've been thinking," she said, "did the folks ever contact that man about [Mom's brother's] accident?"
    As usual, although I had an idea to what she was referring, I asked questions in order to make sure she and I were in the same "Zone". "You mean your folks?"
    "Well, yes." She was surprised I asked.
    "The 'man' you're wondering if they contacted. Would this have been an insurance man?"
    "Well, sort of," she said, struggling to identify him exactly.
    "So, what you're telling me is that someone, a company or a person, might have been liable for [your brother's] accident."
    "Oh! Yes!"
    "I thought it happened on your farm and he was doing a family chore. Am I wrong about that?"
    Mom looked at me as though I was the one with dementia. "Well, I'm sure you know this," she said, "but I'll remind you. He was working with that group of men."
    "A group of men who worked on other's people's farms?"
    She was becoming irritated. I noticed a "How could you be so stupid" look creeping over her face. "Yes! Yes! You know!"
    "And they brought their own machinery."
    "Well, it belonged to the man who hired them."
    "What kind of a machine was it, exactly, that injured [your brother]?"
    "A thresher."
    "And," I was trying hard to remain patiently stupid so as to get all the information I needed, "what exactly happened?"
    "I don't need to tell you that. You probably remember it better than me!"
    "Why would I?"
    Fairly shouting, now, "Because you were there!"
    "Well, just for the sake of argument, would you please refresh my memory?"
    An exasperated sigh. "He fell into the thresher."
    "And the thresher was owned by someone else and he was working for someone other than your family."
    "I don't know why you can't remember this. It's as clear as day to me!"
    I love it when my mother decides I'm the demented one. It means I'm doing my job well. "Okay. So, apparently, your folks were supposed to talk to someone about the accident. In order to get compensation for the medical bills?"
    "Yes..." she was thinking hard, bringing things back she hadn't considered for a long time, "they were supposed to, but I don't know if they ever did. That's what I want to know. You were the one who talked to them about it."
    Now, I figured, it was time to bring in a little reality, to see if I could get some more information from her. "Well, no, Mom, that wasn't me. I wasn't around then."
    "Yes you were. You badgered them about talking to this man."
    "That wasn't me, Mom. I wasn't even a gleam in your eye. Was it someone on [her brother's] work crew?"
    Her expression told me she thought I was teasing her. "You were there, all right. You were on the crew."
    "Mom, I couldn't've been. I'm your daughter."
    Agitated, now. "I know who you are! And you were there!"
    "Okay. Let's sort this out. It wasn't me who talked to your folks about contacting someone about insurance compensation, but apparently it was someone who reminds you of me. Was it a woman?" Best guess, you know, and, anyway, if it was a woman there were much fewer women in her family to suggest than men.
    "No...it was a man."
    "Mom, look at me." I was jutting out my breasts with my hands. "Aside from the fact that I wasn't born yet, even if I had been there, it couldn't have been me talking to them because I'm not a man."
    She was both surprised and amused. "I see that. Well, it was you. I'm sure of that."
    "This is what I'm thinking, Mom. It must have been someone who was very like me, someone who would badger Grandma and Grandpa about going after what was due them. Who, among your relatives, was like that?"
    She gave this some consideration. "You're the only one, I think."
    Whew. Well, this was getting weird. I decided to switch tracks. "Mom, who am I?"
    She looked as though I was trying to trick her. "I know who you are all right, but, do you?"
    I laughed. So did she. "Well, I think I do," I said, "but, you know, maybe I don't. Just for fun, tell me who I am."
    She chuckled. "Your...let me think. My daughter."
    "Which one?"
    "You're certainly having a problem today, aren't you!"
    "Come on, Mom, humor me. Which daughter am I?"
    "Gail, of course!"
    "And, will you concede that you gave birth to me long after [your brother's] accident happened?"
    "Oh, yes. And you were such a cute baby, and so easy."
    "Well, Mom, in that case, I obviously wasn't there." She made to interrupt me but I kept going, "I wish I could tell you what happened regarding the folks getting compensation..."
    This time, her interruption was successful, "I don't think they ever did. Such a shame. We could have used the money."
    "...I'm sure you could have. But, anyway, I truly don't know what happened, I really wasn't there. If I had been there, why would I refuse to tell you?"
    I meant this as a rhetorical question but she answered, "I don't know. But, you were there. I remember. Clearly."
    "So, you're saying I'm lying to you. Why would I do that?"
    This is the question that always trips her up. "Well, I don't know. Why would you? Maybe you don't remember things as well as I think you do."
    Oooh. She'd never before responded like this. "Hmmm...that's probably the case. Looks like we're in trouble, since neither of us is remembering anything very well, huh."
    She laughed. I joined in. "We seem to be doing all right."
    "I agree. I think we're doing just fine. Let's figure, if we don't remember it, it isn't important." This is a famous, long time bit of automatic wisdom of hers.
    "I'm with you there."
    A curious sidebar: Some decades ago, one of my sisters divulged to me that she thought of me as a man. I can't remember if it was in the context of a sleep dream or for some other reason, but I thought this was so funny that I began referring to myself as "Bob Green", "Green" and variations thereof being one of my two common nicknames for years. In a short lived family newsletter I published when I lived in Seattle, Bob Green became my alter ego and wrote a column on food and household tips.
    Anyway, I applied myself to further thought about this later in the day. Although no one would mistake me physically for a man, perhaps there are certain "mannish" qualities about me: My insistence on (and need for) a solitary life, my insistence on making sure what I need to do is somehow what I want to do...a sort of "lone bachelor wolf" quality that informs everything else that I am. Maybe the demented, if they are still in the stages where they are aware of and reading others, are quicker to pick up on people's intrinsic identities than who their physical accoutrements (including but not limited to such things as appearance, style of dress, name and public persona) advertise them to be. We humans are creatures who live more in anticipation than actuality and we love the masquerade to the point of confusing ourselves and others with the costume. Wouldn't it be interesting if we discovered that one of the hallmarks of dementia is that in this state, finally, we discard noticing the act in favor of noticing the actor?