On some days Mama is bright and has a little zip. She enjoys a walk around the yard and gazing into a lovey, blue autumn sky. On those days she is not completely lucid but seems to be able to be in the moment. She realizes that she is with a daughter who loves her. And she expresses gratitude. On those days she has an occasional real smile, not the fake one she produces when I tell her to smile.
Then there are other days.
Today was one of those other days. She awakened early with breathing difficulties. Anxiety induced breathing difficulties. From that moment on, the day was filled with fear and worry and “I may not live till dinner.” Which, in her defense, may be true. But it also may be true for every one of us.
I took her to a podiatry appointment. She proceeded to tell the doctor about her breathing difficulties and her inability to walk without passing out. I quickly added that her doctor is my husband and he had examined her two days prior.
Under duress, I talked her into walking (oh so slowly) through the fabric store to peruse some potential patterns for new window treatments. In her past life, this would have been a real treat. But not this day. This day she walked like a nine month old testing out his wobbly legs. She stopped mid-aisle to take deep breaths with associated facial expressions to a tee. She acted as if she were going to faint. A few women in the store looked at me as if asking: “Why do you have this poor woman out in public?” One of them actually followed me to make sure I was paying attention to Mama. I gave her a smile that I hoped she would interpret as “She is fine.” She did not see it that way and returned to me a snarky grimace. Oh boy.
Mama is incredibly healthy, physically. I (mostly lovingly) try to take her mind off of herself. I remind her how blessed she is with good health and a large family who honor and respect her. I try to distract her with photographs or brownies or helping me dust the furniture. Those things are no longer working.
Dementia is a cruel disease. It keeps her very deeply rooted memories vivid. She can remember (in detail) events from her youth and even clothing she made in high school. She told me about the exact location of a farm where my dad sheared sheep when they were a young, married couple, 68 years ago. Yet, she cannot remember that we went out to breakfast yesterday or if the shoes she just took off are really hers.
My patience is normally a long and smooth ribbon. Today it became a knotted, tangled rope. I do not know where the disease begins and where hinted manipulation ends. She is completely self-focused. Perhaps that is the disease, too.
Later this afternoon she took a nap while I did a bit of work. I looked up from my computer to see her sitting up on the sofa, staring into space. I chatted with her and she was different. I saw a sadness her eyes. She said she knew it was a tough day. She said she does not understand what is happening to her.
My prior impatience melted away. My heart ached for her.
Before dinner we managed to feel a lightness again and I asked her if we could take some photos. She agreed and we got a few silly ones. She even laughed a few times.
I told her I loved her and that I want to help. I hope she remembers that tomorrow.