By Kathy Ritchie
from her blog, My Demented Mom
Photo courtesy of Kathy Ritchie
I have a message for my mother’s friends, family and acquaintances: She’s still alive.
My mother’s heart still beats. Though she might not be able to talk to you, walk with you, or share a laugh with you, she’s still here. She’s still alive.
If you spend any amount of time with her, you’ll quickly realize she’s here, and like most living, breathing human beings, she craves touch. Hold her hand. I do.
Yes, it’s hard, especially when she yells out; I hate watching my mother’s face contort in such a way that it looks like she’s in pain.
I know she can’t be, but maybe, she knows. Maybe she knows she’s trapped inside a body that won’t follow her commands.
It’s a muggy Sunday afternoon when I visit my mom, it’s just after noon and she’s eating (or rather drinking) her lunch. The caregiver asks if I want to spoon-feed her the rest of her liquified meat.
Next time someone talks to you about the preservation of human life, try thinking about the thing that really matters at the end of the day: quality of life. Or how about this: DIGNITY.
Midway through her meal of watery green goop and off-white, milky muck, she chokes and coughs. Brownish goo comes flying out of her mouth and splatters all over my green shirt.
I start to feel angry, not at her, rather at those who have forgotten her. Her family and friends.
My mother did so much for so many people. When the church would call, she would pray, she would volunteer to give communion to the sick, she would give of herself.
When her family called with a crisis, she would pray, she would provide the means for them to literally have a better life. And now, she’s alone.
No one asks for her, really. On her birthday, there were no calls, no e-mails. Nothing. It was another day for the rest of the world.
After lunch, I take her back to her room. Her fingernails are too long.
I ask the nurse for a pair of clippers and start trimming. It isn’t long before my back starts to ache and my abdomen cramps just a little.
I’m hunched over, just inches away from her hand. Fingernails fly up and flick my face.
Her toenails are another challenge. They’re twisted, they overlap and are stiff from lack of use.
I need to remember to bring nail polish remover next time.
The gold paint I swiped over her toenails last spring still remains… was it last spring; has it been that long? Am I the only person who paints her nails? UGH.
My body twists and contorts so I can find just the right angle to trim her thick toenails. Mom is sound asleep. Good. I think she’d be yelling if she were awake.
She inhabits a place somewhere between life and death.
It’s a grotesque place.
By the time I leave, I have a headache and my blood is boiling.
I feel nothing but hate and resentment. I know I should let it go. After all, what’s that saying?
Something about hatred poisons and hurts me, not them?
I don’t care. Shut up. Stupid quote. Nonsense. This is unforgivable. Where’s a vengeful God when you need one?
Fire. Brimstone. Come on!
After a few days of stewing, the anger eventually subsides… is it anger? Maybe it’s hurt. Resentment? Rage? Jealously? Contempt? All of the above.
I try to cut myself some slack… yes, I wish I could be more serene about her illness, but then, I think back to those darker days, and the anger bubbles up again. STOP.
I wonder if there is a heaven… or a hell. I wonder what God will decide.
I wonder if He stopped asking about my mom, too.
To read more by Ritchie and learn about coping with dementia and “the long goodbye”, visit her blog at “www.mydementedmom.com”.