Page 75 - Aging Parents - FDCCPublications

“storybook” in today’s times. They would travel, visit, and entertain others in their home to the point of breathlessness. They made me tired just watching them! Given my appreciation and protection
My memory of my mom is that I had the best that God could have supplied.
disease noticeably progressed, but the results of her cooking at first were less than optimal but progressed to the catastrophic. My mother’s most notable gift had now slowly turned into a game of Russian roulette as to which entree would be scorched, or even uncooked, or still sitting
PATIENCE, PLANNING AND SUPPORT: REFLECTIONS ON DEALING WITH AGING FAMILY MEMBERS
of their relationship and having
gotten resistance many times from
Dad when I raised the subject of
the possibility of a mental decline, his participation in this physician visit was not advisable.
We entered the room, and all seemed to be quite normal. Dr. “Jones” [only for the sake of anonymity] began the encounter with “Why are you here.” In all graciousness with my dear mother, I explained to Dr. Jones that we kids [my two younger sisters] had begun to notice some things in Mom that were alarming in nearly every facet of her
life. Dr. Jones asked for more detail, and it started with what I believed to be the earliest sign that Mom was not very attentive to her safety. A year or more ago, she had gotten into a wreck on a busy street by turning in front of an oncoming car. By all accounts [law enforcement as well], Mom did not have the right of way and had only a slight memory of doing it. While that alone would not have been worth mentioning, and in isolation, it probably was not, her explanation to me about what happened was of concern. At the time, I chalked it up to inattention, but over the
next year, it was followed by curious confusion (slightly at first) and then the conversational miscues where she would account for things that were partly or not true. But the most alarming thing that motivated my concern was one thing my Mom was the proudest of: and that was her cooking.
Aside from a preoccupation with her appearance and hygiene, which was always immaculate, Mom loved to schedule family gatherings that could have included children, spouses, their children, and even children’s children. She would cook for any occasion, and the entire family was invited and sometimes demanded. The usual holidays were only a minimum. She would cook for any event and make enough for everyone to take home. She was a great cook, and my memories of our family, even from the earliest days, we’re all about the food! So, when I began to suspect that something was amiss, food became involved. Mother always insisted on cooking even as the
in the fridge. The proverbial “straw that broke the camel’s back” was an occasion when I was late for a semi-special family gathering. As I walked in and proceeded to my seat at the table, there was a look on most of my family’s face of unusual resignation that the fare would be unappetizing. It was lasagna, which I love.
I cut and parsed myself a portion only halfway, noticing that there was way too much left to eat even though I was late. In the “good old days,” if I were only a little late, I would have to rely mostly on my siblings to protect my interests at the table. This time, though, there was way too much uneaten. My first bite earned a scowl from my Dad that only my Mom could not decipher. My Dad’s eyes were immediately rebuking, and he “telepathically” warned me to hold my tongue. I meticulously picked around the heaping portion of my meal, looking for any portion I could consume without offense to my senses, regretting that I selfishly grabbed a larger-than-normal portion. My Dad’s reaction then only affirmed for me the very reason that he must be excluded after that from any effort to arrive at a diagnosis of his bride’s cognitive condition.
Accounting to Dr. Jones of the wreck, the common miscues of Mom’s apparel, hygiene, cooking, and the conversational vacuum that sometimes characterized our family visits would have been more than my Dad could have endured discussing. Plus, the necessary frankness from me could have sullied me for a time, even though my relationship with my Dad was always excellent. While I was summoning every
bit of lawyer training to maintain my composure about my dear mother with Dr. Jones, my insides were hopelessly a wreck. I did not think my sisters would be emotionally built for this foreboding encounter, and my Dad could not be a part of this process. He and I would talk over the phone often, even after the decline was obvious, and typically, there were moments of silence and a struggle to speak. The
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