Page 73 - FDCC_AgingParents

PATIENCE, PLANNING AND SUPPORT: REFLECTIONS ON DEALING WITH AGING FAMILY MEMBERS
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 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 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 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 time, though, there was way too
My memory of my mom is that I had the best that God could have supplied.
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interests at the table. This
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 toughest part of watching my Mom’s decline was what was happening to my Dad. He was still vibrant, healthy, active, and hypersensitive to every little thing that would happen that affirmed the inevitable. It became so overwhelming to him that for a time, my sisters and I each took a day or two during the week to liberate Dad to get him out of the house and do something that he enjoyed: playing golf with lifelong friends. The change of scenery for him was necessary for his mental health. The greatest challenge in caring for a loved