Yesterday my mother was in "low coming in" mode.
    Meaning: An atmospheric low began a slow sweep through northern Arizona, including us. She tends to slow down and allow her mind a bit more randiness than usual during these periods. Thus, caregiving ramped up a bit, as well: Lots of times when I had to remind her to blow her nose; resistance to every-two-hour bathroom visits when she was up; resistance to arising from both naps and night sleep; argumentativeness; resistance to straightening herself out after rising from a sitting position, which is mandatory, now, in order to avoid what I call her "rag doll walk" which puts her in increased danger of falling.
    So, we experienced a few tiffs. Nothing major, but pretty frequent. In the evening, after her nap, when she decided, yet again, to toss her soiled underwear across the bathroom instead of depositing it in the garbage can immediately to her right when she's sitting on the toilet, I blew off some steam. Can't remember what I said, but she took umbrage and immediately informed me, "I don't know why you're so touchy! I spent years doing this for you girls! Nothing to it!"
    Wrong time, wrong message. "Mom," I said, "let me explain something to you." In order to make sure she paid attention I raised her head by the chin in order to make sure her eyes met mine. [Forgive the political incorrectness of terms used...my mother doesn't understand politically correct terminology for the conditions to which I referred; it appeared after her "time".] "Taking care of you is like taking care of a permanently retarded child with health issues. In fact, considering that many health issues you have are similar to those associated with Mongolism (Downes Syndrome, for those of you who are politically correct), it would be like you having had a Mongoloid child. Were any of us Mongoloids, Mom?"
    Her face registered shock and consternation. "No," she confirmed.
    "Okay, then you have absolutely no idea what caring for you entails. Don't assume that you do."
    Clarity flooded her eyes. "I understand," she said, just this side of humble, which, frankly, is one of the things I love about my mom, she can't be easily humbled. In case you're curious, the reason I chose to compare caring for her with caring for those with Downes Syndrome is because she spent some time teaching in a school, on Guam, which hosted a significant number of Downes Syndrome children.
    Will she remember? No. Will these testy episodes occur again? You bet. Will I dress her down again? Maybe, maybe not, depends on what sort of a day we've had when they reoccur. It felt good, though, to be able to put the entire issue of my caring for my mother into terms that she could understand...not just the labor involved in caring for someone who is physically falling apart. She did this for a good year with my father as he was dying. But, to be able to give her an idea of what it is like to care, for years, for someone who is most likely not able to understand the perimeters of the care they're receiving. That's the hard part. That's the part that, I think, is primarily responsible so many of the internal struggles caregivers to the demented elderly experience. It helps, sometimes, to acknowledge this out loud for someone to hear; especially if the listener is your care recipient, even if you know that s/he isn't going to remember what s/he momentarily acknowledges.
    There are lots of reasons why many of us intense needs caregivers eventually find it impossible to continue; the further I, personally, walk along this path, the more doubts I have about my own ability to continue. I think, though, they all boil down to this: As a society, we still don't get it: Truly, except in fairly rare cases, this isn't your mother's caregiving.
    My soul is tired.
    Later.
- posted by Gail Rae @ 13:38   email  this post