Back in 2014, I knew something was wrong with my mother when she stopped folding her towels correctly. The proper way to fold a towel (any towel larger than a washcloth) is to fold a third lengthwise toward the center on both sides of the towel. Then depending on the size of your storage space, you fold it crosswise in half or in thirds, or you roll it up if you are inclined toward creating an elegant towel display. The point is, all edges are hidden. All you see are folds.I was shocked to see that Mom was folding her towels in haphazard fashion, lengthwise, crosswise, no care given to exposing raw edges, no thought paid to making an attractive towel display in the cupboard.
Now, I realize towels can be folded anyway you please, or not folded at all. Who cares, not me. What I am describing here is the way my mother taught me how to fold a towel. This towel-folding habit is deeply ingrained in me. I fold all my towels like this. No rough edges, only folds. I'm all about attractive towel displays even though I only have two bath towels (one lime green, one green striped) and six mismatched hand towels. I even fold my dish towels like this, despite the fact that they reside out of sight in a dusty cupboard next to the stove.
Looking back, I realize now that improper towel folding was just one of several warning signs that should have tipped me off that Mom's brain was starting to slip. However, my tendency all my life has been to pay attention mainly to me—my life, my fears, my agenda. I noticed the improper towel folding pattern, and I remember being shocked, but I wasn't able to translate it to the next logical thought: What was happening to my mother?
Mom knew her brain was no longer performing optimally. I thought she was doing okay. She had always been so competent. I assumed she would always manage independently, right up to the moment when she gasped her last from emphysema. She had her pill management system. She was still driving (albeit somewhat sloppily). She knew what she wanted to do, I thought, and knew how to do it. I didn't question her abilities. It never crossed my mind, until the day she told me she needed help.
That's when I saw that she was messing up her checkbook. She was leaving half-nibbled muffins out on the counter. She was eating food that had been in the fridge way too long. She was spraying ant poison directly on cereal and crackers in her pantry. She was blowing stop signs and sideswiping garbage cans with her car. She was forgetting how to access her email.
Honestly, given my preoccupation with self, I doubt if anything would have unfolded differently had I noticed all these early warning signs. Thus, Mom was the initiator of our search for an independent living facility. She decided to move, where to move, when to move, and she decided how long to wait before she couldn't stand it and moved back to her condo (a month and a half). I gave her increasing support when she admitted she was having trouble shopping and managing her finances. I didn't want to force help on her. I wanted her to be independent as long as she could, even if that meant her safety was at risk.
She was okay giving up check writing privileges. But she balked when with her doctor's help, we took away her driving privileges. She wasn't happy about the loss of her independence. Who can blame her? Gradually her autonomy eroded to the point we are at now, four years later. She moved into the retirement home as a perky Level 2 (mostly independent) resident. Now she's a Level 5 (frequently ringing her call button when she can't figure out what to do). I write a monthly check to pay for adult underpants now, along with wipes and gloves. She can no longer turn on her computer, much less access her email. She can't knit anymore. She can read, but only books she has read many times before. I help her make phone calls and write notes to friends who write to her. She doesn't think about money, except when she needs some cash to pay the hair stylist every other month.
She's still walking, but with a walker (those glider ski tips really help, in case you are considering some for your parental unit). She knows where the food is, and she can get herself there on time. She remembers to ring the call button when she has an accident (she blamed ranch dressing for today's blowout).
I imagine this gradual unraveling is confounding for her. However, she's in the moment, living it one breath at a time. Me, I'm lost in the wreckage of the future. I've seen independent people, and I've seen people drooling in wheelchairs. What I think I'm witnessing is the process by which they get from here to there. I'm watching the disintegration of a life. At what point do I need to rent a wheelchair? At what point do we need a bed with plastic sheets and bed rails? At what point will I greet her and find her staring blankly at me, trying to figure out who I am?
