“What do I do with this?” she asked.“Just put it on the back of the toilet when you are done,” Sherrie said briskly. Mom went into her little bathroom, leaving the door open but the light off. Sherrie turned her back to give Mom privacy. We chatted while Mom did her thing. After a while, Mom did not emerge from the bathroom. I called to her to see how she was doing.
“I don't know what to do now,” Mom said. Sherrie leaped up to help. I thought about letting her do the work, but she hung back when she saw the poop in Mom's pull-ups. Mom was tearing one side of the pull-up. I tore the other side. I stuffed the offending undergarment into the trash can and brought a clean pair. I know the drill now. One step at a time: Shoes off, jeans off, underpants on, stand up, pull up . . . meanwhile Sherrie had spread her gear all over the apartment, blocking the path to the couch. Mom sat on the bed. I clumsily helped her get pants back on. She sat there quietly, feet dangling, waiting for the next cue while Sherrie babbled on about this and that, getting her forms ready, telling me about her own mother (aged 83, also demented, living day-to-day in a care home). Eventually Mom got bored and toppled over sideways on the bed.
Sherrie checked Mom's blood pressure. Next, she checked Mom's feet. She had trouble getting Mom's slip-on Merrells back on. I sat on the couch, changing the batteries in my mother's hearing aids, and pretended not to notice as Mom expressed her discomfort by shouting “Ow!” when Sherrie forced Mom's foot into her shoe. I know that feeling, the desire to appear efficient and helpful that backfires—it's one of my well trod paths to humility.
“Well, now that I'm done abusing your mother . . . ” Sherrie joked. “Here are some things you might want to watch for.”
Sherrie told me dementia is a slow-moving disease. Apparently, dementia patients are more likely to die from falls, pneumonia, or infections. “Your mom could last five more years.” Sherrie was entering data into her notebook, so she almost missed the look of horror on my face.
“What is going on with you?” she asked. I went over to the bed and put Mom's hearing aids back in place. Red goes in the right ear, blue in the left. Images of future wreckage flitted through my mind.
“Let's talk about this later,” I said. “Testing, testing.”
“Loud and clear,” Mom said, smiling up at me.
By the time the visit was over, Mom and I were both exhausted. Mom sank into the couch to catch a few winks before lunch. I left to run my errands, after which I went home for my own nap. I woke up bleary-eyed and ham-fisted, like a kid who just woke up from a nap but is pretending she has perfect control over all her faculties. I dropped a few things as I prepared my lunch, nothing breakable.
I went back to visit Mom as usual in the evening. She was upright on the couch, watching TV, but not for long. Shortly after I arrived, she drooped and her eyes rolled back in her head. I suggested she might want to rest. She agreed. I helped her get her feet up on the couch and spread her old wool blanket over her legs. She pulled it up to her chest.
“I'm not walking you down” she said sadly. I kissed her forehead, told her I loved her, and walked to the back door alone. Three nights in a row now, she has opted for the couch. I don't know if that means anything except it's hell getting old. As if we didn't already know.
