Being Flushed Out
It has been thirteen months since my 87-year-old mom moved in with us. Seven months since my first post.
I could dive right into her reality now - the one in which she sees people near her when she and I are the only ones in the room, the one in which she is certain I have two husbands, can't walk without assistance, is incontinent, has absolutely no motivation, can no longer read because the words don't make sense. But hell, she sleeps 11 hours! We're golden!
But before going forward I want to go backwards. There's just so much...mostly in the form of me being humbled. There's a line thinner than a breath between pretense and simple honest intent and very shortly into becoming Mom's caretaker I discovered that though my intentions were sincere, my approach was not rooted in her real needs. It was instead fueled by my earnest effort to maintain my "to do" list while taking care of Mom by simply adding her to my list. I thought parking Mom in her living room chair with a good book while I traipsed in and out of view to serve her tea and homemade muffins would work. The stellar daughter, the superwoman who could write and manage her business, walk her dog, hang out with her husband, and still make Mom feel her needs were of utmost importance. How long do you think that lasted?
Not surprisingly Mom grew snarky and depressed. She had been diagnosed with dementia five years prior and was already showing signs of being unable to reason things out, so my husband's and my efforts to assert our right to maintain our lives within some semblance of normalcy was a total bust. What were we thinking? We had moved her in with us because she needed someone to keep her company, to nurture her, to make sure she knew she mattered, a task which fell mostly to me because I was Mom's primary caretaker. Juan offers ongoing moral support, time off, and essential debriefing at day's end, but it is the way in which I communicate to Mom during the day that defines the tone that ripples through everything.
So I waged an experiment. I tossed my "to do" list and made sure I was fully present with Mom - squelching any thoughts of pending projects or yearnings to throw on my backpack and hike deep into the Bob Marshall. Being completely present required my full attention. It became a mindfulness practice, no small challenge. And the outcome ... the light returned to Mom's eyes, she pulled out of her despair. Mom had flushed me out. There is no place to hide in her presence...one of Mom's many gifts in this process of being with her as she dies.
Now, thirteen months into Mom's care, this epiphany hits me like one big "Duh!" but back then I was completely ignorant about how deeply dementia had entwined its tentacles into Mom's brain. I kept thinking she could be the person I had always known her to be and it pissed me off when she, in my mind, wouldn't step up. Now I know that she simply can't step up. She is doing the best she can.
http://bigguys.zenfolio.com/p786714363
I could dive right into her reality now - the one in which she sees people near her when she and I are the only ones in the room, the one in which she is certain I have two husbands, can't walk without assistance, is incontinent, has absolutely no motivation, can no longer read because the words don't make sense. But hell, she sleeps 11 hours! We're golden!
But before going forward I want to go backwards. There's just so much...mostly in the form of me being humbled. There's a line thinner than a breath between pretense and simple honest intent and very shortly into becoming Mom's caretaker I discovered that though my intentions were sincere, my approach was not rooted in her real needs. It was instead fueled by my earnest effort to maintain my "to do" list while taking care of Mom by simply adding her to my list. I thought parking Mom in her living room chair with a good book while I traipsed in and out of view to serve her tea and homemade muffins would work. The stellar daughter, the superwoman who could write and manage her business, walk her dog, hang out with her husband, and still make Mom feel her needs were of utmost importance. How long do you think that lasted?
Not surprisingly Mom grew snarky and depressed. She had been diagnosed with dementia five years prior and was already showing signs of being unable to reason things out, so my husband's and my efforts to assert our right to maintain our lives within some semblance of normalcy was a total bust. What were we thinking? We had moved her in with us because she needed someone to keep her company, to nurture her, to make sure she knew she mattered, a task which fell mostly to me because I was Mom's primary caretaker. Juan offers ongoing moral support, time off, and essential debriefing at day's end, but it is the way in which I communicate to Mom during the day that defines the tone that ripples through everything.
So I waged an experiment. I tossed my "to do" list and made sure I was fully present with Mom - squelching any thoughts of pending projects or yearnings to throw on my backpack and hike deep into the Bob Marshall. Being completely present required my full attention. It became a mindfulness practice, no small challenge. And the outcome ... the light returned to Mom's eyes, she pulled out of her despair. Mom had flushed me out. There is no place to hide in her presence...one of Mom's many gifts in this process of being with her as she dies.
Now, thirteen months into Mom's care, this epiphany hits me like one big "Duh!" but back then I was completely ignorant about how deeply dementia had entwined its tentacles into Mom's brain. I kept thinking she could be the person I had always known her to be and it pissed me off when she, in my mind, wouldn't step up. Now I know that she simply can't step up. She is doing the best she can.
http://bigguys.zenfolio.com/p786714363
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