Mother Trucker... A Dementia Update

Four years ago when I went on a tour of the nice new retirement center down the street from me I was woefully unprepared.  Mom had just been diagnosed and I was unsure of how to get her go to go to her doctor in Hawaii, much less move across the ocean and country into a retirement community.

All the research, all the reading, all the prepping could not prepare me for what lay ahead.

On the day of the tour I saw each section.  

I toured the luxury apartments of independent and assisted living, knowing that my mom would think she could be independent but that the incidents occurring in her home pointed to her needing to be in assisted living.  I put that fight away knowing that was a battle to be fought later.  Getting her on an airplane would be a big enough brawl.  Then I'd have to clear out my childhood home.  I'd become the only person my mom had nearby.  On top of all of that I'd need to work and raise my kids... I just couldn't fight battles that were not right in-front of me.  I laid that to rest as I moved on to the last part of the tour... the memory care unit... the 'someday' place.  It was bright, gorgeous, lively, and filled with a bunch of people who needed memory care.  

I bit my lip the entire tour until I got in my car and proceeded to ugly snot bubble cry for 15 minutes.  

Found hidden in mom's old room.
So many damn tears.

That place... my mom would eventually need that.  Although she had been leaving the stove on and forgetting basic things she wasn't there yet.  I had to block it.  That was a battle for a different day.

As the past few years have rolled by I have passed the door to memory care hundreds of times.  I've watched distant children nervously escorted through to visit a parent.  I've heard hushed conversations outside it's doors about 'how much worse' it's gotten.  Mostly, I've pretended it didn't exist.  

Since mom's dog died in early March I've noticed that door much more.  It has tugged at my heart.  It began to feel like something I may need to eventually walk through.  In my weekly check-in emails with the staff (ain't nobody talking about Margo's health in front of Margo... you know that wouldn't end well) I would look for updates on her placement, on her cognition, on her emotional state.  

Each week the report was worse but everyone was going above and beyond to make assisted living work.  Like most things in life, it worked... until it didn't.

A status report two Mondays ago was things are progressing but putting your mom in memory care would mean hell would reign down on all of us to which I responded, 'you really get her'.  No matter how much memory or daily living tasks my mom looses her will, wit, and fire does not waiver.  

Good thing I live for ORGANIZING

Four days later on Friday, an email came to me (after a ridiculously difficult meeting about AG's academic struggles at school because shit is never easy) titled: Mother.

I've learned an important thing these past few years.  Emails titled 'Mother' are never good.  I usually insert my own expletive after it.  Use your imagination, I bet you can figure it out.  It rhymes with trucker.  

Mom was getting lost on her floor, she was unable to entertain herself at all and sat in the hall waiting for the next activity to begin, or she was weeping for the loss of her dog (and her mom, dad, & sister whom she also believes have all just died in the past month).  Things were progressing fast. 

That damn door was opening.  The following weekend she spent some time in the memory 'neighborhood' as they call it.  She did well, she didn't cry as much, she laughed with her buddies she's missed since they've moved, she slid right into life there.  

Best. Humans. Best. Friends.

So YES... it's time.  Oh, by the way, it's time in three days.  Team Rut had went into GO MODE, storage unit, moving supplies, a mission impossible like timeline where I take mom to Target and lunch with the kids and Jay magically moves her entire life down a floor and into a new place.  Furniture, clothes, pictures, art... and damn if it didn't happen.  We should all get trophies. 

We are beyond grateful for good friends who joined Jay and somehow got my mom totally moved after all our kids played soccer together in the morning and before t-ball at 1pm.  

Soccer, Memory Care, T-ball... just a normal Saturday in our weird ass life.  

Since mom's short term is totally gone, preparing her was fruitless.  I brought her to her new room.  She was PISSED and I am her caretaker but still her daughter and I am scared to death of my mom when she's mad.  I made as graceful an exit as I could and am following the advice of the staff and doctors... give my mom two weeks to acclimate before seeing her or you will regret it and slow her acclimation.  

I call and get a daily update from the saintly staff.  These women are GOLD.  

Saturday: She's mad but she's okay.

Sunday: She's trying to escape back to her old apartment (see picture of note on door... I had to document)

Monday: She doing much better but if you don't deliver her brush, blow dryer, and makeup (Jay's a great mover but not super intuitive as to what women need to get ready for the day) she may kill you.

Tuesday: She hasn't even asked about her old apartment.  

So it's a new phase.  A new world.  It's amazing how once mom progressed the place that made me ugly cry became a place that makes my heart feel peace.  Mom has friends, she isn't left alone to stew in her misunderstanding, and she gets to participate in things she hasn't been able to in a long time like cooking, dishes, and laundry (apparently you miss that, I can't imagine but I respect that it's true) because the care is specialized.  It's only people with memory issues, it's not people with declining physical health.  Staffing ratios are increased and so are activities. 

And once again... dementia is a Mother Trucker.  

*Look for my next dementia update I'm calling...

How many dirty ice cream bowls can one woman fit in her dresser drawers? 

hint: over 25.