I've never enjoyed the distorted perspective provided by carnival mirrors. Most film clips that include such a glimpse also include knife-wielding psychopaths in hot pursuit of some terrified innocent. Just thinking about it creeps me out.
My personal experiences in front of those things have been equally unnerving. Fun for a moment, these mirrors disturb the norm, displaying fat views, elongated and crooked views, and rendering one's face unrecognizable. Their humor comes from disorienting the viewer who can walk away at will.
But what if you can't? What if who you see and who you are is a toss-up every day? What if some days, you look in the mirror and see a 78-year-old woman whose clearest memories are rooted in sixty-year-old experiences? This is Mom's world. This is the carnival mirror known as dementia.
I spent last Thursday with her, attending to her bills. Her budget is a working crisis nestled in a life in perpetual crisis. She lives on a decrepit 17-acre farm with about 60 residents--a motley assortment of goats, chickens, geese, two mules, a pregnant mini-horse and ancient gelding. These are her children. Her children have now become her parents.
Not every day is bad or hard. Some days, days when things are rolling along according to her routine, she does great. She's funny, kind, generous, and caring. Some people look at us on our weekly "dates" and smile as mother and daughter make the rounds at WalMart, the pharmacy, and the park. She retells her favorite old stories from childhood, I tell her stupid jokes, and we generally wind up oohhing and ahhing over the spread at Mom's favorite Chinese Buffet.
Bad days don't have to be whole days. A single event or question can throw her off her game, or trigger an unpleasant memory that will consume her and throw her into a burst of anger. I've come to realize that anger is generally an expression of fear, and so we start un-threading the day to discover the source of that fear.
Some people grow impatient with Mom--people in line at the grocery who slump across their carts as they watch her struggle to write a check, forgetting the date, asking the clerk to repeat the total several times, looking to me for reassurance.
Some stare at her severe make-up and black polyester wigs. She's a beautiful woman, even at 78, but her look has undergone some curious cosmetic enhancements. She now draws thick, Groucho Marx-style eyebrows in black eyeliner which we replace regularly, along with a few tubes of difficult to find bright orange lipstick. She can't discern a clean shirt from a soiled one any more, but she becomes insulted and indignant with I point stains out to her, so I have learned to flatter her into changing, with comments like, "It's such a pretty day. Let's dress up. Go put on that pink shirt."
Some people take advantage of her. A thief stole replacement checks from her mailbox, requiring us to close her account and open a new one. Even though we chose the exact same check pattern and style, the confusion of making the change overwhelmed her. We sat in a customer service rep's office to make Mom comfortable. She later told my brother she was in an attorney's office, and that they took a lot of pictures of her. I realized later that she had been quite upset by the many security cameras placed inside the bank. To her, she was being photographed like a convict.
Some people pity her, and us. The bank personnel were overcome with empathy as she begged them not to close her account. They tried a dozen ways to explain how this was for her good, but in the end I realized another painful thing--we'll need to assume legal control of Mom's affairs soon.
It's a hard road, a road most of us will be on someday, either as the caregiver, or the patient. It's hard to prepare for this time, for the interruption it creates in the lives of all concerned. Two good books on the subject are "The Thirty-Six-Hour Day" which is a good guide for caregivers, and "Still Alice," a novel written form the perspective of the dementia victim. Both were recommended by good friends. One is also going through this journey with her mother. Talking and sharing helps.
Showing posts with label Mothers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mothers. Show all posts
Monday, August 20, 2012
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
A SHIFT IN REALITY
I love history--learning about it, cherishing it, making it through making new memories. It's ironic almost that after spending years immersed in researching other people's memories and experiences I find myself sorrowing that someone I love is burrowing deeper and into their past, unable to retain much that is recent, or make new history. This is the agony of dementia. This is my mother's world.
She is slipping away from us, one day at a time. Her recall of the past is clear and crisp, but what we did yesterday, or even five minutes ago is a frightening fog that leaves her anxious and at times, apprehensive, argumentative, and angry.
It's a bitter irony that her life is being lived in reverse, so-to-speak. She clings to the old, the ancient memories, retelling stories, reliving events, both sweet and bitter, switching back and forth between joy and despondency depending on what event flashes into her mind. When a thought or understanding from the present does manage to snap into place, she clings to it with a death-grip, repeating it over and over within a few minutes, as if that current bit of relevance is a life line to the present. We cling to it with her.
Each day is different. On a good day--a day where her routine is uninterrupted--she is funny and sweet, charming and innocent, childlike in her careful exploration of her world. On a day when change injects itself into her routine, be it through a new element or a new person, requiring an adjustment to her rigid world, she fights or retreats. We never know what will trigger what reaction.
It's been hard to pull back from Mom and her concerns enough to work on my manuscripts and then I realized that perhaps it would be good for both of us if I simply wrote my current perspective. So that's what I'm doing. I'm setting the other projects aside and writing a story that includes a character with dementia. It shows the trials and the surprises that go along with loving someone in this delicate mental bubble.
So that's where I'm at right now. It feels right. It's helping me cope by providing a place where I can dump my frustration, and it helps me spend time seeing things from her perspective. I hope it will help someone else who finds themselves in this crucible of caring for a mother/child. I'll tell you how things are going. If you have a loved one with dementia, I'd love to hear your experiences as well.
She is slipping away from us, one day at a time. Her recall of the past is clear and crisp, but what we did yesterday, or even five minutes ago is a frightening fog that leaves her anxious and at times, apprehensive, argumentative, and angry.
It's a bitter irony that her life is being lived in reverse, so-to-speak. She clings to the old, the ancient memories, retelling stories, reliving events, both sweet and bitter, switching back and forth between joy and despondency depending on what event flashes into her mind. When a thought or understanding from the present does manage to snap into place, she clings to it with a death-grip, repeating it over and over within a few minutes, as if that current bit of relevance is a life line to the present. We cling to it with her.
Each day is different. On a good day--a day where her routine is uninterrupted--she is funny and sweet, charming and innocent, childlike in her careful exploration of her world. On a day when change injects itself into her routine, be it through a new element or a new person, requiring an adjustment to her rigid world, she fights or retreats. We never know what will trigger what reaction.
It's been hard to pull back from Mom and her concerns enough to work on my manuscripts and then I realized that perhaps it would be good for both of us if I simply wrote my current perspective. So that's what I'm doing. I'm setting the other projects aside and writing a story that includes a character with dementia. It shows the trials and the surprises that go along with loving someone in this delicate mental bubble.
So that's where I'm at right now. It feels right. It's helping me cope by providing a place where I can dump my frustration, and it helps me spend time seeing things from her perspective. I hope it will help someone else who finds themselves in this crucible of caring for a mother/child. I'll tell you how things are going. If you have a loved one with dementia, I'd love to hear your experiences as well.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
EVERY MOM NEEDS THIS LITTLE CHUCKLE-BOOK
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Available on Amazon now for $.99 |
It's actually a laugh-you're-head-off-and-smile book, by Susan Law Corpany Curtis, a friend and author who may be the funniest person on the planet.
We've never actually met, but Susan and I chat online about our work, and she never ceases to leave me doubled over with laughter--and I'm a pretty hard sell.
In her recent release, "Musings on Motherhood," her quick, spot-on wit examines her varied experiences with motherhood, from a few stories about her own mother, her years being a single mom to her her son Scott, and then, after a remarriage, she shifts into her stepmother stories, ending with her grandmother stories. There's something rejuvenating and joyful for every mom.
From the back cover:
Served alongside her breakfast in bed, this "momoir" will make any mother less inclined to notice the burnt toast, runny eggs and limp bacon. Warm and fuzzy like a pair of comfy slippers, but with a lollipop stuck to them. There is something here for anyone who has ever been a mother or had a mother.
Stories of finding joy in the midst of the imperfections of family life include:
*A selfless mother who spent so many years losing at Candy Land that even her Hungry Hungry Hippo died of malnutrition.
*Zombies that invaded a novel about to go to press and proof that revenge is a dish best served cold.
*How the author eventually won over her future mother-in-law and ceased to be referred to as "that woman from the internet."
From the back cover:
Served alongside her breakfast in bed, this "momoir" will make any mother less inclined to notice the burnt toast, runny eggs and limp bacon. Warm and fuzzy like a pair of comfy slippers, but with a lollipop stuck to them. There is something here for anyone who has ever been a mother or had a mother.
Stories of finding joy in the midst of the imperfections of family life include:
*A selfless mother who spent so many years losing at Candy Land that even her Hungry Hungry Hippo died of malnutrition.
*Zombies that invaded a novel about to go to press and proof that revenge is a dish best served cold.
*How the author eventually won over her future mother-in-law and ceased to be referred to as "that woman from the internet."
Released on the very cusp of Mother's Day, too late to do much holiday promotion, Curtis says this about her book:
"I have a new book out, just in time to be late for Mother's Day. (Nothing says "I love you" more than celebrating mom all month long.)"
Here are two samples from the book, demonstrating the range of Mommy-buttons Curtis sweetly pushes. The first is taken from a trip to Washington D.C. she and her fiance and their children took.
I asked Thom what memories he had from our Washington D.C. trip. He said his favorite memory from that trip, in which we visited many historic places, famous museums, had a romantic dinner on his birthday, and watched an unbelievable fireworks display, was my visit to a convenience store for an emergency purchase. This confirms my earlier observations that the things we remember from trips aren’t the things we plan but the funny things that happen along the way.
Thom had dog piled with all his kids into a room at the hotel and I shared a room with Scott. On the way to the Smithsonian Museum, I told Thom I needed to stop at the little convenience store located near the hotel for a quick purchase. In the interest of privacy, I didn't tell him what I needed to buy. I think I called it a "cosmetic item." He'd been married for twenty-three years, so I’m sure he could have handled it, but he wasn’t married to me yet. I was trying to be discreet about purchasing something I hadn’t expected to need for another week or so.
I walked up and down the aisles, but I didn't see what I needed. Finally I asked the foreign-looking employee where the "female products" were.
English was obviously not his native tongue.
"Female product. Makeup? Nail polish? I am show you where is the makeup."
I shook my head. "No. Not makeup. Sanitary products."
"Ohhhh. Tide? For wash clothes?"
"No."
"Oh, soap for wash hands?"
"Sanitary pads."
"Sponge? For wash dishes?"
Thom was standing near the door and wandered over to find out what was taking so long. "So did you find what you needed?" he asked.
"Not yet."
"Well, did you ask?"
"Yes, I ASKED!" I snapped at him.
I waited until he walked off again, in an act of self-preservation, and I tried once more to communicate with Rashid.
"Pads," I said again, wondering how else to describe what I needed.
"Oh, pads. For write letter? I have pads, aisle two. Pens, also."
"Sanitary napkins."
"Napkins? For set table?"
"No, not that kind of napkins." I tried again. "Female protection."
"Pepper spray? I am sorry. Do not have."
I saw Thom smirking over by the door. I could hear him fielding questions from the kids about what was taking me so long.
“She’ll be done soon.”
“Why doesn’t she just ask?”
“Oh, she asked. They’re just having a little communication problem.”
“Why doesn’t she tell us, and we can all look for it?”
“Nooooo, I don’t think she wants our help.”
Finally, in a burst of inspiration I blurted out "Kotex!"
He smiled and nodded in a “Why didn’t you say so?” kind of way and led me to the cash register where the female products were located on the wall behind the counter with the cigarettes and dirty magazines, apparently so that this controlled substance would not fall into the hands of minors.
Think of me next time you are on the line with customer service in India. It isn't any better in person, trust me.
Hilarious, right? Curtis's wit and timing deserve a national rim-shot. And then, she just as easily shifts into a tender appreciation of the imperfections that make families treasures, as she demonstrates in this final glimpse from "Musings on Motherhood."
I asked Thom what memories he had from our Washington D.C. trip. He said his favorite memory from that trip, in which we visited many historic places, famous museums, had a romantic dinner on his birthday, and watched an unbelievable fireworks display, was my visit to a convenience store for an emergency purchase. This confirms my earlier observations that the things we remember from trips aren’t the things we plan but the funny things that happen along the way.
Thom had dog piled with all his kids into a room at the hotel and I shared a room with Scott. On the way to the Smithsonian Museum, I told Thom I needed to stop at the little convenience store located near the hotel for a quick purchase. In the interest of privacy, I didn't tell him what I needed to buy. I think I called it a "cosmetic item." He'd been married for twenty-three years, so I’m sure he could have handled it, but he wasn’t married to me yet. I was trying to be discreet about purchasing something I hadn’t expected to need for another week or so.
I walked up and down the aisles, but I didn't see what I needed. Finally I asked the foreign-looking employee where the "female products" were.
English was obviously not his native tongue.
"Female product. Makeup? Nail polish? I am show you where is the makeup."
I shook my head. "No. Not makeup. Sanitary products."
"Ohhhh. Tide? For wash clothes?"
"No."
"Oh, soap for wash hands?"
"Sanitary pads."
"Sponge? For wash dishes?"
Thom was standing near the door and wandered over to find out what was taking so long. "So did you find what you needed?" he asked.
"Not yet."
"Well, did you ask?"
"Yes, I ASKED!" I snapped at him.
I waited until he walked off again, in an act of self-preservation, and I tried once more to communicate with Rashid.
"Pads," I said again, wondering how else to describe what I needed.
"Oh, pads. For write letter? I have pads, aisle two. Pens, also."
"Sanitary napkins."
"Napkins? For set table?"
"No, not that kind of napkins." I tried again. "Female protection."
"Pepper spray? I am sorry. Do not have."
I saw Thom smirking over by the door. I could hear him fielding questions from the kids about what was taking me so long.
“She’ll be done soon.”
“Why doesn’t she just ask?”
“Oh, she asked. They’re just having a little communication problem.”
“Why doesn’t she tell us, and we can all look for it?”
“Nooooo, I don’t think she wants our help.”
Finally, in a burst of inspiration I blurted out "Kotex!"
He smiled and nodded in a “Why didn’t you say so?” kind of way and led me to the cash register where the female products were located on the wall behind the counter with the cigarettes and dirty magazines, apparently so that this controlled substance would not fall into the hands of minors.
Think of me next time you are on the line with customer service in India. It isn't any better in person, trust me.
Hilarious, right? Curtis's wit and timing deserve a national rim-shot. And then, she just as easily shifts into a tender appreciation of the imperfections that make families treasures, as she demonstrates in this final glimpse from "Musings on Motherhood."
We were able to get a picture with Great Grandma surrounded by all of her great grandchildren.
It’s a wonderful picture. Belle is cooing. Chase is crying. Diego had to be held from behind to keep him from escaping. Jasmine was bored. Ariel was making funny faces while attempting to hold onto her little sister, Aurora, who was slowly slipping out of her arms.
I smile every time I look at that picture. It is the new screensaver on my computer. To me, it represents motherhood (and grandmotherhood) in all its glorious imperfection.
I wouldn’t trade it for all the picture perfect portraits in the world.
Curtis adds another short glimpse into her motherhood by sharing this sweet note from her son following a delicate period:
It was all forgiven the year my son wrote inside my Mother’s Day card that I was “the apotheosis of all mothers.” I’d tell you to look it up, like I had to, but some of you are lazy and won’t make the effort.
a·poth·e·o·sis
noun, plural a·poth·e·o·ses [uh-poth-ee-oh-sis, ap-uh-thee-uh-sis]
1. the elevation or exaltation of a person to the rank of a god.
2. the ideal example; epitome; quintessence: This poem is the apotheosis of lyric expression.
You’re welcome. For purposes of my continued humility, we’ll go with definition two. Now perhaps you understand my motivation to write my "momoirs" and share my motherly wisdom with the ages.
It’s a wonderful picture. Belle is cooing. Chase is crying. Diego had to be held from behind to keep him from escaping. Jasmine was bored. Ariel was making funny faces while attempting to hold onto her little sister, Aurora, who was slowly slipping out of her arms.
I smile every time I look at that picture. It is the new screensaver on my computer. To me, it represents motherhood (and grandmotherhood) in all its glorious imperfection.
I wouldn’t trade it for all the picture perfect portraits in the world.
Curtis adds another short glimpse into her motherhood by sharing this sweet note from her son following a delicate period:
It was all forgiven the year my son wrote inside my Mother’s Day card that I was “the apotheosis of all mothers.” I’d tell you to look it up, like I had to, but some of you are lazy and won’t make the effort.
a·poth·e·o·sis
noun, plural a·poth·e·o·ses [uh-poth-ee-oh-sis, ap-uh-thee-uh-sis]
1. the elevation or exaltation of a person to the rank of a god.
2. the ideal example; epitome; quintessence: This poem is the apotheosis of lyric expression.
You’re welcome. For purposes of my continued humility, we’ll go with definition two. Now perhaps you understand my motivation to write my "momoirs" and share my motherly wisdom with the ages.
We're so very glad she did. Download a copy on sale now at Amazon for only $.99 during this post-Mother's Day week. I'm getting copies for all my girls.
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