A Place for Me in the Kingdom of Heaven
January 5, 2010
I suspect not.
My time with mom, no matter how brief (or how long), is a time for me to think about my role as her daughter — successes, failures, unmitigated disasters and the like. This past Sunday, as she yelled at the two women in the pew to move because she is Margarita Ritchie and this is HER pew (move bitches — she did not say that, I inserted that for effect) and threw someone’s purse so she could place her purse down — it’s how us Latina Queens mark our territory and secure our seat in overly crowded church — I felt guilty. Not about the two women.
Please, you better move when my mom comes barreling into the house of our Lord and Savior.
Just kidding. Not really. Please move. You will make my life easier, so fucking move. Now. Or I will devein you in front of the manger. No, I jest. OK. Not really. Move please.
I think about if my role in trying to make her life semi-better…. and the words an old Spanish woman uttered many months ago…… God will reward you with a place in heaven.
God will reward me.
ME? A spot in the kingdom of heaven?
Will it be on his left or right-hand side?
And for what, might I ask? For placing my mom in a nursing home on Mother’s Day?
For walking away from her ever single morning as she screamed and cried for me to take her home?
For that one time…………that one strangely lucid moment when she looked at me through her tears and said, YOU DID THIS TO ME. WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?
For telling her no every single time she wants to buy birdseed?
For not being able to clip her toe nails because, in truth, it grosses ME out.
For not moving home sooner?
For not taking her to Banner Alzheimer’s sooner?
For prolonging my dad’s suffering and leaving him alone with her? Willingly (sometimes eagerly) boarding that flight back to New York, knowing he would not be able to cope………….. the act of a good Catholic girl, no doubt.
For making my former love suffer? Nothing like shacking up with a grotesquely, tragic girl
For making all of my friends suffer along with me? Nothing like making them hear the same story over a dozen times (in a single week).
For hating my mother more than loving her?
For sometimes resenting both my parents never cutting the cord?
A confession: Not even I can sever the rotting cord.
I can’t always say no to my dad and yes, I give my mom dollar bills here and there because they make her happy. She loves money. Boundaries? Ha. The curse of the only child.
My most reckless act, going to Vietnam, caused me so much anxiety becuase……… if something actually happened to me……………………………. they wouldn’t be able to cope without me.
He would be destroyed.
She would never understand.
And I fear a place in heaven will keep me by mother’s side FOREVER — because her ticket is booked. She is destined for heaven….. and if she isn’t, then there really is no God.
ETERNITY with my mom.
Still, I can’t help but laugh at the idea of God surrounded by the demented…………… imagine my mom spitting in heaven. Classic. Better get out your wipes God… and read my one blog about your demented Must Haves.
So, my place in heaven. I don’t know what this woman sees. Her vision is narrow because I’m no saint. I’m a realist and very much into self-preservation. I question the very existence of God. If there is a God, I don’t believe he is of the loving/kind variety — I think he or she is sick. Demented.
I have fallen asleep in church — more than once. How many Hail Mary’s is that one worth?
Talk about a view askew.
Inside the Bin
May 24, 2009
My mom is currently residing at a geriatric psychiatric unit. She is wearing diapers. She is pleading with everyone to get out, and she is running for every open door. What led to her “commitment” (it’s a temporary deal until her meds are properly adjusted) at the psych ward was a series of disturbing events that even I wasn’t prepared for. I continue learning that it can always get worse.
Mom had only been at the home for a little over a week, but during that time she was banging on doors, becoming aggressive with the other residents, breaking her picture frames, and she even tried to make her great escape. Despite being demented, she was clever enough to walk out the secured door with a family who was on their way out after visiting a family member. This little Ecuadorian broad made it out into the lobby before she was apprehended and returned to the confines of her memory care unit. Dammit. I went to her. I went before work and after work. I tried to calm her down. I tried to reason with (yes, I know). I hoped my visits would put her at ease—just knowing that I was there, that I was coming by, that I was near—I hoped would give her some comfort. My efforts did absolutely nothing. She stuck her hand down her diaper. She tried to wash out her butt with water, next she sat on the toilet and showed me her poop. And in a moment of lucidity, she said: “You did this to me. You put me here. Why did you put me here?”
The woman got to me. I thought I was detached enough… in fact, I was scared that I was too detached. I didn’t cry when we placed her. I went home and watered the dirt in my garden. I rarely weep for my mom. When she pleads with me for something, I won’t budge. I won’t cave. I just do the job that has to be done and try to get on with the everyday bullshit of life… you know, the one where I get up, go to work, and pretend to be normal.
And so it goes…
The nurse and owner of the home had wanted to send her to the psych unit in hopes stabilizing her mood… specifically her anxiety and aggression. I knew it had to be done if she was ever going to adjust and settle into her new home. I hated the idea of it. Still, I want her to be as content as she can be… even if it means forgetting about me, my dad, and the life we had—for better or worse—together.
“I am crazy, I am crazy… I wanna drink. I am crazy, I am crazy…” The skinny old lady sitting down singing I am crazy over and over and over and over again had a giant needle inserted into her arm while clear fluid dripped down a tube and into her vein. She wore brown socks.
Susan had no hair, but a generous amount of chin hair. She was a’ight. Wearing bright pink PJ’s and with her blinged out shades on, Susan wheeled herself over to my mom and told her that she loved her. “I love you. I love you.” My mom hugged her. “God bless you. Is that the door?”
When I arrived earlier, I found my mom walking around with a hospital sheet covering her shoulders. She knew who I was. “Mihijta, I am going home with you. OK. Let’s go.” The nurses wanted me to stay to talk to the doctor. Mom isn’t exactly the most coherent person on the planet these days. She mixes up English and Spanish with random words that make no sense. For the most part, I can understand some of her nonsensical language, but other times, I nod my head in agreement—“atiyunoue thedrfiop ewpombnc da’peuld aseftghing?”
I’ve never been inside a looney bin. Seeing my mom there, laughing at nothing. Waving at some invisible being and insisting we hold the door open for this friend of hers was just plain weird. The doctor had a heck of a time with her. When we walked out of the tiny room where he evaluated her, I asked him if he thought she was demented. I don’t know why… sometimes, I don’t know what’s normal anymore. He said she is severely demented. Late stage.
His diagnosis made me feel better. Gave me some strange comfort because it means I did the right thing in placing her at the home and consenting to her going into the bin. I think you just reach a point where you lose your internal compass, like you just don’t know what’s up and down, north or south. You think certain behaviors aren’t that bad. You think, “well, she’s not that far along.” You think, “oh, she’s always been like this.”
She’ll be inside the bin for about a week. I hope we can get her stabilized. I hope she can participate more fully in this final chapter of her life.
My mom is slowly destroying me. I don’t sleep well. I am getting a talking to at work about expectations next week. I am tired. I can’t focus. I can’t think. I moved out her to make things better. I could not fully participate in or heal my relationship with my ex-fiance. My demented mother is taking down the entire ship. How do you care for someone who you don’t even recognize? How do you show love or compassion to this woman who is really a stranger. I vaguely recall what she was like before becoming demented. How do you willingly walk into a psych unit when you know she is draining you of energy? She has the power to destroy me. She gave me life, a life I should appreciate and participate in more fully… yet when I think about death and dying, it doesn’t scare me. Instead, I think peace and quiet.
~Photos taken by Meredith Farmer, http://www.flickr.com/photos/meredithfarmer/
Happy Mother’s Day
May 12, 2009
Not really. Not for my family. Not for me. Not for her. Not for my dad. Our Mother’s Day sucked. Instead of brunch with mom at her favorite restaurant or an afternoon at home filled with laughter and love and pink carnations, we took my mom to her new home: A nursing home. Happy Mother’s Day indeed.
Of course, she had no idea it was Mother’s Day. I told her it was Mother’s Day. It just didn’t click in her plaque infested brain.
I knew placing her on that day or any day would be tough. I knew I would have to lie to her. I knew I would probably have to wander away while she was distracted by the staff. I knew she would be upset. I knew she would yell. I knew it would be incredibly difficult. Maybe the hardest day of all of our lives.
What I was not prepared for, and what is branded in my brain is that moment when my father took her hand in his as we walked into the facility—Dave and Margo never held hands; in all my 32 years I cannot recall a single hand-holding moment—followed by that awful second when she finally realized her room was filled with family photos and her favorite dresses. I can’t even begin to describe the look of horror and confusion on her face. “I want to go home now. Let’s go. Where is the fruits?”
Talk about a Come-to-Jesus moment.
She was sitting on her bed when she looked over to the nightstand and saw photographs of me and her sister. “Why are these here? These are mine. That’s my mother and mihijta. Why are they here?” My mom took the photos and wrapped them in the long sleeve shirt she was wearing. Then, she carefully placed her framed photos in her purse. Next, she saw her dresses hanging in the closet. “These are mine. This is my…” She took them out of the closet and walked out the door. My dad sat on the bed. He looked so tired and sad. Defeated. Exhausted. Pale. Drained of life.
After she came back into the room, I was trying to convince her that this is what the doctor wanted. That this would be good for her and that the staff would help her feel better. “Mom, this is only for a little while… just until I come back from New York (a lie) in two weeks. Yes, yes. I’m going to see my ex husband (her word for my ex boyfriend) and get back together (a lie).” She was happy about that story line. It was the only time she smiled. She prays for that particular scenario to come true. Still, despite my efforts, she wasn’t sold on staying. “No. No. No. I have to go home and feed my fruits. No. I can’t stay here. I have no idea how to go home. I have to feed my fruits.”
As I showed her more of the room and the lipstick I bought her (she carefully applied it to her chin and lips), my dad walked away. My turn. When she realized he was gone, “Davo, my Davo, where is my Davo???? DAVO!!” the staff took her down one hallway to look for him and I was taken down another hallway and out of the home.
I went home that afternoon and worked in my half-dead garden. My dad called me to check in. He was shaken. He quickly got off the phone when his voice cracked… he was on the verge of crying. I called him later that day and he sounded a little better, not much. It’s been two days and I haven’t cried.
I can’t feel much of anything. I don’t feel sad. I don’t feel happy. I just am.
I play my part in this world. Right now, I have several roles: daughter, wife, husband, decision-maker, and therapist.
Dementia doesn’t just change your loved one. It changes YOU. But not just the course of your life, it alters your DNA. I am not the person I was four months ago. I am not the person I was six, nine or 12 months ago. And this latest experience has so profoundly changed me. Today, on this fine Tuesday morning, I don’t even recognize myself.
Every cell has been altered.
I am a different person.
