Here I am again, fighting off some kind of bug. I sat on the couch with a blankie and a kitty on my lap and the phone began to ring.

It hasn’t stopped.

Just when I thought things were quieting down into a buzzing, catatonic lull, here we go again.

My mother has been home for a couple of weeks and things were beginning to fall into place. (On second thought, maybe I better not use the word FALLING.) One aide comes at 7:00 am and stays until 4:00 pm. The second aide comes at 5:00 pm and leaves at 7:00 pm. At that time my mother is in bed.

This chapter began with the laying of the carpet. The building’s hallways, which are long, very long, are in the midst of a carpeting upgrade (And it seems that as soon as new carpeting is down, someone spills a humongous bottle of bleach on it near the laundry area.) And so, it seems that the carpeting throughout the building is being changed. And what does that entail? Banging. Machines. Banging that carries throughout the building. Banging that has been getting closer and closer to my mother’s “ground zero.” Banging that echoes through the fireproof walls and floors. There are twelve floors and sound carries through all of them.

NOISE.

A notice was sent around that the carpet installation would take place on such and such a night. At 8:00 pm. Doors were to be left unlocked, My mother’s door was not left “ajar” by the aide, hence, the door was opened by security; don’t forget that my mother had just returned from the hospital. Don’t forget that she was unable to walk, let alone get to the door. Don’t forget that she is half blind. And easily terrified by the fears that have been roosting in her head and coming to light when she is alone.

Her solution is to call the police.

Again and again.

That was last week.

This week, a notice was sent around again. This time the “door frames” were going to be painted at 8:00 pm and residents were to leave their doors ajar. Again. That is all my mother had to hear. More after-hour work.  Remember I told you the phone rang while I had just sat down on the couch? That was my mother.

“Are you listening, are you listening?” She thinks she is being singled out to be terrified. If I say a word, I am one of them.

The call went on and on. My mother had made a call to the police. To complain about the noise. “Two bogus police came up and I threw them out.” (Later I learned that they weren’t in uniform.)

I called the building manager who was out for vacation. I called the number he left behind and asked the woman if she could explain that work was being done. She visited my mother who had words with her and asked her to leave. I called the social worker at the Managed Long Term Care. A little venting, a little request for more help. It’s not up to her. The building social worker was not in today.

Calls came and went from my mother in between those to the front desk, the care agency, the doctor’s office. I told the care agency I wanted one to two more hours, if possible, with the second aide, tonight, (back to out-of pocket pay) to keep my mother calm if there were a ruckus in the hallway. The doctor called back and said he would go up and see her. I suggested that she might have a urinary tract infection (I had heard that it is very common and that it can cause behavioral issues.) He agreed.

Another round of police were called. One was very kind, very sweet. We had a talk on the phone and I was impressed by his patience and kindness. I could hear his colleague talking to my mother. She asked him what he would do. He said, “I’d move out.” That kind of advice doesn’t fly, unfortunately. And where would my mother go? She has her own very lovely place. The problem is that she is uncomfortable in it, and that she is uncomfortable wherever she goes. At one point, when I tried to explain something to her, my mother, who was a fairly rational person, there was no listening, there was no talking. I had become one of them. I was the enemy.

She insists that her electricity was cut off, that her phone didn’t work, that her emergency button didn’t work. And then she thinks that it was all turned back on just in time for the aide, and that the refrigerator was playing musical scales …

I remember years ago when my less than two year old child decided he didn’t want to wear a diaper. He had just had an evening bath and was kicking and flailing and screaming, “NO DY-TEE! NO DY-TEE!” His seeming grab for independence was belied by his baby-fatigue and over-tiredness. He was out of control. But how much control can a baby have?

And that’s how it is with the elderly: they lose whatever control they once had, the filters are off, all bets are off, it is the last ditch effort to seize-back power in this game of thrones. It is NO DI-TEE all over again. My mother wants to remain in power. She has the final word.

Personally, I’d rather have that eighteen-month-old back to exasperate me.

And I’d rather have my mother back, the one I once knew.

This series starts here:
Part 1: And The Band Played On … a mother’s life, a daughter’s journey

The previous post is here

The next post is here