Hello friends.

I haven’t written about my mom since July. My focus was usurped by my search for a migraine cure, my reports on medical marijuana and CBD oil. There are other things going on here, in the family, that divert me: my life goes in cycles. First it’s her, then it’s him, then it’s me, then it’s the other him. It can be very distracting and perhaps distracting is good.

So, let’s go back to her. My mother has been relatively quiet for a while. She recently said that there was a new cook in the building and that she liked the food. LIKED THE FOOD! Now that’s a switch! She has everything she needs and then some. I ship all her household items from Target and personal items are shipped from all over the place. I visit, pay the rent, schmooze with the social worker and keep my fingers crossed. When I’d speak to her on the phone she sounded content, well sort of, but the usual complaints remain:

• The aides steal my paper towels and napkins;
• The aides are stupid;
• The aides don’t know how to wash a dish. When they leave I redo the dishes. (Note: there is only one dish)

This morning I checked my phone and saw I had received a message. I was just about to relax when:

7:44 am 

“Hi there can you call me back on my cell please I’m baking [sic] you call me on my cell bye.”

It was “Candy,” the aide, who goes home after dealing with my mother to take care of her father with Alzheimer’s.

Here we go again. The call of panic, of anger, of despair. My mother, according to Candy, is telling each aide stories about the others, accusing them all of stealing, (especially her napkins). Some of her quotes:

“You people from Guyana are all stupid, you don’t know how to wash a dish.”
“I know you are getting signals on my phone.” (These signals are likely the system I set up with NoMoRobo to intercept spam after the first ring)
“What year is this? What month is this?” I don’t think I will make it to 2019.”
“My grandson brings me things and he knows if anything is missing.”

What we are dealing with is the annual flare up of dementia and paranoia that often accompany the shortened days. It was this time last year that she began falling and that she ended up in the hospital.

The aides sit in their office upstairs and compare notes. No one wants to work with my mother, according to Candy. Anyone new is warned that this is how she is. When they experience her flare-ups of fury and nuttiness they are shocked. The aides are just human: when an older person puts you down, accuses, berates, gossips about you and tells you to “get another job if you don’t like it,” it is NOT easy to sweep the pain aside and swallow. It makes going to work miserable. No matter how much you might defend yourself or ignore, the pain remains.

There I was, ready to just chill on my CBD oil and I ended up making nice on the aide, telling her I knew she didn’t steal, that I know she can clean and wash properly. I let her vent lest she walk out. She feels better and then I get that stomach knot. Usually.

This time was a bit different: I felt that stress, that pain, that anxiety but somehow I let it go. I didn’t go into a tailspin, I didn’t call my mom to reassure her, I didn’t care if the aide quit or stayed or had to endure gossip. I somehow let it roll off. There is nothing I can do about my mother’s mental state. I have done the best I can.

As Autumn days shorten, so do my mother’s days. When I visited her a week ago, I announced myself and walked in. There she was in her chair, in the usual place by the window, looking smaller than I remembered her. Almost unrecognizable. There was a huge vein zig-zagging down her arm like a road map in a rural town.A map without stop signs, going from north to south, ending in her hand. The hand that once held two children. The hand that typed a million words a minute for lawyers and for social workers. The hand that once played the piano. The hand that holds a pencil and then a “spy glass” to attempt to do a crossword puzzle.

The vein that brings life and nourishment throughout a one hundred year old person, who is now greatly diminished.

A one hundred year old vein.

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

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