And so it goes, post 192 is still about my mother, no caterpillars, no butterflies. On Friday and Saturday mornings the aide contacted me with issues and I called my mother in the middle of rant-fests and temper tantrums. As control is wrested from her she is more and more agitated, hallucinations take over and become her reality: strange observations, distortions and bizarre manifestations.

“Hello!? This is Pauline! Call the police! Call the police! She is trying to kill me. She is crazy, I’m not crazy!”

The only one who is crazy is moi. Listening to this insanity, feeling for the aides who have to deal with this first hand. Her doctor, who lets me call him on his private line, has been so helpful and diligent, changing meds, conferring with other professionals, visiting her.

Message from aide #2: Voicemail. About 7:15 last night. The aide actually sounded upbeat, she said that my mother wanted to speak to me, to say goodnight, and she wanted to wish my husband a Happy Father’s Day. Well, that sounded sane!

 

 

 

By the time I called at 8:00 PM, everything had gone south. The ranting began again. She had her meds around 7:00 and nothing happened. At 4:00 AM the aide messaged my phone: Morning, your mom slept for 1 hour 10 to 11 PM. Since then talking nonstop your mom has been up since 6:00 AM Sunday morning please tell the doctor this information I hope you have a good day.

 

 

 

 

She went home, her three-day shift ended: She didn’t sleep last night. Arrival of aide #1. My mother was still ranting. I messaged the doctor and forwarded the aide’s info. He said he’d be there this morning and that the meds likely were not administered correctly, as they come in packets made at the pharmacy it can be confusing. Two pills should have been given. This medicine is the best!

I called at about 10:45 AM and my mother was still ranting, had been dialing for “the sheriff,” was dialing wrong numbers, including  911, and people were calling back. The ongoing ensuing fight with the aide was over her hiding her phone extension in her bag: I think it’s time to remove the battery.

The doctor was to arrive at 11:30 AM and I was still on the phone with my mother. I have learned that if I divert her and stop allowing her to feed the rant-fire she turns around. I quizzed her on dates, on her family, the members, their ages. She did fairly well.  Temporal confusion is still present but that is not so uncommon for the elderly.

 

 

By the time the doctor had arrived things were calm-ish. He missed the end of the 12-hour marathon rant. I could hear him in the background speaking with the aide about the new medicine and doses. My mother’s biggest complaint, as per her perception, is that no one talks to her, no one says good morning, no one asks how she is, no one bothers with her. She feels lonely, why can’t I call her twice a day, don’t forget! I think my mother has always felt that she must be treated like the queen. There is nothing wrong with respect and civility, not at all, but for years she has expressed this, this thing about other people and the way they treat her.

Allegedly.

Reality. Perception: They are like scoops of ice cream that fell out of a cone on a summer day. They begin to melt, the colors swirl, they blend into one puddle on the sidewalk that people pass and step over. No one wants any part of it, this strange new flavor of a person. Not even I. But I get it, I get it now. The flavors that melded are TERROR and DEATH.

Life is sometimes a sticky mess. But I am here, on call, with the hose, trying to clean it all up, wash it away, away, hoping for the best, and getting sunburned in the process.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The 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