I bet you thought everything was just perfect. Things have quieted down; my mother’s behavior seems to have fallen into patterns that at times follow an obvious woof and warp and other times swirl into complicated paisleys.

There are days when everything seems clear and direct, going in the proper direction, staying in line. Tightly woven. Feeling as it should; days of exhaling breath with a grateful sigh of relief. I observe my mother being part of the new community, enjoying her meals, making friends, taking things in stride, displaying her sense of humor.

There are other days when there are nothing but complaints, inconsistencies, confusions, possible falsehoods, inappropriate comments. Cynthia, the aide who has been with my mother since the end of February, when she was barely alive in a rehab facility after an arm fracture, laughs it off. Let’s it roll. Says she knows the elderly and it’s all part of it. That they are all the same. Laughs to let off the steam that drives her blood pressure. While my mother goes into tirades of complaints, many of which sound legit if they are legit, Cynthia laughs. My mother gets furious. Cynthia doesn’t play the game, take the bait and get into the fight, she lets my mother vent, but her laughing gets to my mother and then the two of them are red-eyed with harbored fury.

Thursday noon my mother sat among five hundred people at the Department of Motor Vehicles (we were applying for a New York State photo I.D. and waiting and waiting to be called) and informed the room, which was as big as several football fields, that Cynthia must be going through her changes because she insists on keeping the window open. This comment, among others was directed to the man sitting behind us. My mother is constantly freezing and has become unaccustomed to any New York breeze–which is certain, she insists, to give her pneumonia again.

She complains about the temperature, she complains about the planes passing over head, she complains about the food that she was just raving about. She accuses Cynthia of strange rules and regulations (I must admit some are odd to me as well, to wit, you can’t wash clothes in the bathroom sink because you brush your teeth there.)

I can understand how two women sharing a small apartment and fighting over morning bathroom time can drive one another nuts. It is close quarters. Familiarity breeds contempt and all that. But I get upset when my mother mouths off in public about someone who has been a great help over the last months, who has cared for her and protected her and essentially resurrected her. I resent the dis-inhibition which occasionally rears its head leading to public verbal displays of displeasure.

And then this happens:

Things straighten out, my mother thanks Cynthia for being so nice, for keeping things so clean. I end up scratching my head with the grain of the woof and warp. This evening she was “showing off” as Cynthia reported, telling people she met at dinner, “This is MY aide, Cynthia, the most wonderful aide!”

Is there an answer?

The doctor in the building, who teases my mother about her walker, the “BMW,” found the B12 deficiency and thyroid issue. He claims moods will be “up and down” until the B12 levels out. I hasten to say that I hope I didn’t act as erratically when I was a teenager as my mother is appearing to do now; this seems to be payback time.

As we were sitting in the huge room waiting our turn with my mother yelping, “I am a ninety-five year old person and I don’t have time to wait!,” I informed my mother that Cynthia would be going home by the end of the month. “Good!” she announced, “Let her go, she’s been torturing me, she wants to kill me!” I can imagine what the man behind us was thinking. My mother is generally cogent and now she is spitting out childish atrocities.” “You’ll be on your own, you’ll get your wish,” I said. I felt mean and vindictive and it almost felt good.

I wondered what my mother really felt under all that wretched complaining. What was she getting in touch with? Why such fury?

Part of it is because when you are ninety-five you have no time for crap, and what you may construe as crap might vary from minute to minute. Life takes on a paisley speed, speeding around curves and sending you around hairpin turns.

The ride stops and then this happens: life becomes straight again, the woof and warp re-establishes and slows to the predictable up and down, side to side. Part of the predictability is the knowledge that something is going to happen and the pattern will shift again.

It does.

Cynthia called last evening to inform me that her little grandson is very ill in the hospital in Florida, and has deteriorated. She will be leaving this Sunday. I knew she would be going home by the end of the month but for some reason the paisley kicked in and the month sped up.

My mother has had someone living with her since February. The cost has been prohibitive but we just keep writing checks. Now we can hope for the best, start fresh, see how she clicks–or not–with another person, slow down the patterns, straighten the woof and warp and create something new. Hopefully my mother will be able to weave a new relationship with a new caring person.

After calling several agencies and getting the feeling that many of the people in charge were not fully focused on what I was telling them, I got a recommendation for two ladies who are family members who do this kind of work. My mother is fighting for her independence but she is still frail and needs monitoring. The two ladies will back one another up and break up the week. My mother will continue to have 24/7 care for now. We’ll see how it goes and hope for the best.

When it comes to people, the patterns are always complicated.

This series is linked: see “continued here.” Also, below the line there will be links for the previous post and the next.

The series starts here

to be continued …