My Mom is Losing Her Mind
At 92 years of age, a part of my mother is slipping away.
When she turned 88, I began noticing that she repeated her stories over the phone when we talked. On many calls, she would shyly ask where I lived. We hadn’t moved cities in 35 years. She couldn’t remember. When we were out to visit her and her husband in Tucson, and we would watch a movie, I knew she was clueless about the plot. She was starting to lose it.
Once, I accompanied her to a regularly scheduled doctor’s appointment. (She has always been physically very healthy.) As he finished listening to her breathe and thumping her back, he grinned somewhat. He was pleased with her physical state. He told her she was remarkably healthy. I asked to speak with him outside the room. In the hallway, I explained my concern about her mental deterioration. He returned to the exam room and asked her a few simple questions. What county did she live in? Who was President? What year was it? She did not know.
That was three years ago. Over these last years, she has lost more and more ground.
She has always been chatty and able to hold conversations with others, but this skill started to fade out. She became more and more reclusive. She would sit on her sofa for long periods of time and fiddle with buttons and threads. If she went into the kitchen to get something, she would quickly forget what it was. She lost the ability to do simple tasks, make lunch, or change clothing.
I have come to know that Dementia is not a disease, it is a syndrome. It could include Alzheimer’s disease, but it is possible to have mixed dementia, a cluster of symptoms and conditions that make it impossible for individuals to care for themselves. It is irreversible.
She had two small Maltese dogs that she adored. She latched on to them. They became constant companions on her lap or on top of the bed where she slept. But she could not keep them housebroken. She could not remember to clean up their messes. She stopped bathing and caring for them. She loved them, but she didn’t know how to care for them any longer.
All of this happened over time.
Her husband didn’t always notice her disintegration. Her Dementia was “gaslighting” him. Gradually, over time, month by month, the light of her awareness and cognition was dimming. Nevertheless, he cared for her. He protected and provided for her as best he could.
My wife and I began to travel to see them more often. It was even hard for us to accept the plain truth. She was losing her mind.
When she turned 90, we had a party for mom. It was a great success and people flew into Tucson to celebrate her birthday. I know she had a wonderful time at the party, but a few days later, she forgot about it. I had pictures of the event on my phone, but she didn’t remember the occasion.
My wife and I live 1000 miles away and it became hard to help them. Her husband was in good mental health then, but he was unstable on his feet. Once, Keith fell and cut his head, and started to bleed. She became distraught. She did not know what to do. She didn’t know how to stop the bleeding or help him to his feet.
Thankfully we were in town. We rushed over to their home and whisked them to the ER. It became clear that they needed to move to a place where they could have access to help as they needed it.
Over the last 9 months, we have seen a much more rapid mental descent. She doesn’t know to change her socks or her clothes. She doesn’t know to take a shower or when she last ate. She cannot remember that I have four children. When I tell her that I have five grandchildren she exclaims, “Oh, how nice!”, as if hearing about it for the first time.
Eight months ago, we moved her into a Memory Care unit. For years she had been so closely connected to Dixie and Jazzer, her two dogs, that we knew her heart would break if she had to let them go. No one in the family imagined that taking those two dogs away from her would be easy. But we had to do it.
We made the preparations in their new apartment and brought her over to see the new place. I had taken her Maltese dogs to a new location and replaced them with two white stuffed puppies that I had purchased that afternoon. I arranged them on the same couch where she had sat with her two live animals for many years.
When she walked into the room, she immediately went to the couch and placed them on her lap. She spoke to them. She told them they were “sweet puppies”. Seeing her embrace those two toy animals in her arms and stroke their fur was one of the most tender and heart-wrenchingly sad moments of my life.
As she stroked her new pets, I sat next to her and put my hand on her back. I asked her if she liked them. She said yes, very much. And then she asked me if they were real. “Their eyes are so dark. Are they real?” She wanted to know. I said, “Mom, they look real, don’t they?” She has never asked about Dixie and Jazzer.
As her mental state continued to worsen in Tucson, we had to separate mom and her husband. He remained in Assisted Living and she was moved to a Memory Care unit in Tucson. Because of COVID, they were not together for 9 months. I know he missed her terribly. They would speak by phone nearly every day when he called her, but they were restricted from being together. Too risky.
Keith’s death was not unexpected. He was 95 and his heart had had enough. It was not pumping efficiently and his body began retaining fluids. The day he died, Fran and I flew to Tucson to be with his family (our step-siblings) and to get my mom ready to move to Texas.
My mother does not know that her husband of 21 years died two weeks ago. We haven’t told her and sadly, she hasn’t asked.
Now, my mom lives about three miles from us in a memory care home. We spend time with her every day. Her two stuffed dogs have been replaced with the small and furry Husky dog she clings to. The unit’s staff gave her a lifesize baby girl doll which she cares for, kisses, and hugs. She speaks softly in the doll’s ear and calls him a good boy.
Now I sit in her room with a mask on and visit with her. We talk about family stories that she told me when I was a little boy. She tells me about her mother, who died 60 years ago when I was five. I remember my grandmother only by the framed black and white picture she has had for years. She called her “Happy”. Sometimes my mom tells me that her mother is alive but in the room next door. I help her remember where she lived when she was growing up. Yesterday, I gently reminded her of her three younger brothers, who are all gone, the youngest one in the last year. I say their names to prompt good memories of them. She struggles to recollect.
I love my mother. I always have. She had her faults and we had disagreements, but right now I can’t remember what they are. She can’t remember them either. And I know she can’t remember the mistakes in my own life. Sadly, she can’t remember much of anything.
When I came into this world sixty-five years ago, I was totally dependent on my mother who is now totally dependent on me. My wife and I feel it is a joy and privilege to be able to love her now, as she loved me then. It is hard to imagine a better way to honor and respect my mom in her last years of life.
So for now I go and sit with her in her room. I move a chair next to her bed. We talk. Sometimes, she brings her Husky dog and her baby boy near her face and she whispers, “Good boy. You’re a good boy.”
