Conversations with a (familiar) stranger…..

September 14, 2010 by 4 Comments

I’m going to date myself here….big time!  Who remembers a movie called “The Three Faces of Eve”?

Thought so.

Way back in 1957, Joanne Woodward played the starring role in this fascinating story about a real-life woman who suffered from Multiple-Personality Disorder caused by a traumatic childhood event.

You can Google it.

What does this have to do with the basis of my Blog which is about my mother’s affliction with Alzheimer’s disease?  Well, (and I’m reaching here) the whole “multiple personality” issue is something I experienced as a caregiver.  Some days, it was hilarious, and others…downright maddening as my mother went through interesting phases of identity.

A few brief recollections of Mother Didn’t Know Best. 

                  ( Dialogue key (Moi=Blue    Mother=Red)

Daily conversations almost always went like this and, yes, mom had a potty mouth.  What can I say.

“morning mom, it’s time to get up and get ready for day care”

“who the hell are you?”

“I’m your daughter”

“well… shit”

“don’t you remember me, mom?”

 “no, I don’t, I’m sorry.   I have to urinate, hurry UP”

 “mom, you have diapers on, you’ll be fine.  I’m going to get your clothes ready for today”

 “no I WON’T, dammit.  where’s my keys?”

“what do you need keys for?”

 “I have to go home now”

“how about we just get you into the bathroom?”

“for what?”

 And, one morning, Mom was waiting in the Breakfast Nook when I came down the hall.

“hi mom….where did you get that coffee?”

“what coffee?”

“uh…the cup in front of you?”

“oh, that man down the hall gave it to me”

“man down the hall?”

“yes….him” <pointing a finger>

Just then, my husband came into the kitchen and fessed-up to giving her coffee when he found her sitting there.
From that point forward, he came to be known only as…”the man down the hall”.

 

Evenings brought many interesting performances from my mother’s room, usually starting around 11 p.m. and continuing until about 4 a.m.  Keep in mind that my mother wore a Posey restraint in bed, to keep her from falling out and getting out the front door which she did at regular intervals.  When she was on stage, I was right outside her door, yawning, listening, holding a cup of coffee and gritting my teeth.

“sonofabitch, I can’t untie this!  help…..help….help!”

“that’s just great, no one is home”

“oh hi….can you get me scissors from that desk over there?”

“none?  SHIT!  help……help………HELP!”

Allow me to step into this conversation to state that there was no one in her room except for whoever was visible only to her.

 One more late night performance:

“Dr. Stein, can you please come to Pat Strollo’s room?”

“hellooooooooo…..Dr. Stein?”

“nurse, what’s the matter with you, can’t you hear me, dammit?  Get me Dr. Stein!”

“Dr. Stein, I want to go home!”

“nurse, I have to urinate”

“Shit, where the hell is everybody, I have to get to work!”

“Dr. Stein, I’m going to report you!”

 

Jumping in here again to state, first,  that my mother’s maiden name was Strollo;  her married name, Smith, ceased to exist as Alzheimer’s marched through her brain. Mom was in the Twilight Zone going back about 60 years or more that night and, I have no idea where Dr. Stein came from, or the nurse.  With no offense to anyone of the Jewish faith who might read this, my mother never had a physician who wasn’t a Christian.  I still cannot figure that one out.

Shortly before my Mom died, she was sitting on the couch and when I walked over she exclaimed, “There she is, there’s my daughter!” I quickly went and sat down next to her.  For a brief time, there was recognition and somewhat sane conversation as my mother asked me what was wrong with her and why she couldn’t remember; she was suddenly aware and her mind focused on the present.  In a moment of sheer stupidity, on my part, I told her to wait and I would run and make us both coffee so we could sit and talk some more.

Cookies and coffee in hand, I excitedly returned to sit with her;  as I did, she looked up and said, “Oh hi!  I’m sorry, but I forgot your name.”


She was gone; back into the deepest shadows of her memories and I was back on the outside, still trying to get in.

Two weeks later, she passed away, still not remembering my name.

 

 

 

 

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Filed Under: Dealing with Dementia Tagged With: ,

Dysfunction Junction……..All Aboard!!

August 22, 2010 by 2 Comments

 DJunction

My noggin has been working overtime and that is not a bad thing unless, of course, I blow a mind-fuse or my Motherboard.

Oh no, there’s that “M” word again!
 
Mother, the person who contributed to my existence on this troubled earth we live in and the foundation of my writings. I find it difficult to get through a day without tripping over some reminder of the woman who dabbled in selective motherhood.

On top of it all, those darn skeletons have been creeping out of the closet for the last day, or two, after being locked away for the last 3 years since…. “the crash”.

Yes, the big one….that dreaded Blue Screen of Death!

It happened shortly after Mom died as I went into my office to finalize the revisions on my book. Fired up my Dell and it fired right back with a series of messages that my hard drive was Done, Kaput, Finito!

Guess what I had neglected to do?

              imagesCAK73EN9

 

Yes, guilty as charged for not having backed-up all my data. There was no fix, no rescue, no Geek Squad; my work, photographs, my book…..gone. Fortunately, thanks to my participation in a local writer’s group, I did have hard copy on most of the book, just not the latest updates added after Mom’s death.

Hey….I never said I was perfect!

I regarded this as an omen, a reason to step away from what had been so important to me and packed my book away, shoving the skeletons to the back of the closet in the process. Somehow I thought that my mother’s passing relieved me of having to share her story, and mine, that closure had finally come to pass now that the hurtful progressions of the past had come to an end.

The very day my mother died, my husband turned to me and said “You’re free now”.  Indeed I was, or so I thought.  No more endless nights of screaming and attempted escapes out the door; no more diapers, laundry, ducking from hurled food across the table.  No more rushing to get her ready for day care so I could work or making the 50 mile trip back home each day to pick her up again.  Ahhhh….I really was….free!

Until the skeletons picked the closet lock and made a break for it, causing the anger set in once again, and I started thinking.  After all, you need a license for a dog, a license to get married, well, there should be a similar requirement where a child is concerned. Think about it.
 
I make a good point, do I not?


Consider the red tape adoptive parents have to wade through in order to bring a child into their lives. Agencies mandate months of exhaustive investigations in an effort to assure that the adoptive child goes into a stable, productive and safe environment.

Giving birth does not give every woman the necessary credentials that guarantee her of being a responsible mother. Let’s face it, having a child is a learning process unto itself apart from the help and assistance of relatives, friends and books. Some women are exemplary mothers from day one, others cannot separate themselves from the baggage of their past to responsibly provide for the child they bring into the world.  

Understand that I remember because I choose to do so unlike my mother who made the conscious decision to forget long before Alzheimer’s disease started its assault on her brain.

How do you forget your only child, any child, for that matter? Sure, everyone has their moments of parental ignorance, deliberate or otherwise and, raising children, at times, can be an on-going test of wills and a losing battle of patience versus demands. But, where I was concerned, I was a good kid.

Honestly, I was!

Okay, my defenses are kicking-up here, as usual. It always happens when I delve too deeply into my painful family history. There’s no graceful way around it for I’m totally committed to sharing what must be said in the hopes of reaching out to some other kindred spirit who, like me, grew up, and has become a survivor, in spite of fractured parental units.

Survivor – a person who continues to function or prosper in spite of opposition, hardship, or setbacks.

  • Continues to function – Yes, for the most part. 
  • Prosper – In this economy? 
  • Opposition – Dealing with remarks like “That’s in the past; why do you want to dwell on it?”
  • Hardship – Always feeling like damaged goods.  Does that qualify?
  • Setbacks – Nightmares, flashbacks, old family photos that trigger bad memories and cause that chill to slide up the back of your neck.  Sound familiar? 

Anyone, anyone?

I know you’re out there….talk to me.






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The girl with the little red shoes…

August 20, 2010 by 7 Comments

Why is it that sometimes those closest to us can, without warning, become strangers in our midst?  We’ve all experienced the division of families over senseless disagreements but the cruelest of all is when some debilitating disease takes over the very being of someone we love, a person who once loved us in return.

It’s been four years now since she passed away; four years since I had Jekyll & Hyde, in the form of a petite, gray-haired, foul-mouthed, sleepless, 80+ year old woman, residing in the guest room of my home.  My Mom; outwardly charming to everyone she met but behind closed doors she morphed into Joan Crawford faster than I could hide the wire coat hangers.
MDearest

Mom left without saying good-bye, twice in my life. The first was in 2003, when Alzheimer’s finally took over its devastating control of her failing mind.  The second was the day she died shortly after I left for work.  

In some way, Alzheimer’s disease created a new stage for her, one where she could perform as if she had some starring role before adoring crowds who laughed at her every word and rose to give her applause at every opportunity, especially when she recited this “bar toast”/poem, over and over, to anyone who would listen:

“Here’s to the girl with the little red shoes
She drinks my whiskey, she drinks my booze
She lost her cherry, but that’s no sin,
She still got the box that the cherry came in!”


I, for one, was not in her audience and was not amused. I was the “bitch”, the one who dressed, bathed and fed her along with giving her meds. My parent became my child, rebellious and ornery at every turn. You see, to her, I was her daughter no longer, just someone she resented, not that I could blame her; I resented her right back!


Ah, yes; the role of a caregiver can be quite unpleasant and when one is the only child giving that care, it is a combination of frustration, anger, and exhaustion. Did I mention sarcasm?  Enter my husband who, to this very day maintains that my mother was putting on an act (as she often did pre-Alzheimer days) and that it was her normal way of escaping from things that made her uncomfortable.   I always give him “the look”, whenever he attempts to again render his, unsolicited, opinion. Men often tend to minimize things like this.  Of course, I blend some of my sarcasm with one, or two, well-chosen words of profanity. 

Why not?  I’m good at it and it has helped me survive some terribly difficult situations but, not without scars. We all have them, in one form or another, at least those of us who grew up having rough childhoods. How we step beyond the damage and proceed through our lives, striving to be better human beings is, in itself, a life-long battle but very much worth the effort.

Thus, my decision to write a book, a small book of memoirs, to leave behind for my children and grandchildren and anyone else of interest. It has become a rush against time now that I live with the fear of someday losing my own memories as my Mom did.  I’ve no visions of sitting on Oprah’s couch as she interviews me about my book or having it land on any best seller list of notable writings.  I dream only of having time and making good use of whatever may be left.                                                                                                      

All of this brings me to a favorite line from a book, Bridges of Madison County …”the old dreams were good; they didn’t all work out but it was better than having no dreams at all”.  At this delicate stage of my life, I can finally dream again and hope for better days to come in the time I have left on this planet.  I’m slowly approaching an unmentionable birthday and I stand determined to tie up all the loose ends of my life. Things like scrapbooks of my children’s school drawings, photographs that need to be put into memory boxes for my grandchildren and so many treasured Christmas items, each holding warm, cozy, thoughts of holidays past.  So many memories that need to be passed down before it’s too late.


And, of course, my book.  The most important memory of all.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is workshop-button-1.pngFrom Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop:  Share a blog post you wrote years ago, what has changed?

Honestly, nothing has changed except the passing of time but not the sad memories I write about.  Hey, that’s life and we all know that our brief stints here on earth come with no guarantees.  Life is what we make it, how we learn to jump over its endless hurdles, stopping now and then to enjoy whatever happy moments come our way.

My manuscript sits neatly organized and still unpublished, not because of a lack of motivation, more a lack of confidence.  But, the fear of slowly, mentally, drifting away, as my mother did, kind of pushes me to keep writing, head to the publisher…and stop making excuses along the way!

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