THE SONIC BOOMER
I spent Memorial Day weekend in Wisconsin, visiting my 96-year-old mother at her memory care facility. Day two was fine. We had a nice conversation, went out for ice cream and did a final search for her missing hearing aids. (No luck.) She was lucid and friendly, remembered my name and was happy that I was there.
Day one, however, was the killer.
I hadn’t seen mom since March, and I admit I spent most of my first day there just observing her in shock and awe. It was OK. I could’ve been a loaf of bread for all my presence mattered. But, because I didn’t know that a more normal day two was coming, I sort of freaked out.
The day began with her wandering between the two rooms of her apartment six times in the first half hour. She would set out on some mission, evidently forget what that mission was, and return. I’d ask if I could help, and she’d answer with half a sentence, then forget what she was telling me.
She picked at lint that wasn’t there, talked about an imaginary coin on the floor, and “saw” water on the seat of her walker. When I tried to show her it was dry by brushing my hand across the top of it, she gasped, expecting a puddle of water to cascade down and soak the carpet. It’s true that I saw none of these things, but I became convinced that she did.
Dementia is a weird animal.
We were sitting there talking, and she suddenly sat up straight in her chair and told me I’d better go out in the hall and get my baby. I told her I hadn’t had babies in awhile, and she said, frustrated, “The boy. The one who eats raisins.” So, I went out into the hallway, hoping she’d forget by the time I returned, and she did. After all, I was gone 15 seconds.
The disabled woman who lives across the hall did ask me to shut her door while I was out there because, “She comes into my bathroom, looking for her son, and I don’t know how to get her out.” Mom’s a runner. A nurse told me she had chased her down the hall one time but barely caught her. “She’s fast!” That she is.
We sat down at the communal puzzle table for a bit and, while I put pieces together, mom opened up a brand new puzzle and began adding the pieces to the first one. We went back to her room, and she took a picture off the wall in her bathroom, and came wandering into the living room with it. “Where are you going with that?” I asked, and she replied, “I took the silver out of it to give to your sister.” I said, “It still has a silver (chrome) frame.” We were able to agree on that while I hung it back up. Small victories.
At bedtime, I got her into her pajamas (way more difficult and frustrating than it sounds) and tucked her into bed, grateful for my imminent escape. But she popped up out of bed, wanting chocolate. All I could find was a small bag of pretzel mix, and it took her 45 minutes to eat it because she had to fold, crease, crinkle and tap the bag between after each bite.
It’s an experience, all right — for both of us.
