Suddenly, the leader called out the beginning of a line of lyrics from “Blue Suede Shoes.”
Mom, along with most of the group, belted out the rest of the line.
I couldn’t believe it. It was like God specifically had the group leader throw in an Elvis song just for Mom. Thank You, Lord. This is amazing.
Mom’s face brightened, and I knew what was coming. With a grin, she turned to the others in the circle then back at the leader. In a joyful, high-pitched voice she said, “I’ve met Elvis, you know!”
DAY ONE AT FRIENDS PLACE was great, and I felt like a doorway leading to respite had been opened. I had been praying for relief for Dad, and I felt sure this was God’s plan for him. It might take a few weeks to get Mom settled into the new routine, but surely things were about to get so much easier on us all.
The next day, I called her in the morning. “Hey, Beauty! I’ll be there at 9:00 again. Susan texted me and said she was so thankful for our help yesterday and couldn’t wait to see us both again today.”
Mom paused. “Who is Susan? Yesterday?”
Please tell me she remembers some of yesterday. It was too good. I don’t want to start all over.
“Yesterday, when we volunteered at Friends Place. You know, when you helped set the table and arrange some flowers?”
“Oh, yeah. That. I’m not going today, but thank you. I’ll go another time, just not today.”
Ugh.
“Mom, please? We both told Susan we would be there, and I don’t want to disappoint her. They really need us today. They are short-staffed.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone. As much as I tried to be a cheerleader and persuade Mom to join me, I felt sick to my stomach. The day before was perfect, and I really believed it was God’s plan, and now it was as if yesterday had never happened. How could I feel so great one day and within a matter of hours feel so low?
“Are you there? Come on, Mom. Please do this—for me. I’ll be there at 9:00.”
She was still silent, and then I heard her soft voice say, “Okay, sweetie. I will be ready.”
Once again, I pulled up to her house at 9:00. On her way out the door, she chewed out the pecan tree, grabbed her handful of nuts, took them over to Dad, and gave him a kiss goodbye. I had the eerie déjà vu I often felt when I spent time with her lately: We had lived out this exact day before.
As we drove down the highway, I thought to myself, Well, if she doesn’t remember much about yesterday . . .
“Mom, tell me about Elvis. I want to hear that Elvis story of yours.”
Once again, she lit up. She turned to me and grinned.
“Well, I met Elvis!”
DAY TWO AT FRIENDS PLACE was okay. Not great, but okay. Mom seemed to enjoy some of the activities, hugged some of the people, and she offered to help set the table. But after a few hours, she was ready to go home. Once again, I found myself urging her to do something she didn’t really want to do.
I quietly pulled her aside and whispered, “Mom, we can’t leave just yet. We really need to stay at least through lunch and visit with some of the people here. We will go after lunch.”
She rolled her eyes, but then nodded and said, “All right. But after lunch, we go.”
Lunch was difficult for me. It was the first time I had been around Mom and others with dementia and seen firsthand their lack of communication with one another. Mom tried to talk with the sweet lady next to her but had a hard time with her words, and the lady wasn’t totally sure what Mom was saying. When the lady replied, Mom, who had already lost her train of thought, would wonder what she was talking about.
It was surreal. I pictured Mom, had I not been with her, sitting there at the table, totally lost, not knowing how to talk or carry on a conversation without me filling in the blanks. I was reluctant to let her be anything other than normal. I felt like she needed me there to help her seem “normal” and to keep it fun, not boring. I was trying to protect her in every way; I wanted to compensate for her speech, preserve her dignity, and prevent the others thinking she was strange. I didn’t want Mom to think or feel like she was “one of them.” But she was a resident with Alzheimer’s just like the others, only younger than most.
Day three was worse, and by day four, I was tired of trying to persuade her to go. Thinking about Dad trying every week to take her in the car and drop her off made me anxious. It would be impossible for him to do—he would throw in the towel for sure. He would rather take care of her himself, no matter the cost to his own health, than deal with the consequences of arguing with her or dragging her into a car and taking her somewhere she didn’t want to go.
It was day five, a Friday. This was the day we’d been planning for: I would go with Mom in the morning, then step away for “a phone call from the school” and then go “pick up a child.” I was scared to leave her and terrified of her reaction.
When it was time, I watched Mom walk outside and engage happily in helping others plant flowers. This was my moment, my open door. I ran for it.
Susan hid me in a room just in case there was an emergency and they couldn’t contain Mom. And that’s exactly what happened. As Susan talked to me in that room, trying to soothe my nerves and walk me through what Mom would do the rest of the day, I heard her yelling from the back room.
“Get me out of here!”
I started tearing up. “Susan, that’s Mom. She’s yelling.”
Tears flowed down my cheeks, and my hands shook. Susan calmly said, “Sarah, be patient. I know this is hard, but please let us try. I know you and your father have said she can be difficult, and she’s clearly a very strong woman. But this is our job. Let us try.”
I shook my head in fear, but like a child, I put complete trust in Susan, knowing they had dealt with these things before.
But then I heard it again. “I want to leave! Get your hand off me! I want out of here!” My heart raced. I couldn’t hear what the others were saying, but I knew they were trying to redirect her.
“Where’s my daughter? Let me leave!”
I looked at Susan. “I don’t think I can do this. I can’t break her heart or make her feel this way. She feels abandoned. This isn’t working. I can’t do it!”
I sobbed, begging God to stop this. But He didn’t. He let it happen. He didn’t fix what I wanted fixed. And I couldn’t understand why.
Susan quickly said, “Sarah, she’s coming this way. Put the phone to your ear, and we are going to tell her the school called and you had to step away. It’s up to you if you want to go with or without her. It’s your choice. We can try to keep her longer, while you park around the corner, and I’ll call you if we can’t calm her down. Or you can take her with you now.”
I didn’t know what to do. This isn’t my decision. This should be Dad’s decision, not mine. How was I supposed to know what was best for Mom? How could I tell her I was leaving her there when she was screaming and wanting to go home?
Oh, God. Please, she’s coming. Please speak. I need You. Help me. Oh God, she’s coming.
My heart felt like it was going to explode through my chest. My knees were buckling. My hands were freezing. I felt nauseous.
Lord, she’s here!
“There you are! Where were you? I’ve been . . . they won’t let me . . . I . . . Sarah . . . take me home. They . . . these people . . . mean.”
I calmly responded, “Mom, I’m really sorry, the school is on the phone. Just a minute.”
I wanted to see if she would calm down. I let Susan talk to her while I pretended to be on the phone with the school nurse. I heard Susan say to Mom, “Becky, please calm down. Everything is okay. Sarah needed to take a call. But we would love it if you could stay even if she needs to leave. You are such a huge help for us here.”
I looked at Mom, who was now red and shaken. She was not staying, and there was no way in hell anyone could persuade her to stay.
She turned to me while I had the phone to my ear. “Take me home. Now. I
want to go. I tried, and they won’t let . . . they wouldn’t let me out, Sarah.”
Mom’s eyes started watering at those words: “They wouldn’t let me out, Sarah.” It crushed me. My stomach sank. I had allowed her to feel like a prisoner. I felt so helpless, yet saturated with guilt. It was my fault. I should have never left her and let her feel this way. I held up my finger, saying, “One minute,” trying desperately to figure out what to do. My heart was pounding, and I was at a loss for words.
Mom looked at Susan and said, “I’m never coming here again. This place. These people. Never again. You hear me? Sarah, let’s go.”
At that moment, Susan turned to me and gave me my answer. “I think you should go and take your mom with you. We will talk another time.”
And with that, I said into the phone, “Okay, Nurse Dunn. I will be there in about forty-five minutes. I’m not close to the school, but I will be there as soon as I drop off my mom.” I put my phone back in my purse.
“Thank you, Susan. I’m sorry that you needed us today and that we can’t stay. I hope to be back some other time.”
She flashed us a delightful smile and gave me the softest rub on the back.
“Don’t worry, Sarah. Everything will be just fine.”
Susan was trying to speak to my heart, trying to tell me everything would be fine. I didn’t believe her. As far as I was concerned, Dad and I would be starting all over. I had lost all hope. What started as pure bliss, gratitude, and rejoicing four days earlier had turned into a disaster.
As I thought of God’s words in Jeremiah 29:11, “For I know the plans I have for you” (NIV), all I could say to myself was, Really, God? Because I’m not understanding what your plans are one bit. This sucks.
The drive home was miserable. Mom went on and on about how she hated those people, and she told me to never “drag” her there again. For someone whose speech was often muddled, her words were crystal-clear spikes to my heart. I had damaged my mother. She was so angry with me. I had done something terrible, and Mom was hurting.
I should never have done that. I only wanted the best for her. Daddy only wants the best for her. God, what is the best for Mom? Where are You? Why?
I pulled over to get gas and take a deep breath after Mom’s venting, then texted my dad.
“Daddy, it didn’t go well. We’ve left. Complete disaster. I don’t think she will ever go back. At least not with me. I will tell you more, but will you be home in the next twenty-five minutes? It’s best if I can drop her off and go home. I am on the verge of a breakdown. I freaking HATE this disease. Have I ever told you that? HATE IT. If you want, call Susan before Mom gets home so you have an idea of what went on. I love you, and I’m sorry.”
Daddy responded almost immediately.
“I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m here. Just bring her home. I just hung up with Susan—she called me. I already know. I love you very much. We tried.”
We tried. Yes, we did. So now what? What’s next, God? Are You there?
NINE
IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH
May 2016
“DAVE?” MOM YELLED FROM THE bottom of the staircase. “Dave?”
“I’m up here, Beck, on my computer.” Dad was sitting at his small desk in the middle of the upstairs hallway. “What do you need?”
Mom grabbed the iron stair rail as she slowly walked up the carpeted staircase. Watching from the dining room below, I noticed her steps were becoming slower. She had to work a little harder to lift one foot in front of the other, and her eyes were focused on each step so she wouldn’t trip. The decline in her motor skills and physical strength was noticeable, and all I could do was stand there, praying she wouldn’t lose her balance and fall. If I tried to assist her, she would laugh at me or be offended that I thought she needed help.
“Dave? Where are you? I can’t get the thing on.”
Dad peered over his right shoulder, and as he began to say, “What thing?” he noticed she was holding a lighter.
“The thing down there. I can’t get it to come on. How do you turn it on?”
Dad pulled off his reading glasses off and stood abruptly. “The fireplace? You want me to turn on the fireplace?”
Mom nodded. “Yes, that! I’m trying, and I can’t get it to come on.”
Dad’s eyes widened in fear. “Beck! Are you trying to light the fireplace by yourself? You can’t do that!” Grabbing the lighter out of her hands, he rushed downstairs.
I had gone into the kitchen to finish unloading the dishwasher when I heard Dad running. I smelled the gas, the odor suddenly strong, and I felt such guilt that I had not been watching Mom for the last ten minutes.
As I hurried into the living room, Dad was bent over, turning the metal fireplace key to turn off the gas. He stood up, his face red and sweat dripping down his cheeks.
“Oh my gosh,” I said. “Daddy.”
He shook his head in disbelief, and I could see he was fearful for Mom’s safety.
Oblivious, she stepped down the last step and onto the hardwood floor. She had her hands on her hips as she walked into their cozy sitting room. “Did you get it? I want you to show me how, please.”
“Beck, I’m sorry, but I can’t have you using the gas fireplace. Let me do this for you. Please don’t ever do that again. You could have blown up our home. You left the gas on.”
Mom looked at me like he was crazy. “I’m not going to blow this up. Are you nuts?”
I knew Dad was probably thinking, I’m not nuts, but you are.
“Becky, if you want the fireplace on, just ask. It’s dangerous for you to try to light it yourself. You can catch your hand on fire or blow up the house.”
Mom looked at him with disgust and anger. “You don’t tell me what I can or can’t do in my own home! I’m a grown woman.”
I knew at that moment that all the interviews we had with potential caretakers, all the books and information we had read on how to love a family member with dementia and keep her safe at home—that was the “blowup” headed our way.
• • •
DAD AND I HAD COME up with story after story we could tell Mom that might pave the way for us to bring in a caretaker to help Mom feel at peace. But Mom was a strong woman—mentally and physically. We had already tried several people, and after weeks of “volunteering” and delivering flowers “from a church” with a potential caretaker, Mom was ready to boot them. She even picked up one lady’s purse and set it outside the front door to let her know it was time to leave.
Dad was tired. It was getting to the point where he couldn’t even go upstairs for ten minutes to pay bills. He had to monitor Mom twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. She was like a toddler in a new home, wanting to touch every button, stick a finger in every hole, and even eat food off the ground. The hardest part was Mom knowing she could do certain things, even if she had forgotten how to do them. And we couldn’t teach her because minutes or hours later she would forget it all.
Dad was drained, and I could see him aging with each passing day. He would lie awake at night thinking about what he could do with Mom the next day. He was cooking for her, walking with her, running errands with her, and even taking her to the golf course and the gym with him. He had no alone time unless I was there to relieve him. She wouldn’t accept other help, and he struggled to find a balance between protecting her and pleasing her; he didn’t want to cause any extra anxiety by leaving her with someone she didn’t know. Dad, occasionally Ginny, and I were her only choices.
Dad turned all the gas off in the house. No more gas stove and no more gas fireplace. He also hid all the cleaning supplies and anything else he could think of that might be dangerous. He did everything he could to make the house safe, but no matter how hard he tried to prevent accidents, they continued to surface.
The situation was spiraling out of control.
• • •
I FELT SORRY FOR MOM for all that she was losing, and I felt sorry for Dad thinking he could do th
is on his own.
Standing in his garage, I said to Dad, “She’s getting worse, and we have to figure out how to get you more help. I try to help three days a week, but even that is not enough. Three or four hours a few days a week just isn’t going to cut it. I’m worried about you—your health and your lack of sleep. And quite frankly, I’m worried about Mom’s safety.”
I could feel his heart breaking and saw his eyes water.
“Daddy,” I said gently, “it will be okay. We will get through this. Please call Lee, my friend’s dad who started the support group I told you about. I know you don’t want to go, but it might be helpful, and it will certainly be informative. We’ve tried calling the caretakers they suggested, and we’ve looked into memory care, but maybe there is something we are missing. If anything, you need the support of other men going through the same thing.”
“It’s not that, Sarah—that’s not why I don’t like going to the group. The men are all very nice. It’s just that I don’t want to hear about what kind of Depends I may need to buy Mom, or what kind of clothes to purchase and whether the tops button or pull over, or what hospice service to call. It’s so depressing. I leave there discouraged, not lifted up. I feel depressed and sad, and I dread what’s ahead. I would rather try to stay positive and take it day by day than constantly think about what’s to come.”
He sighed. “I’m committed to your mom. In sickness and in health. When I said my vows, I meant every word.”
Broken Beauty Page 9
