Being a caregiver is a tiring, challenging and demanding task, and caregiver burnout is a constant threat. In this series of posts, Bobbi Junior brings her unique perspective to bear on the subject of dementia and Christian caregiving.
In this entry Bobbi shares a personal story of her mother’s battle with dementia.
Read Part 1 here.
Bobbi Junior is a contributor to our Christian internet radio station, HopeStreamRadio, through her program entitled “Not Me Lord.”
For several years I’d been caregiver for my mother, who had dementia. Living independently in her home was no longer possible. Now, through what could only be a miraculous working of the Lord, Mom had decided of her own accord to make the move to Assisted Living.
My journal documented the ongoing saga.
November 5 – My brother, Lawrence leaves
Today was a hard one for Mom. When I got to her apartment Lawrence was ready to explode. I walked through the door and she immediately started in on me.
“The three of us have to go over to the bank right now. We have to talk to them about this.”
“What do we need to talk to them about?” I asked. Lawrence, standing behind her, was rolling his eyes. I could see he’d been trying to get that information from her as well.
“You’d better know what could come and with the mortgages and the university owns all that property,” she explained, exasperated. “If they decide to take the house, they just could you know.”
I tried to make sense out of her confused rambling. I knew from experience there was some kind of logic behind her concern, but for the life of me, I couldn’t find it.
“The university doesn’t own the house, Mom. You own it.”
“That’s what you think, is it? Well, why don’t we go over to the bank right now? I don’t know what’s wrong with you two. Is Lawrence’s brain squirrely now too? “
“Mom, I don’t want to go over to the bank unless we understand what it is you want to talk to them about. And we’d need an appointment.”
“Appointment,” she scoffed. “You don’t know how to do it. Get your coats. Where’s my coat. We need to go now.”
Lawrence slipped behind her to the little vestibule and put on his jacket. He held up his travel bag and waved a silent good-bye, hoping to slip out unnoticed. His few days of trying to help Mom get oriented had warranted no appreciation from her. I could tell that his altruistic motives had been exhausted. I expected the five-hour drive home would be a welcome break after these past few days.
Mom glanced back and saw him leaving. I waved goodbye and he disappeared out the door.
“What is he doing? Why is he running away like that?”
“It’s time for him to go back up north,” I explained. “He’s been here a week now. He’s got to take care of his pets at the homestead.”
Best To Agree
Explanations didn’t help. I sat and listened to Mom’s rambling for the next half hour, trying to decode what was in her mind. Her words kept shifting back to the bank, but I couldn’t grasp what business she felt needed to be dealt with. It seemed she was worried about the economy and what might happen if it collapsed.
“This happened before, you know,” she fretted. “Back in the ‘30s the banks just up and took properties. If they did it then they can do it now.”
I’d learned by now that agreement was the best approach with dementia, so I tried to join her train of thought.
“Yes, you’re right, Mom. They did do it before and they could do it again. What do you think we should do about it now?”
“Nothing!” she spat angrily. “There’s nothing you can do!”
In a firm, calm tone, I took my stand. “Well, if there’s nothing we can do, then I’m not going to worry about something that hasn’t happened. You’ve just said there’s nothing we can do to prevent it. Talking to the bank won’t change anything then.”
Mom glared at me. She didn’t seem pleased that I’d managed to turn her argument back on her. It did end the conversation, though, and I was relieved for that. Now we could move to the next task. The clock indicated lunch was to be served in twenty minutes. It was time to go down to the dining room.
Heading To Dining Room
Mom shook a bony wrist at me, waggling a red plastic curly cord that held her apartment keys, courtesy of the front desk. “I have to wear this. Do you see this? It looks stupid. I have to take it everywhere!”
“You could put it in your purse,” I suggested.
“What do you know? It has to be here where they can see it!”
Never one to break the rules, Mom seemed furious at the perceived concessions she had to make in this place. After forty years of living alone in her own home, with no one but herself to tell her what to do, this new situation rankled.
I held my peace, though, recalling what the Lord had taught me some months ago. It was not my job to make Mom happy. Mine was to help her settle in. The rest was up to him. And her. I wondered if she’d be able to allow herself to get used to the changes. 2 Corinthians 10:5 came to mind. Such a thought was unproductive, so I quickly took it captive, making it obedient to Jesus, and let it go.
Besides. It was time for lunch. Locking her apartment door as we left was a struggle, though. Mom fumbled to find the keyhole. I wasn’t sure if her vision was causing the problem, or if her stress was making it hard to focus. With coaching and a few careful nudges on my part, the key finally slipped in and was turned with a satisfying clunk.
Mom’s apartment was at the end of the hall, furthest from the elevators. Others were emerging from their apartments and we joined the painstaking parade of seniors, many pushing walkers, a couple holding onto the railings which lined both sides of the hallway.
We joined the queue at the elevator and I smiled pleasantly at my mother’s neighbours. A part of me realized I was working very hard to help her make a good impression; rather like a mother taking her child to her first day of school. It was patronizing on my part, but I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted Mom to make friends, to be accepted.
“That’s where I have to wash clothes,” Mom suddenly burst out. “The garbage is in there.”
I followed her accusatory finger pointing to a door labeled LAUNDRY. A couple of ladies looked at each other. I realized that those who were of sound mind had probably figured out Mom was struggling in that area. What did they think of having a new neighbour who had dementia?
The elevator arrived and we shuffled inside. Buttons as big as a soda cracker proclaimed the floor numbers. Everyone stood still for a few moments. Finally one gentleman huffed and pushed the button for Ground. After a very long pause the doors closed.
We were on our way to lunch.
Bobbi Junior
Read and hear more from Bobbi Junior on the contributor’s page. You can also find Bobbi at her website, The Reluctant Caregiver, at bobbijunior.com
Bobbi’s program, “Not Me Lord” airs on HopeStreamRadio.
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Images:
Elderly Woman At Window: Chalmers Butterfield
Keys: Anon @ Free Images
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