Let's go for a ride and stop for coffee

I think Mom has settled into a routine at the home. Everyone there seems to enjoy her company and Mom participates in all the activities they offer. I am happy for her but I don't know if I will ever be totally comfortable with her living there. I tend to be a huge fan of the "What if" game.

Last week Saturday the staff at the home had a breakfast for friends and family of the residents. My sisters and I went for breakfast with Mom. I'm not certain Mom understood what was going on, but we were there and that made her happy. After breakfast we took her for a ride to Hamilton. It's really hard to say how much of living there Mom remembers, or if she does remember, what her thoughts are. Mom doesn't say much any more.

We drove past our former home -- twice. It looked tired and the best way to describe it was it was in need of a bath.

We drove out in the country and tried to remember names of people we knew who used to live there. Between the three of us we were pretty good. Mom looked out the window.

We commented on how short the trip between Hamilton and Holland was and how long it seemed when we were kids. Going to Holland was a big deal when we were growing up.

While many families from Hamilton drove to Holland for weekly groceries, Mom and Dad shopped in Hamilton. The grocery store had creaky wood floors, one check out counter and a screen door that banged shut. It was a big deal when our groceries were placed in cardboard boxes rather than grocery bags. Cardboard boxes meant hours of fun making doll houses and furniture. To this day, I still get that "what can I do with this feeling" when I see a cardboard box.

There were two grocery stores in Hamilton when we were growing up. Both buildings are gone now, but one of them has moved to a new location and can boast multiple checkout lanes. Progress. I bet they don't have creaky wood floors and the quiet hiss of automatic doors just doesn't compare with the creak-bang a screen door makes.

Mom was pretty quiet for the trip. She made some indication she remembered the house, but it wasn't much of a nostalgic trip for her. What she wanted, we discovered when we arrived back at the home, was to go out for coffee. Despite the fact we had just had breakfast, Mom wanted to go out for coffee. Who knew?

I'm not certain what the attraction is. I've taken her out for coffee many, many times. There is not  a whole lot of conversation going on as we drink our coffee, stare at one another, pay our bill and leave.

But Mom was clearly upset with us for not going out for coffee. Maybe it's a Dutch thing.

I went back on Tuesday and took her out for coffee. We sat in the restaurant, drank our coffee, ate our pig-in-the-blankets, stared at one another, paid the bill and then left. She didn't want to go for a ride, she thought maybe she should get back home. They might need her.

What is it like to lose your mind?

I've been doing a little research on the web to try to figure out what is going on inside Mom's head. What I have found is there is darn little on the topic.

Oh, there is plenty on how to deal with dementia and the right thing to say and the wrong thing to say. That is not what I am searching for -- what I want to know is what is going on in Mom's mind. Is she aware of how much she has lost and simply can't put it into words?

The other day she introduced me to her dining companion as "her daughter." She didn't call me by name, but she knew I was her daughter. Two hours later when my sister visited her, she didn't remember I had been there. What I want to know is what is it like for the person who no longer thinks clearly. What kind of jumbled confusion is going on in her mind?

I found a letter from Mom, written three years ago on my birthday. It started, "Dear Daughter, I know I'm slipping. I try the best I can . . ."

I don't know how much any of us realized what was going on at the time. One of my older sisters saw it, but it was difficult to tell how much was Mom "slipping" and how much of it was her trying to cover up the fact she could not hear us. Everyone was frustrated with Mom for "not trying."  Personally, I think she was trying as hard as she could and had been for years. She just couldn't hide it any longer.

Mom's letter went on to say she and Dad had joined the YMCA and that she walked a mile on the track (19 laps) and then rode a stationary bike while Dad "gives it all a try." I'm assuming she meant Dad worked out on the weight machines in addition to the treadmill.

A few weeks after the letter was sent, Mom and Dad were getting ready to go to the gym when Dad had a stroke. They thought he wasn't feeling well and decided not to go and Dad napped the rest of the morning. It was later that afternoon that Mom called my sister at work and said she needed help with Dad. My sister called the ambulance while she was on her way to Mom and Dad's apartment. The ambulance was already on the way and we thought Mom had been able to call for help. That wasn't the case. A neighbor had  found Mom in the driveway in a panic and called for her. Mom didn't know how to call 911.

It's hard to believe that was just three years ago. Three years ago, Mom realized she was slipping, but could still write me a letter to talk about it. Today, she can't sign her name. How much of this lost knowledge is still there, trapped inside her brain, trying desperately to come out? How frustrating is it to not be able to tell people what you are thinking?

Mom is pretty quite these days. She doesn't talk much.Is it because there is nothing to say? Has she given up trying to communicate because it it too frustrating to get the words out?

What is it like to lose your mind?

October's bright blue weather

When we were growing up, Mom would often quote to us poems she memorized as a child in school. I can't say for certain, but I suspect they were from the famous McGuffey Readers used in schools throughout the country from 1836 through 1960. (I am a member of the Dick and Jane generation).

Her favorite was by Helen Hunt Jackson: Oh sun and skies, and clouds of June and flowers of June together, Ye can not rival for one hour October's bright blue weather. . . There is more to the poem, but that is all Mom quoted us.

The pond on the property where we are caretakers.

The past few weeks have certainly been bright, blue and beautiful. So yesterday when I visited Mom I decided to take her for a ride. The fall colors are almost at their peak. It was lovely.

We drove through Saugatuck. As we got off the highway and onto Blue Star Highway, Mom suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, I know where we are now!"

My thought was to drive through town and stop at a coffee shop for coffee and a muffin, but it was pretty busy so we opted for breakfast at a diner.

Mom has always been a huge fan of the "clean plate club," and often we would have to remain at the table until we cleaned our plates. She still is a big fan, however, now she has the annoying habit of pawning off her uneaten food on her dinning companions. If she knew what she was doing she would be horrified at her actions. But she doesn't and she can be content in the knowledge her plate is clean, while the rest of us must share the angst of losing our memberships.

We drove to the Oval Beach and watched the lake for a while. I prattled on about spending time there as children. I don't think Mom had any idea what I was talking about but chatter makes me feel better.

I was really, really small when our family and another family from our hometown would picnic on the beach evenings after work. Dad and his good friend would put the speed boat in the water in town and the women would drive to the beach, unpack our picnic dinner and wait for the men and the boat.

It wasn't long and the boat would come around the end of the south pier and Dad would gun the boat and fly up to the beach, killing the motor just in time to land gracefully in the sand. The men would then jump out of the boat in John Wayne fashion. Our heroes.

One evening they made a spectacular landing and Dad's friend jumped out of the boat, stripped off his shirt and removed his pants, expecting, I believe, to be standing there in his swimming trunks. Only he wasn't. He stood there in his whitie-tighties. No one said anything for probably a full 20 seconds. Finally Mom picked up his swim trunks and said, "Maybe you want to put these on."

Ahh the memories from our childhood that remain with us.

I think it's safe to say Mom is gone

Mom has been in "care facility" almost two months now. I don't know if she is adjusting or not. I can't tell because, well, Mom is pretty much gone.

She is always so happy to see me when I visit. She springs up from her chair (as much as an almost 91 year old can spring), throws her arms around my neck and cries for a moment.  She does this with each of my sisters when they visit as well. There is no way of knowing if they are tears of joy or tears of sadness.

I don't think Mom knows who we are -- we simply are familiar faces. She likes Jennifer the young woman who cares for her during the day. She pats Bob, the gentleman who sits across from her during meals, on the arm when she sits down. She sits with the other women in the lounge area and watches television with them. Today they were watching the Brady Bunch. She asks us if we are coming again when we leave. But there is no conversation. There is nothing to say. She can't tell you what she did yesterday. She can't tell you what she ate for lunch. The other day she didn't remember who Dad was.

Having no conversation is okay. Comfortable companionship is fine.

That's not to say we don't try to converse.Sometimes you grasp at straws to see where it gets you. I tried once. I decided to engage her in some small talk about our hometown and asked her something about our neighbor.

Mom became indignant and asked, "How did you know Mr. Albers?"

"I lived next door to him Mom. He was our neighbor."

"No. I lived next door to him."

"Yes Mom. So did I. I lived with you. I am your daughter."

"Well, if you say so. I'll take your word for it." Those were her words anyway. Her face looked more like she was thinking, "You are a lying sack of shit."

I think life has settled into a routine for her. My older sister visits and they work on puzzles together. My younger sister visits after work and stays until dinner time. I arrive and the first thing that comes out of Mom's mouth is, "Where are we going?"

Mom loves to go places. She doesn't care where. She just wants to go out for coffee and take a little ride. There are no familiar places to go so we drive around. Sometimes she remembers things. Sometimes she does not.

My granddaughter and I take her to the little country church in Glenn each Sunday. Glenn is a tiny town that consists of a deli/party store, a restaurant, an old-fashioned hardware store, a hair salon, two antique stores, a real estate office, a three-room school and the Methodist church.

When Dad retired they moved to Glenn and became very active in the church. Mom loved it there. She always was one to be involved in the church and the community, and with Dad retired the two of them did a lot together. And the church community embraced the newcomers.

Dad and several of the men in church built the handicap ramp so the elderly woman who ran the hardware store in town would not have to use the stairs each Sunday. It really offended Dad when she never used the ramp.

Mom baked cookies for church bake sales, hosted fund-raising teas and worked at church rummage sales. The months leading up to the annual Christmas Bazaar both Mom and Dad were busy making craft items to be sold.

The other Sunday as we rounded the curve into town Mom saw the sign designating the entrance. I watched her mouth the words "Glenn."

We pulled into the church parking lot and she said, "Have I been here before?" I assured her she had been there before and she usually enjoyed it.

"Okay," she said. "I'll take your word for it."