The way things change

Life goes on and although this winter was not the best of winters -- weather-wise -- we have pretty much continued our routine.

Last week my sister and I met with a representative from the Veterans Administration to go over paperwork to get Mom some of Dad's VA benefits. The VA representative wanted to meet with us to make sure Mom was being cared for and to basically assess us -- making certain we aren't the types to abscond with Mom's money.  (Our Calvinistic training is strong so even if we did take off with her money, the guilt would kill us. Justice served.).

The representative needed to do an assessment of Mom. She made it halfway through the first question: What is your name? She knew it was Chris. She had no idea what a last name was or if she even had a last name.  She didn't know the day of the week, and certainly could not tell him the name of the town where she was living. He made a big X on the page and said, "We don't need to go any further with this part." Good call.

Mom kept saying she couldn't hear us. In truth she didn't understand what we were asking -- even when we wrote it out for her. When Mom gets put on the spot she kind of shuts down. It's a self-defense mechanism. It's interesting in a sad sort of way. We can write out a question for her and she can read it aloud. But to her it is simply words on paper. They have no meaning. It's kind of like the anatomy books I read in college. . . Yup, there are a bunch of words...on a page...in a book. Don't ask me what they mean.

Last Saturday we took Mom out for our weekly coffee break at Russ. She made it her usual 45 minutes and then started putting on her coat. We always take that as a good sign she's ready to leave. We are astute that way.

When I took Mom back to the home she had no idea where she was.

"Where are you taking me?"

"This is where you live Mom. All your things are here."

I got a blank look. So I took her hand and said, "It's okay, I'll show you."

I'm not even certain she fully knew where she was when we got back to her room. I can only imagine how utterly terrifying that must be. 

I helped her out of her jacket and walked into her closet to hang it up. When I came out she looked at me and said, "Are we going to go somewhere now?"

I told her a couple of times we had just been out for coffee. I got a blank stare. So we sat and I started talking. I told her about things going on in our lives . . .our granddaugther running track, about the new baby chicks on the farm, about the seedlings I was starting in the greenhouse. I sort of blathered on and on.

There was no glimmer of understanding. Nothing. Just a blank stare and a half-smile on her face.

My sister asked me what we are going to do when Mom gets worse. Ummmm. Be there for her. Watch as she slowly fades further away. Not much else we can do. If there were a magic pill, I'd give it to her. But there isn't. All we can do is watch it happen and wait for the next phase.