My parents were in their last years/days when I wrote an email to my two friends who were going through the same sort of things I was going through.

To share our stories gave us some relief, and we did this mostly by email.  It was a good way to get all our thoughts out and release the emotions we were feeling.  It also gave us some perspective and allowed us to laugh occasionally.

My friend, Jo, and I were closest in experience at that time since each of us had both parents still living and both sets were at the same assisted living facility (ALF).  Our friend, Alana, had only her mother, and Roberta’s parents had been deceased for some time.

I was completely taken aback by the experience of guiding parents through their last days. Nothing in the movies or books had prepared me.  The brochures I saw for retirees in their final years showed only attractive and vibrant oldsters playing tennis, enjoying cocktails, and in general just loving their lives.

We talked about saving the stories “for our book.”  God bless Jo for saving them and printing them.

Here then is the description to my friends of just one trip to see my parents soon after they moved to an ALF.

Dear Jo, Alana and Roberta: I AM APOLOGIZING AHEAD OF TIME FOR THIS WANDERING, CRAZY, DEMENTED EMAIL.  PLEASE BEAR (OR BARE – AS IN, LET’S ALL GET NAKED) WITH ME:

SHE (“She” being Maureen, the director/head bitch of the ALF) called this morning, from her home, and before going to work? to tell me that Mother is showing “early signs of serious dementia.”  Is there a non-serious dementia?  If so, I pick that one.

Here is how the incident went down:  Mother called them to the room, yesterday, because Dad could not find his wallet. He accused the helper of stealing it.  The Lost Wallet story had been going on for some time, including the time they were still at home.

Each evening, my father would “hide” his wallet in case of thieves breaking in during the night, and each morning, my father was unable to find his wallet, forgetting where he had put it the night before.   My mother would go to the normal places – back in the drawer in the bedside table, between the mattresses, under the bed, in the sock drawer in the bathroom?

The helper said to my father, “Oh, you don’t need money in here anyway, so why don’t we not worry about it.”  Well, that was helpful.

That particular night, Mother had asked them to put it in the dresser drawer.  Note that the caregiver was putting the wallet away this time.

Later, Mom must have called them again because Dad was driving her nuts, asking about the wallet, and she couldn’t remember where she had asked them to put the wallet.

Maureen AND the helper went in to their room – now this part is according to Maureen – “…turned the room upside down.  Your mother FORGOT she had asked them to put it in the drawer.”  So, if they knew it was in the drawer, why didn’t they – “they” being Maureen and the caregiver — look there first OR remember where THEY had put it?  Are you confused?  I am. I was.

She also said there was a bottle of Tylenol PM just “sitting there in the kitchen.”  Her tone suggested the Tylenol was akin to heroin.   I don’t know.  Maybe their old pusher had stopped by.

I argued until I was blue in the face about this; told her THEY (the facility) and SHE (Maureen) asked me to bring some Tylenol PM for my parents, and I had asked Aunt Marie (Mom’s sister) to please get them some but deliver it, first, to the meds dispenser, Brandi,

“Your mother didn’t even know what it was for.  Have they taken that for a while?”

NO, you crazy woman, they have NEVER taken it.  It was your idea for Dad to take it.  THEN, she said, “Well maybe it was  just some kind of Tylenol – not sure.”  Well, duh, it was Tylenol for Arthritis – not PM – a malady from which they both suffered and YOU were the one who suggested it. Wait… you suggested Tylenol PM, but Marie got Tylenol for Arthritis.  Still with me?

She then proceeded to tell me they are doing fine, and after all it has been just one week, and so maybe we can chalk this up to an adjustment period; they are the sweetest couple, yada, yada, yada.  I often wondered why she didn’t come to this conclusion before calling me and creating this whole, crazy scenario.

I asked her about the geriatric psychiatrist that Carol (former director) had told me about, and she said, with pure venom, “THAT’S why Carol is gone.  She brought that guy in.  (Was he Dr. Frankenstein?)  We have a marvelous woman now who does evaluations…” and would I want her to have them evaluated.

I said, “Yes.”  Then we spoke for some time about certain drugs for dementia and how expensive they are and how they don’t work.  Hmmm…glad we had that discussion.

Do you see why my mind was awhirl?  I think this was the onset of MY dementia.  And now, upon reflection, I’m sure Maureen was coming down with “serious” dementia herself.

 

More to come from the Cuckoo’s Nest, but for now

The End