Living With Someone With Dementia During Coronavirus
Living With an Elderly Parent During Coronavirus
My mother' s confusion is escalating
Igor Madjinca/Stocksy "Good morning,” I say as I walk into my mother's room. She is 95 years old and has been living with my husband and me for three years. She rolls over and smiles. I think today will be different. Today she will remember her morning routine without asking. Today she will read the paper and understand every word. Today she will look at me through the eyes of that mom who could . But that day isn't today. Instead, as I help her into the bathroom, I explain our “new” daily routine to her again. As I have been doing for the past few weeks. Her expression is vague at first. I know she's reaching into her memory to understand what I'm telling her. I give her the answer. But unlike a toddler who will hold the answer tightly in his little fist and move on to the next curious item, my mother will quickly forget and ask me again. And yet again. has taken away her reasoning and short-term memory. The has taken away our daily trips to the outside world. Before the orders were issued to stay home, I would take my mom to the grocery store at least once a week. She would push the cart through the market, slowly, looking with wonder at the cans of vegetables and loaves of bread. We went to the movies, where she would often fall asleep and usually miss the movie's concept, but she loved the popcorn. We went to an occasional happy hour where she would talk to strangers, still thinking a man would fill some of the voids in her life. Hers was a small world that is now shrinking while her confusion escalates. Every morning, she asks, “What are we going to do today?" "We're doing it,” I answer. "But we can go to a movie?" "No." "We can get our nails done. My treat." "No." My patience is as thin as gossamer wings. I wish I could fly to the future. Or even better, soar to the past. I try to explain this new concept of . She barely understands social media. To her “social” belongs with security and the physical act of getting together. So now, in order to stay sane, we have a schedule of sorts. Nothing etched in stone, but we are making plans. We have Beauty Parlor Day, much like when I was the kid and she would paint my nails. I set up the nail scissors, lotion and polish. While I do her nails, I ask her questions about her days growing up. We often forget our parents had lives before we were born. What better time than now, when we have , to get to know her past? I use a cherished square of toilet paper to wipe off her old polish, and her memory unfolds to the rationing of items during World War II. She remembers the doling out of butter, coffee and nylons. In all her 95 years the war is the closest thing to this situation of today. She talks about having to be home by a curfew, closing the curtains to make the house dark, and being afraid. She knows that during the war they feared the enemy. And rather than being isolated, people came together in dance halls to keep their spirits up. She's confused about this invisible fear of today. With her story put to rest, she looks at me and wants to know why we can't leave the house. I give her the same answer as before and explain that the internet is to family and friends. We are watching old movies on TV. I make popcorn with melted butter, curl up on the couch and this time I'm the one who falls asleep. We play games from her past. New games, no matter how simple, are too difficult for her to learn. We play poker (she taught her grandchildren years ago) and Rummi-Q. Games are not only a way to pass the time, they also stimulate her mind. We take our daily walks around the block. She's fascinated with the purple flowers we pass every single day. I've always been in such a hurry to get home to my next obligation. Now life is slower and I take time to appreciate the beauty my mom has been seeing all along. We walk and talk about nature, staying in the moment. Cocktail hour is getting earlier every day, but they do say it's 5 o'clock somewhere. While I make dinner, she sets the table. And afterward we watch Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune. She doesn't remember that they are her favorite shows. But I do. Once she's tucked in bed, I collapse into my own world. I realize how lonely she must have been when I was running errands or going to work, , rushing here and there. I can't change the past, but I can change the future. Although I won't be able to stay home 24/7, I am going to slow down. We'll continue with our daily walks, watching movies and playing games. Tomorrow will be different. Not in the way I had hoped. My mother won't have her memory back, but we will continue to create new memories together, ones I will cherish forever. More Disrupt Aging
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