Oh boy, does this bring back memories. When my mom lived with us, I had to write on everything because dementia caused so much confusion. She couldn’t do pill boxes or schedules; all organizational skills and short term memory were gone. She couldn’t read Acetaminophen or Tylenol and understand what it was, but I tried.
For a while, I stuck Post It notes on everything: the microwave, the Tylenol bottle, the remote control, etc. I had long lists typed out and taped to the side of her dresser which was directly in front of where she sat most of the time so that she could instantly see, review as many times as needed, phone numbers, explanations of why her hands hurt, how old she was, why her social security check didn’t physically arrive in the mail, etc.
But my efforts were useless. Notes only inspired further questions, suspicions and insecurities, and those questions led to circles of the same answer to the same questions. Sometimes I thought I was the one losing my mind. Not just sometimes–a lot of the time I felt that way. I remember my body literally shaking.
This pill bottle which I recently disposed of was a reminder of the “note days,” of my struggling to realize and accept she was not able to process this kind of information anymore. To her credit, she didn’t resent the notes, and she could read them, but the words lost their meaning to her.
Emotionally, I kept clawing at keeping her here mentally and keeping dementia away, trying every creative trick I could think of, but my notes and efforts only caused tears and frustration, usually mine.
Grief is a weird thing. Part of me never wants to see reminders of times like these again. I only want to remember her as she was before she slipped away. Part of me was inexplicably sad when I threw this bottle away. I had felt so responsible as her caregiver, felt as though I had failed.
I’ve had 15 months of grief since she passed, but my grief started way before she died.
I’ve heard new parents say, “They didn’t prepare me for this [fill in the blank].” It’s the same with being the adult child of an aged person whose brain has been assaulted by dementia: “They didn’t tell me there would be days like this, when I would feel [fill in the blank].”
Oh, Life. There is not always a quick fix, or a pill to take “FOR PAIN.” But I will get through this just like everyone does, one day, then one week, then one month at a time, one grief at a time.
Today I say goodbye to the “note days,” affirming myself for doing all that I could do to keep her feeling secure, safe, comfortable. It’s still not a happy thought for me, that I did all of that for seemingly nothing. But it is our history, Mom’s and mine, part of our story, part of the love and loss in my life.
One Hoosier Life 