FOR PAIN (Grief)

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.

aging parents, care giving, death, dementia, elderly, grief

Gratitude: Day 10

Prompt: “A Person in Your Family”

Today my mom is on my mind because one year ago today, she fell and broke her hip, which led to her demise on June 17.

I remember getting the call, going to the hospital, helping her use what cognitive reasoning she had to make the decision for or against surgery. The surgeon told her that without surgery, she would not walk again and that she would probably pass away within 6 weeks. She looked at me and made a comment such as, “Oh, now,” as if that weren’t plausible or likely. The surgeon just looked at me quizzically. I said, “This is my world.” But in the end, she agreed, and I left for home that night knowing I’d be back out there early to arrive well before surgery.

When I returned that morning, my mom was in such bad shape physically and emotionally that I will spare the details here. I’ve never witnessed anything like that before in my life. She could not communicate as she could the night before, no words, only noise–unending, loud, distressed noise. She was in extreme pain, and the nurse on duty told me Mom’s chart indicated she had not had pain meds ALL NIGHT. So my 96 year old mother with dementia and broken hip got no attention or care in the ER all night. This pain pushed her over the edge, and she never quite returned mentally.

Her anguish continued even past meds being administered. It changed her for the remainder of her life, just like that, in 24 hours. I lost my mom that night one year ago, even thought she lived a couple of weeks longer.

Guilt. So-much-guilt on my part! My anguish over leaving that night!

Surgery happened, and recovery was likewise awful until the 17th, which was also awful.

Every wish and prayer that I had for her to have a peaceful, uneventful end to her life was smashed in a million pieces, and I also carried the weight of my decisions contributing to that end.

I’m trying to stay busy today. I’m trying not to dwell on her suffering or suffering in the world in general. It becomes too heavy, and I can’t function.

So … as a person of faith, I hang on to the promises in scripture about Mom being free of pain, anguish, suffering. Whether she “sleeps,” as some believe, or is in some kind of intermediate paradise fully conscious, I do not know.

I do not pray to those who have passed. I don’t sense her presence at all. She is gone. But on days like this, I asked the Lord that if it is possible, please tell her (again) I’m sorry for everything, and I’m so grateful to be (present tense, for I always will be) her daughter.

I’ve only dreamed of her once in the last year. In this dream, she was middle aged; this I know because her face appeared so much fuller than in her advanced years. I was near her face, about a hug’s distance away, and she seemed touched but a little discombobulated at my grief. Her only words were, “Wellll … I didn’t know you would be THIS upset!” as if perplexed over my grief. She was often perplexed over my emotions while I was growing up and even after I became an adult. But when I remembered the dream, it occurred to me that this is how I’ve felt about my own grief: observing that I didn’t know how deep and wide and long it would last. Not really.

I will miss my mom every day, several times a day, for the rest of my life. So maybe I have 20-25 more years of daily grieving.

So … yes, I’m grateful, even on this worst of anniversary dates, for my mom. She was one of a kind, and she was mine.

dementia, faith, grief, journaling, mothers