Keeping You Up To Date

ginny and lilyThis’ll be short because I think I’m coming down with bronchitis and need to, in the parlance of my husband, go and “drown this sucker” in fluids.

Mom has been re-evaluated by the folks where she was living and deemed inappropriate for their facility.  Or, rather, that they are not capable of meeting her increasing needs.  She’s a fall risk, which scares the bejesus out of them (and should), she needs frequent pain meds, yadda-yadda.

At any rate, next week she will be admitted to the rehab facility as a full-pay resident (ka-ching, ka-ching!) and moved into their memory care unit which, despite what they profess, is a depressing place.  The rooms are creepily small, dressers and closets being shared between two roommates.  (I’ve already pared her belongings down to almost nothing.  I’m expected to do it again?)  I’m hopeful that they will be able to shift her to one of the bigger rooms soon, so she will at least have a window where she can look out.  Yes, they’re basically cells and it’s a shitty way for anyone to have to end out their days.  On the upside, from what I’ve seen, the care is extremely good.  They’d better be, or holy Hell will result.

Anyway, that’s where we are on the emotional rollercoaster.  I was lamenting to myself yesterday how much her life has been diminished – she’s lost her husband, her home, most of her belongings.  And then I thought – No.  Those are things all lost eventually in the passage of life.  SHE is not lost.  She is fading, yes; diminished, yes, I suppose she is.  But SHE – the core of the woman who is my mother – remains and will remain until she draws her last breath.  And that – THAT – is what I hang onto.


About Melissa Crandall

Longer ago than I care to admit--although I will--I cut my writing teeth on fanzines and media tie-in novels. Since then, I've moved on to narrative nonfiction, speculative fiction, and essays. I write to explore and understand the world around me, the things I see and experience nearby or from a distance. If I shake myself up, cool. If I shake you up, even better. Not gratuitously--what's the point in that?--but to set what I know, or think I know, on end and realize, "Well, doesn't it look different from this side!" My work is neither sexually explicit nor graphically violent. Let's face it - your imaginations will come up with things far worse than anything I could write, no matter how descriptive. Besides, it's just not my thing. I live in Connecticut with my supportive husband Ed, a cat named Ruby who might just think she's a dog, and an epileptic Australian shepherd named Holly who isn't quite certain anymore who she is, except she knows she loves her mommy.
This entry was posted in Alzheimer's and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Keeping You Up To Date

  1. bluestempond says:

    Oh yes, I remember feeling the same way, The rooms are shockingly small and institutional. However, put her pictures on the walls and knick knacks on the shelves and remember that she has less need of all that stuff as her world shrinks. You can do this!

    • You’re absolutely right – I can! And I will. Pictures are ready to be put up as soon as I know which room she’ll be in, and she’ll have her lovely fluffy blanket that her friends Mo and Ryan gave her last year for her birthday (it has horses on it) and a lovely shawl a friend gave me which I’m loaning to her (also with horses) and there will be things to do, arts and crafts, that I can encourage her to do with me. I believe – I need to believe – that (in the words of St. Julian) all will be well.

  2. I hope you’re feeling better soon, Melissa. It’s such a pity that your Mom has to move again, and to such bleak surroundings but at least she will be getting full-time care which is so important now.

    • I obviously didn’t express myself clearly in the post – she’s not moving again, per se. She’ll be in the same facility she’s been in the past several weeks, just moving to a different wing. As it is, she has no memory of having been at the other place, so it’s all good. Sometimes the dementia is a blessing.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s