Dearth of Merriment
By Mike on Friday 28 December 2007, 17:46 - Journal - Permalink
Christmas comes but once a year, so there really is a reason to be
thankful.
It wasn't that I started my Christmas visit to mum and dad's place by picking up a turd and mopping up pools of piss. As Greg says, we've come to expect that. It wasn't that mum sat before the Christmas dinner that Rachel had prepared for her, fiddling and twisting at a knot she had inadvertently made out of her blouse sleeve, watch strap and a tissue. She seemed unaware that the food was in front of her, and when I picked up a fork and tried to place it in her hand it was as useless as if I was trying to get a cat's paw to grasp it.
It wasn't that dad complained about not going for an outing, or that he asked his same favourite questions ('what time is it?', 'what day is it?', 'how old am I?', etc.) over and over again. It was that mum hid my keys, so that when it was time to leave I couldn't even get into my car.
It was bound to happen some time, and I have usually taken precautions against having my belongings interfered with when I am at mum and dad's. When I first realised the keys were missing I did a rapid scan of the house, looking in easy to access places, such as the shower stall, the fronts of drawers, etc. When this was unsuccessful, I started on the forensic search. sitting down in front of the escritoire and going through every drawer carefully, then doing the same at the dining room sideboard.
Rachel had meanwhile formed the theory that the blue jacket that mum had been carrying around had had something to do with it. And she was right. She found the jacket stuffed into a wardrobe drawer and inside one of its pockets were my keys.
During my part of the search I had found a few things that had been missing for a while: dust pan and brush, and place mats (inside the escritoire), unopened letters and a meals on wheels meal (in a wardrobe drawer). The meal was so mouldy that when I lifted it it fell through my fingers and spread a cloud of mould dust and crumbs on the floor.
One thing that I felt might be positive was that dad seemed to have come around to the idea of going into a home. I'd told him that I really thought the outings were not likely to happen again until mum was in care and dad and I could go alone. He picked up on this idea enthusiastically, asking many times when we could organise this. It was as if he couldn't get her packed of quickly enough.
Two days later I was back at the house for my regular Thursday visit. I fed the cats, changed the bedding, collected the mail, and then began laying the table for dinner (sandwiches and orange juice).
'Oh, we're eating here, are we? I was looking forward to going out to the mall,' said dad.
'Dad, look at mum. She's in no fit state to go out. Mum was dressed unusually scruffily, hair wild and dirty, her skin now a mess from sleeping in her own piss night after night, unable to know any more what to do at the table, and on top of all that, on the verge of an anxiety attack whenever she is outside the house. I explained all this to dad.
'So, we're not going to the mall, then?' he asked, 'I was really looking forward to that.'
'Not until mum goes into care, dad?'
'Oh, when was this arranged?'
'We've been working on it for a long time, dad.' I said, 'You and I talked about it two days ago and you were all in favour of it.'
'Well I disagree with you there,' he said.
So we were back to square one. He was staying in his house because he and mum were 'doing all right'. I dropped that subject, but dad was not prepared to drop his.
'Why aren't we going to the mall? I was really looking forward to that.'
Another 15 minutes of this and I had had enough. 'Look, dad. I've come over here to clean up, feed you and sort out the mail. If all we are going to talk about is how unfair it is that you can't go to the mall, I may as well go now.'
I picked up my things and said goodbye to mum too. I drove up towards Greg's place, but stopped off at a beach, pointing my car towards the waves and listening to the cricket commentary on the radio. I ignored the phone, which showed dad calling over and over again. By the time I got to Greg's place, he and Regan had been getting calls from dad, too.
'I don't know what's wrong with Mike. He came in here and threw food on the table and then stormed off in a most uncouth manner.'
My phone kept ringing. Soon Rachel rang to find out why she was getting calls from dad too. Greg got fed up and asked me to speak to dad, which I did next time he called. I assured him I wasn't angry. He told me he was upset. I could not find it in myself to say sorry.
My honest self-appraisal is that these days I just do not care any more. When I see mum all dirty and dad miserable because the one small lifting of his daily monotony has been taken away, I do not feel any sympathy. I just wonder about (seemingly elusive) ways to solve these problems. And I do that out of a sense of duty, nothing more. I find myself looking forward to an end to these escalating problems. Lives like theirs are now seem hardly worth living and I am always wondering what I will feel when they die. Sad and relieved, I think.
It wasn't that I started my Christmas visit to mum and dad's place by picking up a turd and mopping up pools of piss. As Greg says, we've come to expect that. It wasn't that mum sat before the Christmas dinner that Rachel had prepared for her, fiddling and twisting at a knot she had inadvertently made out of her blouse sleeve, watch strap and a tissue. She seemed unaware that the food was in front of her, and when I picked up a fork and tried to place it in her hand it was as useless as if I was trying to get a cat's paw to grasp it.
It wasn't that dad complained about not going for an outing, or that he asked his same favourite questions ('what time is it?', 'what day is it?', 'how old am I?', etc.) over and over again. It was that mum hid my keys, so that when it was time to leave I couldn't even get into my car.
It was bound to happen some time, and I have usually taken precautions against having my belongings interfered with when I am at mum and dad's. When I first realised the keys were missing I did a rapid scan of the house, looking in easy to access places, such as the shower stall, the fronts of drawers, etc. When this was unsuccessful, I started on the forensic search. sitting down in front of the escritoire and going through every drawer carefully, then doing the same at the dining room sideboard.
Rachel had meanwhile formed the theory that the blue jacket that mum had been carrying around had had something to do with it. And she was right. She found the jacket stuffed into a wardrobe drawer and inside one of its pockets were my keys.
During my part of the search I had found a few things that had been missing for a while: dust pan and brush, and place mats (inside the escritoire), unopened letters and a meals on wheels meal (in a wardrobe drawer). The meal was so mouldy that when I lifted it it fell through my fingers and spread a cloud of mould dust and crumbs on the floor.
One thing that I felt might be positive was that dad seemed to have come around to the idea of going into a home. I'd told him that I really thought the outings were not likely to happen again until mum was in care and dad and I could go alone. He picked up on this idea enthusiastically, asking many times when we could organise this. It was as if he couldn't get her packed of quickly enough.
Two days later I was back at the house for my regular Thursday visit. I fed the cats, changed the bedding, collected the mail, and then began laying the table for dinner (sandwiches and orange juice).
'Oh, we're eating here, are we? I was looking forward to going out to the mall,' said dad.
'Dad, look at mum. She's in no fit state to go out. Mum was dressed unusually scruffily, hair wild and dirty, her skin now a mess from sleeping in her own piss night after night, unable to know any more what to do at the table, and on top of all that, on the verge of an anxiety attack whenever she is outside the house. I explained all this to dad.
'So, we're not going to the mall, then?' he asked, 'I was really looking forward to that.'
'Not until mum goes into care, dad?'
'Oh, when was this arranged?'
'We've been working on it for a long time, dad.' I said, 'You and I talked about it two days ago and you were all in favour of it.'
'Well I disagree with you there,' he said.
So we were back to square one. He was staying in his house because he and mum were 'doing all right'. I dropped that subject, but dad was not prepared to drop his.
'Why aren't we going to the mall? I was really looking forward to that.'
Another 15 minutes of this and I had had enough. 'Look, dad. I've come over here to clean up, feed you and sort out the mail. If all we are going to talk about is how unfair it is that you can't go to the mall, I may as well go now.'
I picked up my things and said goodbye to mum too. I drove up towards Greg's place, but stopped off at a beach, pointing my car towards the waves and listening to the cricket commentary on the radio. I ignored the phone, which showed dad calling over and over again. By the time I got to Greg's place, he and Regan had been getting calls from dad, too.
'I don't know what's wrong with Mike. He came in here and threw food on the table and then stormed off in a most uncouth manner.'
My phone kept ringing. Soon Rachel rang to find out why she was getting calls from dad too. Greg got fed up and asked me to speak to dad, which I did next time he called. I assured him I wasn't angry. He told me he was upset. I could not find it in myself to say sorry.
My honest self-appraisal is that these days I just do not care any more. When I see mum all dirty and dad miserable because the one small lifting of his daily monotony has been taken away, I do not feel any sympathy. I just wonder about (seemingly elusive) ways to solve these problems. And I do that out of a sense of duty, nothing more. I find myself looking forward to an end to these escalating problems. Lives like theirs are now seem hardly worth living and I am always wondering what I will feel when they die. Sad and relieved, I think.
Comments
Oh, Mike. Oh, Mike. Oh, Mike. A merry Christmas is impossible to be found in your sad words of disconnect from your parents. Who have they become? I asked myself that question daily. Who was my father now? A man he would have not himself recognized were he to suddenly glimpse his life from my distance.
I hugged him tightly and continued the long journey to his death. When he died, I felt tremendous relief and hope that he would have a better time "there" than he did "here."
Your parents, as you are well aware, need more help than you and your sibs can provide. Trust me, there are seven in my family, plus a fully functioning spouse, and we couldn't do it without help. Please find the help your parents need, for your sake, for their sake. It's heartbreaking to read your posts, it's time to reach beyond what your parents think they need to what it is you know they need. We're the ones who have to make these tough decisions for them. Your family's advocacy may well provide their only shot at safety, protection and dignity. Work hard to get them accommodated.
You had mentioned a waiting list, has there been any motion at all towards their being admitted yet? It must be simply impossible to bear the patience you need to wait any longer. Can you take photos of your mom and present them to the care facility to help make your case that they are in desperate straits? Literally, shoot photos of their condition, their home, their state of affairs. Make people listen.
I read your posts and hear the truth, I watch movies about Alzheimer's disease and don't. Thank you for all you do by writing your experience, you validate without question the nightmare that more than 5 million of us have lived.
May there be peace, real peace, on earth - exactly on the spot where you're standing this minute.
Patty
Patty said exactly what I meant to. Your parents need to be out of that house and in a nursing home. They're not getting anything out of the way they're living now. Your feeling of apathy is an indication that you're exhausted. You and your siblings have done all that is humanly possible for your parents. Don't wait until one (or both) of them falls and breaks a hip or burns the house down. It's time to get them to a place where they'll be safe and cared for.
One bright note: my dad died of liver cancer, alcoholism and Alzheimer's in 1995. Now, when I think about him, I remember the way he was when he was healthy. The awful memories of him wandering naked in the neighbor's yard at 3 a.m. have vanished and instead, I think of him in the harbor with his sailboat. Alzheimer's is very, very hard, but in the end, it's temporary. Good luck in getting through the rough spots ahead.
Just want you to know, Mike, even Indestructible-Attitude-I am beginning to have periods in which I no longer care. These periods surprise me and they fade (not sure how I feel about them fading), but I now wonder if I will reach a point where they will become normal. Thing is, at least at present and for the immediate past (a couple of months), I haven't had and don't have the energy to worry about these periods of not caring or to fight them.
I wrote about this recently in a post at my now defunct site, musing about how emotional resources are one of the types of resources necessary for humanity to collude in creating people, keeping people alive, administering to the quality of our lives and how we collude in one another's deaths when we run out of emotional resources on behalf of others. I attach(ed) no ethics or morality to this...I don't believe, at this point, that it does me (or, for that matter, my mother) any good to be more than an observer of what appears to be inevitable in this internal process.