Inside the Dementia Epidemic: A Daughter's Memoir by Martha Stettinius Page A
Authors: Martha Stettinius
Ads: Link
staff painted Mom’s room ivory; the room looked fresh, with soft, clean carpet in a light rose. To keep my guilt at bay, I made her room more homelike, by hanging white, scalloped-edged café curtains to block the view of the parking lot and main entrance. The low, short curtains give her privacy but also allow an unobstructed view of the sky. I decorated with new brass lamps with ivory shades, and other items.
I left new wastebaskets in the bathroom and next to the desk, but found out later that the cleaning staff will not empty the trash unless someone—me, I guess—remembers to place the baskets outside Mom’s door in the hallway. Right then, with the waste-baskets, I sensed that Mom might need more help than Greenway could provide. But I pushed this thought aside, assuming the trash rule was just a quirk in an otherwise reasonable system. Certainly Greenway must have other residents with mild dementia who might forget such a weekly task.
M om and I enjoy each other’s company more now that we’re not living in the same house. Over lunch at a nearby restaurant, she is so excited that she just talks and ignores her food. As I listen to her, I notice for the first time in many years that even without makeup, my mother is still beautiful. This beauty was hidden by the gauntness of early dementia when she lived alone, then by herdark moods when she lived in my home. Today her smile is genuine—stunning—her laugh generous and usually directed at herself. Mom’s eyes, once a blue-green speckled with brown, have turned the sky-blue of bachelor buttons, growing lighter and lighter each year. Her nose is slim, her cheekbones high. Her shoulders are narrow and bird-like; I imagine her upper body a lattice of little bones, featherweight.
Mom pulls from her lap a yellow folder bound in a thick rubber band, full of notes, she says, to remind herself of what she wants to tell me. I lean forward on my elbows, curious, but when she opens the folder I can see that the papers are ancient bills, torn-out pages of magazines, and junk mail. On top of the pile, she has clipped a few small pieces of notepaper. Her chicken fajita grows soggy while she reads her notes. Two college students, young women, she says, have talked to her recently. The first one interviewed her for an hour outside on a bench under a tree. They had an “easy rapport,” Mom tells me, and though she doesn’t remember what they talked about, she remembers how much she liked that young woman. The student will come back in four months to interview her again.
A second young woman interviewed her in a more formal manner, with less chatting back and forth, but encouraged her to write down four “commitments” for her health. Mom tells me with enthusiasm that she has promised herself she’ll do the following:
1) Wear her one contact lens every day.
Great! I think. I worry that without the lens she will weave more when she walks, and fall. I realize now that Mom may have difficulty remembering the steps involved in putting in the lens. Today, though, she’s wearing it—terrific! Such a small thing makes me feel so relieved.
2) Walk for exercise. The second student says she will return and walk with her.
I think to myself that walking is great. I’d love to see Mom use the wood-chip trail through the woods next to Greenway, but I worry that even walking around inside Mom might weave and fall. Will the student make sure she doesn’t fall?
3) Make a dentist appointment.
4) Get a primary doctor.
The last two commitments embarrass me. Will this student think that my poor mother is abandoned at Greenway without a dentist or a doctor? Of course she has both.
“Your doctor is Dr. Claiborne, remember?”
“Oh, yes, I liked her. She mothered me. I’ll take that!”
Dr. Claiborne came recommended to us by the elder care psychologist as someone who would give Mom her full attention. The psychologist’s first choice was a geriatrician, but his practice was
I left new wastebaskets in the bathroom and next to the desk, but found out later that the cleaning staff will not empty the trash unless someone—me, I guess—remembers to place the baskets outside Mom’s door in the hallway. Right then, with the waste-baskets, I sensed that Mom might need more help than Greenway could provide. But I pushed this thought aside, assuming the trash rule was just a quirk in an otherwise reasonable system. Certainly Greenway must have other residents with mild dementia who might forget such a weekly task.
M om and I enjoy each other’s company more now that we’re not living in the same house. Over lunch at a nearby restaurant, she is so excited that she just talks and ignores her food. As I listen to her, I notice for the first time in many years that even without makeup, my mother is still beautiful. This beauty was hidden by the gauntness of early dementia when she lived alone, then by herdark moods when she lived in my home. Today her smile is genuine—stunning—her laugh generous and usually directed at herself. Mom’s eyes, once a blue-green speckled with brown, have turned the sky-blue of bachelor buttons, growing lighter and lighter each year. Her nose is slim, her cheekbones high. Her shoulders are narrow and bird-like; I imagine her upper body a lattice of little bones, featherweight.
Mom pulls from her lap a yellow folder bound in a thick rubber band, full of notes, she says, to remind herself of what she wants to tell me. I lean forward on my elbows, curious, but when she opens the folder I can see that the papers are ancient bills, torn-out pages of magazines, and junk mail. On top of the pile, she has clipped a few small pieces of notepaper. Her chicken fajita grows soggy while she reads her notes. Two college students, young women, she says, have talked to her recently. The first one interviewed her for an hour outside on a bench under a tree. They had an “easy rapport,” Mom tells me, and though she doesn’t remember what they talked about, she remembers how much she liked that young woman. The student will come back in four months to interview her again.
A second young woman interviewed her in a more formal manner, with less chatting back and forth, but encouraged her to write down four “commitments” for her health. Mom tells me with enthusiasm that she has promised herself she’ll do the following:
1) Wear her one contact lens every day.
Great! I think. I worry that without the lens she will weave more when she walks, and fall. I realize now that Mom may have difficulty remembering the steps involved in putting in the lens. Today, though, she’s wearing it—terrific! Such a small thing makes me feel so relieved.
2) Walk for exercise. The second student says she will return and walk with her.
I think to myself that walking is great. I’d love to see Mom use the wood-chip trail through the woods next to Greenway, but I worry that even walking around inside Mom might weave and fall. Will the student make sure she doesn’t fall?
3) Make a dentist appointment.
4) Get a primary doctor.
The last two commitments embarrass me. Will this student think that my poor mother is abandoned at Greenway without a dentist or a doctor? Of course she has both.
“Your doctor is Dr. Claiborne, remember?”
“Oh, yes, I liked her. She mothered me. I’ll take that!”
Dr. Claiborne came recommended to us by the elder care psychologist as someone who would give Mom her full attention. The psychologist’s first choice was a geriatrician, but his practice was