Where That Fork in the Road Went

Seven years ago, I wrote about mom showing signs of of dementia and our first family conversations with my dad about it.

Seven years ago.

Over the many months since then, my mom's cognitive capacity continued to decline, sometimes in fits and starts, sometimes in steep, rushing leaps, and sometimes in barely perceptible shifts. And through it all, my dad soldiered on, taking care of and looking after the woman he loved, even as the woman he had known for most of his life had all but disappeared.

Not that we were negligent as children. My brothers, my sisters-in-law, my beloved husband, and I all kept tabs on dad, asking him what help he needed, urging him to call upon us. "I can do it for now," he'd reply. "I'll let you know when I need help."

We'd talk to him about bringing in some outside services, even on an occasional basis. Meals On Wheels? Someone to clean house? Anything?

"No, I'm not there yet," dad would reply. "I don't want to upset your mom with bringing in someone, and I can handle it."

And he did handle it—"it" being the myriad of daily tasks and duties to keep the household going, to keep mom oriented, amused, and cared for, to care for himself, the too large house, the oversize yard. He handled it and handled it, despite the enormous toll on his own health, right up until about ten days ago. That was when mom fell getting up in the middle of the night, breaking three ribs. That episode unraveled into a series of squad calls for assistance getting her in and out of bed, trips to the nearby ER, consults with social workers, and long, serious faces on the hospital personnel. It culminated in the day when he went to the bathroom and came out to find her gone, only to go outside and find her on the ground where she had fallen, hitting her face, when in her dementia she had decided to take out the garbage. With squad help, he got her into the house. That night, she woke him, telling him she felt she was dying. We all spent a long hard, day at the ER again, while decisions were made.

We spent the rest of the week with mom in a local rehab/memory unit: understaffed, shabby, institutional, and, unfortunately, full of bad memories for dad from 30 years ago when his own father was in the same place. They treated mom well, but it was not a solution.

And then my brother Mark and his wife Jackie did some research and found a memory care unit in a new, home-like senior facility in their town (20 miles away). Dad went out to tour it with them, then came back to town and announced he was moving mom.

We made the move yesterday, "we" being dad, Mark, Jackie, my other sister-in-law Kate, and I. The facility director was calm and helpful: make it look like home (most of their bedroom suite of the last 60 years went over), let us transport her from there to here, please don't come for the first five or so days. So we spent the morning setting up mom's new room, and then went away. I was at the local facility with Kate when the new director showed up to pick up mom; mom was thrilled to be going for a ride. She said hello to us and kept right on going. She reminded me of a little kid: so eager to have the new experience that she didn't even look back.

Dad is struggling with the decision and holds to the hope that mom will be "better" and he can bring her back home. Mark is worried dad is waffling. I suggested we just let the dust settle and let him voice his fears and wishes without trying to point out that mom is never going to get better and this is best. We are all in chill out mode right now.

After I finished up the parent-related tasks yesterday afternoon, I headed down the road to visit Aunt Ginger in her memory unit. Ginger was in good spirits and we had a long chat. She was convinced she had just moved from her apartment a week ago (it was well over a year ago) and was stunned when I said "you've been here for over a year." She talked about her job, one she retired from over 30 years ago and mixed then  ("I retired early, didn't I?") and now ("I'm glad I retired last month. That was getting hard on me.") and then included her friend Esther, who was sitting in lounge with us, in the sweep of those she had worked with for so many years.

Esther didn't mind; she was telling me how her mother had told her this morning that she needed to wear her new jeans. (Esther is in her 80s or 90s as well.)

"And I did, April!," she said, beaming and pointing to her jeans.

Esther was happy. Ginger was happy. I was happy. We were all happy in the memory unit.

Here's hoping my parents' long road to here is likewise lined with happy moments at this time of life.