Moving Mom

Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.” — Maya Angelou

Yesterday, while labeling my mother’s clothing and underwear, I had a surreal moment in which I felt as if I were moving another kid to college. In reality, we’re getting ready to transfer Mom to an assisted living residence, where she’ll soon have her own studio apartment.

Doug and I spent the past week moving pieces of Mom’s furniture (her apartment comes with some basics) along with decorative accessories, photos, clothing, TV, microwave, and toiletries. We also shopped for a bedspread and items for her kitchenette.

The new apartment looks traditional and beautiful — the style my mother is accustomed to — yet we know, deep down, that all the elegant things in the world won’t fool my mother into thinking this other place is superior to the condo she’s grown to love so much.

When Doug and I aren’t consumed by the moving process, I’m usually on the phone with a social worker or a physical therapist at the nursing center where my mother is undergoing rehab now. The social worker is concerned about my mother’s delusional behavior this week. Mom doesn’t believe there’s anything wrong with her health — nor does she remember last month’s visit to the ER at Beaumont Hospital, which ultimately led to all of this. Sounding like Dorothy on a broken record, she just keeps asking to go home. To her real home.

While I know this move is inevitable and right, I still feel twinges of guilt for uprooting my mother from everything that matters to her.

And I don’t know how I’d survive the stress without Doug, the world’s absolute-best husband. It breaks my heart a little, too, when I remember that Doug plowed through a similar scenario less than two years ago when his late father (who had Alzheimer’s) had to be moved several times until he and his mother found the right nursing home. (Ain’t midlife grand?) Doug’s experience with lease agreements and medical/legal paperwork alone has been invaluable, not to mention his willingness to sit with me and write my mother’s name on dishtowels and socks with a permanent marker.

The big move from the nursing center to assisted living is scheduled for Sunday. What a long and winding road it’s been. While I’ll be relieved to get my mother in a safe place, finally, I know there’s a boatload of emotional work ahead of me. Mom will need time and patience to adjust. And so will I. –– Cindy La Ferle

— Top: Our family with my mom on Christmas night, at Woodward Hills nursing center cafeteria. My mother has been recovering at Woodward Hills following a week at Beaumont Hospital last month. Bottom photo: A detail from Mom’s new apartment at a local assisted living residence. —

 

 

 

Bringing Grandma back

Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family.  Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one.”  ~Jane Howard

It’s not always easy to be a family. For starters, our troubled job market makes it nearly impossible for relatives to live in the same community — or the same region. And even if they do live nearby, work and other obligations can make it a challenge to forge satisfying connections or offer help when it’s needed.

Earlier this month, my mother was finally sent home after spending two weeks in the hospital and another two in nursing rehab. Getting her settled has taken a team of visiting nurses and a physical therapist — and lots of family support. This week’s column in Royal Oak Patch tells the story of how my son’s surprise visit helped us “bring Grandma back.” Please click here to read it. –CL

Update on Mom

The human spirit is stronger than anything that can happen to it.”  ~C.C. Scott

First, a big thank you to all who’ve inquired about my mom. It really means a lot to know that she’s remembered in your thoughts and prayers, and I always pass along your messages to her.

Secondly, I apologize for not being a very good blog buddy or Facebook friend recently. Like 3D friendships, online connections should be reciprocal. But with so much going on, I haven’t kept up with friends as often as I’d like. Once things settle, I hope to change that.

Right now, Mom is in healing mode. Her pacemaker was inserted on Monday and the surgical wound looks good. The challenge for the next few weeks, in addition to rebuilding her strength after the heart failure, will be to keep her from moving her left arm too much. (It’s essential to prevent the pacemaker from being dislodged or disconnected while the tissue around it heals into place.)  This week, she’s recovering at Woodward Hills nursing center, an affiliate of William Beaumont Hospital. It’s her third time at this facility in the past 10 years, so she settled in without much fuss after Doug and I drove her there from the hospital yesterday.

If all goes well, Mom will be ready for discharge from Woodward Hills later next week. Right now, everyone is monitoring her carefully to determine if she’ll be able to care for herself again in the long run. Once she’s home, I’ll be staying with her through her recovery, working closely with a team of home-care nurses and a physical therapist. And there will be several field trips to the cardiologist as well as to the doctor who keeps the pacemaker ticking.

Meanwhile, Mom’s memory loss remains a big concern, especially since she was terribly confused during her long stay at the hospital. Crossing my fingers, I’m hoping she’ll adjust to her new heart medications and gain emotional as well as physical strength during therapy. One day at a time.

I’d be lying if I told you I was anything but pooped out and fried. But I’m fortunate to have a husband who’s right there with me at every hospital visit, and who doesn’t seem to mind hanging out in medical waiting rooms. I’m darned lucky, too, to have so many friends who care. — CL

Mom, no matter what

The art of living lies less in eliminating our troubles than in growing with them.  ~Bernard M. Baruch

I won the book this summer, but it sat unread for weeks, buried on my nightstand under a tall stack of novels and review copies. Joy No Matter What: Make Three Simple Choices to Access Your Inner Joy, by Carolyn Hobbs, sounded like a delightful read, but I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to crack it open.

Overwhelmed with concerns about my widowed mother’s health, I’ve been feeling more anxious than joyful lately.

Mom lives alone in a condo, about 10 minutes from my house. Up until this fall I’ve felt reasonably confident that she was capable of living independently. And she was, for quite a while. But my mother’s early stage dementia — which was officially diagnosed by a neurologist over a year ago — has moved to the middle stage, and her doctors have put me on alert. Right now, I’m filling out the paperwork for an in-depth geriatric evaluation that will, hopefully, lead to the help and advice I need to make the right decisions for my mother. (Including when to take away her car keys.)

Meanwhile, as her sole caregiver, I worry a lot.  And as much as I hate to admit it, sometimes I’m swimming against an undercurrent of resentment.

So I happened to thumb through my copy of Joy No Matter What last week, and discovered that “resentment” has its own chapter in the book. And what I read was exactly what I needed to consider.

“Resentment steals joy like nothing else,” writes author Carolyn Hobbs. “It cheats us out of wholesome loving contact with those we love. It destroys perfectly good relationships.” As Hobbs points out, it can also negatively impact our health. Thankfully, she offers some solutions, and one in particular has really helped.

“Writing your resentments down on a piece of paper is a great way to acknowledge them to yourself,” Hobbs advises.  “Don’t hold back. The best way to make resentments conscious is to totally indulge them.”

Despite the fact that I’ve been writing personal stories for years, the very thought of recording how I feel about Mom’s dementia — even privately — seemed disloyal and cruel. So I had to force myself to sit down and make a list of all the things I “resented” about her condition and how it has marred our once-happy relationship.

For starters, I admitted that my mother’s dementia has hijacked my peace of mind as well as some of the freedoms of my newly emptied nest. I listed the frightening, paranoid phone calls I get from her several times a week, throwing my normal routine off course. I wrote about how my mother expresses little interest in my life — and how most of our conversations revolve around her health and anxieties. I even tallied all the hours I’ve spent in doctors offices for her countless medical and dental appointments. I wrote about how I resented dementia for blurring the quality of Mom’s elder years, and for building a wall between her and many of her oldest and dearest friends.

Lastly, I listed the guilt I battle daily for harboring all this resentment and worry.

Of course, I will never share this list with my mother. But facing up to my darker emotions has helped me find some relief. Examining the issues that trigger my anger and sadness, I can begin to move ahead and ultimately find the patience required of all care-givers. Most of all, Hobbs’ technique has led me to understand that, deep down, I’m grieving the loss of my real mom. I’m grieving the loss of the mutually supportive relationship we had before the dark brush of dementia rendered her childlike and needy.

Once in a while, I get a few glimpses of my old mom — and I savor them while I can.

Two weeks ago, for instance, Mom phoned to ask about a doctor’s appointment on her calendar. During the conversation, I mentioned that Doug and I were celebrating our 30th wedding anniversary that evening. My mother, who always remembered family birthdays and anniversaries, had totally forgotten this one. “Oh my, I had no idea you’ve been married 30 years!” she shouted into the phone, struggling to process the oversight. But an hour later, she drove over to our house with the most beautiful flower arrangement I’ve seen — a wild assemblage of deep-violet carnations, burgundy roses, and cabbage flowers. The card read, “Happy Anniversary, Love Always, Mom.”

Every day, I remind myself that the overriding emotion I’m really feeling for my mother is love, not resentment. Despite the fact that she can’t recall things I’ve told her the day before, she never forgets that I’m her daughter, and she knows I’ll do my best to get her through this, no matter what. — Cindy La Ferle

— Photo above: My mother on her 80th birthday in September this year. The photo in the foreground is my mother’s high school graduation portrait —