A caregiver’s confessions

I didn’t want to visit my mother yesterday. I was glad that her doctor had gotten ill and her appointment had to be rescheduled. I wouldn’t have to see her. I’d had a week of vacation and then saw my mother just two days prior and took her for an echocardiogram. Wasn’t that enough? But I didn’t feel like any of that was an excuse. Mom is still quite delightful most of the time, so that wasn’t an excuse either. I just didn’t want to see her again this week. Of course, I made the 45-minute drive out there anyway. And stayed for only 15 minutes more than it took me to get there.

Mom has always been very independent. She turned down several marriage proposals and never even said yes to my father whom she married at age 32. She married because she wanted children. I came along when she was 40. She was never my friend; always my mother. And she insisted that I, too, be independent. Vulnerability has replaced the countenance of strength I grew used to. So it feels wrong to have her dependent on me and for me to be taking care of her.

She handled all the finances in our home and for our church. Now I’ve tried to make sure that all her bills come straight to my home. Otherwise they will be lost. I received a new check card for her in the mail today and can’t decide if I’m going to allow her to have it or not. Allow her to have it. Allow her. But she’s given her number out to scam artists before and I don’t know if she will again. Am I protecting her or restricting her by keeping the card?

To add to my confession, I must say that I applied for a full-time job this week. This feels like a betrayal of my commitment to her care. I’m lucky that I can survive without working, but I need the order and stimulation and human contact work provides. Mom might be healthy enough now that she won’t need more than a couple of doctor visits a month now. She’s walking more and seems to be breathing with more ease. So I’m hopeful.

But there always a but, a however, an on-the-other-hand. She seems to be coming out of her delirium, but that doesn’t mean that the dementia is any better. She’s lost her keys twice this week, is convinced that another woman is wearing her clothes, doesn’t recognize some of her own clothing, and is absolutely unable to determine if it’s night or day. She’s also convinced that her stomach was operated on recently. Does any of this mean that she needs me? It certainly means that I feel a need to be with her for as long as she’s able to recognize and welcome me.

Last week I resolved to not contradict Mom unless it was medically necessary. I would allow her her own reality, even if it didn’t correspond with mine or make sense to me. Then yesterday I tried to convince her that a sweater was hers by showing all the hairs on it that matched her own. And, in jest, I accused her of being anorexic because of her obsession with the size of the belly on her tiny little 87 pound frame. I think I hurt her; I know if confused her. I’m not sure that I erased all that by kissing her on the nose. But I might have. I think I still have that much power.

The power to make Mom laugh or feel love is one that I enthusiastically embrace. It makes up for the boredom of sitting with her as she looks through her purse or wonders again about where the cars go that drive by. She was always unconditional in her love for me and for my sister and I think I can reflect that back. It’s the power over her finances, her health care, her access to the world outside her assisted living home that makes me uncomfortable and uncertain.

It used to be, only a year or so ago, that if I called my mother twice during a week, she would express dismay at the frequency. She’s ask me if something was wrong. For most of my adult life she lived hundreds of miles away and we found that a monthly letter and quarterly phone call was just about the right amount of contact. We each had our own lives and these lives intersected only in our hearts and during the one- or twice-a-year visits.

So my twice-weekly visits feel like an interruption in my life. I chose not to have children and I chose a spouse with whom I can enjoy parallel play. I see my closest friends only occasionally. Perhaps I haven’t grown up enough to learn how to be generous with my time and attention for extended periods. Or maybe I’m not so selfish and am really lucky that I still experience love and affection from my mother. At some point the dementia might take that away. I could be trying to distance myself from that day by distancing myself from Mom now. I guess I’ll leave the judgment up to you readers and any psychologists in the audience.