Majority’s Rules

“Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect.”
—Mark Twain
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Our old buddy, Mr. Twain, makes a valid point. And in my humble opinion, ain’t nothin’ wrong with taking the road less traveled or marching to the beat of your own drum. And I know of no place on earth where is it written in stone that the majority rules the waves.

Yet I am by no means discounting the level of comfort that comes with the knowledge that other folks share our opinions. Or that they have had the same experiences. Sometimes being in a majority can ease our minds and boost our spirits.

I believe the answer lies with knowing when we should break out of our comfort zones and step outside of our proverbial boxes to take a walk on our own path. And this is a lesson my mother has been teaching me all my life. Mostly by example, in the way she has lived hers.

At 94-and-a-half years young, my mother is still marching to the beat of her own drum. She is an intelligent gal. Independent and spirited. Warm-hearted and giving. And her age has never had an affect on these traits. On the contrary. All her life she has set the example that it is your attitude which counts, and not your number.

Yet the rules governing the majority can sneak into our daily lives and have impact when we least expect them, or wish for them. In my mother’s case, it is her declining physical and mental ability because of her advanced years that is robbing her of a quality of life that should be hers, by her right and by her choice.

But she can’t make that choice, no matter how much she wants to. She can’t fight a body that is failing her and a mind riddled with dementia. She can’t break out of her box.

But she has bucked a lot of trends. She is 94. Excuse me…94-and-a-half. Which exceeds most life expectancy/actuarial tables. And while she needs to use a walker now to get around, she is not in a wheelchair. And while her short-term memory has tanked, her spirit remains strong. And while many of the people of her “Great Generation” have since passed away, she keeps on keeping on.

She has to play by Majority’s Rules because she is elderly and her body and her mind are failing her. But she can still choose to live her life on her own terms. She has chosen to keep living, and not give up. She has chosen to greet everyone she meets with a bright smile and a sparkle in her eyes. She has chosen to exude love and happiness rather than indifference and bitterness.

She is taking Majority’s Rules and tossing them out the window. She has paused and reflected and decided that as long as she is able, she will take the road less traveled. She will march to the beat of her own drum. And she will do so until, as she often says, her good lord calls her home.

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Reboot

“You will never be handed anything in life you cannot handle.” I believe these words of wisdom to be true. With the caveat, “Even though you may not think so at the time.”

And as my responsibilities for the care of my elderly mother continue to evolve, I have discovered I need to remind myself of this philosophy from time to time, caveat included. Most recently when I took my mother for her quarterly visit with her family physician.

The good news is that the results of my mother’s blood work showed all positive numbers. And physically she is doing as well as could be expected at 94-years-young. The hiccup came when the doctor pinged the status of her mental health, most specifically the decline in her short term memory.

When the doctor asked if she was experiencing any frustration or anxiety when she could not remember things, she replied she was noticing a lack of patience on her part recently. When the doctor asked her to give him an example, she was not able to reply immediately and instead, remained frozen in confusion.

I watched as both of my mother’s eyes looked to the left, then blinked, then looked to the right. She repeated this pattern a half a dozen times. She was trying to find the information in order to respond to the doctor’s question, but had no idea where to look for the answer. She was like a computer whose hard drive was ready to crash; it’s spinning wheel icon locked; frozen, not knowing where to find its system to reboot.

It was frightening to see the totally blank look on her face, with no recognition or ability to respond.

When prompted again by the doctor, she did manage to say she believed she had recently had lost patience with some situation, but could not recall what it was. She was waiting, she thought. For something rather than someone, she thought. And got annoyed when whatever she was waiting for was not happening right away.

This was the first time my mother had exhibited this type of behavior at this higher level during a visit with the doctor. I had seen snippets of this pattern before, but never this severe. It shook me to my core.

For a woman as intelligent and as independent as my mother, I know how frightening it has been for her to lose her mental abilities. But as time passes, I realize that the more she forgets, to a certain degree, the less frightened she is. She no longer remembers what she is forgetting, if that makes any sense.

It is these situations which prompt me to embrace the words of wisdom that I will never be handed any in life I cannot handle. And by doing so, I initiate a mental reboot of my own internal hard drive. I restart, reset my preferences and clear my cache. And with a fresh perspective, I keep putting one mental foot in front of the other. Because I know if I am going to be able to continue on this journey, I need to embrace the challenges as they come. And move ahead, one small step at a time.

The Treasure Hunt

When visiting my elderly mother yesterday, our usual game of Hide and Seek quickly turned into a Treasure Hunt. And while there are similarities between the two games, Treasure Hunt has far more appeal for me. Hide and Seek has a singular goal, to locate a particular item. When playing Treasure Hunt, it is the thrill of discovering the unknown which peaks my curiosity.

Our visit started out in a predictable fashion. A hug and a kiss, followed by her query about my husband’s welfare. As I put away this week’s batch of clean laundry, I discovered a nightgown in the drawer where her clean bed linens reside. My mother explained the gown had a torn seam down the one side and she could no longer wear it. And that she intended to hand-sew the seam.

Now I knew she would never sew that gown. But I did make a mental note to find the sewing kit I had given her almost two years ago, which had squirreled its way into some secret hiding spot in her room. If only to prevent her from asking me to bring her another one.

And so our game of Hide and Seek began. First, I checked the inventory of her nightgowns in the closet and in her dresser drawers, to make sure she had clean and wearable gowns. Which led to collecting her dirty underwear and the discovery of a pile of panties that had fallen behind the cabinet in her closet. But it was her request for me to bring her more writing paper on my next visit that turned our game of Hide and Seek into a Treasure Hunt.

I had brought her eight pads of writing paper and a dozen pens only two short weeks ago. And even though she is a obsessive note taker, I had to believe she could not have gone through all that paper in such a short a time. Knowing she had most likely stashed all those pads in the bottom of her nightstand, I sat down on the floor and opened the nightstand doors. The cabinet was crammed full. I checked the clock and knew I had enough time to clean out that cabinet before she was scheduled to go down to the dining room for lunch. So, I girded my loins, and made the announcement.

“Hey, Mom. How about if we see if we can find your note pads in your nightstand here. And who knows what else we may find. We’ll have a Treasure Hunt.” My mother grinned and we were off on our quest.

I pulled out four boxes of bandaids; three were full and one was empty. One box half-full of knee highs. A dozen paperback books. Two plastic containers filled with shoes she never wears. One empty box of Kleenex. One full box of Kleenex. And piles and piles of old junk mail and activity calendars from her assisted living facility and loose pieces of papers scribbled with illegible notes in her handwriting.

And drum roll please…six new pads of writing paper and one packet of six new pens.

As we sifted through the pile of old mail and calendars and loose pieces of paper, we were able to throw the majority of it out. At her insistence, we kept the few Christmas cards she received last year. And of course, the latest issue of her favorite magazine. And her monthly calendar with the facility’s activities calendar paper-clipped to September. I organized the cabinet so she could reach everything easily. With plenty of room for her to toss in new items and hopefully still find what she needs.

And, oh yeah…I did find that illusive sewing kit. It was laying on top of some handkerchiefs in one of her dresser drawers. Since I had been in that dresser drawer only a week ago, I am curious to know how it had magically appeared there this week. I wonder where its secret hiding place was. And what may be hiding there now.

I suppose that discovery will have to wait for next week’s game of Hide and Seek and our latest game…the Treasure Hunt.

Hide and Seek

Back in the day when I was a young lass, I used to enjoy a game of Hide and Seek on a breezy summer afternoon. I was a good Seeker, since my neighborhood playmates would usually hide in the same places, which made them easy to find. There was a sense of comfort to their predictable strategy in playing the game.

I was also a good Hider, since I would never hide in the same place. There was a sense of adventure to my non-conformist strategy in playing the game. Yet I do admit, I would become bored after a few rounds of a game where the outcome always seemed to be the same. And I would look for a more amusing form of entertainment elsewhere. Much to the chagrin of my playmates.

As my elderly mother falls deeper under the spell of the nastiest playmate in our current neighborhood…our nemesis, Missy Dementia…I have rediscovered the game of Hide and Seek. With all its predictability and its non-conformist strategies.

The first round of our game started a few months ago, when I entered my mother’s room at the assisted living facility where she now lives and she claimed she could not find her address book. She was frantic, because this book contains all the phone numbers she needs, including mine. After looking through the piles of magazines and birthday cards scattered next to her phone on the table under her window, I realized I was looking in the most predictable of hiding places. I was looking for her address book where it had always resided since she had moved there.

So, I put on my Seeker Hat and started my search. I poked around her nightstand and I located her address book on the bottom shelf, stashed under an empty box of Kleenex and a pair of slippers she never wears. For some reason, known only to my mother at the moment she did so, she had put the book there for safe-keeping. Only to forget she had done so, a few moments later.

As round after round of this game of HIde and Seek continue, I have been the Seeker for a multitude of items. Pens that magically disappear and reappear in the top drawer of her nightstand. A new box of hand soap that is right in front of her on the shelf next to her bathroom sink. And my personal favorite: dirty underwear that changes its hiding place with every dirty laundry pickup I make.

Because of her dementia, my mother’s patterns of behavior are predictably unpredictable. Good news is that I am rarely bored. Bad news is I now find myself craving a sense of comfort bred by predictability.

And while I wish my mother could remain carefree and enjoy a game played on a breezy summer afternoon, I know Missy Dementia has her own strategy. And in the end, it is she, not my mother, who will be the victor.

Back In The Saddle Again

My short, albeit welcome, reprieve from my responsibilities for my elderly mother came to an end with my visit with her yesterday. Overall, she was a happy camper. But did slam-dunk me as I walked into her room and before I even had a chance to say hello. She was obsessing over the instructions on how many times a day to use the special toothpaste the dentist had given her three months ago. So, I addressed her concerns, then said hello and gave her a hug and kiss.

After that, it was a typical visit, as I put away her clean laundry and a myriad of her personal care items. Our conversation ran to the usual topics, regurgitating them in what has become the usual cycle of repetitiveness.

I did run into Head Nurse Kay as I was heading to my mother’s room. Kay said that my mother has seemed less anxious since she has been on a new medication to help with her most recent and higher level of anxiety. But she is still obsessing about what she perceives to be a new and mysterious fan noise in her room from the heating and air conditioning system. And is still bothering the maintenance guys multiple times a day. Kay said the nursing and maintenance staff have developed a new plan, where a maintenance guy will pop into my mother’s room once a day, instead of four or five times a day like they had been doing.

As I left my mother’s facility, I felt the same sense of sadness that I have been for quite a while now. This feeling has become as familiar as an old friend. A very high-maintenance friend, who needs to be constantly reassured and cajoled and sweet-talked into submission.

And that’s okay. Because I know this feeling will only continue to gain strength as time passes. As long as I can continue to embrace it, I can continue to manage it. And by manage it, I mean accept it for what it is, and find new methods to cope.

So, I am back in the saddle again. Rockin’ to and fro. And going my way the best way I know how.

School’s Out

During each of the 12 years of my elementary-to-high school education…usually around the beginning of May…I experienced a sense of giddy anticipation as the school year was coming to a close and a three-month stretch of no-strings-attached freedom yawned in front of me. And when that final bell rang on that last day of school, we students bolted in mass from the building like it was on fire.

While I have experienced similar feelings since my high school graduation…usually just before a long-awaited vacation…there has been no real comparison to those glorious days. Not even when I was in college, where I was a commercial art major and had elected to piggy-back my semesters in order to graduate earlier, missing out on the luxury of summer breaks.

Yet the other day as I was leaving the assisted living facility where my elderly mother now resides, I heard a whisper of that giddy anticipation of my youth echoing in my ears. I found myself driving home with the windows down and the radio blaring, singing along to my favorite, and even not so favorite, tunes.

So…what was the inspiration for this youthful giddiness?

Well, I can tell you what it was not. My husband and I were not jetting off to a tropical paradise for an extended vacation. Nor was I planning to steal away for a spa weekend with a couple of my gal pals. Nothing quite so exotic, I assure you.

I simply took a look at my schedule for the next few weeks and realized that with my work schedule on overload and personal appointments with my hair stylist and chiropractor stacking up; let alone responsibilities to home and hearth and puppy care looming…I was not going to have a lot of time to visit my mother.

Now, could I manage to work visits to my mother into my hectic schedule? Ah-yup. Falls under the category of “Been There and Done That Enough Times.” But this time I chose not to. This time I chose to cut myself a break.

Now, will I continue my due diligence for my mother’s care? You betcha. I will call her on a regular basis. I will touch base with Head Nurse Kay at my mother’s facility for routine reports. I will share those results with our family doctor. But because I opted to double-up on my visits with my mother recently, and have made sure she has all the personal care items and clean laundry she needs…I can take a well-deserved breather.

Maybe I will hang out and chat for a few extra minutes with my friend and chiropractor, spending more time with her than I am able to do on a regular visit. Maybe I will treat myself to something special when I visit my hair stylist. Or maybe I will do nothing more then make a fresh cuppa tea and watch an old movie on a Sunday afternoon. No matter what I choose to do, I am looking forward to it with more enthusiasm than I imagined I would.

Which brings me back around to my ride home from visiting my mother the other day. With my radio blaring and my windows wide open. I felt like I was 15 years old again, with a new boyfriend, ready to enjoy a summer of no-strings attached freedom. Which is the greatest gift I could give myself right now.

And you know what? I can say without a single tinge of guilt or remorse that I deserve it. And you know what else? I betcha you deserve it too.

Reverb

My elderly mother’s most recent downward spiral into her dementia has opened up a new level of awareness for me. And once again I find myself exploring unchartered waters, hoping I can keep myself afloat, let alone on course.

My visit with her yesterday morning began as most of our visits do. We hugged and kissed and shared smiles. I put away her clean laundry and checked the inventory of her personal care items. She asked how I was doing. And how my husband was. We chatted about the weather. All pretty routine stuff.

Then suddenly her demeanor changed and she asked me if I heard “that noise”. What did I think it was? It has been happening all the time now, you know. And no one comes to take care of it.

The noise she is referring to is one she has been hearing since she moved into the assisted living facility almost two years ago. It is the sound of the fan for her heating and air conditioning system. It is a faint whirring noise that most of us would not even be aware of unless we were asked. But it is a sound my mother has been obsessing about lately. And one she keeps pinging the maintenance staff to come fix, because she keeps forgetting that she has contacted them and what they have told her.

I now found myself in the position of having to explain to her, once again, the source of “that noise.” And as I was doing so, Head Nurse Kay knocked on the door and came into my mother’s room with a happy hello. As Kay handed my mother her morning meds, she explained there was an additional pill in the cup. Just like yesterday. As my mother asked what it was for, Kay turned to me and raised an eyebrow. Should Kay explain or should I?

I figured since Kay had run point yesterday, I would take the ball this morning. I told my mother it was a new medication that “Doc”, our family doctor, has prescribed. Because when she cannot remember things, she gets upset and anxious. And this medication will help her with that anxiety without making her drowsy or loopy. And while none of us care if she does or does not remember things, we do care when she gets upset. Because we love her. And want her to be happy and healthy.

And she understood. She got it. She even joked about the bright color of the pill in her cup.

When Kay left, my mother and I continued our conversation about “that noise.” She showed me the note she had written that morning to give to the maintenance staff, asking them to fix the problem. I showed her the note the staff had taped to her wall above her thermostat two weeks ago, stating that the faint whirring noise she hears is the fan and is normal. I watched as she tried to process the information I was sharing with her. It was worse than watching a horror movie. Because this was real and not the product of a creative imagination.

My mother and I did manage to end our visit on a happy note. And as I was leaving, I ran into Nurse Kay. She told me this latest behavior of my mother’s is typical with folks who suffer from the level of dementia my mother does. And that each person’s obsession is different, because each person’s brain functions differently. The common element is the paranoia.

Paranoia? Who woulda thunk?

I drove away from the assisted living facility with a heavier heart than when I had arrived. It is a feeling that I have come to accept as my new norm when dealing with a mother suffering from dementia. It wasn’t until later that I felt the full effect of my morning visit.

Some folks shed a tear or two in the privacy of their vehicle, to relieve their stress after a visit with a dementia-infected loved one. Some folks embark on a five-mile run, hoping the endorphins and the echo of their feet hitting the pavement will give them some relief.

I tend to focus on my drive home, because the open road has always brought me a sense of calm. I take in the surrounding views of the rolling countryside, and find my center again. Except, it didn’t seem to work this time.

As I went about my work day, I found myself annoyed at the tasks that I would have taken in stride had I not seen my mother that morning. I was experiencing a booming reverb from my visit with her. A backlash of negativity that hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks.

Shoot…this is new.

Well, I did get over it. And it didn’t take long, once I recognized it for what it was. However, the experience did open up a new level of awareness for me. And reminded me that I was still exploring unchartered waters. But I am keeping the faith that I can still keep myself afloat. And will stay on my course.