Dementia is a thief. It invades the mind and steals things more precious than gold and gems from its victims. But unlike a common thief, Dementia lingers and offers its victims brief glimpses of things snatched before returning them to the dark depths of its loot bag. Sometimes its as though moments are held just out of reach or behind a gauzy veil. For anyone witnessing this heinous crime, it's like watching your loved one slip through your fingers like sand in an hour glass. I stood by and watched as Dementia pilfered my Mother's precious gray matter, feeling powerless and frustrated.
At first it was just occasional absent-mindedness. She would forget appointments or lunch dates with friends. Then the assisted-living facility where she was a resident called me to say that she was forgetting to take her medications and they would have to begin administering them to her. Eventually, the call escalated to recommending that I move her closer to me in order to ensure she get the care needed. This was easier said than done.
Mom had lived in the same community for eighty-seven years. She was a social butterfly, had lifelong friends there, was a member of the local Writer's Club, attended regular meetings at the CNIB ever since she was diagnosed with Macular Degeneration in her sixties, and felt at home in Chinook Village, the assisted-living facility we had found for her after my Dad died five years earlier. Prior to that, she had lived in the same house since she was three years old. This was not someone accustomed to being uprooted, even though she had adapted well to facility living. I discussed the move to Edmonton with her and she agreed, it was probably a good idea. So the U-Haul wheels were set in motion.
I found her a suite in an assisted-living facility downtown, near where I worked. My nephew, Chris and I, packed up her things and relocated her by August. We thought the new suite was great, much roomier than the one at Chinook Village. But Mom thought it was quite a long walk to the bathroom and was unimpressed with the view from her ninth floor window. She got lost on her way to and from the dining room on the second floor and the morning after her first night there, I saw a woman I didn't know. I would describe Mom as unmoored and it frightened me. I hoped she just needed time to settle in.
But there was little time for that, what with the first hip fracture in October and the second in January. Anesthetic is Dementia's ally, so after two surgeries her mental state was even further diminished and it was deemed that she would require placement in an extended care facility. This was the last thing my Mother's right mind would have wanted.
Her right mind enjoyed independence, helping others, playing cards, pool, shuffleboard, writing, reading, visiting, walking, laughing. There was little of that left. With all the moving around she thought she was either constantly traveling to destinations unknown or waiting for the next train. Every day I would unpack her pillowcases and she would be so surprised to see me. Not long ago, I found a sentence she wrote in a journal in Dementia-scrawl that said, "Survived the first night in the Hell Hotel.". That summed up how she felt about being in a nursing home quite eloquently. But that was just the beginning.
Eventually, she lost her mobility, her sense of taste and smell, was unable to comprehend more than simple sentences and some days, I was a stranger to her. I kept a journal for her to read when I wasn't there so she would know that she was loved and cared for. In it, I documented our immediate family tree, including dates of birth and death. Occasionally I would find scribbled on one of the pages, "Thank God for writers!". But that brilliant idea didn't last.
Soon she forgot the journal even existed and began tearing up old photographs and books of poetry she'd written. I was forced to remove what was left of these precious artifacts for safekeeping. I began to feel more like a jailer than a daughter. The telephone in her room was her only link to the outside world but she had forgotten how to use it months before. That is, until Dementia opened its loot bag and gave her a glimpse of that memory.
It was just a month before she died, early in the morning, shortly after breakfast. I had wheeled her back to her room for a ride to the toilet on the mechanical horse when her phone rang. It was the city police asking if everything was all right. Apparently, they had received a call from the RCMP detachment in Medicine Hat. A concerned citizen had contacted them after my Mother had called them at 3:15 a.m. that morning saying she had fallen, was hurt, and needed help. I assured them that my Mother was fine, that she was incapable of getting out of bed on her own volition and that it wouldn't happen again. Then, like any good jailer I disconnected the phone. But the best was yet to come.
It was a month after her passing that Dementia decided to rattle my chain one last time with the arrival of Mom's final phone bill. When I opened it, I noted that the number she dialed in the middle of the night was her old home number in Medicine Hat; the number she had for decades and left behind when I moved her to Edmonton nearly three years earlier. I can just imagine the wry smile on Dementia's face when it gave her a gauzy glimpse of the old house and my Dad at home waiting for her. Perhaps it even held her feeble hand and helped her dial the number. If I hadn't already known just how desperate and alone she had felt, I certainly did at that moment. Damn Dementia.
I know I did what every good daughter would have done to care for her beloved and ailing Mother. The should haves, would haves and could haves are a waste of precious breath. I keep telling myself to lay this bag of guilty bones down. But Dementia has cast its shadow on my life and I am forever altered.
The rest is pixie dust...
