GOODNIGHT, MOM

[Guest guest]

This was a forward from my other caregiver site. A beautiful tribute.

GOODNIGHT, MOM

I listened from the kitchen to an unremarkable conversation occurring

in the bedroom.

" You need to put your slippers there by the edge of the bed. "

" Oh, OK... "

" If you don't, you'll forget they are in the middle of the floor. If

you have to get up in the middle of the night you might trip and break your

neck! "

After a girlish giggle, the second voice answered, " OK, I'll move them

now. "

" Good girl. I don't want you getting hurt... "

" Thank you. It's nice you are here to help me... "

But the conversation was not unremarkable -- there was only one person

in the bedroom.

My mother could best be described as the original earth-mother with

n sensibilities. In another time, she loved to garden and feel the

warm earth in her hands. Recreation was being driven along some mountain

road watching for wildlife -- she never learned to drive. She was always

simple in her lifestyle and had spiritual ideas that were a curious blend

of the 1960s and a more pious, religious era. She saw God in all things

natural, and yet was very modest and believed it was very important for

people to dress modestly. She did not attend church, but tithed, read

scripture and many religious magazines. She believed in " live and let

live " and yet was highly offended at the freewheeling, open expression of

the 60s.

Her health and her mental function had been deteriorating slowly in

the past year, and for the preceding year she increasingly talked out loud

to herself. It was not a conversation, but a monologue -- not so unlike

what we often do if we bump our arm and say out loud to ourselves, " Now,

why did you do that? " The only difference was that her monologue was

increasingly frequent.

But that changed one day. Probably some unknown, unseen bit of plaque

on the wall of an artery somewhere had dislodged, and then obstructed a

small blood vessel that fed some small area of my mother's brain.

Suddenly, she became fearful, even paranoid, and the monologue become a

dialog. There was a child-like voice, and one that seemed adult, which I

called " the protector. " That voice alternatively praised, reminded, and

admonished the girlish voice. But, and I don't say this with impertinence,

for several weeks that two-in-one person got by and together made almost a

whole person as we had innumerable doctor visits and tests. Unfortunately,

the two voices soon became three and then five.

The diagnosis was Alzheimer's -- although it is not classic

Alzheimer's, as I understand it. Whatever its name, does not change the

fact of what it is.

The realization came to us, her family, but not to her, that her 85

years of independent life was gone. We faced the horrible choice that all

too many face -- how to care for someone who requires more physical and

mental care than a family can provide. We made the heart wrenching

decision to place her into a nursing home.

I sat one night in her wheelchair, by her bed, as she sat on the edge

of the bed. I asked if I could help her undress and put on her nightgown.

She answered, " Why, thank you. "

She unbuttoned her blouse as she chatted with her unseen companions.

The medications made them less intrusive, and her less fearful. I helped

her take off her blouse.

" Can you unhook this? " she said referring to her bra.

I knew at that instant the mother I had known and loved all my life

was in a very real way gone from this world. She would have never disrobed

in front of me. Certainly the body lived on, but her essence was gone.

I got her into her nightgown, and tucked her into bed. I touched her

cheek with the back of my forefinger, smoothed her hair behind her ear, and

said, " I love you, mom, " as I kissed her on the cheek. " See you another

day. "

" Goodnight, " she said as I was walking out the door of her room.

I turned and smiled, and then turned again and walked out of the door

of her room.

I heard the protector voice say, " Who was that? "

" I don't know, " another voice responded.

The girlish voice said, " He's nice. "

Their conversation faded as my footsteps echoed down the polished

hallway, as I walked towards the Alzheimer Unit's locked door. A nurse's

aide let me out of the unit, and I walked past the nurses' station and out

the door.

It was raining lightly as I walked across the parking lot. But, it

must have been enough to blur my vision.

--

____________________________________________

says, " This story is dedicated to my mother and the many who provide

loving care to her and those like her -- be they family, friends, or

professional care givers. May your blessings be many, as hers have been in

this life. May you give her care as good as she has given her

family. "

[Guest guest]

This is deeply moving.

My mother doesn't talk like this but she does have different styles

of voices at different times and different styles of thought

processes to go with each voice. The louder voice is smarter and more

with it than the whispery voice.

It seems to be very common at the nursing home for people to strip (I

guess you can't call it streaking in a wheelchair). My mother had her

blouse hanging loose around her neck when I got there yesterday--

despite a huge open window and an open door. One lady in her nineties

who chirps all day and night is another stripper--forever taking off

her clothes in the lunchroom.

These nursing homes are the mental hospitals of our day. If these

people were younger they would be out on the streets eating out of

garbage cans but since they are old society still takes care of them.

It is so sad.

> This was a forward from my other caregiver site. A beautiful

tribute.

>

> GOODNIGHT, MOM

>

> I listened from the kitchen to an unremarkable conversation

occurring

> in the bedroom.

> " You need to put your slippers there by the edge of the bed. "

> " Oh, OK... "

> " If you don't, you'll forget they are in the middle of the

floor. If

> you have to get up in the middle of the night you might trip and

break your

> neck! "

> After a girlish giggle, the second voice answered, " OK, I'll

move them

> now. "

> " Good girl. I don't want you getting hurt... "

> " Thank you. It's nice you are here to help me... "

> But the conversation was not unremarkable -- there was only

one person

> in the bedroom.

> My mother could best be described as the original earth-mother

with

> n sensibilities. In another time, she loved to garden and

feel the

> warm earth in her hands. Recreation was being driven along some

mountain

> road watching for wildlife -- she never learned to drive. She was

always

> simple in her lifestyle and had spiritual ideas that were a curious

blend

> of the 1960s and a more pious, religious era. She saw God in all

things

> natural, and yet was very modest and believed it was very important

for

> people to dress modestly. She did not attend church, but tithed,

read

> scripture and many religious magazines. She believed in " live and

let

> live " and yet was highly offended at the freewheeling, open

expression of

> the 60s.

> Her health and her mental function had been deteriorating

slowly in

> the past year, and for the preceding year she increasingly talked

out loud

> to herself. It was not a conversation, but a monologue -- not so

unlike

> what we often do if we bump our arm and say out loud to

ourselves, " Now,

> why did you do that? " The only difference was that her monologue

was

> increasingly frequent.

> But that changed one day. Probably some unknown, unseen bit

of plaque

> on the wall of an artery somewhere had dislodged, and then

obstructed a

> small blood vessel that fed some small area of my mother's brain.

> Suddenly, she became fearful, even paranoid, and the monologue

become a

> dialog. There was a child-like voice, and one that seemed adult,

which I

> called " the protector. " That voice alternatively praised,

reminded, and

> admonished the girlish voice. But, and I don't say this with

impertinence,

> for several weeks that two-in-one person got by and together made

almost a

> whole person as we had innumerable doctor visits and tests.

Unfortunately,

> the two voices soon became three and then five.

> The diagnosis was Alzheimer's -- although it is not classic

> Alzheimer's, as I understand it. Whatever its name, does not

change the

> fact of what it is.

> The realization came to us, her family, but not to her, that

her 85

> years of independent life was gone. We faced the horrible choice

that all

> too many face -- how to care for someone who requires more physical

and

> mental care than a family can provide. We made the heart wrenching

> decision to place her into a nursing home.

> I sat one night in her wheelchair, by her bed, as she sat on

the edge

> of the bed. I asked if I could help her undress and put on her

nightgown.

> She answered, " Why, thank you. "

> She unbuttoned her blouse as she chatted with her unseen

companions.

> The medications made them less intrusive, and her less fearful. I

helped

> her take off her blouse.

> " Can you unhook this? " she said referring to her bra.

> I knew at that instant the mother I had known and loved all my

life

> was in a very real way gone from this world. She would have never

disrobed

> in front of me. Certainly the body lived on, but her essence was

gone.

> I got her into her nightgown, and tucked her into bed. I

touched her

> cheek with the back of my forefinger, smoothed her hair behind her

ear, and

> said, " I love you, mom, " as I kissed her on the cheek. " See you

another

> day. "

> " Goodnight, " she said as I was walking out the door of her

room.

> I turned and smiled, and then turned again and walked out of

the door

> of her room.

> I heard the protector voice say, " Who was that? "

> " I don't know, " another voice responded.

> The girlish voice said, " He's nice. "

> Their conversation faded as my footsteps echoed down the

polished

> hallway, as I walked towards the Alzheimer Unit's locked door. A

nurse's

> aide let me out of the unit, and I walked past the nurses' station

and out

> the door.

> It was raining lightly as I walked across the parking lot.

But, it

> must have been enough to blur my vision.

>

> -- <danofid@a...>

>

> ____________________________________________

> says, " This story is dedicated to my mother and the many who

provide

> loving care to her and those like her -- be they family, friends, or

> professional care givers. May your blessings be many, as hers have

been in

> this life. May you give her care as good as she has given her

> family. "