Remembering Mom

Today is my mother’s birthday. She died in 2002, four years after her doctor told us she had dementia. I remember how carefully she presented the news. There was no problem for my dad and me. We had recognized it for some time. I wish I could remember how long we had known. Looking back, I suspect Dad was aware of it when they moved to Knoxville in 1994. He had been having his own health problems. I suspect he may have been concerned about what might happen to her if he were incapacitated. I’ve had similar thoughts about myself although I’ve been fortunate not to have had signs of health problems.

Two things I do remember. One is that Mom used to comment on her poor memory. She frequently said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t remember anything.” In the early stages, I just thought it was a natural part of her aging. That’s what I thought about Kate as well. Of course, that really is the most likely diagnosis. It takes a while to recognize that it is much more than aging.

The second thing I recall is that Dad kept her busy. I thought he was just getting acquainted with a new city. It was that, but now I think it was more. They were active in a local senior center and worked as volunteers helping with the center’s mailings. I remember Mom’s opening an envelope from the center and showing it to me. She was so excited to receive it. She hadn’t remembered that she had helped with the mailing a day or two earlier. They also delivered Meals on Wheels. Dad may have been doing what I do with Kate, trying to keep her brain stimulated as much as possible.

My mom and dad were also fortunate that she had no special complications along the way. She just gradually lost all her memory. Many with dementia die of other causes. I would say she died from the effects of dementia itself. She finally reached the point at which she could no longer eat or drink.

Dad was a devoted husband and care partner. He cared for her with minimal help. The only regular help he had was from an adult day center where he left Mom on Wednesday mornings while he went to Kiwanis and then to the grocery. My brother, Larry, and I tried many times to bring in help or to move them to assisted living. He was very resistant to say the least. In the end, he did it his way. Mom slept in the same bed with him until a few days before she died. I recall Dad’s telling me that he tied a string from her wrist to his so that he could tell if she got up at night. That has much more significance to me now.

Two or three days before Mom died, Dad was turning her every two hours. His last time was about 2:00 a.m. He woke up at 5:00, and she was gone. She died peacefully without any pain and without the help of pain medication.

Mom always loved her boys. She thought Larry and I could do no wrong. Even  after she forgot who I was, she often said, “You’re a nice boy. You always were.” That’s something else for which I am grateful.