Today I left the nursing home again in tears. It seems to be happening more and more lately. My daily hourly visit with my mother was once again filled with a constant tirade about how awful her life is. She talked about the friends she used to have, what her life used to be like, and how everything is now changed. She believes some of the residents think they are special and she is not, so they get everything they want but she doesn’t. She especially hates her roommate. She swears at her using language I never heard her say before. The anger in her voice is new to me in the last few years. When she talks nonstop about all the terrible things in the nursing home, my stomach begins to churn, something inside of me changes, and I want to flee. This is not the mother I know.
I read a lot of articles about dementia and Alzheimer’s. I read how some women just let go of the mother they used to know and accept this new version. But this new version of my mother is angry. She is not making the most of her days and is not willing to. She is wrong about nearly everything that is happening around her, but I can’t tell her that. I used to. She would get furious with me and call me names, tell me what a terrible daughter I am, and I would flee from the room in tears.
Today when I wheeled her into the community room to hear her favorite pianist play for the residents, she created a scene about where she would sit, claiming she couldn’t sit in certain places because the special ones were there. One of her former roommates, a woman she had been particularly vicious to, offered to move so she could sit in her place. It touched me so, I patted her softly on the shoulder in appreciation before leaving the room in tears.
If someone were to become acquainted with my mother the way she is now, they would consider her an angry, mean-spirited woman and would not have anything to do with her. The nurses and aides in the nursing home see her at her worst and still they comfort her and treat her well. I don’t know if I could do the same.
After I left today, I came home to play the piano, something that used to calm me when I was upset, but that, like other previous activities, was too much of a challenge. The keys refused to cooperate. I don’t write much anymore. I don’t make greeting cards for cancer survivors like I used to. I sometimes wonder at those times when I can’t do the things I used to do if I am becoming like my mother who used to be able to cook and read and knit and sew and play the organ. Could I be in the early stages of dementia? Will I soon find myself in a nursing home sitting in a wheelchair staring out the window lost in the past?
My husband assures me it’s not so. I am just distraught today, he claims. I keep struggling with the piano keys. I find some sheet music that was my mother’s. I begin to play her favorite tunes and my fingers begin to strike most of the correct keys. I find “Could I Have This Dance?”, my parents’ favorite song, and once again I am crying for what is no more. The mother I knew is gone, but the mother I love is still there, in spite of the anger and the delusions. On her better days, we talk about her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I share news with her of the silly things her great-granddaughters do every day. I keep talking about family members, realizing that most of the time she does not know for sure who I am talking about.
My mother has lost a lot. It scares me to think that I may have lost my ability to write or to play music or to be creative, the part of me that is the very essence of my being. Without it, I am afraid that I will be just a shell of a person moving through my days doing inconsequential things until I reach the point where there won’t even be inconsequential things any more.