Chapter 2

Unfinished but I thought I'd post in the hopes of some good feedback,

Chapter 1

 

I first noticed something wasn’t quite right with Mom in 2009.   She and I were on vacation together in Rome, Italy.  We loved Rome.  Mom had lived there for almost five years during her first marriage, in the 1950’s.  Ever since I was a little girl, for as long as I can remember, she’d told me stories about Rome.  We had always said when I was older we’d go there together.  We made good on our promise the late 1990’s, and we could never get enough of the Eternal City.  In 2009, we’d already visited twice before, and we both knew the city fairly well.

Now, on our third visit, we had decided to walk to Trevi Fountain.  Even though we knew the city, the historical streets of Rome are often a labyrinth, and can still turn you around if you let them.  It had been a few years for us, so I took a quick look at my map to make sure I was on the right track.  We were in the Piazza Mignanelli, a tiny square just off Piazza di Spagna.  My map said Trevi was off to our left.

“You’re going the wrong way.”  Mom said.

“No I’m not.  It’s this way.”  I showed her the map, but she insisted we were going in the wrong direction.  Behind me, I could hear her mumbling, grumbling and generally bitching.  Trevi, she was sure, was the other way.

“This isn’t the way!”

“Ma!  See that sign right there!” I gesticulated like only an Italian can.  “It says Trevi and the arrow is that way.  The way we are going.” 

She stuck to her guns.  Trevi was the other way.  The map was wrong.  The sign was wrong.  I was wrong.

I could hear it before we saw it, thousands of gallons of water tumbling and falling into the wide blue pool.  We rounded a corner, and there it was.  Trevi Fountain, in all its majestic and breathtaking glory.

“See.” I said, gesturing towards it with both hands, as if to say, “I told you so.”

Her face fell, but she recovered quickly.  And she said nothing.

That’s when I knew.  If there hadn’t been street signs, if we hadn’t had a map, I might have written it off as normal mother-daughter bickering.  But she’d seen what I had seen.  She’d seen the signs.  She’d seen the map.  She just couldn’t process what she had seen.  Her memory was telling her one thing, but her eyes were telling her something else.  She didn’t know how to reconcile the two.  So she mumbled and grumbled and bitched.  And then tried to ignore that she’d been mistaken. 

It’s impossible to say exactly what was going on, physiologically, with Mom back in 2009.  I don’t know if that was the beginning of her brain slowly dying, or if it had been in decline for years.  It doesn’t really matter, though.  I couldn’t have stopped it. 

And I can’t stop it now.  What I can do now is try to care for her the best I can, give her the best quality of life, which she deserves, and try to not lose myself in the process.

Being a caregiver is hard.  Being the caregiver for your mother, who is suffering from dementia, is brutal.  I’m not noble.  I don’t feel all that strong, most days.  Most days, I have no idea what I’m doing.  I’ve had to learn about Medicare and how it works.  I’ve had to untangle the bucket of worms that are Mom’s some dozen pills, supplements and eye drops.  I’ve had to keep track of and take her to her appointments with her primary care doctor, cardiologist, dermatologist, cardio-vascular specialist, eye doctor, dentist, and gastroenterologist.  Those things were pretty easy.  Calendars, websites, apps.  There’s technology for that.

The hard thing has been learning how to relate to my mom, as she slowly becomes not my mom.  The hard thing has been learning from experts, about others going through the same thing, what this disease is and what it will do to my mother.  Of the seven phases of dementia, Mom is kinda in the middle, right now.  Stage 4, and beginning to show signs of Early Stage 5.  Her social skills are all still in tact.  So, unless you know her really well or spend long stretches of time with her, you may not recognize much amiss beyond a little forgetfulness.  But at nearly 85 years old, who wouldn’t forget now and then? Hell, most days, I lose my cell phone at least once.

Author's Note

Unfinished but I thought I'd post in the hopes of some good feedback,