Back to the Baptist Village

Monday, September 13, 2010

We’ve tried to trap her in at night—hospital tray where she escaped yesterday, potty chair, walker to block the exit. Jerry found her nestled in bed with a puddle of pee on and under her walker and toilet paper strung from one end of the room to the other. She just picked the wrong seat, her walker instead of the potty chair.

So, a bath. Back to bed.

Later on, she had another serious conversation with Jerry. “Well, what are you afraid of?”

Oprah was on TV. She watched her for a long time. She looked at me. "Do you know her?" she asked me.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Amazingly, when we woke up this morning, Mother was sitting in the office chair waiting for us. She had made her bed.

“Where were you? Listen, I think I’m going crazy. I don’t know where I am…” Same song, same verse.

Later in the day, working hard to remember, to get things straight, like a drunk, she struggled to pick the right word but fell back on her three favorites, “flavor, saver, and amber.” She knows she has stuff somewhere and she wants to see it.

“Where was I? Where is mine?”

Jerry and I knew we were going to have to take her back to her old apartment.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Jerry and I packed her and her portable oxygen tank in the car and took her to the Baptist Village. She ate lunch at Table 8, but only two of her tablemates were there. Chris, the chaplain, held our hands at the table and said the most beautiful, personal prayer for her. She squinted her eyes shut and enjoyed his communion with God.

After lunch, she pushed her walker back to her apartment, went straight to her own door without anyone telling her where it was, but the only thing she seemed to recognize was a painting my Uncle Bill, her brother, painted over 50 years ago.

She visited with her nurse Michelle, and liked her as always, but I don't know if she recognized who she was. The nurse gave Jerry and me a pep talk, told us to hold on to her apartment for another month to see how she improved. "You'd be surprised what comes back to them over time," she said.

Mother took a nap when we got home. When she woke up, I was talking to Jerry about what we might have for supper. She started pulling down her pants to change her clothes. “What are you doing?” My tone of voice scared her.

She tried to explain, tears in her eyes. “Going to eat.”

“Oh, Mom, we’re not going back there. We’re eating here.”

“Here? OK. OK.”

Friday, September 17:

She’s not so mad anymore.

Today she still asked, “Is she lost? Where is this?” looking over her shoulder at the red cannas outside the window.

“You’re my mama. I love you. This is my house. You live here with Jerry and me now.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s outside, smoking.”

“OK.”

“Remember yesterday? We went to your old house. You ate with your friends, Dorothy and Wanza. You saw your nurse Michelle--you know, 'the sweet one.' You looked at Uncle Bill’s oil painting on your wall. Do you remember?”

“Kinda.”

Dilemma: Xanax brings down her blood pressure, calms her anxiety, makes her sleep better. Xanax also adds to her confusion, muddles her thoughts, making it harder to recall her memories. Which is better for her? I ask Sue, her Hospice nurse, and she shrugs her shoulders. Hospice believes in keeping the patient comfortable. Why am I the one to decide what is comfortable?