Groundhog's Day

Thursday morning:

"I'm lost. Where was I? How did you find me? Where am I now?”

"You're here now with us. We love you. You're our mama. We'll take care of you. You're with us."

"OK. OK. I was just lost!"

Friday:

OK. It's like Groundhog's Day. This morning I found Dorothy sitting up in bed, trying to figure out how to get out. "I'm lost! Where WERE you! Where WAS I? How did you get me here?"
Then with the morning rituals, she calmed down.

Greg: An amazing reversal of roles, in many ways. Perhaps there are good things to be discovered in this experience. I hope so

It is all just upside down. She has the diaper, the potty chair, she can hit her mouth with the spoon. She's at about a 10-month-old baby level, mentally and physically. She understands you but answers in gibberish--however, you start to notice the repetition of certain words and to understand her vocabulary. It's actually an amazing experience.

I'm just glad I don't have a job, that I can do it without worrying about having doing anything else. I've already lost a big part of her, but Dorothy is still there inside, and I'm honored to get to help her through her final days with dignity.

Where they go?

Who was here?

Uncle Bill/Aunt Rosie

Slade

Cord

Charlene (aide)

Dana (nurse)

Where they go?

They’re gone now. It’s just us again.

OK. OK.

Before bed: Dishes for glasses, hearing aids, dentures. “Ah!” she says, grabbing the toothbrush. “Where did you find this?” She brushes her six teeth for ten minutes.

Saturday, September 11

This morning when Mother woke up, she was sitting in the office chair in the office, now her bedroom, waiting for the rest of us to get up, I guess. I asked her if she had a good sleep, cranked up her bed, showed her her glasses, her hearing aids, and her dentures, and she went right to work. No questions about who am I, how did I get here. She sits patiently on the potty trying to “safer.”

She is like a 10-month-old baby. She is totally dependent on someone to take care of her—totally trusting. Like a baby bird, put food in front of her and she will eat it with her hands.

Rituals make her feel secure. She can put in her hearing aids, turn them on; put in her dentures; wash her hands; pee in the potty; take her medicine; push her walker; drink her milk.

Here are your pills.

Which ones?

These are for your eyes.

OK.

These are for your nose.

OK.

These are for your heart.

OK.

These are for your toes.

OK. OK.

And this is your vitamin.

He’s who?

That’s Jerry.

Who he is?

He’s my husband. He loves me.

She thinks this over.

That’s good, that’s good.

He’s good. Yes.

Flash of Reality:

Later in the daytime, bright light of bedroom, I kiss her and tell her, “I love you. You’re my mama.” Stroke her cheek.

Extreme sadness on her face: “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”

She did not want to have a stroke and be a burden. Uncle Bill sobbed about that the other day, saying, “I just wish there were something I could do.”

We all wish that.