Two o’clock is my favorite appointment time. It’s after lunch, but before The Waltons comes on. Fridays are best. I like the slower pace of Saturdays, too, but sometimes you have to wait for what seems like hours just to get someone to come to the door. There are questions, so many questions. I know the drill now. The required form is on the tablet. Take your own temperature. Adjust your mask. I’m always so nervous. The tears are right under the surface, simmering and prickling against my eyelashes. I’m inviting you to come with me this time. We’re here, in the lobby of the longterm care facility, to see my mom. I think I’m ready to say these words out loud. She has Alzheimer’s.
It all started the week my first column was published in 2018. Has it really been over 3 years? That inaugural column came out the day we buried my father. Mom insisted she was going to stay in their ramshackle fixer upper an hour away from me. But, there was that time she rear ended someone in a school zone, and that time she called me, frantic and lost, trying to find her doctor’s office, the same doc she’d been seeing since the mid 90s. By that time, we’d sold the house and she was living with her precious niece while we remodeled our home to give her a tiny house of her own. Mom has always been extremely independent. That’s when I noticed mention of someone knocking on her window at night. My cousin assured me that was impossible, so we chalked it up to new surroundings. Then there was her cute little apartment in the neighboring town. She decided she didn’t want to live with me, after all. But, the electricity kept getting turned off and the kitchen sink kept mysteriously overflowing. Then, there was the slew of 2 am calls because someone was knocking on her apartment door. The manager said that was impossible, so we chalked it up to new surroundings. I noticed she was buying immense amounts of ice cream. There were numerous car door dings and lots more tearful calls about being lost. She seemed angry, so angry – at me. I think that’s when I knew. The fear in her eyes was palpable, but her love for her only child persevered when I asked her to see a doctor. Many visits, an MRI, and an EEG later, we heard the words that would cloud our relationship for the remainder of our days. “Your mom isn’t well. Her brain vessels are hardened. It’s clearly dementia, and, based on her age, we are classifying it as Alzheimer’s Disease.” There was no more driving. Soon, even small things like a trip for groceries would prove to be too much. So, she came to live here, after all, snuggled into her little house with a lifetime of pictures and a 20-year-old cat. It’ll be ok, right? It’ll be fine. I can do this. But, her once loving gazes hardened toward me. There were tearful pleas for me to bring my father back to her. Surely, he was just across town. There were so many escape attempts, so much pushing and fury and vitrol. It’s true what they say. You always hurt the one you love. Without going into the details that don’t paint her sweet soul in the perfect shade of love, there came a weekend where I saw that her safety was more important than my need to be declared her selfless caregiver. I needed help. And, that is how we came to be standing in this nameless, placeless lobby, waiting to hear her feet sliding across the ground in front of the wheelchair she now needs to go from place to place. See, there are no wheelchair foot-rests in nursing homes. They’re trip hazards.
I could entertain you for hours longer with tales of how the Medicaid system is mistreating her, this poor woman who worked her whole life only to be let down and delayed when she most needs basic care. I could complain about Covid and how unjust it seems to have your mother withheld from you for weeks at a time. I could cry you a river whose banks are littered with my unending guilt and whose current is swift with my intense, rising regret. There is one thing you will not get from me, however. There is no shame. Sweet, feisty Marsha, the woman you knew from Settlers gas station who wouldn’t take your money until you repeated her word of the day (ps – the word was always fantastic), the red head who could 2-step you around the dancefloor of the VFW and take your last dime on a pool table, the grandmother in the Rocky Mountain jeans who often peeled out of the Johnson parking lot when she picked up her grandkids, accidentally grinding her F-150 out in 1st gear – that woman shall not be shamed, not on my watch. She would want her story told. And, lucky for her, she has a daughter who is a teller. Win, lose, or draw, Momma, you will always be my little sweetheart. The best I can be is your soft place to land, but that I will do until the cows come home.
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