It’s dawn and she’s been up all night. Up and down all night. Her feet are swollen. They hurt, but she isn’t able to articulate the extent of her pain. Her vocalizing is mostly babble now, although she has occasional lucid moments when she says (often in Polish) that she’s afraid, that she wants to go home, that she wants me to take her with me. She often refuses to take even a Tylenol. Her hands are constantly reaching out, clutching, grabbing, holding on hard enough to hurt.
Sometime around 4 AM it all got worse. She is somewhere in her head — terrified. She resists all efforts to help. Tries to bite.
I wake my brother, eventually leave her with him so I can get some sleep. But I can’t sleep.
He doesn’t believe she has dementia. She’s just stubborn, he insists. Ornery. Always has been.
He’s in denial I say. Always has been
I am caught in the middle. Always have been.
The only happiness I ever have had since childhood has been away from them.
Yet, here I am, stuck in this demented dysfunctional day.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh my!!!!!!!! I am so sorry!!!!!!!! I wish I knew what to say to help you through this ordeal!!!! I will keep you and your family in my thoughts and prayers.
Thanks, Kay. We’re taking her to a geriatric specialist tomorrow,and I’m hoping that he will recommend different drugs. There are new pain patches available that might be one answer. Meanwhile, one foot in front of the other. One night at a time.
Imagine having pain and not being able to articulate it. Imagine being you, managing it. Hoping the doc can help tomorrow. One foot…
what a drag.
However you focus will be your salvation. A little Betty White wit now and then might help do the trick. At least you’ll be chuckling. There’s a certain dramatic reflex in the
reaching out of hands when there’s dementia — a metaphor. Your mother must have a deep-seated attachment to you, possibly because you are so sensitive and compassionate. Edward Albee might have written this script.