Blowing Kisses

 

On Sunday after church, I visited mom. She was not in the activity room with the other residents; instead she had dozed off sitting around the nurses’ station.  While I stopped to speak to mom’s nurse, mom woke up and seemed to be surprised to see me.  Mom wondered how long I had been talking to her nurse. 

When I approached mom stated, “A lot of people . . . leaving  . . . this place.”

“Mom, they did not leave you.  The other residents including Darlene* are in the activity room.”

Mom shook her head side to side, “No  . . .  they  . . .  died.”

“Who died?”

“A lot of people   . . .  place is empty.”  There were a handful of other people who had chose not to participate in activities today and were sitting around the nurses’ station along with mom. 

“Mom, I will take you to the activity room and show you where the other people are.”  I started to unlock mom’s wheelchair to move her.

“No   . . .   not them.  Guy  . . . across hall   . . .  another lady.”  Mom was adamant that people had passed away recently.  She was probably right.

Mom spoke up again, “I guess  . . . they decided  . . . I’m staying.”

“Who decided that you’re staying?”

“You all  . . . decided.  Say  . . . I’m better.”

“You are definitely eating better and you look good.”

Mom happily said, “Guess what  . . .  watched . . . Joel   . . . today.”  When mom lived independently she loved watching Joel Osteen’s sermon every Sunday morning before she went to church.

 

 

“That’s great.  What did Joel have to say?”

“He   . . . didn’t make  . . . sense.”  Mom has a hard time comprehending conversations now so I am sure Joel’s sermon was hard to understand in her present state.

“At least you were able to watch him; Joel has a nice smile.  He always looks so happy.”

Mom shook her head agreeing with me.

“Let’s pray, mom.”

“I give up  . . . thinking  . . .  my words . . .  fall apart.”

“Mom, just don’t give up praying. I can understand you clearly today.”

Surprisingly mom popped up with, “My famous words  . . . God when you’re ready . . . I’m ready.”

“Good prayer, mom.”

“Keep my kids . . .safe.”

“Another good prayer.”

After we prayed, I wheeled mom into the activity room to see if I could have mom join the others.  They were all watching a movie.

 

 

“Mom, they are watching The Sound of Music.  That is one of my favorite movies.  Do you like The Sound of Music with Julie Andrews?”

“Yes”.  I sat with mom for a little while watching the movie when she turned to me and said, “OK, you need to go now.”

“Mom enjoy the movie.”

“I’ll probably  . . . sleep.”

“That’s OK, too, mom.”

Our goodbyes always seem to take ten minutes from the first goodbye, hug and kiss to the last one before I walk out.  One or two kisses never seem to suffice. As  I was walking out of the activity room  I heard mom say, “Julienne   . . .  can’t see you.”  I had put mom’s wheelchair break on after I wheeled her in.  They were still locked.  Mom used to be able to lock and unlock them herself before, but now she is confused and needs help locking and unlocking.

I walked back to mom, “Sorry, mom, I locked your brakes so you would stay facing the TV.  Did you need something?”

Mom picked up my hand to kiss.  Smiling she raised her hand to her mouth and blew kisses.

I hugged mom again, “Mom, I had forgotten to blow kisses, I am so glad you remembered.”  How happy I was that I heard mom call me back before I left.

All is well.

 

Still Grateful

 

On my next visit with mom I brought her the braid that she made me from the palms she picked up at church last Easter Sunday.  Mom’s braids were so much smaller than she normally made us.  Last year at Easter time mom’s hands were shaking more than they had in the past and a few days after Easter mom landed in the hospital.   

She smiled as soon as she saw the braid, “I made it.   Show  . . . show her.”  Mom pointed to Darlene* her friend who looked up and said, “Nice”.

Darlene* and mom were sitting at the long bingo table while Shirley* the activities director wheeled the other residents in. 

When Shirley* saw me, she informed me she had some paperwork she needed filled out.  The survey was a questionnaire about mom’s care and treatment at The Community*.  Shirley* had tried to ask the questions to mom, but mom wanted me to answer them for her.  When Shirley* handed me the survey, mom said, “Fill it out . . . so I can go.”  Mom thinks I am signing papers for her to go.  Thinking maybe I should distract mom’s thoughts about dying I suggested for mom to play Bingo today.

 

 

Mom wanted to know if I would play Bingo with her.  Shirley* gave me the ok to stay and assist mom.  However, Shirley* mentioned that she needed the survey filled out before I left. So I started to fill out survey while sitting next to mom.  She watched me answering the questions, “Put  . . .  I want to go home  . . . God’s home.” 

“Mom, The Community* just wants to know about your care.  What you like and how they can improve.”

“Don’t be too nice  . . . they’ll  . . . keep me here!”

 Shirley*called out numbers for six games.  Mom came so close to winning several times.  On the last game, Mom and Darlene* called ‘Bingo’ at the same time.  And yes, they both indeed had Bingo. The prizes that were left were bags of cookies and crackers.  Mom picked the cheddar cheese crackers this time since the last time she picked the cookies.  As you might guess, when Darlene* saw what mom picked she had to have the same thing (some things never change).

While the residents played Bingo, I noticed that a son of one of the other residents who was just sitting near the bingo table listening to music came to see his father.  Unfortunately, his father was comatose.  By that I mean he only stares and drools, no emotion whatsoever is evident.  The son wheeled his father over to the windows where he sat next to his father and held his hands.  I kept glancing over to see how he could communicate with his father.  He just kept holding his hands.  One time when I looked over he had his head hanging down so low maybe resting on his father’s lap.  Before we were finished playing I saw the son wheel his father back to listen to music.  He hugged his father goodbye.  I heard him tell him he loved him.  Then he left.  All the time, the father had no movement, just stared.  I had cold chills over my shoulders.

I am so grateful that mom can still communicate.  She can hug me back; she can give me kisses and blow kisses, and she can tell me that she loves me.  Thank you, God.

 

Time to Wonder

 

 “Rosalee* is great,” mom stated. Rosalee* is mom’s hospice chaplain she visits her and prays with her.

“She’s very kind to you, mom.”

“She asks me . . .  why I   . . . want . . .  die.”

“How do you answer her mom?”

“I’m ready.   She says  . . .  God’s not ready.”

“She’s right.  I tell you that all the time.”

“She prays  . . .  with me.  I pray that  . . . God takes care of all  . . . you.”

“That is a perfect prayer”.

 

 

“Someday I won’t  . . . see any  . . . my family.  I wonder   . . .  how that  . . . will be.”

“Mom, someday we will all be together again.  You will be in heaven with God and all the relatives and friends who have gone before you. “

“I hope so.”

“Mom, you will live in our hearts forever.”

Many days when I visit mom would rather not speak because the right words won’t come to her.  Mom had clarity on Saturday; she wanted to talk and ask questions. I stood there until she let me know she was tired and that she had enough conversation.  My goal is giving my mom peace so answering all her questions is important to her and me.

A few days after my visit with mom, I received a call from Mom’s chaplain, Rosalee*.  She pointed out that mom has been talking to her a lot about heaven.  I think mom thinks about heaven 24/7.  I shared my recent conversations with mom asking questions about the details of her funeral including wanting to see a photo of her casket.   I inquired if that is normal.  She stated there is no normal. 

She wondered if I was intending to bring the photo.  I mentioned that I was choosing to wait because I thought mom might forget that she requested to see the picture of her casket.  Rosalee* cited that she has had a few residents who have planned their own funeral in every detail.  In addition, many residents ask why God has not taken them yet especially when the resident feels ready to leave this earth. 

Rosalee* suggested to keep answering mom’s questions to the best of my knowledge and that she would do the same.  She promised to keep in touch with me.  I thanked her for giving mom comfort by praying with her.  I let her know how much mom enjoys all that she does for her.

Mom Wants Details

 During my visit with mom on Saturday, she had a great deal on her mind and so many things she wanted to discuss.  I will share some of them in this blog.
 

 

“Guess . . . who  . . .  I  . . . dreamt . . . now.”

“I give up.  Who did you dream about?”

“Tillie”

“Uncle Tillie, your brother”

“No!!!  My . . .  son”

“Mom, Tillie was your brother.”

“Julienne . . .  not  . . . Tillie  . . . !!!   My . . . son.”

“Are you telling me you did not see Tillie in your dream?”

“Right  . . .  you, Julienne  . . . my daughter.”

“Did you see Jerome or Jamie?”

Mom nodded her head confirming, “Yes . . . Jerome”

“You saw Jerome in your dream?”

“I saw  . . .  Jerome.”

“Did he talk to you?”

“No . . . I saw him . . . then he disappeared.”

“You must have been thinking about Jerome before you went to bed.  Then he popped up in your dream.”

Mom shrugged her shoulders as if to say ‘maybe’ but she said nothing more about this subject.

 

“My  . . . eyebrows”

“Your eyebrows look good, mom.”

“I  . . .  dreamt . . . they  . . . were . . . huge.  Someone  . . . penciled in . . .  looked . . . ridiculous . . . like . . . clown.”

“Good thing, it was only a dream.  You look beautiful, mom.”

 

“Are . . . you . .  . going . . . do . . . my . . . makeup?”

“Mom, if you want I will put some blush or lipstick on you right now.”

“Not now . . .  when I die!!!”                                                                                    

“Sometimes I am slow, mom.  I understand.  Normally, they do not let family do the makeup, but I will make sure you look beautiful.  I promise you.”

 

 

“Your girlfriend  . . . who died . . . was in urn.”

“Are you talking about Gail who owned the Canterbury Shoppe?”

“Yes  . . . you and Ron  . . . want that too.”

“You’re right.  I am amazed you remembered mom.  Ron and I do want that for us. It is called being cremated. 

“Me  . . . too?”

“No, mom, you will be in a casket like dad and every other person you have ever known.”

“You . . . picked . . . it . . . yet?”

“Yes, mom, Jamie and I picked it out a long time ago when The Community* asked us to six years ago.”

“What does  . . . look like?”

“Mom, the bed has a silk pillow and silk all around it.”

“Oh  . . . Color?”

“I don’t remember.  I know the casket is very nice.”

“Can show . . . me”

“I do not have a photo of it.”

“I want . . . to see”

“Mom, the casket is at the funeral home.  You want me to go there and take a photo and bring it to you so you can see the casket we picked.”

“Yes”

“Mom, let me think about that for awhile.”

“Just  . . . take . . . picture,” mom pointed to my phone.  She has seen me take hundreds of photos with my phone so to her this made perfect sense. 

I try to always want to respect mom’s wishes.  I am sure many people plan their own funeral. I am a little uncomfortable with her wish.

“I’ll do it for you, mom. I am not sure when, but I will take a photo and bring it to you.” 

 

“Lena and Al”

“Yes, Aunt Lena and Uncle Al both had caskets.”

“No . . . buried with them?”

“I do not understand.  Why would you be buried with Aunt Lena and Uncle Al?”

“Their  . . . plot . . . 4 spaces.”

“Mom, they are buried in the ground. You are going to be next to dad in mausoleum.”

Mom lifted her eyebrows and smiled, “Mausoleum!”

“Above ground, mom.”

“Above . . . ground . . . oh . . . good!”

Since mom is discussing her funeral I thought I would mention something that would make her happy.  “Mom, would you like your favorite song played?”

“Which  . . . one?”

“How Great Thou Art”

“Nice”

“I know you always loved hearing that song.”

“How  . . . about . . . Sentimental Journey?”

“I never heard that song played at a funeral.  I didn’t even know you liked that song.  I will listen to it.”

 

Mom has a lot of time to think. Her mind is active and thinking about everything including her funeral.   I spent most of the afternoon with mom. She had so many questions; I answered them the best I could.  There was still so much more we talked about but the blog for today is ending as it is already long. One thing I have learned about blogging is that I relive the entire event again and sometimes that is exhausting.

 

Valentine Gift

 

 

When Ron and I walked the Vegas Strip one day, we saw many street vendors.   I typically am not that interested in their wares. But when I saw that one vendor was using palms like you receive on Palm Sunday, I had to go over and see what he was making.  I was so thrilled we stopped; the man was making roses out of the fresh palms.  He had just finished a bouquet of six roses like a bridesmaid would hold.  The middle rose he spray painted a dark pink. I knew this was meant for mom. 

Every Palm Sunday after church, mom would create lovely gifts for me and my brothers out of the palms she picked up at church.  I wish I had learned this talent from my mom while she could still teach me.  Well . . . coulda, woulda, shoulda: too late now.

 

 

On Saturday as promised, I headed to The Community* to spend some quality time with mom.  I had a special Valentine’s Day present for mom that we bought her in Vegas.  As I entered The Community* with my bouquet, everyone I met commented on the flowers and how much they liked them. 

After I stepped off the elevator, I noticed that have started redecorating the second floor which needed some sprucing up. After all their first floor was redecorated last year and looks great.

The residents were all still seated in the lunchroom so I went to mom’s bedroom to straighten and organize her closet before she saw me.  When I finished mom was sitting around the nurses’ desk.

“You’re . . . back!”

“We came home last night.”

“Nice  . . . time?”

“Yes, we had a very nice time.  Ron and I bought you a Valentine’s present.”

“Beautiful!”  Mom studied the flowers.

“Mom, the roses are made out of fresh palms.”

“Oh   . . .  yeah”

“The palms are the same type of palms you would use to make us gifts on Palm Sunday.”

 

“I don’t . . . remember.”

“You are very talented.  You made many gifts for us.”

“Not . . . no more.”

“That’s OK.  Now you have this beautiful bouquet.”

“Beautiful.”

“Let’s go to your room and you can show me where you would like me to place it.”

“OK.”

Mom liked the bouquet best on her TV.

Wild Imagination

 

On my last visit I left knowing this delusional paranoid version of mom is an ugly stage of dementia.  Mom was hurtful, cold, angry and frustrated.  And even though I understand, I personally hated last Friday.  Walking into The Community* on Monday, I was apprehensive as to how I would find mom.  I prayed that the nicer version of mom that I had been used to would show up.

The residents had just finished playing bingo.  When mom spotted me she yelled, “Look”.  Mom searched in her pockets and pulled out a bag of bite-size fudge swirl cookies and pocket-size tissues that mom had won with Shirley’s*, the activities’ director’s help.

“Congratulations, mom, you are a big winner.”

“She . . . helped.”

“Shirley* is always so good to you.”

Mom shook her head agreeing.  She handed me the bag of cookies, “Share?”

“You can eat them all, mom, I am allergic to chocolate.” I try to not say, ‘remember’ because obviously mom remembers very little these days.  I opened the bag of cookies and held the bag open so mom could serve herself.  She likes to be as independent as possible.

Mom really seemed to enjoy the cookies.  She ate them one at a time until the small bag was empty. When she was finished eating, mom tried telling me something.  Her voice was low and her words were mumbled.  Barely hearing mom, I moved closer to her. Mom seemed to get more aggravated with me for moving so close, I could not blame her I was almost in her face.  No matter how hard I tried I still could not understand mom.  She and I were both frustrated with the situation and we both felt helpless.

I brought over some water for mom as I could tell her mouth was so dry which made her trying to speak more difficult.  The water seemed to help.

Mom screamed, “Don’t look at me that way.”  Boy, she said that loud and clear.

“Mom, I wish I could understand what you are trying to tell me.  The good news is that you speak clearly when you are mad.”

“You . . . want me . . . dead,” she hollered.

“No, mom . . . I never said that nor would I. You are the one telling everyone you want to die. You ask me all the time to pray that God takes you.  I want you to have peace and be patient until God is ready for you.”

One of the aides passed by and smiled at mom saying, “Hi, Gilda”.

Mom said, “They’re  . . . nice . . . now.”

“They are always nice when I am here.”

“They  . . . know . . . tonight or tomorrow”

“What is happening tonight or tomorrow, mom?”

I triggered a nasty response from mom, “I said  . . . dying!”

“How do you know you are dying tonight or tomorrow, mom?”

“They  . . .  said it.”  I had to change the subject because this conversation was going nowhere fast and I was unintentionally aggravating her. 

“Mom, let’s pray.” 

Mom agreed and joined in when she remembered the words.

“Ok  . . . go!   I don’t  . . . make  . . . sense.”

“Mom, Ron and I are going to Vegas for a few days.  I will come see you on Saturday when I come home.”

“Saturday?   Today  . . .   Monday?”

“Yes today is Monday.  Ron and I leave tomorrow morning and we come home late on Friday night.  So I will spend time with you on Saturday.”

Mom held up her fingers to count.  “Monday . . . Tuesday . . . Wednesday  . . . Thursday  . . . Friday.”

“Saturday is the day I will be back mom.”

“Ok  . . . Saturday.”

“I love you, mom.”

Mom said clearly, “I love you, too.” 

Mom asked for several hugs and kisses before I left.  She also orchestrated blowing kisses to me and I reciprocated. Mom seemed to be so much calmer than during most of our conversation. 

“Have a nice time,” mom calmly said.

“Thanks, mom, I will see you Saturday.”

Mom’s imagination is running wild creating a living nightmare for her.  One that she wishes she could escape, but she has no control and neither do I.

Dizzy and Delirious

 

Last Friday, my time with mom was disturbing.  I found mom initially relaxing with her eyes closed listening to soft beautiful music with the other residents in the activity room.  When I gently touched mom’s shoulder she slowly raised her head up.

Mom had a troubled look on her face, “Did they call you?”

“No, mom, I just came to spend time with you.  Are you not feeling well?”

“I was dizzy . . . I said . . . call my daughter!”

“Did you fall?”

“No . . . no . . . dizzy.  Earlier doctor . . . my room . . . said . . .  would come back.  Never did!’

I wheeled mom to her nurses’ station and spoke with Billy*.  She told me that mom is not making any sense today.  There was no doctor.  Mom never told anyone she was dizzy. 

Just then I saw Dana*.  I explained to her what mom was saying.  She spoke with mom too.  It was very difficult trying to understand mom today.  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this, Gilda, when I saw you earlier?”

“Didn’t tell. . .  you  . . .  purpose. Didn’t want  . . . you . . . to worry.”

“Gilda, you can tell me anything?” Dana* said.

Mom said, “They don’t  . . . want me to tell you.”

“Who doesn’t want you to tell us?”

“Julienne, Julienne . . . they don’t want you to know.  I’m delirious.”

“You are not delirious, mom.  Who doesn’t want me to know?”

Mom got angrier, “I should . . . . shut . . . my . . .  mouth.  Lock me  . . . in closet . . . throw away  . . . key.”

“Mom, we are trying to help you, but we are trying to understand all the details.”

“Put me . . .  casket!”

“Mom, I am so confused.  Why are you getting so mad?”

Mom raised her voice, “Forget it . . .  Julienne . . . not talking.  Need to order . . . food. Go home.”

When mom was saying all this Dana*, and Antoinette* were both trying to help and understand what mom was trying to tell us.

Antoinette* said, “Your mom is getting angrier the more we talk with her.  I think I should take her to the lunch room.”

With Antoinette’s* comment mom said, “Yes  . . . right.”  Mom looked at me and once again said, “Go home NOW!”

I said, “OK, mom, I’m leaving.  I love you.”

Mom looked at me and said sharply, “Yes, I love you.  Go home.”

This visit with mom was ugly.  Mom seems to be becoming more paranoid and delusional at times.   What was causing mom so much frustration to change her personality so much?  I could hardly recognize her.  Unfortunately, the beast's name is Dementia.  I have to learn how to tame the beast for mom and my sake or at least learn to cope.

Nightmare Disturbs Mom

 

A week ago mom was having an unusually talkative day.  When I first saw mom she said, “I think  . . .  you all the time, when I see you  . . .   I’m depressed.”

“Why do you become depressed when you see me?”

“I wish  . . .  do something for me.”

I knew what mom was referring to again.  She believes I have the power to ask someone to give her a drug so she could go to bed peacefully and not wake up.  No matter how many times I talk to her about God’s timing; she has her own belief.

Then mom told me something else that was troubling and depressing her.

“Julienne, when I’m sleeping . . .  I keep calling your name.”

“Mom, what else is happening in your dream?  Do you need my help?”

“Julienne, you said  . . .  dad would come . . . for me.”

“Mom, I was telling you about when dad passed his mom came to meet him.  Remember I mentioned that dad called her name and then he passed away.”

Mom became extremely anxious, “I see your face.  I . . .  am calling you, Julienne.”

“Mom, that’s OK.  Maybe you are just thinking about me before you go to sleep.”

“Are you OK, Julienne?”

“Mom, I am feeling great; honestly I am.”

“When I see your face . . . shake my head  . . .  squeeze my eyes . . .  say ‘NO’!

“What happens then, mom?”

“You  . . . go away.”

“Mom, do not be scared if you dream about me.  Don’t wish me away.  I am there to love you and reassure you; I’m not there to take you to heaven.”

I tried to comfort mom, but I think her dreams of me were anything but comforting.  She let me know several times during our visit that although she is ready to go, she does not want me to go with her or before her.  And I’m good with that.  After all, God’s definitely not finished with me.