What A Life!

Last week the aide said she was mentally tired when she left each day from listening to Mom’s never-ending tirades and that she didn’t know how I stood it 24/7 for as many years as I had. My response was the same as I give to everyone who says that: I’m sure I lost my mind waaaay back there and just haven’t slowed down long enough to know it because I’m certain no sane person could deal with it all. Then we both laughed.

But it’s no joke. There are days I feel like I should pinch myself to see if I’d react normally because nothing about normalcy seems to relate to our situation. Since nothing is a given here, especially with Mom’s behavior, you just have to take what you get each day, be flexible enough to adjust what and how much you can do with her, and be willing to do it on her schedule, not yours. She rules the day. You have to accept that. It’s the only way to survive.

Let’s face it: Mom’s hard to take care of and in every way. She considers it her job to make your job as difficult as she can. Most days she resists every darn thing you try to do for her, no matter how simple a thing it is. And she enjoys it! She’s strong and feisty and cantankerous, and you can see the gleam in her eye when she knows she’s making you struggle. Everything is a wrestling match: the bath, the clothes and pants changes, even adjusting her pillow, and I swear she’s intent on making every muscle and joint in your body ache each and every day. If you live through doing all that for her, your only thought is to sit down and try to regain the strength, and courage, for the next round. She’s exhausting.

The physical strain she causes you is enough to wear down even a young person, but the mental strain she’s capable of delivering is even worse. The lesser of that torture is that she loves to be ornery, and I swear it’s a big part of what keeps her going. She’ll fuss and argue about anything and wouldn’t give you a kind word if you begged for it. The mean looks that come across her face and the way she cocks her head to look at you when she delivers her stingers are nothing less than a hoot, and I sometimes have to turn my head so she won’t see me laugh. Believe me, the last thing you want to do is encourage her. But it’s the only way she has to assert herself, to still maintain even a little control over her life. She probably figures she’s 90 years old and with all the torment and harm she’s endured the last few years, she’ll earned the right to behave any way she wants to. I know I’d feel the same.

Then there’s the yelling. She yells if she wants attention, or if she’s hungry, or if she’s uncomfortable, or is she’s mad, or if she’s scared. Pretty much all the time, if you want the truth. Usually it’s just bad behavior for which I do correct her. Other times, it’s her demons and you do whatever you can to try to calm her. But every day this week she’s exhibited something new. She gets angry so fast it’s scary, and with a ferocity I’ve not seen before. I often call her my little Tasmanian Devil (Have you ever seen them in a snarling fit of anger?) but this is beyond that. I’ve had to increase her sedative to give her even a little relief and sometimes that doesn’t even help. She shows no obvious signs of discomfort, in fact she will tell you no if you ask if she’s hurting, and it’s not mania. It’s anger. I’m stumped.

I can’t help but think it has something to do with the constant turnover of aides and the fact that the house isn’t as quiet as it is when it’s just the two of us. I say that because it’s Saturday and even though she’s fussed today, it’s been no more than her normal behavior. Because I know what, how and when to do things for her, her schedule has stayed on track. She’s rested well and eaten well, which hasn’t been the case when an aide is here. I hope tomorrow will be better for her as well. Lord knows she deserves it.

Here goes that thought again: I wish I could clone myself.

Till next time,
Sharon