Regarding Mother

Mel Miskimen is like most of us boomers, looking forward to the carefree years of childless retirement. But just like most of us boomers, something stood in the way: her parents and how fast they were aging. Maybe the theme of Mel’s candid story is, be prepared.

I was carefree. A recent Empty Nester. I had everything all planned out. Yep. It was going to be the year of Me. And then, I opened my email.

Regarding Mother …

She’s been forgetting things. Asks me the same thing over and over.
This is a problem that may need attention.
Dad.

My father’s 40 plus years as a police officer resulted in his just-the-facts-ma’am writing style.

For him to say anything like this . . . was, well, let me just say, he comes from a family who kept their diseases to themselves until the tumor, dysfunctional gland or whatever it was got to the point of no return – then they went to the hospital. Maybe.

For him to admit that there was a possibility of a problem meant there had to be a problem.

You know what my first thought was? Shit. That’s what. Not as in, “Oh, shit, my poor mother,” but more of an, “Oh, shit, why does this have to happen now?” This was supposed to be my “me” time.

I typed back:
“Okay. Let’s not panic. So she’s forgetting things. Like what kinds of things? She knows who you are, right? She knows where she is? Right? Or is she confused about regular stuff?” >send<

10 seconds. 30 seconds. An eternity. And then, “Yes.”

“Yes” meaning what?

I had just talked to her the day before. She called me – so, she obviously remembered my phone number, that was good. We gossiped about the ladies in her church group – there’s an election coming up and things are getting ugly. She talked about a dinner that she and my father went to and how much fun she had had. I asked her what she wore. The green shirt with the black skirt and her new shoes, which, she said, were very comfortable with the new arch supports that I took her for – a shopping trip that was supposed to take an hour, instead it took all afternoon – 40 pairs of shoes with 40 different systems of inserts later – there will be a place for me in Heaven.

At the very least, she’s a bit dotty. So, what was my dad talking about?

Dad, Let’s not jump to conclusions. Maybe she should see a doctor and get evaluated. >send<

Right. Appointment today. 3 p.m. I’ll let you know.

Good. >send<

I Googled: Dementia, Alzheimer’s symptoms, Is it Alzheimer’s, What is dementia, How to tell if it’s Alzheimer’s, Do You Have Dementia.

Dementia.
Can be caused by a number of different things, Alzheimer’s being one of them, but not always the main thing. Thyroid issues. Alcoholism. Drugs. Brain injury. Strokes. Parkinson’s with Lewy bodies.

Lewy bodies?

I went on and read the symptoms of Dementia: Loss of memory and inability to perform routine tasks - such as losing one’s way in the neighborhood, difficulties in job performance, language problems . . . Hmm. Based on that, I could have dementia.

Dementia can be treated.
Okay. That was good. Maybe all she needed was a few meds, a couple of supplements and bingo! I could get back to my project of re-inventing myself.

There are medical tests. There are medications. Things have come a long way.
Good. Good. Good. All good.

Some causes of dementia can be treated and reversed. Some. Not all. Some.
Sort of . . . not good.

Then I went to the Alzheimer’s pages. It’s the most common form of Dementia. It’s symptom’s cannot be reversed. The symptoms get worse over time.
And in big, bold letters: THERE IS NO CURE.

Please. No. Not that. What would be worse – my mother gradually fading away or seeing my father become an emotional blob. I don’t do emotions – I get embarrassed. I tend to dance around things. I make jokes. I don’t confront, or make any eye contact. I don’t hug. I don’t kiss. I do a lot of waving.

Now what? I’d have to go where I’ve never gone before – the possibility of seeing my John Wayne of a father . . . vulnerable – and that was something I couldn’t handle.

He’s always been the one in control. The one that everyone went to in case of an emergency. He was trained to handle crisis. It came from his police training. I have only seen him cry, once, and that was at his brother’s funeral. He sobbed. Openly. His shoulders shook. He wailed. He was like one of those professional mourners, who cling to the casket of the beloved.

What did I do? I looked at the floor. I looked in my purse. What was I supposed to do? Give him a hug? I couldn’t. But, now, I mean, what if? What if my mother was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s? He would need me. Which brought up another issue – lingering.

I have this dog, a golden retriever that is pushing 13 and has a number of maladies that will, over time – how much time the Vet won’t commit to – lead to death. I kind of have the mindset that, well, if things are only going to get worse, why go through all that? Why not just send him on his way? Couldn’t I do that with my mother? Take her for that last car ride?

No. That would be wrong.

Had I been in denial? Was she having symptoms that I didn’t notice?
A couple of years ago, my sister and I took her to Ireland. Oh. My. God. It was billed as The Trip She Would Never Forget – picture this: An Irish countryside, rolling hills and mist and over there . . . a ruin! An old man rode a wooden cart pulled by an old sway-back horse, the cart filled with peat. My mother grabs my arm. Pulls me close. I’m thinking that she is overwhelmed, speechless. Instead, she whispers in my ear, “I miss my oven.”

At 4 p.m. my phone rang. Would this be the phone call that would turn this day into That Day – the beginning of hospital rooms, adult diapers, tubes, smells.

“Hello?” I said.
“It’s me. Your mother.” She sounded so . . . chipper.
“How are you?”
“Fine. Fine.” This meant nothing. She could be standing in a pool of her own blood and she’d say, “Fine, fine.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Oh, I went to the doctor . . . she asked me all kinds of questions!”
“Questions? What kind of questions?” I knew what kind of questions from my research.
What day? What year? What month? And then there’d be some spelling and probably they would have asked her to draw a clock and put hand at the 10 and 2 positions.
“Oh, like what day is it . . . what season is it . . .”
“And you answered them?”
“Oh sure. It’s Monday . . .”
It was Tuesday.
“. . . and summer.”
It was Autumn. But I gave her the benefit of the doubt because it had just turned, and
the temperature had been 20 degrees above normal for this time of year. So, she got the answers wrong. But she wasn’t that far off.
“So . . . what did the Doctor say?” I asked.
“Oh, that I’m just getting old.”

We chatted some more. She told me about a dinner that she and my father went to . . . she had such a lovely time, she wore her green top with the black skirt and those comfortable shoes I bought her.

Shit.

Write Mel Miskimen lives in Milwaukee. Her book is Cop’s Kid: A Milwaukee Memoir.

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