At present, which is to say nearly two years from formal diagnosis, visits to my mother are taking about a day to recover from. I am sure she has been suffering from vascular dementia a lot longer than two years. At least two years before he died my father had taken to standing behind my mother and twirling his fingers beside his head to visitors. Round about this time of year, three years ago, neighbours of my parents had their house broken into; I vividly remember my mother being at great pains to assure me on the phone that she didn’t do it, wasn’t a burglar and wouldn’t have anywhere to put the swag. When I compare that episode to her current general demeanour, which is by and large lucid, as long as you don’t listen too closely to what she is actually saying, I am amazed at the wonderful job done by the carers, who keep her in the best state of health possible by hydration and constant care. I am more than ever sure that the care agency was certainly the right decision.
Nevertheless, visits are utterly draining.
It’s not just the dementia. When she isn’t being demented or repeating everything twice twice, my mother is being a controller’s controller. The more she feels energy slipping from her the more she tightens control on everything and everyone. The latest is to insist that I kill the cat as soon as she dies. She starts every conversation with this dictat currently, like some demented ancient emperor disposing of his concubines; perhaps I should warn the cleaner to scoot off home early, in case she gets hanged in the curtains or decapitated with the breadknife.
Yesterday she kept insisting we were alone without the carer or my other half. She then began to run through the list of who was to get what when she goes. There is nothing new in this. Thirty years ago she used to do it every time I went to visit. She used to make me recite a list or recipients, which, naturally changed every time, and then say it was our secret and if I got it wrong she would come back and haunt me, the last with a nasty laugh.
Nasty people with dementia don’t get any nicer. I look back with amusement at my other half suggesting that she might turn in to a sweet little old lady at the start of all this, two years ago. Despite our experiences with his mother we were naive. Caring for the demented will take every resource you have. Currently I am finding the lies difficult. Yesterday afternoon, sitting in the garden, having asked me three times during the day for the name of the plant, my mother started admiring a pot full of Alstromeira, which I planted two years ago and telling me how clever it was of her to plant it and what a good gardener she was and look how nice everything was, gesturing to the beautiful garden I have taken two years to coax from a stone wilderness.
I had taken her a wedding photo with me on it, as I’m currently putting the albums together. She launched a vicious attack on everything I was wearing, my hairstyle and the hat, which she repeated all day, between criticising the bride, who only lost her father two months ago, for looking thin when my son and his new wife went to visit her last weekend.
In between all of this she complains about her perceived constant motion, how difficult it is to do all the shopping and run the house (neither of which she has done for two years) and everything she sets eyes upon, except all her possessions, which are wonderful and of great value. Yesterday she told me graciously I could come and live in her house and look after it all. What she would say if she knew the equivalent of a couple of bedrooms have already gone via the equity release mortgage, to pay for the care of which she is so critical (yesterday the carers were all idiots, not for any specific reason, they just were), I cannot say.
My other half played golf earlier in the week with a retired psychiatrist who was of the opinion that informal assisted suicide for the elderly cantankerous was a lot less rare than you would imagine. After close up dealings with dementia, I am not at all surprised. If I had been living with my mother for the last year I might be contemplating it myself. For either of us.
As it was I fell asleep in the car and went to bed at nine o’clock and slept till eight, utterly drained. Today I have done nothing much quite slowly except phone my mother, who is having a day resting after entertaining some visitors, apparently. It’s fortunate she runs the house so well, the fridge is full of food today, magically. It must be because she’s such a good manager.
She manages to make me very tired and, having acquired wisdom in adversity, I’m off to sit in a garden chair and, possibly, have a kip.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
JaneLaverick.zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz