Mommie Dearest's Whole New World

Heed my advice. Do not give a person with dementia a cell phone programmed to speed dial your number at the push of one button. If you do, it is entirely possible that every day the person with dementia will discover, anew, they can call you in an instant. Chances are, they will use this new found skill over and over and over. All day. Every day.

This advice was born of my own ill conceived idea to purchase a cell phone for Mommie Dearest so she could have it at the assisted living facility where we recently moved her. 

Live and learn.

For some time now I have been thinking that we needed to move my mom to a higher level of care. Her worsening dementia was making it hard to keep her in an independent living situation. Granted, the facility she was living in was for senior citizens but it was for those who could largely care for themselves. When we moved her to Colorado she was fairly capable of doing so, but over time her independence became more and more of a burden. I knew something needed to change.

During a recent visit with my siblings we decided to pursue an appropriate assisted living facility for our mom. We visited a few facilities and found the place we felt would be just perfect for Mommie Dearest. It had all of the important amenities: staff to administer daily medications, a cook to prepare and serve meals, weekly happy hour with wine. Men.

Or so I thought.

In reality the men aren't very plentiful in this new living arrangement. I was deceived by the man who lives across the hall from my mother, thinking he was representative of a larger male population. Turns out he is one of only two. Honestly though, It doesn't seem to matter that much.  Mommie Dearest has lost some of her zeal for wooing men. It was one of the first signs things were digressing. It was as if she forgot that she liked to be the center of all male attention. She even started forgetting to go to happy hour. Malaise about wooing men and not registering opportunities to guzzle boxed wine from a Styrofoam cup? These were bad signs. 

We took our mom to visit the new residence and she was surprisingly amenable to the idea. She gave it a slightly crooked, arthritic thumbs up and I set a plan in motion.  It all seemed remarkably easy. Until it wasn't. But that's the way it is with Mommie Dearest. One minute things are going along just fine and the next minute we've entered a whole new reality and I haven't recognized the switch. Admittedly, I have a little trouble keeping up.   

Within days of my giving notice that she would be moving out of the independent living facility, staff started mentioning that my mother was telling them she rescinded the notice. I got daily phone calls from her saying that she was not moving and that was that. She dug her heels in. Truth be told, however, she didn't dig very far or fight very hard. In the end, she moved with very little kicking and screaming. Either she forgot she likes to make things as difficult for me as possible or, maybe, like chasing men, she just doesn't have the stamina anymore. I'm not sure.

She's in her new place now, no longer in a two-room apartment but in her own bedroom within a large house. She gets loving care and reminders, all day long, to do the important things like eat lunch and play Bingo. She mentions the sparse male population regularly but it is seemingly more out of habit than any real desire. She doesn't appear to even remember where she lived just days ago. 

I put sticky note reminders all around her room, including one that tells her to press 2 on her cell phone if she wants to call me. Every day she discovers how to call me again. It's a perpetual surprise.

Sometimes I feel guilty that I like this simple-minded Mommie Dearest with her Swiss cheese memory a little better than the narcissistic, mean-spirited woman who raised me. Then I remind myself that guilt is a useless emotion. Feel what you feel. Besides, being with my mom helps with my never ending quest for life balance. Watching her slowly drift away reminds me that everything in life is a cycle. Change is inevitable and constant. Every day I get older. We all do. That's the way it is supposed to be. Holding on to youth is impossible, so I'm learning to embrace aging. Sort of. Most days.

Until my grey roots start showing.

For the most part, I'm thankful for this phase of life with my mother. She, unintentionally, reminds me to live intentionally, and breathe in the life I've been given. I appreciate the lesson. It is good to remember that the problems I'm solving at work, the relationship challenges I'm navigating at home, or the finances that will seemingly never be enough to retire with, are all fleeting. All that truly matters is how I live in the here and now.

I live with intention today, because at some point I too might be discovering the magic of speed dial. All day. Every day.

Miley Dearest

True confession: I got a little drawn into all the hysteria about Miley Cyrus's VMA performance. I couldn't resist clicking on the 'Watch it Here' link embedded in a voyeuristically detailed Internet article and saw, with my own eyes, all the wriggling and writhing and foam finger action.

It disturbed me.

But maybe not for the reasons it bothered many people. I found myself feeling a little distressed by Miley's performance because I kept thinking that's probably how my mother behaves in her retirement community. Hannah Montana gone bad.

Minus the teddy bear onesie.

 

(Source: Google Images)

 

Mommie Dearest's early dementia seems to be taking her further and further down the path of silly party girl. Not that I think this is unfamiliar territory for her, but she is slightly obsessed with drinking and boys. Well, no. She's completely obsessed. Granted, the boys are hauling around portable oxygen tanks, but if they fall into the category of male, my mother is plotting a way to go in for the kill.

Without her walker, Mommie Dearest is barely mobile. But with her walker, that girl can move. And if the right man comes along, she's all about catching him. Right basically means alive. The ability to hear is apparently optional.

Every week the residents in my mother's retirement community have 'Happy Hour.' Some of the residents don't seem so happy about it but for my mother this is a highlight event. Not only do they serve the finest quality boxed wine, but she has found a way to beat the two-Styrofoam-cup limit, thereby consuming as much wine as she can finagle in an hour. She does this by shamelessly flirting with the male residents; cooing, and smiling, and doing some weird coy thing until she talks them into delivering a cup of wine. They comply, although it isn't exactly on a silver platter. Usually the delivery is rolled to her on the seat of a walker.

You'd think two brimming Styrofoam cups of wine in one hour would be plenty. I'd think that too. Mommie Dearest does not. It is all about the conquer. All about not letting someone tell her what to do. The more cups of wine she has brought to her the more she feels she's won. She does not, however, talk any of the female residents into her deceptive little game. Unimpressed by her girlish act, the women tell her to get her own wine. But she manages to talk the men into it. Every time.

In addition to drinking the most wine, my mother boasts of having the most 'boyfriends.' No single man with teeth is safe from her womanly wiles. At 'Happy Hour' last week, I met her latest victim, Ralph. It went like this:

MD:  Ralph, I want you to meet my daughter, Karen.

Ralph: (Shaking my hand) Nice to meet you, Karen.

Me: (Shaking back) Actually, my name is Sue.

Ralph: (Still shaking) Nice to meet you, June.

MD: Oh! You're Susan! Ralph, I want you to meet my daughter, Susan.

Ralph: (Still shaking) Nice to meet you, Susan.

Ralph: (Looking at my mother with a confused expression)

At that point it just wasn't worth clarifying that nobody in our family is named June, my sister is named Karen, and I actually am Susan, although nobody really calls me that unless I'm in trouble. Which, apparently I was. Probably for impersonating other people.

Ralph wouldn't have heard me anyway.

I didn't attend 'Happy Hour' with her this week. I can only take so much of her wild child act before I need a break. It doesn't matter. She's doing her thing regardless of whether I'm there.

But really, I guess all of this is fairly harmless. I mean, she's 85-years old. If it makes her happy, why not? At least I haven't seen her twerking.

Yet.