Stalling

I'm stalling. I should be on my way to my mom's. Yet here I am, posting a blog instead of driving. I'm stalling.

My mom has been home two weeks tomorrow. Yesterday, she had another cognitive assessment to see if the dementia that showed in the hospital had resolved since being back in her own home. Some of it had-she kicked butt counting backwards this time. Some of it was worse-things she could do in the hospital she couldn't do yesterday. The Occupational Therapist echoed the opinion of the case manager: "we think you would be safer in a retirement home."

And there it is, my mother's two worst nightmares encompassed in one sentence. Her grandmother and great-aunt lived with her family when she was a child. They were both "senile", the word used to describe dementia then. Mom has lived in terror of losing her mind since then. Now it appears to be happening, faster than either of us thought possible.

My mother's other worst nightmare was losing her ability to live on her own, and having to move to "one of THOSE places." She had a simple and profound conviction that God would let her die before she had to make the move. On the day before she came home, she was still vehemently and loudly proclaiming that she was not going to one of THOSE places, and we couldn't make her. "I still have some rights, and I won't go."

And then she came home. While she didn't say anything to me, mom confessed to her sister she "should have stayed in the hospital." . Home is no longer a safe and comforting place. I live in terror of her falling again, and since the recalcitrant senior flat out refuses to use the walker, it's a real and constant possibility. I make sure she has a good meal at noon, and she's still lost 3 lbs since being home. I've now filled her fridge with Ensures, yogurt and coconut cream pie. She's not starving on my watch.

She's starting to accept that her days in her apartment are numbered. Because she is still my mom, and worrying is an Olympic-class pastime in our family, she worries about me coming every day because she knows my work is suffering. She finally acknowledged that we can't keep things going like this indefinitely.

But I can pretend. I can sit in my house and imagine things at mom's apartment as they used to be. Until I go and deal with the new reality, I can cling to the old. I can remember my mother as the hustling, bustling, cleaning and tidying, baseball-watching, politics following person she always was, instead of this tiny, scared, confused old woman who suddenly appeared. I can pretend that mom can still make things all right in my world, instead of being the person who has to make things all right in hers. I can pretend she is still my rock instead of now being her rock, her grounding, the person whose eyes she looked for in panic when she couldn't get the words in the cognitive test. I can pretend my mom is still there, and the ten year old kid in me can still go there to be comforted and protected, instead of being the adult who must now do the comforting and protecting. I can keep mom's nightmares away for awhile, until I walk into her apartment and become the person who must bring those nightmares into our reality.

As long as I stall, I can still be the child who isn't ready to lose her mom yet, instead of the adult who in so many ways already has. I can still pretend, because the reality is so unfair and harsh, and yet must be dealt with. And so I'm stalling for a few minutes more, but time is ticking and mom is waiting. And so I go. I will walk into this dual nightmare, and we will face it and figure it out. And I will be the cause of making one of mom's nightmares come true as we start to find a new place for her to live. And I will do what's right for mom. And it will break my heart in the process.