They say the great thing about having Alzheimer’s is that you’re always meeting new people. I remember when my mother first announced she had Alzheimer’s Disease; she was concerned about forgetting things. I put it down to a bad case of hypochondria and wasn’t quite sure how genuine the claim was. Keeping in touch from the Northern Territory via phone meant that it was hard to get a full idea of how Mum was faring.

Hey, we all have a touch of Alzheimer’s – the forgetfulness that hits when we wander around the house with a guinea pig in one hand and a spray can in the other. Now… what was I doing again? Moments like that are common.

But news continued to filter through and then there were reports of dementia. Dementia didn’t seem that bad - just a disorientation, not being able to do simple tasks. But it meant Mum had to hand in her licence and she lost the ability to use her mobile phone. Some phones are tricky; it doesn’t need a mental illness to be confounded by them.

Finally the family pitched in and we helped to move Mum and her hubby closer to us, where we hoped the country living and social stimulation would invigorate her brain and slow the deterioration. But sometimes life doesn’t work the way we hope.

It is a strange situation to be an adult trying to provide support for an aging parent. They are the grown-ups and we are the children, no matter how old we are. To interfere means offending and threatening their independence.

Mum had always said to me that when she got older, she didn’t want to go into a nursing home. Of course, we agreed. Why stick a person in a clinical institution when they could die with dignity at home? We’d seen people around us who deteriorated rapidly once admitted to a nursing home. It seemed the distress and alienation of being in a home affected their wellbeing. There was no doubt in my mind that a nursing home was the evil to avoid.

Sadly, as Mum continued living at home and yet still declined in mental capacity and the ability to make sense of her surroundings, the nursing home idea became a ‘chicken or the egg’ dilemma. Did elderly people decline because of being admitted to a nursing home, or were they already well on the way to their demise at the time of moving to a nursing home?

Nevertheless, the idea of consenting to having a parent admitted to care is akin to putting a young baby in day-care. Sure, others seem to find it necessary, but I couldn’t rationalise the callousness involved in that decision.

I saw my mother change from a strong, vibrant, opinionated woman to a dithering, confused old lady. She forgot who I was, and sometimes looked upon me as a friendly visitor; other times resenting my presence and calling me names under her breath. (At least there was some glimpse of the outspoken person I knew!) I would sit in her company while she chatted about completely disjointed, irrelevant topics. If I asked how she was, she might say it was going to rain. Or if I pointed to her new slippers, she’d nod and talk about the (non-existent) railway line that was towards the direction of the kitchen.

For me the grieving started early: grieving for the mother I once had. As soon as Mum had moved to Liston I was impacted by her frailty and confusion. I ached to give her peace and comfort but didn’t know how. As a family that rarely expressed affection, it was really hard to give her a hug; I made a few movements to pat her back and stroke her arm and that was the best I could offer.

The guilt also kicked in with the grieving. Why hadn’t we intervened earlier with therapies, mental games, and social support? Why hadn’t I gotten my life together earlier so that instead of being wrapped up in raising my own young children, I could have been sending teenagers off to the world and leaving me free to provide support for my mother? Why was I so self-absorbed and unable to visit as often as I’d promised?

In the distant past I would have swore black and blue about providing care for my mother when she grew old and became vulnerable. In the present reality, I found myself unable to carry that out. I know Mum’s hubby had the role of carer… but he was old and tired himself and not up to the demands of feeding, changing and supervising Mum day in, day out, with broken sleeps to bring the wanderer back to bed. And frankly, with a young child at home, I felt the same way. Who was I to presume I could do a better job? What sort of carer could I be with the responsibilities of my own family?

So, like Pilate washing his hands before the Jews, I recently absolved my duties to my mother. On Monday, I became one of Those People. One of Those People who admits their parents to a nursing home and drives away, without a second glance in the rear mirror. One of Those People who thinks that their lifestyle is way more important than their parent’s quality of life. One of Those People who finds all sorts of excuses to treat their parent like an unwanted pet being dropped off at the pound.

I know in my heart I don’t feel like one of Those People, but to the observer, perhaps I am. 

Comments (0)