Chapter 9: Mom's Struggles

Mom's Struggles

January 3, 1999, Mom's 79th birthday. Bill, Jason and I planned a little celebration dinner, reserving the kitchenette for our use at the nursing home. I'm not sure if she knew it was her birthday before we arrived, but when we whisked her down to the party room, pre-decorated with balloons, streamers and wrapped presents, she had no doubts.

Brightly colored birthday plates, cups and napkins adorned the table. In the middle sat a yummy, chocolate cake with a single yellow glowing candle for her to blow out while she made a birthday wish. Despite the fact that her birthday was just one week after Christmas, we celebrated royally with a number of little gifts to make the day memorable.

Of all the things she received that day, however, the one "present" that surprised her most was when she unwrapped the can of beer we had brought for her to enjoy with the cake. It had been well over a year since she'd had a cold beer and she could hardly believe her eyes. With the fingers on her right hand becoming rigid, she needed help holding it up to her mouth, but she didn't seem to mind a bit.

After the festivities were over, I spent a little time talking with Mom about the new room she would be getting soon. "Won't it be nice when we don't need to go to the kitchenette to have time alone together?" She nodded in agreement.

Shortly after her birthday, I went shopping for some things to make her new room look especially nice. I wanted her first look at it to be a pleasant one. The wingback chair we were bringing from home was a light rose color, and I sought to find a comforter for her bed that would be a close match. By the end of the day, I was tired but happy. The soft, quilted comforter I'd found was cream colored, adorned with a floral pattern featuring rose tones. I also found a matching pillow sham to complete the package. Mom always loved throw pillows and I was able to find one of them as well.

With that done, I purchased a few items to adorn the walls and a dried flower arrangement for the top of her dresser. On the day she was having her hair done, I came in to ready her room. When I was finished, I stood by the doorway, surveying the results of my work. Although the room was admittedly very small, everything was picture perfect.

Moving Day Woes

The day before we planned to move Mom to her new room, I made it clear to the social worker that I did not want anyone telling her about it. I was concerned about how she would handle the change, even though a private room was something she said she wanted. I felt it was imperative that we gently lead her into this new change and approach it delicately.

When we arrived at the nursing home, I bounded into her old room, ready to share the news of her new room. I wanted to wheel her down the hallway and stop just short of the new room, building her anticipation to see it. Like many well laid plans, however, this was not to be.

One of the employees had told her of the move when they dressed her that morning. The scene Bill and I walked into was devastating. Mom was sitting in the hallway, hugging the wall about ten feet from her new room. When she saw us, all her frustration came flowing out. "How could you do this to me?" "I won't go in there, no..no..nooo!" she yelled angrily.

My heart broke to see her so upset. This change was for her benefit, to make her happy, and I knew she would like it after giving it a chance. She was so agitated at that moment, however, there was no reasoning with her. When Bill and I walked toward her new room with some of her belongings, she loudly demanded, "Don't put those things in there!"

Knowing it would do no good to plead with my mother, I took a positive, but hard line with her. "Yes, this is your room now and we have to put everything away." A few minutes later I came back to where she was sitting in the hallway and had a talk with her. I gently reminded her that she didn't want a roommate and a single room was the only option. "Yes, I know," she said in a tiny voice, "but my other room was so nice and big." Oh Mom," I sighed inwardly. "This is not easy for any of us."

While Bill brought over more of her belongings, I leaned down and hugged her tightly. Gently reminding her that I loved her and would never do anything to hurt her, she reluctantly allowed me to wheel her into the room. "Just try it for a week, Mom, please?" "OK," she replied, "but I know I won't like it."

That hurdle passed, I made special note of everything that was positive about her room: the pretty courtyard she could see from her bed; the new bedding which so nicely matched her favorite chair; and, how private it all was. Here we could visit and watch television with the door closed if she desired. It was all hers. I breathed a sigh of relief knowing the worst was over now.

An Unexpected Guilt Trip

Mom's first week in her new room was difficult and I visited almost daily to be there for her. In talking with the social worker at the home, I learned she had stopped everyone she saw...maintenance workers, cleaning people, visitors; anyone who would give her a moment of their time, to complain about her recent move.

It hurt to know she was so unhappy. While I didn't tell my mother, I told the social worker that if she continued to have a hard time adjusting to the single room, I would not object to having her returned to a double room. Several weeks later, I was overjoyed to find Mom smiling and happy again. Our visit was pleasant and while I did most of the talking, she was alert and didn't complain about anything.

By early February, I noticed Mom had a persistent case of sniffles. Her nose ran endlessly and there were days when she didn't even want to get up in the morning. Days passed into weeks and Mom was still very listless and not up to par. While expressing my concern to the social worker, I was shocked and angered to hear her opinion on the matter. She said that moving my mother had been so stressful for her that it made her vulnerable to getting sick. She inferred that by subjecting Mom to the emotional trauma of the move, it was largely my fault that she was now ill.

In part her comments angered me, but more than anything, I felt terrible to think I could have caused my mother to get sick. Mom just didn't seem to have the stamina to fight her cold and bounce back. She always seemed content and never complained about anything when I visited, but I always left on the verge of tears because now I blamed myself for her decline.

Mom began sleeping more and eating less than usual. It was difficult for me to see her like that. Instead of feeding herself, which she had always tried to do, she now let the staff feed her. What a drastic change from the beginning of the year.

I was elated when just a few weeks later, the cold was a thing of the past and much of Mom's energy came back. Once again I would find her with newly polished nails and eyes that wore that familiar sparkle. I was overjoyed to resume our weekly movie visits where I'd snuggle up in a chair next to her, while we both munched on popcorn, indulging in "girl talk."

No More Outings

Even though Mom had regained some of her pep, it was obvious to all that the head cold, and probably the long-term circulation problem she suffered from, were making it increasingly difficult for her to get around. I noticed she no longer pushed her wheelchair down the halls and seemed content to just sit in her room or in the reading area.

Her attention span seemed limited and her interest in life had waned. While she was still happy to have me bring her something from McDonalds, she no longer wanted to go through the hassle of getting out to the car to join me for some fresh air and a change of scenery. Nor did she want me to take her to the local department store to view the aisles of things on display. Looking back, I believe it was her way of protecting herself because it also hurt her to realize she could no longer stroll independently through a store and buy whatever she wanted.

The guardianship had been hard for her to accept. Never before had she not been free to have complete control over her finances. Now, because of where she was living, she had no access to cash whatsoever. There was a personal account set up for her at the nursing home to pay for anything she might want or need, but this arrangement did not satisfy her. I often gave her a five or ten dollar bill to keep in her wallet, but she remembered the days she carried $20's. She didn't realize that money has a way of walking away in a nursing home.

Several months earlier, I was appalled to learn that even her teeth had disappeared. Mom obviously couldn't eat well if she had no teeth. The staff didn't share my concern, however, as apparently teeth, glasses, etc. disappeared on a regular basis. True to their prediction, her teeth showed up about four days later in the drawer of another resident a few rooms down the hall. Teeth and glasses may reappear, but I knew money, once gone, would stay gone.

She had changed so much since Dad moved. Because she was a private person, we never talked much about it, but I knew her well enough to sense her despair. Her life would never again be as she wanted it and she had lost all hope of living anywhere but the nursing home. She accepted it as graciously as she could, but it was painfully obvious to me that life no longer held any interest for her.




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