The Clear-cut Murkiness of Aging

I am trying to get a handle on the fogginess that is my mother’s life.  What is it like to lose the ability to communicate, to do less and less to take care of yourself, no longer understand how to lock your apartment door or even use a basic instrument like a telephone? Never mind drive yourself to the supermarket or to your myriad of medical appointments.  Or even remember those appointments – for that matter.

Every time the phone rings and the caller ID displays the name of her living facility, my stomach does a small twist. I take a deep breath and consider letting the phone call roll over into answering machine.  But I don’t.  My duty as the “older” daughter compels me to pick up that receiver no matter how annoyed I get by the catastrophes of minutia waiting to be reported at the other end of the line.  Yesterday, the bridge fell out of one side of her mouth.  Since it was Saturday, I called the dentist’s emergency number and, as I suspected, it’s not an emergency so I have to call the office first thing on Monday to get her in.  I have my own plans for Monday and Dut has to work, but no matter.  “And by the way,” the aide on the other end said, “mom has a foot infection.”  Well, mom had appointment with the visiting podiatrist for that particular infection last week, but she forgot about it and therefore missed it.  The day before, on Friday, the nurses called – there were in tears in mom’s eyes because the knee brace that she got on Wednesday (to help eliminate some of her ongoing severe arthritis pain) was so uncomfortable she didn’t want to wear it.  My reaction: so tell her not to wear it. 

There is growing a list of things that make her unhappy theses days and I want to just throw up my hands in surrender and tell her to deal with it.  But I know she can’t deal with it.  She can’t deal with much anymore.  That’s why Dut and I are sadly prepping the way for the next step …assisted living.  It’s depressing but inevitable.  It’s in the plan.