Then There's My Own Window. . .

I am the oldest child, sometimes a control freak, mostly because I find that life is often so chaotic as to need my help. Trying to force my Mother into my reality has been a miserable failure. As she entered the third stage of her Alzsheimer's journey, I wanted her to be as "normal" as possible. There is no "normal" in this room. I would correct her constantly. "No, it is Thursday, not Saturday." This has been your home for 63 years, so quit trying to "go home!" "No, you can't go to see about your Mom. Remember? She has been dead for 22 years!" Frustration, stress, anger and sometimes yelling. I am not only reluctant as a caregiver, I often lack nurturing skills.

At first, when she asked why she was so confused, I would try to explain about Alzheimers and its consequences. She hated the word. "I am not crazy," she would hiss. Like so many of our elderly, she had learned that Alzheimer's was synonymous with madness and craziness. Her generation had dealt with strokes, heart attacks and cancer, taking their loved ones away after short intervals of home care and hospitalization. Alzheimer's meant a dark place at the back of the geriatric wing of the state mental hospital where Aunt Mabel had died.

Only recently have I broken away from my own obsession with normalcy and agreed to live in Mom's room of total chaos. My brother helped me, perhaps shocked me, into coming to grips with this. He explained, " If Mom will go to sleep because she thinks that I am her husband, then I will become my Dad just to get her to calm down. I need my own rest."

Okay, Mom. I will let today be Saturday. Do you feel like going for a drive?