Ground Hog Day . . . Ground Hog Day . . . and a Lamentation

Joy is gone from our hearts; our dancing has turned to mourning.  (Lamentations 5:15 NIV)

Yesterday was a tougher than normal day for me with Mom, even though nothing about the situation really has changed.  If you’ve seen the movie with Bill Murray entitled “Ground Hog Day,” you’ve now seen a glimpse of a life caring for someone with Alzheimer’s.

My husband calls my mom every morning, and I call her every night.  We believe that she’s better able to remember who we are when she hears from us every day and, more importantly, it calms her to hear familiar voices.

Yesterday morning when my husband called Mom, she was already agitated. “Don’t they have any heat around this place?” she said.  She woke up cold and was quite upset about that.

When I picked her up for church an hour later (my husband was out of town), she was dressed in a fleece top and had pulled out her heavy leather winter coat to wear to church.  It was 55 degrees outside with a high expected near 70.

I explained to her that I would look at her thermostat when we got back, but that she needed a lighter coat for church because it wasn’t winter yet.  I found her fall coat. She didn’t want to wear that one because it was too small. She later accused me of washing it in hot water and purposely shrinking it.  I tried the best I could to explain to her that she had grown by about 20 pounds, which she rebuked.

I also noticed that Mom didn’t smell as fresh as usual.  A few weeks earlier, she was upset because of these as she scowled and pointed to her chin.  I said, “Mom—your wrinkles?”  She said she refused to use soap anymore because it gave her wrinkles.  I got her a bar of moisturizing soap in the hope she would use it, which she didn’t.  So it dawned on me yesterday that perhaps she also no longer used shampoo.  She was entering deeper into the throes of late Stage Six of Alzheimer’s—dressing inappropriately and losing her sense of hygiene.

Even with her Sunday morning frustrations, Mom loves going to church.  Sadly, the faces are no longer familiar to her, even her long-time friends, Rosemary and Chuck.  Sweet Rosemary was dismayed and told Mom, “Beverly, you can’t forget your friend Rosemary!!”  Good friends Bonnie and Harold wanted to visit Mom later in the week and take her to lunch. Unfortunately, I had to kindly explain that it wouldn’t be good to take Mom out of her routine, especially without me being there with her.  I explained to Bonnie that Mom was in Stage Six, even though it didn’t appear that way to others.  Instead, I urged them to visit Mom in assisted living.

As Mom and I walked hand-in-hand down the hallway to leave church after Sunday school, her gait was prominently listing to the right as she came ever so close to running into the wall and the corners.  Alzheimer’s, as it destroys more of the brain’s gray matter, takes away the ability of the brain to know what the eyes are seeing, and also causes a three-dimensional world to become only two-dimensional.  I’ve seen Mom lift up her leg in order to get across a crack in a sidewalk.  Mom can read sometimes, but sometimes the words are garbled in either her ability to process the information or in speaking them out loud.

When we got back to Mom’s assisted living building, we went to her mailbox to check for mail.  She cussed because she couldn’t navigate the key.  She angled it downward and couldn’t get it inserted properly into the lock.  I asked if I could help her, and she threw me her key.

When we arrived at her assisted living apartment, she cussed because she couldn’t get her key in the door the first time because she had it pointed the wrong way (and the hallway is poorly lit).  I gently told her that cussing and swearing wouldn’t help to get the door open.  She got it the second time, as I held a flashlight to make it a little easier.

I looked at her thermostat, and changed the button from “cool” to “heat” and set it for 75 degrees.   Problem easily solved, just in time for lunch.

We walked down to the dining hall—first stop was the salad bar.  She picked slices of melon with her fingers and snarled at me when I handed her the tongs.  She cussed again as her hands were not able to navigate the tongs.

I escorted her to her assigned table and helped her into her assigned seat.  Her friend Florence, who is recovering from a bad fall, joined their table.  I asked Mom and Florence if I could get them some coffee. They smiled graciously.  I walked five steps to the coffee machine and grabbed a coffee pot.  As I filled the pot with their favorite beverage, Mom called out, “Can’t I get any coffee around here?”  I told her I was working on it.  When the pot was nearly full, I poured a cup for each of them.

The nurse came by to take Mom’s lunch order.  Mom pointed to someone else’s plate that was filled with ham, sweet potatoes, and peas and said she wanted that.  I reminded Mom that it was “waffle Sunday” and asked if she would rather have that.  Her eyes lit up, and she told the nurse she would like a waffle instead.

As the nurse walked away, I took Mom’s glass and filled it with milk. As I handed her the glass, she shouted, “Can’t I get any food around here?”  I breathed, paused, and responded that she ordered a waffle and it would be coming soon.

When her food arrived, I asked Mom if it was okay if I briefly left to visit our 96-year old friend Lois who lived in a different part of the building.  Mom was fine with that, but she watched me as I walked away.

I find solace in the face and hands of my “adopted” grandma Lois.  She asked about Mom and wept with me as I updated her.  They were once best friends. Now, Mom barely remembers her.  Lois and I held hands and found joy in just being together.  I told her I try to find moments that make me laugh, including the discovery that Mom keeps toothpaste in her underwear drawer.  I told Lois about the book that I was writing, and she requested an autographed copy.  She’s so sweet, and my visit meant so much to both of us through our mutual tears.

To complete the 24-hour cycle, I called Mom at the usual time last night.  She again asked, for at least the tenth day in a row, if she was able to “stay wherever it was” that she was staying.  This disease has robbed nearly all of her short-term memory. By evening, she can’t remember waking up there.  She can see her stuff, but she can’t remember living there.  I told her that she can go to exercise class the next morning.  She’s been going to that same exercise class in the same location for over three years. But she still asked, “Where is it?”  Through my exasperation and sadness, she told me again, for the tenth day in a row, how much she loves me and thanked me for everything I do and manage for her.

Every day feels like the movie Ground Hog Day to me.

As I write this, I’m listening to “Rhinestone Cowboy” by Glen Campbell.  As he battles the final stages of Alzheimer’s, I sing the words to the song and weep for his family.  I lament over this stupid disease called Alzheimer’s which affects over five million Americans.

Then I remember God’s calling and His instruction in the Beatitudes to have a broken spirit, to mourn, to be meek, to be filled with His mercy, and be pure in heart.  He promises to fill us with the fruit of the Spirit—love, joy, peace.  Lord, fill me up, please.  And thank you, Lord, that Mom could still remember who I am in her life.

God is stronger than Alzheimer’s.  But on this occasion, my broken spirit laments.

©2015 Regifted Grace Ministry LLC