Old Age: An Evening with My Parents

My parents on their 56th anniversary in June

Last night I walked into the TV room in the Memory Care section of the assisted living where my parents reside. There they were, just the two of them watching a movie. I'd been out of town for the long weekend, and I'd missed them.

My dad sat beside my mom, their chairs about two feet apart, their walkers parked in front of them as if they needed to be ready to rev up and go at any moment. His head was bowed, his hands folded with fingers intertwined in front of his chest, and he was snoozing.

My mother looked up, and as she watched me walk in there wasn't a glint of recognition in her eyes. Just her mouth open as she looked at me and tried to place me. I drew up a chair beside her and took her hand.

"How's my mama?" Usually that would bring a smile to her face.

She paused a moment and then replied tentatively, still not recognizing me. "She's fine."

My heart sank as I drew closer to her and smiled. "Well, you're my mama and I'm very glad to see you," I said. She was still looking at me in wonderment...as in, "wonder"-ment. Still trying to place me. "What are you watching?" I asked, seeing the biblical characters on the screen. Some lady was dying and disciples were gathered around her.

Mama didn't respond.

"Do you know what the story is?" I asked again.

She still didn't respond.

"Well, it looks like a Bible story," I said, letting her off the hook. We sat for a minute, me holding her hand, both of us watching.

Valerie the Caregiver beckoned to me from the hallway, and I rose to go talk with her.

"She's not had her evening Xanax," Valerie said. "She wouldn't take her blood pressure medication either."

"Has she been difficult?" I asked.

"No. She just sat right here on her walker seat this afternoon and slept, but she wouldn't eat and she wouldn't go anywhere else. And when it was time for her supper this evening she wouldn't eat."

"Do you want me to get her to take her meds?" I asked.

"Well, maybe her blood pressure medication," Valerie said. "Do you think she should take her Xanax?"

She was asking me? I don't know. They know more about giving meds than I do. Xanax is PRN, though. "If she's not being obstinate," I said, "She probably doesn't need it."

"No," said Valerie.

"Well, maybe bring me her blood pressure pill, and I'll get her to take it," I said, and went back to sit with my parents while Valerie headed down the hall to the meds room.

I moved my chair to the other side of my mom, between her and my dad, and gave my dad a kiss on the cheek. "Hi, Daddy," I said, putting an arm across the back of his shoulders.

He came to. "Oh, hello," he said. "Aren't you back early from your vacation?"

"I just came back. My grandkids got picked up by their parents, and then I came straight over to see you."

"Oh, and did you have a nice time?"

"Yes, I did. Looks like Mama didn't have a great day though?" I asked. I glanced over at Mama. She didn't show any interest in what we were talking about as she continued watching the TV.

"She's been worse most of the time since you left," Daddy said. "She doesn't talk much, and she yells at the caregivers to 'Get out!' But I guess they are specialists in dealing with people like that."

"Yes," I said. "They don't let it bother them." Both my dad and I have had a hard time with the embarrassment that comes when my mom does things that are socially unacceptable and rude. "That's her Alzheimer's talking," I keep saying by way of reminder to my dad and myself. But we apologize to the caregivers anyhow.

"This morning she wouldn't leave the breakfast table," said my dad quietly. "She wouldn't move, and they needed to set up the tablecloths for lunch. I couldn't help. I've been having more pain." He pointed out that this was new pain--ulnar pain that burned in the outside edge of his palms right down to his fingertips. When you have your own pain, you can't tend another person's pain.

"Oh dear," I said. Valerie came into the TV room with the blood pressure pill in a little paper cup, and a plastic clear cup of water. She handed them to me.

"Mama," I said. "Here's a blood pressure pill for you." My mom looked suspiciously at it and clamped her lips together. "You need to take this to keep your blood pressure in a healthy spot," I added. "You've had much better blood pressure since you started taking these little guys. Come on, can I help you?"

Mama resisted, and looked mad. I brought the paper cup with the pill up toward her lips and said, "Ahh pahk!" They're the Thai words my mom used to say to me when I was a toddler and she was feeding me. "Ahh pahk." Open your mouth. It worked like a charm. Her mouth opened, I popped the pill in and handed her the cup of water. She slowly raised the cup, s-l-o-w-l-y, tipping it as she lifted it so the water was in danger of spilling down her dress. I caught her hand and helped her raise the cup to her lips. She drank and then made a bitter, bitter face.

"Taste nasty?" I asked, grinning. She screwed up her face worse. "Here, drink more water," I said, helping her lift the cup again. She drank until it was gone. "It's good for you to stay hydrated, Mama," I said. She smiled a little, seeming to warm to my interest in her well-being. And she went back to watching TV.

I turned to my dad. "I'm sorry, Daddy," I said. "It must be hard for you to watch her go downhill."

He didn't respond to that, but started telling me about how he tried to explain to her that the workers mean well and that she should treat them a little more nicely. With my dad life is all reason and system. As my parents both falter he copes with her disease by trying to explain to her logically how to deal with life. These are his tools, and he has no other ones. He has never once acknowledged that it's painful to see his wife forget who he is, to see her personality change; to watch her slowly lose her mind, her ability to swallow at times, her ability to take care of herself, her ability to control her bodily functions. Never once.

The movie had ended. "Full of Grace," it was called, about the mother of Jesus. My dad pointed out that the caregivers haven't figured out that Catholic movies don't connect with them, but also generously added that the movies are interesting. The Netflix movie selection screen glowed, frozen, in the dimness of the room as we talked.

We got up and made our way down the hall to my mom's room. My dad's room is right across the hall from her; they let him live in Memory Care so that my parents can continue to be together, at least until Memory Care fills up and they need his room. I think it will be awhile.

Instead of calling on Valerie the Caregiver, I got my mom bathroomed, nightgowned and into bed as my act of love for her. As she tried to lie back in bed and her left leg muscle spasmed, and she howled in pain. She's always been sensitive, but it's gotten worse with her Alzheimer's. I waited a bit for it to pass, and we tried again, this time successfully although she was still groaning. I kissed her on the cheek and told her she is a good mom. She just looked at me.

I turned to tell my dad, who was sitting on the couch next to my mom's bed and snoozing again, "You can come kiss her goodnight." I knew it would start his evening good-night ritual. He raised his head, grinned and told me that last night he kissed her goodnight three times--twice when she got in bed, and then he'd come back in the middle of the night to give her another kiss. "But I don't think she remembered, today," he said.

"Well, the important thing is that she's happy when you do it," I told him.

He pushed himself slowly up from the couch and wobbled over to kiss Mama in her single bed where she has slept for the last year, separate from him because of the discomfort caused by her incontinence. She's been lonely, but it had gotten to be too much for him, waking up in a wet bed several times a week. He was hyper-aware at first of how people would judge them, sleeping in separate beds, but he seems to not worry about that anymore; his own mind is starting to slip, and with it his social concerns.

My dad leaned down and kissed his wife goodnight.

She was already asleep.

~~~

My dad wanted to walk me to the door. We made our way slowly out of Memory Care (he has the code to the door) and down the hall toward the entry doors, locked earlier in the evening.

"I don't think I'll sleep very well tonight," he told me. "I never do. I can fall asleep sitting up, but I can't sleep lying down." My dad has always had a significant sleep disorder, no doubt exacerbated by his boyhood in Holland under the Nazi occupation as well as violent trauma experienced when he was in the navy. The nights are long, and he has always spent them restless.

"Well," I said lightly, unwilling to take on a counselor role when I was so tired, myself, "maybe you should sit up on the couch all night and sleep well." 

He smiled. It's how we banter.

I hugged him goodnight at the door and planted a kiss on his cheek. "I love you, Daddy." And I headed out the door to the car where it was parked in front of the dining room.

As I sat in the car and texted my husband that I was headed home, I glanced up through the windows and saw my dad making his way slowly with his walker back past the open door of the dining room. He paused, peered out toward where the car was parked, no doubt saw his own bent-over reflection, and then proceeded on and out of sight.

And I felt prickles behind my eyes and a huge lump in my throat.