Tag: laughing

Okay.

We’ve reached a new level in this whole Alzheimer’s thing with my mom. She’s fully in the paranoid/conspiracy/hallucination phase. That’s common in the later stages for Alzheimer’s patients, by the way.

Last week, she wouldn’t let me touch her sunglasses case because it had a note on it that said “Do Not Touch.” (the note was in her own handwriting, but whatever) There might be poison gas in it. Or a bomb. Or a severed finger. Still not sure, although we inspected for wires – because, you know, a bomb – and there weren’t any, so we’re leaning toward poison gas. Maybe the severed finger, although there is a historical lack of Mob Hits at the Assisted Living Center, so severed finger isn’t as likely.

I started laughing. Couldn’t help it – I just started laughing. Loud, wheezy, almost wet-my-pants laughing.

Paranoia is a common stage of Alzheimer’s. Since she moved into Assisted Living, “They” (the people who work at the Assisted Living center) have taken many things that have mysteriously reappeared under her mattress or stuffed in the back of a bathroom cabinet or hidden in some other hidey hole that she’s created for herself. (How many hiding places can there be in a 500 square foot studio? You’d be surprised.) She is hiding things that seem valuable (dog leashes?), then when she can’t find it, she’s certain They came in and took them. Most times, They come in the middle of the night (she swears she sees Them, although her dog Bonnie never barks at Them, because, you know, THEY’RE NOT REAL) and take the “valuables.” When my sister or I get there the next day and discover the “valuables” in one of the hidey holes, my mom swears They came back in and put the valuables back.

Last night, she called to tell me she was worried because A Man came in her room and stole some of her dog food. When I got there today, she said that he came in the middle of the night, rearranged the dog food from the top shelf to the middle shelf in her kitchenette, and she didn’t like that a strange man was coming in her room in the middle of the night to take/rearrange her dog food. I told her I agreed. I mean, who wants strange men coming in their home and rearranging the dog food? Not me.

My sister and I have decided the best way to deal with an Alzheimer’s patient at my mom’s level is to just go with it. Don’t tell her she’s wrong or crazy or hallucinating. Just agree with her. I keep reassuring her that Bonnie will bark at any of the bad people. As long as Bonnie doesn’t bark very long at someone, then they’re ok.  We told her that the nurses and the aides who walk around in the facility shirts are also working as guards to ensure no bad people can get in and bother the residents.

We told her we’d have the locks changed so that That Man couldn’t get in anymore. Today, one of the nurses pulled me aside to talk to me and was very concerned that my sister and I might believe someone was really in her room. I assured her that we have always found the “stolen” items hidden somewhere in her room. Since her dog didn’t bark at the non-existent intruder, I feel confident that it was a hallucination and completely trust the facility’s employees to keep taking great care of her.

I took her to the grocery store this morning and on the way out, I gave her room keys to the receptionist at the front desk, asked her to give them back to my mom when we came back in and tell her that they have changed the locks to her room. Thankfully, the receptionist gets it, and when we came back in, the receptionist gave my mom her keys and told her the locks have been changed and no one can get in her room without her permission. My mom was so grateful.

What have I learned so far from my mom’s Alzheimers? It’s a forward-progressing disease. She’s not going to come back from this. Some things you can’t fix, you can’t reverse, and you can’t make it better. You just have to put your head down and get through it as best as you can. Many days, that means just taking it one day at a time.

Secondly, and probably most important for my sister and I: we have to laugh. We have to laugh at all the crazy and the bizarre and out-of-the blue comments that come out of my mom’s brain. When she thought her glasses case had the poison gas/severed finger, I couldn’t stop laughing. I finally told her that since her glasses case isn’t airtight, we should leave it, and by the time she got back from lunch, the poison gas would probably have dissipated and it would be safe to open.

I have no idea what neuron synapses are firing to get her brain to do what it does, but you have to laugh. I do, anyway. The alternative is to tilt your head at the sympathetic angle, lower your voice to Grief Level, and say – in a serious, hushed tone – how sad it all is. You can do that if you want to. I just don’t want you to do that around me. I choose to laugh. It’s my mom and it’s my grief, and if you don’t think my way of coping is appropriately mournful enough … well just keep it to yourself. I get to have my own way of coping and unless you’ve been with me to the Assisted Living center or the police station or the doctor’s office, I don’t want your suggestions.  I may want you to listen to me or let me cry in front of you or hug me, but please don’t tell me what I’m doing is wrong.

Thirdly, you will have the breakdown days. Last week, my mom called me thinking she was talking to my sister and had an entire conversation with me, about me. She wanted my sister to team up with her and pray for me. She thought there were things that the two of them could pray about for me … and she’s telling me her prayers and reasons. I played along as if I were my sister, and told her that I thought that was a great idea and Cathy would really appreciate it. I realized that even in her advanced level of dementia, she still loves me so unconditionally and so fully that she is aware enough to want to pray for me.

At the end of our lives, mental or physical lives, or both … when most of the material things you’ve collected over your life become irrelevant and you’re only surrounded by a few people … will you have built relationships that exist even when your mental faculties are fading? Will you still know that even though everything else in your world is confusing and sometimes scary, you still have certain people that you love and trust so deeply that they remain a solid foundation in your world? My mom loves me that much. She loves my sister that much. I have no doubt about that. And that has become the most important thing in life for me. Developing those few, those vital, those so very solid relationships.

Well … that and hoping for more severed-finger/poison gas episodes so I have funny stories to tell when I get back to work every day after visiting her. Every day is an adventure.