PART V: Whereupon Amy decides to leave her old life behind and move into an Assisted Living community (whether they want her to or not)

There is nothing funny about dementia. It is torturing my mother. She constantly feels frustrated and ashamed. Strategies that work one day have absolutely no effect the next and we refrain from looking upward in supplicative prayer for fear of glimpsing the razor sharp guillotine blade winking over our heads. But sometimes...if you don't laugh...you'll cry (and maybe never stop).

Living in close proximity with a loved one with memory issues is like solving a bunch of mysteries in an escape room (except you can never actually escape). 

A month or so ago, my mother had been given a black can that emitted a spray medicinal foam to rub on her legs to relieve evening cramping. Brad and I walked in one evening and, as my eyes inventoried the room, I spotted a familiar blue bottle of Mylanta on her table. Fearful, I asked lightly if she had had a stomach-ache recently. "What's with the Mylanta, Mom?" I inquired, holding up the bottle for her to see. "It's for my leg," she informed me. I turned from her to face my husband, wide-eyed. This was a critical moment for me...this marks the exact moment that I realized that my mother could not go it alone. Rarely do I correct my mother...instead riding the lazy river along its course...but this particular journey was headed straight for Class Five rapids and a raging waterfall. I read the label description to her and, embarrassed, she secreted the mistake away. Later that evening, she experienced a cramps so I helped her apply the medicine properly. She disappeared momentarily into her bedroom afterwards. Wondering what was up, I investigated. "It smells nice in here, Mom," I said, "Did you put on lotion?" She answered that she had just applied her medicine. The medicine that was still in my hand. "Can you show me?" I asked gently, keeping my face expressionless as she handed me her bottle of hair mousse. From this point forward, I stopped fighting for my mother's independence and starting fighting for her life.

Up until then, I had ignored clear signs leading in that direction...not wanting to face facts. Mom is great... (No, Amy. Stop lying to yourself.)...Mom does better with routine. I usually drive her in my parents' car but the roads were bad so I opted instead for my four-wheel drive truck. I neglected to check if my mother had put on her seat belt and, as we were driving, she suddenly remembered. Before I could stop her, she grabbed the handle of the passenger side door and it swung all the way open. With what I consider a nifty piece of stunt driving, I threw the upper part of my body across my mother, pinning her in place while careening to the side of the road to stop. At that point, I had rationalized, It could happen to anybody.

I just re-read what I wrote and realized that I'd made another common mistake that should have alerted me to how very serious this was:  Blaming myself for not checking my mother's seat belt. If I truly believed that she was of sound mind, I wouldn't have had to check a rationale, competent adult's ability to keep themselves safe. Again...my head was in the sand. Self-reflection sucks.

This particular week has been a waiting game as I'm never sure what's going to appear behind Door Number 2. The view out her window, that my sister-in-law and I had been so certain of, is alternatively loathed and loved. Today, I was given a gift as a goose had landed on a storage container like a weird but wonderful weather vane. My mother was enchanted. She rarely experiences moments where she can just enjoy the moment. I was so grateful for that stupid goose.

She keeps me on my toes. I am trying to contain my presence in her new space to just a corner of her bedroom. If I accidentally venture out of my small territory, I pay the price because she keeps throwing out my toothbrush, adopting my hair brush, and inexplicably refrigerating my 100 calorie veggie straws. 

My time here grows short as staff begins taking on a more prominent role in her care and daily routine and I start to fade like the photo that Marty McFly holds during his stage performance on "Back to the Future."  The only mystery that I will have left to solve is: How will I leave my mother here alone?