Its been a month since my last Mom Report. On May 27th, she had just moved to a new nursing home and the changes were rough for her. Things seem to have settled down a bit – but that only means the disease continues to progress.
I visit almost every day. There is no doubt she enjoys the visits – and yes, she knows who I am even if she doesn’t always remember my name. Deep inside, she knows I am her son, that I love her, and that she is cared for. If she can’t quite fill in the details, so what?
There is a stark simplicity to the visits. In a strange way, I have grown used to the simplicity and even grown to embrace it. I don’t have to try and come up with some new and brilliant conversation starter – I can talk about the same things each day. Most visits consist of entering her room, encouraging her to go for a walk, sitting in the lobby watching people come and go, acting silly while we swat each others hands, then a goodbye, during which I call her a “little short thing”, and she laughs. Simple. Easy.
I’ve spent a goodly part of my adult life resisting being categorized. I’ve resisted being categorized as a “typical” Vietnam veteran, meaning someone who is rather pathetic and a loser. I’ve resisted the stereotype of being a police officer as being a brute who loves to intimidate others. I’ve resisted the stereotype of a Christian being a Bible thumper. The categorization I am resisting now is that of being the “typical” adult child of an Alzheimer’s victim.
Of course, I’m not really sure I know what that stereotype is. Generally, it seems as though I am supposed to be an emotional basket case – maybe wracked with guilt at having warehoused my mother in a nursing home. Our local daily newspaper did a story on the topic (in fact, they wrote the story at the very same nursing home my mother is in). The two adult children interviewed for the story speak about the difficulty in making the decision to put a parent in a home. But, I feel no such guilt.
I just don’t. I didn’t work at it, nor do I think I am denying it. I just don’t feel guilty. Nor do I mean to say that other people shouldn’t feel guilty. I don’t.
Yes, I am bothered sometimes by talking with my mother with the knowledge that she once possessed a feared intellect. I used to laugh when I described her as my intellectual foil – the one who never gave me a break. She was smart, she used her brains, and she wanted her son to lead his life the same way. She taught me to cherish good books, and to think critically. Today, I dare not ask her what she ate for lunch – only if she enjoyed it. That takes the pressure off having to remember anything. The fact remains that my visits are a touch of sadness woven into the fabric of each day.
I enjoy taking photographs of her. I’m not so much interested in recording a sampling of her life so we 
siblings have something to peruse after her death, but rather an attempt to describe her condition in a deeper sense than just using words.
But - - true confessions - - -
I do find myself a bit depressed on occasion. Maybe its the fact that the visits are a time sponge. Maybe it’s the fact that there is other work involved in caring for her, such as paying her bills. Maybe it’s the unspoken dread of the inevitable phone call.
Maybe – just maybe – its because I have seen my own future, and I don’t like it.
But then again, maybe the title of this posting is incorrect. Maybe it should be “The Son of Mom Report.”
