The Foibles of Elderly Ones

Yesterday I noted on my Facebook page that my mother walked into my office with a large blob of blood on the top of her nose which she got from vigorously washing her face.  We laughed but rather grimly as the idea of wounding one’s self by the simple morning convention of washing and brushing is a little scary.  Since Mom moved in with me three months ago I have certainly had a much closer look at what aging does to a person.  There is a difference between visiting a parent in their own home and seeing them every day, from morning to night.

       What I see is a once lively and energetic woman walking at a much slower pace, slightly hunched (and yet she is not diagnosed with osteoporosis, which I find a little troubling) and frequently with the pain of advanced rheumatoid arthritis causing her to moan.  She has trouble opening up her various bottles of pills, which in itself is rather eye-opening as there are at least 8 different containers of pills that she has to take.  She even has trouble lifting a pitcher of water to put into the coffee kettle, and yet she gallantly goes on with the day, preparing breakfast, washing dishes, taking out the vacuum cleaner and tidying up the rooms.  She opens the freezer to decide what we should have for dinner and in the late afternoon she leans on over the sink as she peels the potatoes with her gnarled old hands.

       This is my dear mother, a woman who never complains, never asks for anything and is always ready to help as much as she can.  Yesterday while I was painting the bathroom she felt so bad for me having to climb up and down the ladder because I didn’t want to disturb her.  I could see she was having more pain than usual so I wanted her to rest and not stand there handing up paper towels and such.  And she was apologizing to me!  I asked Mom this morning if her mother also had rheumatiz and the answer was daunting “Yes, and Far too”.  My legacy on that side of the family does not bode well. 

       “But” I said “Dad didn’t have arthritis.”

       “He had pain too” she replied “but he didn’t’ say how much,”  And we were both quiet as we recalled my father’s secretiveness about his illnesses.

       In the evening as we watch television I have a good view of my mother and I will often see her not looking at the show.  Instead she is looking out the window, or at the floor, and I feel disturbed, wondering if she is in la-la land or if she is just bored with the show.

       “Mum, do you have your ears in?”  My way of asking her if she has her hearing aid on.

       “Ya ya.” She says and goes back to watching the show.

       “Are you bored, should we change the channel.”

       “No, no, it’s okay, I was just thinking about  . . .” and she will go on to tell me what she was thinking about, usually not related to the show at all.  While I’m relieved that she was indeed thinking about something I am also wondering if this is a sign of Alzheimer’s.  It’s really quite an experience to live with a person that is growing older.  It’s not a chore, in fact it is a real perk to have my mother with me, but at the same time I find myself worrying about all sorts of things I never thought about before.  Caring for the elderly is a much bigger responsibility than I ever thought possible. 

       And my mother isn’t really elderly.  She’s my mom.