bogeyandruby

I took my 89 year mother to the dental hygienist today, anticipating some kind of fall-out, considering recommendations made last visit have not been followed. My mother has dementia and Parkinson’s disease and has been living in a private residence for the past two years plus eight months. As for her cognitive status, I would describe her as pleasantly confused with poor short term memory. Most days she is not oriented to time. An anxious person by nature, she gets particularly worked up if she has a medical appointment that day, refusing to eat breakfast (or lunch), declining a shower and calling me repeatedly to verify what time I will be picking her up.

After a half hour of waiting room respite reading my book, the hygienist called me in to the room at my mother’s request (or as she put it later on in the car, the girl was going on and on and I didn’t understand anything she was telling me). To summarize, a large filling had falling out during the cleaning and the tooth had to be extracted. Then there were the expected admonishments: plaque and tartar build-up, she needs to floss and brush better, can someone assist her? She has Parkinson’s, I explained, and she doesn’t remember all these steps. I don’t live with her, the staff at the residence do their best helping the clients who need it with basic morning and evening routines. My mother, listening to us talk over her, interjected, « Just pull them all out. It’s less trouble. »

I think my mother is getting upset, I said. The hygienist apologized. No need, I said. I appreciate your professional recommendation but I simply don’t have a resource to help with daily dental care except to remind her when I visit. I can also bring her to see you more often and I can hire the dental hygiene resource that visits the residence.

I am semi-retired and most if not all my days off are spent either visiting my mother (my sister, who works full-time, visits on the days I am working), taking her to appointments, organizing family restaurant meals or taking care of her finances. The residence she lives in is fabulous. I hand-picked it for her based on the fact that it has been family run for years, has stability of staff and gives wonderful care. There are visiting dogs, resident birds, guest chickens in the summer. There is a recreation therapist extraordinaire, live music, and a beautiful garden with a koi pond.

She gets her hair done every two weeks in the hair salon in the basement, regular foot care, a specialized, visiting massage therapist for her lymphedema (a complication from radiation post excision of a sarcoma tumour). She has a devoted albeit paid companion, Fallon, who visits four mornings a week for three hours at a time to keep her company, go for walks and do puzzles with. Fallon was recommended by the residence and has been an absolute godsend, a salve for my mother’s loneliness, a life-saver when my mother broke her hip last year and was hospitalized for seven weeks. Fallon sat with her in the hospital when we could not be there.

In the elevator on the way down, my mother apologized for not taking better care of her teeth. I recognized the emotion she was feeling: it was shame and that made me angry because it was completely unwarranted. I joked that I also feel badly every time I have a dental appointment, being scolded for not flossing the right way, or the constant reminders that the tooth with the very large filling may have to be pulled because they can’t keep filling the cracks. Honestly, I was so sick of the negative feedback, so anxious every time I had an upcoming appointment (I’m sorry but dental hygiene fricken hurts!), that I decided to be extra vigilant in my dental care between visits. After years of bad press, I have had two excellent reviews in a row. Hurrah!

With respect to my mother’s care, it took me a while to accept that I am not responsible for her happiness, I can only make sure her needs are being met. She is the sweetest, kindest, most caring person you will ever meet, but she is also very dependent on her children for solace. Trying to fulfill this emotional neediness is like trying to fill a bottomless cup. I have learned to outsource where I can. We are fortunate that my father left enough funds to provide her with resources. That is what I will do with respect to her dental care. The residence has agreed to remind her to follow her routine at night. That being said, the Parkinson’s affects her coordination and I know it will not be enough. I have booked another appointment with the dental hygienist in three months and will contact the visiting hygienist to see what her availability is. That will have to be enough. Her tooth extraction is booked for September. I will deal with that when the time comes.

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The elevator at the dentist’s office is mirrored. On the way down with my mother, I was struck by my reflection standing next to my mother’s. Twenty-seven years apart and we looked like contemporaries in that mirror. It was probably my state of mind at the time. We look alike, my mother and I, except for our colouring. She is fair with blue-grey eyes, like the ocean an admirer once noted, with beautiful, wavy, white hair. Next to her, I looked like someone’s chubby Indian Aunty, puffy-face and disgruntled, carrying her goodie bag from the dentist that contained a new toothbrush and floss.

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Every once in a while, my mother calls me to ask me where the other Sharon is. «You mean the nice one? She’s long gone! », I answer wickedly.

You need to find the lighter side of dementia to survive it as a caregiver, always respectfully, of course. I don’t infantilise and I don’t lie. Thankfully, my mother’s sense of humour is intact and she always laughs at my response.

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I am obsessed by the Tiny Chef Show, a recently cancelled Nickelodeon show I knew nothing about until I happened to come across this video on social media. Here I am, a grown-ass Indian Aunty, watching video clips of the show to cheer me up. I was so discouraged after today’s dental visit, I practiced some retail therapy and pre-ordered a Tiny Chef plushy that talks and a mug with Tiny Chef’s picture on one side and the words, « I’m Blokay » on the other. Okay, blokay … I know I have a problem folks buying stuffed toys at this age and stage, counterintuitive to the decluttering progress I’ve been making, but Tiny Chef makes me feel better, so there. Besides, I’m still planning to floss tonight and use my special dental pick to massage the gums between my teeth.