bogeyandruby

I dropped by to see my mum this morning. She was walking through the hallways of the residence with her walker, to her physiotherapist-daughter’s great approval. She greeted me in a booming voice which I interpreted as her being delighted to see me and continued to speak very animatedly, our conversation travelling along parallel lines, sometimes converging but mostly diverging, for the next fifteen minutes until I realized she had forgotten to put her hearing aids in and couldn’t hear a dang thing I was saying.

Once the hearing aids were in, I asked her what was new knowing the answer before she said it. There has been some maintenance drama this past week in her bathroom with a very slow leak in the form of droplets falling slowly from the ceiling above the toilet, hitting her backside. While investigating, the maintenance man had removed the grab bars from around the toilet then neglected to put them back, creating a safety issue. Someone (likely her marvellous, paid companion) complained and they were reinstalled, but were too wobbly so the residence replaced them with a different system that my mother complained “was too tight”. A too tight toilet brings all sorts of images to mind. Turns out the handles of this new frame are much closer together and she keeps overshooting them during transfers. Adaptations only work if clients can use them safely and effectively. I will have to replace them with the system she had in the first place. See below.

That sorted out, my mum asked me what day it was tomorrow. I told her Sunday and she asked what time I was picking her up for Christmas dinner. “Ma, Christmas in on Thursday. That’s in five days.” She couldn’t seem to grasp that Christmas could be on a Thursday. I’m not sure where this confusion comes from. Is she mixing up Christmas with the sabbath? Dementia often takes unexpected detours. There is no map or guide book when it happens. I got her a clock for seniors for Christmas, the kind that reads the time, day of the week and date. Black lettering on a white background. I am really hoping that it helps orient her to time and reduce her anxiety.

“What will I wear on Christmas?”, was her next query. I have barely figured out what I am wearing apart from my new black velvet pants with a twenty-six inch inseam, never mind sort out her outfit. Wardrobe decisions for special occasions give me anxiety, being six inches shorter than adult petite sizes. Is there a clock for the fashion challenged? My mother clothes shopped for me until about five years ago and as such, my current wardrobe is in a sorry state. Fingers crossed the sweater I ordered her from Reitmans arrives before Thursday and that it fits.

On my way out, I accompanied my mum to the dining room where lunch was being served. Without supervision, my mum parks her walker about seven meters away from her assigned table. This drives me crazy because it puts her at risk of falls. When I am with her I make her keep the walker all the way to her seat. Even though it makes me feel better, it creates confusion for her as it is not part of her routine. She has no clue what to do as the walker nears the table.

As I helped her to her seat, one of her table mates, we’ll call her K, a friendly lady I have spoken to before, more often than not about her love of mangos, blurted out:

“You have the most prominent widow’s peak!”

“Yes, I do. Do you think it makes me look like Eddie Munster?”

“I don’t know who Eddie Munster is but a widow’s peak is a sign of great beauty. I didn’t know whether to embarrass your mother now or later.”

At this point I am not sure which mother she is referring to as my own mother sometimes refers to me as her mother.

Then K says:

“I am a senior without a family. May I prevail upon you to buy me some wrapping paper and bubble wrap?”

Ahh … now the unexpected compliment is making sense. Still, could she not have picked another attribute other than my prominent widow’s peak? LOL

Actually, her request broke my heart.

I picked up the wrapping paper and bubble wrap and will drop it off tomorrow when I swing by with the new toilet bars. And I will be on the lookout for mangos in the grocery store.

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I made a lengthy shopping list for my husband today which included: two bags of gourmet chips. These were to be a special treat for our guests on Christmas Day, chips that we are not worthy of eating as a family of three during non-festive circumstances. My husband’s interpretation of gourmet chips was family-pack sized bags of Lays bar-b-cue chips and salt and vinegar. As I expressed my disappointment to my husband, my son, listening in, asked me to explain what I meant by gourmet chips. Put on the spot, I said they were elite chips, packaged in very small quantities and sold at very high prices to ensure there are no leftovers after the party. Flavours like black truffle or Iberian ham.