by Beth Whitman
The day had arrived. Mom was going into the Alzheimer’s Care Facility. The van was coming at 11 am, so at 9 I had dressed Mom and transferred her into her wheelchair. She was ready to go. Amy and I wheeled her out into the morning sun in the front yard. Dad joined us, and Peter came from down the road to help out as well. We brought out drinks and snacks and had a little party while we waited for the van.
I was nervous, as was everyone else. But Mom was excited. She was outdoors, happily absorbing the smell of freshly cut grass, waving at the cars going by. It was the first time she’d been outside in almost two months. She was all dressed up. And she was ready to go.
Fact is, Mom had been ready for the past three weeks. She hadn’t been able to stand up, her feet were swollen, she hadn’t been getting dressed any more, and it had become extremely difficult to change her because I’m simply not able to manage her weight by myself. She always wants to go somewhere, but the best she can do after hours of trying is just to slide herself onto the chair next to the bed. Then she won’t move back, so she sleeps all night in the chair or she wets the chair and I have to call someone to help hoist her back into the bed by maneuvering a sheet under her. And all the while she is protesting, “No, no, no, no, no…. NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!!!!” Her protests escalate loudly until we have her settled and all the wet clothes removed.
But then, suddenly calm, she looks up at me. “Thank you,” she smiles.
The day before we were moving her to the facility in Glenridge, I sat next to her on the bed after one of these sessions, and she leaned against me quietly, waving her hand in front of her. “You know . . . you know . . . I’m so . . . I’m so . . . sorry . . . for you . . . and . . . and . . . that other one . . . .” Her hand motioned toward the other room where my father was sitting.
She was apologizing to me for being such a burden! My heart was breaking.
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