A Promise
There are a number of symptoms of dementia, one of which is repeating oneself over and over thinking it is the first time it’s being told. In phone conversations with my dear friend of fifty years, she tells me that she’d received a phone call from her niece. In our brief conversation, she repeats the exact words about the phone call three times in succession. While annoying to hear these repetitions over time, it is a harmless activity. Forgetting names, places, and things can also be harmless, but the latest one that concerned me is Camille couldn’t remember where she’d put the keys to her front door. She’d locked herself in before going to bed and instead of leaving the key in the door for a quick exit, she put it somewhere but couldn’t remember where. Trying to explain the danger of doing that was futile, forcing me to hire a locksmith to put in a dead bolt lock, making misplacing keys a harmless activity.
Her accountant advised she move her IRA at the bank into her checking account. When we arrive at the bank, the manager takes a great deal of time explaining the move. She listens intently and understands the percentages, amounts, and penalties that would be involved. To my great surprise, she absorbs his explanation. However, when we return to her home, we need to discuss the money she keeps under her mattress. Yup, the ubiquitous hiding place for generations.
Last month we went out for dinner with her two caregivers and a young man she has known for years who treats her like a dutiful a son, checking in and fixing small things in her house. He joined us with his wife. We were celebrating Camille’s 96th birthday. She was quiet throughout dinner and hardly finished her meal. As we left the restaurant, she asked, “Who was
that young man and that woman with him?” Demetia is like dropped calls on our cellphone, in and out.
Last week I took her to visit a broker she hadn’t seen in years to confirm my POA status with the firm. A signed legal document from her attorney was not enough for them. They wanted a notarized copy of their document. As we watched the young woman notarize the forms, Camille sat alert and even asked questions. She signed the papers and smiled. On our way out a young man crossed our path. “Did you see him?” she asked. “What a hunk.”
“You like checking out men,” I commented.
“Of course, I do. I may be old, but I’m not blind.”
She may not remember names and faces, but the person in that body is the same one I always knew. She calls her caregivers “sweetie,” hinting her failure to recall names. Sometimes I wonder if she even confuses them. Fortunately, she knows me and my name. This recall is what keeps her at home and delivers my promise. When she was alert, she asked me to do whatever I could to keep her at home to die. I made that vow and now I can’t help but wonder how much longer I can keep it. Caring for her is a job that sits on top of the job I have caring for my husband. He is alert, but limited in mobility. We have the same 24 hour, 7 days a week caregiving for him as well. Now I’m the employer of four caregivers and take care of two homes. Last week Camille’s hot water heater needed to be replaced and at my home our landscaper had been letting things go.
The promises I made to each have brought burdens beyond my comprehension. As we age, we are faced with decisions filled with emotions at odds with practicality. Do we downsize? Should we sell one of our cars? If we move, where do we go? Do we follow our children or
remain closer to our support systems and friends. It would make great sense to sell both homes and settle these persons in a facility, but breaking promises is not in my DNA. Many would say that I’m a fool, and I would agree, but sleeping at night is a priority. Living in my skin is necessary.