A Caregiver’s Story of Love and Fracture
It’s the witching hour that ends me. You know that time? When you’ve kept your patience with them all day, let little transgressions roll off your back, taken deep breaths, and were able to keep moving through the day, but then 4 o’clock hits. No one else is home yet, maybe you have a spouse who could tag you out, or older children who could share their youthful presence, but not yet. Every second that clicks on the old grandfather clock, placed in the farthest room possible from you when you agreed to this, sounds like the chomping block of insanity closing in, ready to consume you.
Can you sense the hour to which I am speaking? Are you nodding your head right along with me in empathetic knowing? Well, let me throw one curve ball into the picture – I’m not talking about a newborn, or a toddler, not even a young teenager that might have worn down your every nerve. Nope. I’m talking about the mother you so kindly let boomerang back into your home. At least, that’s who I’m speaking of, because my mother has Alzheimer’s and we chose to have her live with us for the last two years. Not only does Alzheimer’s mean she forgets a lot, it also means she’s regressing just like the beautiful Benjamin Button demonstrated.
And the magical hell that is the witching hour comprises of all the fun land mines we navigate as parents with our children, with the added layer of hallucinations and hysteria.
In the matter of one hour, even the smallest change to the environment (different TV show, different kids coming and going in the house, different dinner time (sidebar on that, I’d highly recommend sticking to the same dinner time everyday)) can cause mayhem to my mother’s nervous system. Signals get sent across her brain that can’t be accurately interpreted and end up causing her a feeling of fight or flight. Most of the time with my mom, it’s flight. She wants to leave. Constantly. The other phenomenon I witness is the veil between the living and dead. Because people with Alzheimer’s and dementia are known to “time shift”. People long deceased are actively living in their world. Just today, my mother came home from “work” (adult day care) and said her “mother” (dead twenty years) came to help out. Two days in a row, for that matter! Astonishing! I said in response. How far should I go down the rabbit hole with her? To what end does it help or harm to follow the illusionary yellow brick road if you know it leads to a dust bowl after a tornado?
Navigating this one measly hour feels like more than a one-person job. But just like the colicky baby who doesn’t seem to be consoled, using someone else besides yourself (ahem, YOU are their person now. Maybe it was always a sibling, or their spouse, but if you are living in a world like me, it’s YOU, and they will always feel safest with YOU) doesn’t always result in relief.
When I’m at my most strung out, it feels like the world is on fire and I’m trying to put it out.
But sometimes, just sometimes, you can see through the ashes. You can hold your loved one close, let the waves of emotions run through both of you, and hold tight until it passes. Because, like everything in this world, this too shall pass. That’s universal law.
If you are feeling like you are burning up in the middle of a firestorm, I see you.
Sending peace and love your way. Finding herself as a caregiver for her mother, Liz Kametz shares authentic feelings during a time when her mom was progressing with Alzheimer’s and living in her home.
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