dental work and other intricacies

There was a very popular book in the '80's (I think) called Passages, in which Gail Sheehy outlined the many stages of life. I think I'd better actually read this book. The idea is that there aren't a few - there are many of them. I agree. It's probably on my Mom's bookshelf.

Taking Mom to the dentist yesterday gave me a lot to think about. She can barely stand up and has poor balance these days. Her cognition, such as it is, lasts moments. I had to remind her that it was me pushing her in her wheelchair. At the dentist I stood in front of her so she'd have a frame of reference. Transferring her from chair to car and back was an interesting dance. I learned quickly that you can't muscle her. She moves very slowly and with much anxiety and my urge was just to pick her up and move her. She told me "that feels like knives!" I learned to have her put her arms around my neck and dance with me with slow small steps, explaining each step as we went and praising her. The hug was reassuring and she seemed to calm down.

I prepared the dentist's office for the visit, explaining that Mom was in "end stage Alzheimer's" and thankfully they understood that long term dental prophylaxis made little sense. My once patient Mom now suffers little intrusion and has been known to clock impertinent Summit Pointe staff with her coffee cup. If you leave her alone she's fine in a minute (literally) but woe betide you if you push your luck! Dr. Berst looked into Mom's mouth and found that there are no rotten teeth (the reason for the visit). The exercise in patience ended with the attempt at bite wing xrays. I stepped out of the room for a second and heard Mom: "Get away from me!" The dental tech was good, but she's the loud chatty one. I can't tell you how often I have wanted to say that. Home we went with a new flossing tool and some mouthwash.

What I appreciated about the visit was their understanding that these days it's about making Mom as comfortable as possible. For a while the cardiologist still wanted to see her, the optometrist insisted on running her through a bunch of tests, even though she just needed to replace her glasses. We're not sure how Mom is processing visual input these days anyway, and she's lost those glasses again. If Mom's tooth is not rotten and there's nothing giving her pain, she gets a free pass from dentistry. A major heart attack at this point would not be the worst outcome. Somewhere, the spirit of my Mother, often absent from this withered body these days, is hovering and saying "screw cardiology!" It's my job to remember her, even in her presence, and to be pragmatic.

Mostly Mom sits in a comfy chair and sleeps, waking occasionally. Her hands roam around her lap, feeling and investigating wrinkles and folds in the blanket, her eyes closed. Sometimes she's mutter something. "See you in the morning."

I had forgotten that bedtime ritual from my childhood. Every night when she tucked me in:

"Good night." "Sleep tight." "See you in the morning!"

The other morning I had just helped her sit down in the big chair. She really hates sitting down. She can't see what's behind her and she feels as though she is falling. It feels very out of control and she says "ohh, ohh!" and we have to talk her through it. I forget what she said, but it was something about how pitiful and helpless she felt.

I told her: "Mom, you're a very accomplished person. You taught the most disturbed kids in Wichita for 12 years. You worked for Cerebral Palsy Research and supported hundreds of disabled people through the process of deinstitutionalization. You started the Independent Living Center for brain injured people, the Women's Equality Coalition, and Woman Art/Woman Fair to promote female artists. You took care of me and took care of Dad."

"Thanks," she smiled. "I needed that," and leaned back, and dozed off, hands again wandering her lap. Good night. Sleep tight. See you in the morning.