A Slice of Alzheimer’s Pie
Stage 7, I think
I am taking a break from writing essays to sit with Mom. I am enjoying “So I Married An Axe Murderer,” a Mike Myers movie friends have referenced repeatedly over the years. Mom used to get agitated when we watched anything that had conflict, so for a while we were only watching Beatrix Potter videos and listening to soothing CDs. Now, it doesn’t seem to matter. Mom sits half upright in her hospice-provided bed and stares at the screen (if pointing her one blind eye and the other greatly compromised eye in the direction of a screen can be called “staring”).
I am reclining in the red cafe chair which she and I chose together, a dozen years ago when she moved to Texas after my father died. We went to real furniture store and bought what she wanted. She got a 15% discount for paying with cash.
So I am watching Mike Myers and every time I glance at Mom she is staring at me.
She ate only half her Barbie-scale breakfast and only a few bites of her lunch. I periodically offer water, and she primly drinks a little. The strong odor of urine in the room indicates she is not drinking enough. Is she ever drinking enough?
Myers as Charlie is fighting for his life on the roof. It is ridiculous, of course. The suspense is bearable.
Mom is impassive. Her expression has not changed for hours. Or days?
She responds in the same way to “The Prince of Egypt,” “Rick Steves’ Europe,” and “The Price Is Right.” Blankblankblank. Is she simply incapable of changing expression?
The Alzheimer’s Association website says of Stage 7 that “individuals lose the ability to respond to their environment, to carry on a conversation and, eventually, to control movement. They may still say words or phrases…They may also lose the ability to smile, to sit without support and to hold their heads up. Reflexes become abnormal. Muscles grow rigid. Swallowing impaired.”
Mom’s muscles sure have become rigid. Samaria often remarks that she is “soooooo stiff.” She smooths arnica cream onto Mom’s knees and tries to straighten out her legs.
A gentle breeze lifts the curtains and brings the smell of the California sky. I use an antibacterial wipe to clean off all the doorknobs and other germy surfaces. I say a prayer for Arthur, who travels a lot for work, especially at this time of year. Please, no Ebola.
The floor could use a good cleaning, but I am feeling a bit logy. I have a cup of Earl Grey and balance my checkbook.
Pretty soon it is time to turn Mom I tuck a pillow under her right side, Now she is turned mostly toward the window. When we first moved in, Claire bought a hummingbird feeder and hung it by the window. We keep forgetting to refill it, so no birds come by. I don’t think Mom would notice now if they came back. But I miss them.
Claire arrives and sends me back to writing papers. I give Mom a hug and stare into her watery eyes. On a whim, I sing a few verses of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”
“Beautiful,” she whispers.
