My Mother Lost Her Mind on Sunday
Sudden delirium
2 p.m. Mom calls me. She never calls me — I always call her.
“Cheryl, they think I’m crazy.”
“Who, Mom . . . Who thinks you’re crazy?”
“The dishonest people. All the dishonest people here.”
“What?”
“The Woodbrook staff. You need to call Woodbrook. Ask to talk to me. See what they tell you about me. See if they admit I’m here. Then call me right back. Call Grant too.”
Her voice is clear. Her sentences complete. Panic, obvious.
2:15. I call Woodbrook, her assisted living home, three hours’ drive from my home.
Speak with Darla, one of the caregivers monitoring Mom’s section.
“Betty’s not OK. She’s not Betty . . . I went to check her vitals this morning. She told me I couldn’t be in her room. She kept arguing about ‘Bullshit. This is all Bullshit.’ Fighting me. I got her BP and her Temp. They seem OK. But she’s not Betty.”
I call Grant.
He’s on his way. He lives the closest of the sibs. Gregg’s going too, but it’ll take him a bit longer. “No, says Grant. “Don’t come yet. She’s confused. Nurse thinks it might be triggered by a UTI (urinary tract infection). Says that happens sometimes.
I call Mom. “They don’t think you’re crazy, Mom. . . They think you’re confused and they’re worried about you.”
“Dishonest. So many dishonest people.”
I think, “She’s right.”
But I’m thinking more general, not specific, not personal. It’s very personal for Mom. Since she moved in to Woodbrook three years ago she’s complained of little things missing from her room. Now she hides stuff. No trust. And personal seems to have become persecution in her mind.
“They’re trying to help you,” sounds empty to me, but she calms.
“Thank you for calling. . . I’m OK. . .Thank you,” Curt, like she’s trying to get me off the phone.
I try Grant again. Then Gregg. Can’t reach either.
8 pm. Grant calls me. Mom’s in the hospital. She called not only Grant and me, but Gregg in Ithaca, Marc in Savannah and my niece and nephews in Oregon, New Jersey and Delaware. Everyone’s in an uproar, calling Grant. She refused to enter her own room. Said it wasn’t hers. Insisted there are two Woodbrooks — one in Pennsylvania, one in New York. She’s in the wrong one. Not her home.
Woodbrook called the ambulance. Mom wouldn’t go. She took off.
“Took off?”
Mom is 97, about 4’ 9” (even though she insists she’s still 5’4”). She no longer stands straight. Her back curves and her neck is inflexible — always seems like she’s looking at the ground when she strides along behind her walker. She strides with the same solid heel strike that always announced her arrival when we were misbehaving kids. She strides, but her steps are tiny, her pace slow. The wheels on her walker wobble. I imagine her trucking out the long curved Woodbrook driveway toward Maple Ave in her pastel sweat suit and sneakers. Not difficult to catch.
“She refused to go in the ambulance. But I got her to go with me. Took her to the emergency room. They’re doing tests,” Grant sounds tired, but reassured.
Sudden delirium is not uncommon in the elderly. Sudden is the operative. Not to be confused with dementia. Frequently triggered by minor infections, drug interactions, dehydration, even vitamin deficiency, seemingly small problems cause big behavioral changes. Treatable once you find the trigger.
Till Sunday, Mom’s been sharp, keen, quick. A little hard of hearing with some interesting conversational results. “Did the horses have their blankets on?” once followed my complaints of a cleaning project. Cold . . .Mold. . . . I get it. A little deaf, but totally with-it. A strong sense of self.
Now, a fear of losing that self.
I’m afraid, too.
Cheryl Thomas 2024
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