Yesterday my mother was so sad. The difference from last Thursday was stark. A carer and I had taken Mum for tea, joined by Elvis Presley to liven up the journey. Mum had leaned back in her seat, eyes closed, singing along with her hero. Sometimes she would stop and question his words! ‘A wooden heart? Jenny, what’s a wooden heart?’
But Mum was happy last week. She looked relaxed, wrinkle free and loved everyone. Yesterday was so different. Mum wasn’t agitated, which could be an early sign of a urinary tract infection. She was just seriously down in the dumps. I watched her leave her room and walk slowly along the corridor. She looked up and saw me. No usual quick smile of recognition, just a sigh when she whispered my name.
it was Monday and Mum’s hair obviously hadn’t been done. I found a carer and we went to the office to check the balance in her account. She could have paid for the entire care home’s hairdos so lack of funds wasn’t the reason! Mum had decided not to get her hair washed. Civil liberties and human rights prevent carers from using any kind of physical force, but gentle persuasion usually helps. I wasn’t there so can’t pass comment!
Getting to the bottom of the reason for her depression yesterday was nigh on impossible. Mum speaks English, but not as we do. This awful disease has jumbled her words and she has lost the ability to make herself understood. So it was with great difficulty that I spent the next two hours trying to find out what had happened to cause this upset.
We sat in different parts of the living rooms as Mum couldn’t settle. As certain residents joined us she passed comments, words not understood but the look on her face showed whether she liked or disliked them! Eventually Mum asked me to go to that place, pointing to the corridor. I followed her and she walked very slowly to her room.
Mum pushed open the door and I was very surprised to see how sparse it looked. She is light-fingered, another common symptom of dementia! But yesterday there were no signs of the usual ad hoc birthday cards, little toys or sweets she had ‘found’ on her travels. Her room was immaculate. Mum shuffled a few things around her dressing table, muttering to herself. The carers sometimes have to go through Mum’s cupboards and clear out the old newspapers and magazines to make space for her clothes. They do this on a Tuesday when she is out on a weekly trip. This was Monday and her cupboards were a mess.
I asked Mum if she was worried about something. The word ‘worry’ seemed to resonate with her. ‘I think I should be worried’ Mum told me. ‘I don’t think I should be here. I should be at home’. Her words were spontaneous and concise. Her eyes, usually dull, looked alive. Mum stared up at me, my old Mum, back from her living hell, perplexed and confused. I gave her a big hug. Mum is not a frail little old lady. Physically she is robust and quite sturdy. She didn’t hug me back. I let her go and saw, once more, the pair of brown, dull, lifeless eyes. Alas, in that split second, Mum had taken that step back into her twilight world.
As soon as I got home I rang the manager. I thought something must have happened to cause Mum’s earlier upset. Nothing had been reported. Physically Mum looked well. I visit regularly so that I can keep an eye on her. The staff know me and I try to help where I can. I do sometimes have to voice my concerns but always try to be constructive as I know a carer’s job is not easy!
So yesterday was probably another symptom of this inhuman disease. It brings torture to the sufferer by allowing brief moments of lucidity and leaves family and loved ones heartbroken. A living hell on earth. Please God, let us find a cure. 👠
Jenny Burrell 