Passage Into Paradise - A Caregiver's Journey - PART THREE

it was a horrific sight! I think Crayola colors must have been invented to match the shades the human body is capable of turning! (red, yellow, brown, BLUE, BLACK, green, orange, purple). Mom's body is still here, but she bobs, jumps, and wiggles constantly again. She can't write, but she can read. She cannot tell night from day, so we just let the TV run - She likes the noise it makes. She feeds herself - How, I don't know, since she is curled up in the fetal position most of the time. Long ago, when she was much better, my husband used to take food into her for breakfast. One morning he was in a hurry, and fixed her meal, then left - when I woke up, Mom's face was in her oatmeal! It's a wonder she didn't suffocate, but it sure did look funny. Mom is emotionally "flat" and very, very weak. We have to move her around in bed, since the muscles are all gone now. She thinks I am her sister most of the time. Her memory is clearest when she was in her late 20s, early 30s - which would be 1940-1950. Everything else is a blur, a dream, or completely erased.

I have spells where I cry until I think I'll never stop and then others where I hope she leaves this world before she worsens further. She screams and moans now too, usually during deep nighttime. The nurse says she has had so many strokes that she has developed brain injuries that mimic Alzheimers and also developed epilepsy. But we do the best we can with what is left. Mom and I can't even have a conversation now, because she starts reciting events from 1940 and I wasn't born then. I know she can't help it, but it is hard to be forgotten in your mother's memory. I never knew just how many levels of depression, grief and utter despair there were! I can see why people change after an ordeal such as this - Although I would STILL make the same choice, I would have learned more about what I would be facing and what I would be left with after it was all over. I take care of this woman out of respect and honor for my mother who, for the most part, is already gone.

This is why I don't write anyone

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