A few weeks ago, I visited my mom in Ohio. As you may know, she is in the very late stages of Alzheimer's. She doesn't talk, but she smiles. She planks--her body become rigid and her bum lifts off the bottom of her wheelchair. When she relaxes, she slumps and needs to be readjusted in her chair by her caretakers. Jack said uncontrolled planking is a type of spasticity caused by neurological problems. He translates her day-to-day behaviors into levels of degradation.
I wondered if she recognized me, even as her brain falls apart. Was she smiling at me because I was someone sitting next to her, or did she smile because her daughter came to visit? I could ask, but I wouldn't get a response.
I was talking to my neighbor, Carol, whose mother also had Alzheimer's. She asked if my mother recognized me, and I said I thought she might, but I couldn't tell. She would look at me while she ate, not at other people or other parts of the room.
"My mother recognized me until the very end," Carol said.
I remember seeing the documentary, Alive Inside. People with dementia were given music from their youth to listen to, and people who were catatonic would then talk or sing along to their favorite music.
I wonder if my voice was like a song to my mother, bringing her back into her past, awakening her mind.
This blog is about the little and big thoughts that pop into my head. I once read that when Flannery O'Connor walked into a bookstore, she would want to edit her published works with a red pen. In the digital world, we have the luxury of tweaking things up after we've hit the publish button. I can be a perfectionist/procrastinator, where waiting for the ideal means little gets done. Here I will share what is not--and likely will never be--perfect.
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