Dementia Days

A few days ago, on my way to visit my mother, one of her care managers approached me with a request: My mother’s closet is packed full of clothing, and it is difficult for the care managers to keep everything laundered and organized. Since Sigrun no longer wears most of those clothes, the (very nice and considerate) care manager suggested that I remove some of that clothing from my mother’s apartment.

It seemed like a very reasonable request; a request I agreed to without hesitation.

Then, I found myself standing in front of her closet – paralyzed, unable to remove much of anything. There were some blindingly bright pieces of 70s garb, some sheer blouses in all the colors of the rainbow, tight, form-fitting tops and sleek pants; most items clearly impractical for life in the reminiscence unit.

All of this may sound like the wardrobe of Peggy Bundy, but it is the tool chest of the couture magician I know as my mother. For as long as I can remember, Sigrun has been an impeccable dresser – no, more than an impeccable dresser, a woman with style; not a fashionista following every trend, but rather a connoisseur of elegance that lasts. Her favorite designer – Coco Chanel. Remember the pencil skirts with the tight short jackets? The high heels and the cute little hats? That was my mother, and, if she was still capable of picking out her clothes, it would still be her.

So, who am I to steal colors from the palette of Michelangelo? Sneak instruments out of Mozart’s compositions? So what if my Michelangelo started wearing 13 pairs of underwear at the same time? I’m sure they were carefully chosen and matched in color! So what if shoes didn’t always come from the same pair? I’m sure they, too, complemented each other in my mother’s creative mind!

In fact, Sigrun still holds strong opinions on anything that might compromise a perfect ensemble. When I visit my mother, I am always acutely aware of what I am wearing. As I stand in front of the entry to her assisted living place, I look myself over, regretfully discovering the snot stains on my jacket from my children’s runny noses. I rediscover the little hole that I’ve been meaning to fix in my sweater. And, oh yes, there’s the pimple that’s been forming on my forehead.

And, sure enough, as I then sit across from my mother, the lady who now is confined to a wheelchair and no longer is able to intelligibly utter a sentence, the lady whom I love so dearly, her outstretched finger comes across the table and finds its target infallibly, pointing out the hole in my sweater, or the snot on my jacket, or, unabashedly, the pimple on my forehead. Her facial expression seems to indicate a caring, but concerned recognition that I simply can’t measure up to her understanding of style.

And indeed, I can’t. As a member of the sandwich generation, juggling 2 kids, a mother in reminiscence care, and work, all the while trying to also be a reliable, loving partner to my wonderful husband, I feel I have plenty of excuses for the snot, the hole, maybe even the pimple! Then again, how did my mother do it? She had three kids, worked part-time, traveled, yet always looked impeccably groomed.

Drifting into the oblivion of dementia, my mother continues to set an example for me, not to let myself go, to take pride in my appearance, no matter what the setting, no matter what my mental state may be (and with sleep deprivation and toddler distraction, it often times resembles the early stages of dementia).

Mental note: fix that hole! (since I can’t do anything about the pimple or the snot)