Beech Tree News Network

Last week, I stayed with my stepmom for a few days.  She lives with my stepsister, Lorrie, in eastern Kentucky, but occasionally comes to Taylorsville to stay with my brothers—first one, then the other—in order to give Lorrie a break. 

               Mom owns a house in Taylorsville that sits vacant most of the time, because she has dementia and can’t stay by herself.  The sawmill she and Dad ran for years is across the road and down the hill.  My brother and his wife run it now.

               I stayed with Mom in her house from Friday morning until the following Tuesday afternoon.  It was challenging.  She asks the same questions and repeats the same observations about things several times an hour.  She is often confused about where she is, especially after two weeks of being passed “from pillar to post.”

               My brother’s wife told me Mom had been agitated since being with them in Taylorsville, and not to take offense at anything untoward she might say to me while I was there.  I’ve spent a lot of time with elderly people, and I told her that wouldn’t be a problem.  It wasn’t.  Mostly, I just felt sad for her.

               Everything went pretty well until the morning I over-slept.  I stayed up until after midnight the night before, working on our taxes.  If you don’t constantly interact with Mom, she becomes frustrated and confused, so I was taking advantage of a quiet house in which to do my work. 

               What woke me on the morning I over-slept was the sound of my stepmother on the front porch yelling, “is anybody here?”  I got to the front door as she was headed down the steps.  She planned to cross the road that ran in front of her house, then go down the hill to the sawmill.  (I know this, because she told me that was her intention.)  She was completely dressed, had on a jacket and was carrying her cane.  She was so scared that she had been left alone.  I was so scared at the prospect of her crossing the road by herself.  I think we both lost two years off our lives that morning.  I felt so bad for putting her in that position.  I made sure to set my alarm from then on, so I could get up before she did.

               When I was staying with Mom, I had to constantly remind her where she was—she always asked—who I was—she knew I was her daughter but couldn't remember my name—and what day Lorrie would be back to get her.  She talked about the past and the people who were important to her, but she often inserted them into times and places they had never seen or never been to, like time-travelers from a Science Fiction film.  I could usually read between the lines, so I never corrected her.

               In all of her confusion, there was one exception…my dad.  When Mom walked down the hall, she would stop in front of his picture on the wall and stare into it.  “He was so handsome,” she would say, “and he could talk to anybody.  It was always hard for me to talk to people, but not him.  He made friends with everybody.”

               Later, when I was working on taxes again, she said, “Your dad hated taxes.  I dreaded to see tax time roll around, because he constantly fussed and complained about it the whole time.”

               One night when we were watching TV, she turned to me and said, “I miss him so much.  I’ve asked the Lord to take me home, so I can see him again.”

               Do you remember the last scene in the movie, “Ghost?”  Sam is telling Molly goodbye before he goes to Heaven, and he says, “The love inside, you take it with you.”

               I think that’s how it’s going to be with Mom.  The love she has inside of her for my dad, she will take with her when she goes.