Today I dropped off at my parents' place after yoga, intending to check out the shoe situation. I never see my mother without her complaining bitterly about her shoes. She has a fantasy that they have lots and lots of money in the bank, and that I am keeping it from her, stealing it, as I stole all the shoes and other riches in the house on Stirling St. If I only hand over some of this money, she reasons, dad will whisk her off to the store to buy whatever she wants, and I won't have to have any part in it. All the clothes, all the shoes I buy her, she complains, are the wrong size, wrong style, wrong everything, even though she tries them on and asks to buy them. They are not what she wants.
So with her 92nd birthday coming up next Saturday, I planned to have her try on all the many shoes buried at the back of the closet to see if there were any she could wear. There were three pair of brand new shoes, two of them quite expensive, with the price tags still attached. She received complements when she wore them the one time she had them on, but she will not wear them, claiming that one pair hurts across the toes and the other is too heavy and too wintery for this place. She forgets that it does get cool enough here for her to go about the whole of December, January, darn well through March and April, in warm woolen coats with fur hoods and sweaters. Being so thin and getting thinner, she is always cold, even in the summer, like a chihuahua.
I had thought about taking her to SAS to have some shoes properly fitted. Of course, they are very expensive, but my dad enjoys his pair, which fixed the pain he used to get in his feet. So why should we deprive her? But I wasn't going to do that till I made her try all the shoes on, and made sure there was nothing there she could wear without pain.
I found about 5 pair she said she could wear. But as soon as I told her to put on a pair of them and we'd go on over to Nordstrom Rack and get some socks and things and maybe even an outfit if she wanted for a birthday gift, she said she couldn't wear them, that none of the shoes was any good, and that she wanted new ones. I realized there was no hope. Any new shoes we bought, fitted or not, were fated to end up as these had, at the back of the closet, forsaken.
It's not about shoes, but about everything she has lost, that old age and dementia has taken from her. She didn't want to go. It's more important to her to complain.
As I stood there impatiently, waiting for her to decide whether she wanted to go or not (she didn't), I watched her dump a bag of almonds out in her dresser drawer, and immediately began to gather them up to throw them away. They, and the chocolate she had dumped out there, were full of weevils. So I told her that she would not be able to have treats in the room anymore. She will have to ask for them, and be given a portion until the next time she wants some more.
I feel bad. Yet another thing taken away from her. But this is how the house ended up the way it was at the end, full of rodents and insects.
Deaf as she is, she thought I was angry at her. She asked, "Does this mean you aren't coming to see us anymore? Like my son at the age of 4 when I growled angrily at him for some small thing he did, she looked up at me like a lost puppy, and tore my heart right out of my chest.
5 comments:
oh, Robbi. It's so hard. You're doing what someone has to do, which is a part of love.
I have a friend whose 905-year-old mother is very angry at her, and the woman is living on for so long that my friend is now angry at her mother, too. A sad situation that reminds me how lucky I was that my parents didn't become angry with me.
When a parent becomes unreasonable because their age and ill health have stolen their common sense, I think you have to stop trying to reason. Reason just infuriates your mom and frustrates you. "oh, there's bugs in those nuts, Mom. I'll get you a new bag." And the bag disappears.
What she says now--about her shoes, shopping, you, everything--is not reasonable. You will find it all easier if you stop thinking of her as MOTHER, and instead, just soothe and placate. "I'm sorry that happened" or "I bet you feel tired."
Hang in there, Robbi. You are a good daughter who is doing far more than your share.
You're right Lou. I usually keep my temper, but I did lose it just a bit, exasperated by the shoes. I was testing her, and she flunked the test. There was no need to get mad. The nuts were just the last straw, I guess. But I won't give her another bag of nuts or chocolate to put in the drawer. Actually, I had anticipated this, and bought a glass jar to keep these treats in that would keep this from happening. I don't know what happened to it. She hides things.
Reb,
Thanks. You're right that someone has to do this. She can't help her reactions, anymore than a baby can help its crying.
905-year-old. Heh. I meant that the mother SEEMS 905 years old.
Lou,
I thought it was just an interesting example of hyperbole!
Post a Comment