This Demented Life: A Flash Blog

 

“I stashed all the clocks in the attic today,” said mom’s caregiver, who fills in when I’m gone. “Time is really stressing her out.”

Clocks and calendars are a cacophony of confusion for mom. Adrift on the time-space continuum, she’s never certain of the day of the week, the season, whether morning or night. “I’m having trouble understanding August,” she confessed and pointed to the calendar, now as perplexing as her windup clock.

Not being able to keep track of time makes her anxiously ask what time it is. Yet as soon as I answer, she’s forgotten the whole conversation and asks again.

At first, I didn’t get it. But I learned that as a result of lost brain functions, people with dementia can’t judge the passage of time. Since mom can’t remember what she’s done in the immediate past, she has no way to gauge how much time has passed.

When I finally accepted this, I received an unexpected gift: compassion.

The clocks may be hidden, but their numbers remain forever jumbled in her mind.

This year marks the thirtieth anniversary of my move from New England to the West. My parents, long-divorced, still live on the East Coast. As they come to need more help, for the past three years I’ve shuttled between family life in the desert and back east where I grew up.

My caregiving horizon goes beyond taking care of people. Its broad tentacles encompass houses and pets, too.

As household manager of multiple households, my resume skills have expanded: family caregiver, Power of Attorney, financial expert, property maintenance. I handle new generators, furnaces, and plumbing systems, not to mention leaky roofs and a mouse infestation for two century-plus houses. Mercifully, my husband oversees the house in the West.

Like my first exposure to dementia, I knew nothing about old houses. And, like dementia, nothing is certain with an old house.