by Mike Glenn
Once again, I was taken aback by the realization that if this was going to work, I was going to have to spend some time thinking about how this worked best for me. That sounded counterintuitive. If we wanted to find the best place to care for Mom, then Mom should be our only consideration.
That’s true, to a point.
First of all, we weren’t deciding between five-star hotels and tents with dirt floors. All of the places we looked at were very good places. Each of them did something a little better than the others, and that’s one of the things that made deciding so difficult. Mom would like this at one place, and she would like that at the other place. Some days, I wished I could construct my own place for Mom by choosing what was best from each place we looked at.
We ended up choosing the place that was closest to our house. We could literally be there in a matter of minutes. And there were times when we needed to be. Mom would have an accident with food or just life . . . and we’d have to go get her clothes to wash and bring her clean ones. She’d run out of her medicine and forget to tell us. Doctors’ appointments, dentist appointments, hair appointments, going out to eat, and just visiting—I’m grateful every day the place we chose was convenient to our lives. Morning Pointe, the place we chose, was on my way to the church, and that allowed me to stop and have coffee with her on most mornings.
It didn’t really matter, however, how good our plan was, Mom was having no part of it. At the beginning of our search, she and Jeannie were running errands. Jeannie thought this might be a good time to let Mom see one of the places we thought she might like. It was a brand-new place. She would have been one of the first residents to move in. It was clean and beautiful.
None of that impressed Mom. She was not going to move to Nashville. She wasn’t going to sell her house. She wasn’t going to move into any apartment. In fact, she wasn’t going inside at all.
She wasn’t going to get out of the car.
And she didn’t.
After sitting for an hour in the parking lot, using every negotiating skill she had, Jeannie finally gave up and brought Mom home.
I don’t know who was madder. The only thing they agreed on was they were mad at me. I had come up with the stupid plan for Jeannie to take my mother by the retirement center “while they were out.”
It had been part of my plan all along, according to my mother, to steal all her stuff and throw her in this prison.
Needless to say, things did not go well.
Over and over again, I was having to learn the same lesson. I couldn’t negotiate with Mom. I couldn’t reason with her. I would have to do the research and make the call. I could listen to the wisdom of others. I could consider input from others, but the decision was mine to make.
The decision was always mine to make.
And I made the decision, and Mom hated me every day for making it. I had made her life miserable. She had a beautiful home. She had beautiful furniture. I had stolen her home, sold off all of her furniture, and stuck her in this prison.
“Where’s my green couch?” she would demand to know.
“I sold it.”
“Why did you sell it? That was a beautiful couch.”
“Because there was only one place where that couch looked good and that was in your living room.”
“Well, you should have left it where it was. You should have left everything like it was. Including me!”
I couldn’t, Mom. I couldn’t leave things alone. If I had left things alone, they would have been so much worse than they were. I know you never liked living here. I know you wanted to go home, but that wasn’t an option.
Coffee with Mom: “I’m glad you came by today. I’m very busy this week, and I don’t have time to sit around and wait on you.”
Not if I loved you. So, I made the call. I chose for you to move up here, and I chose the place where you would live. I chose the church you attended, and the prayer groups you were part of. I did it.
And for four years, the time God gave me with you, you were safe and well cared for. You were loved and enjoyed by your new friends. You ate well. You were dressed, and your hair combed, and in some moments, you were still my mom.
And I can live with that.
Chapter 8
The Confrontation
Coffee with Mom: “Did you sell my house?” Me: “No, Mom. I didn’t.” Mom: “Good, I’m too old to be homeless.”
I love studying military history. I especially love those stories when soldiers found themselves in situations where an impossible objective had to be achieved, and yet, no one could see how it would be done . . . until someone did it.
Washington crossing the Delaware River; General Meade holding Lee at Gettysburg; the Marines raising the flag at Iwo Jima . . .
. . . and me, getting my mom to move to Nashville. If you go to I-65 between Huntsville and Nashville, you’ll notice two long, deep ruts along the highway. That’s where Mom dug in her heels as I was dragging her up to Nashville.
In the four years she lived here, she never admitted she actually lived here. Not once. She never called the retirement center where she lived by its name. She always called it “the prison” or “that place.” She didn’t move up to Nashville—she was kidnapped, brought here, and now was being held against her will.
And it was all my fault. We had the conversation a hundred times. Each time, we would get right to the point where I would have to say, “I’m making the decision and you’re moving.” Each time, I would chicken out. My mom is smart, I would think to myself. She’ll figure it out. She’ll finally understand that what I’m trying to do is in her own best interest. Any time now, she’ll realize that moving to Nashville, while not her preference, wasn’t such a bad option. With a little time and a little work, she’ll grow very fond of Nashville and our life here.
She never did figure it out. She couldn’t. Mom was sick. That part of her brain that figured things out was cluttered with disease. She couldn’t reason things out. I was assuming she would work through things the way she always had. It was physically impossible for her to do so. It simply wasn’t going to happen.
If Mom had cancer, we would have talked through the treatment options and made a decision together. We would have weighed the pros and cons of each process, made a decision, and then worked together to make it happen. If she’d had a heart condition, we’d have gone to doctors, gone through the required surgery if needed, and then worked through her rehab. If it had been any other illness, Mom and I would have worked together, and I would have been able to choose with confidence knowing I was doing what she had wanted done.
With Alzheimer’s, you don’t have any of that. You have someone who looks like your mom, sounds like your mom, but isn’t your mom. She doesn’t do anything your mom would do. She doesn’t want anything your mom would want. As a child, if nothing else, we count on our parents to be consistent. If my mom was anything, she was consistent. If you asked her a question today, she’d give you an answer. If you asked her the same question tomorrow, she’d give you the same answer. It was one of my mom’s “lovable” traits. My dad would tell everyone that mules came to her for stubborn lessons. It was an old Southern joke, but with my mom it was too true to be funny.
With all that she had lost, however, she hadn’t lost any of her strength and none of her power. She was as formidable as she ever had been, and now she and I were going head-to-head. Not only was she not going to help me make this decision, she was going to do everything she could to frustrate me in making this decision. She would load up on facts. Here are the things she had done well this week. These were the places she’d been and the people she had seen. If she was “crazy” (her term for dementia), could she had done all of this?
She would call on the memory of my father. Would he have wanted this? As hard as he and Mom had worked to give me everything, is this the gratitude I
show him? “Your father would have never let you do this to me,” she would say. She was glad Dad wasn’t alive to see this. He would be so ashamed and embarrassed to know his son had done his mother like this.
She would quote the Bible. “Doesn’t the Bible say to honor your parents? Is this how you honor me? You’re the pastor of a church; would you allow any of your church members to do this to their mother?” What kind of a Christian was I? Is this the way Jesus would have treated Mary? (This one was classic, and I tried to explain Mary had moved in with John, but that detail was ignored when she realized it didn’t help her case.)
Coffee with Mom: “I talked to a lawyer (she actually did), and he said to write down everything you stole from me. I’m making my list.”
Then, she would just defy me. “I’m not moving to Nashville. You can’t make me move. You can’t do anything. I’ll call a lawyer. I’ll explain to them how you’ve stolen everything from me. I’ll show them the prison you want to send me to. There are laws now about hurting elderly people. They’ll throw you under the jail.”
Sometimes, life leaves you all by yourself. And here I was. My mom’s oldest son. I was the one to make this decision. I was the one who would decide what was best for Mom.
And I would do it all by myself.
There wasn’t just one discussion. There were several. They all followed a similar path until I finally understood talking with her wasn’t accomplishing anything. Once I decided what we would do, I would then just have to get it done.
The conversations would go something like this:
“Mom, we always knew it would come down to you and me. We knew you would outlive Dad. We knew all of the responsibility for your care would fall to me. We always knew sooner or later you’d end up moving to Nashville. I wanted you and Dad to move up here a long time ago.”
“Why would we have done that? As soon as we moved up to Nashville, you’d be called to some big church somewhere else and there your daddy and I would be. We’d be stuck in Nashville not knowing anyone and not knowing how to get around town. You know Buster (a family friend) moved to Nashville after Addie died, and he moved back home. Besides, I would never do that to your dad. He had his friends and his Sunday school class. And he loved his doctors. I would never take him away from his doctors.”
“I know, and I respect that, but now it’s just you. It’s time for us to take care of you, Mom. I can move you to Nashville. You’ll be there with Jeannie and me. You’ll be close to the boys, and we’ll have access to some of the best doctors in the nation.”
“I’d love to be closer to the boys, but I’ve got good doctors here. My friends are here. I’m not moving to Nashville.”
“Well, Mom, we’re going to have to do something. You can’t live in this big house by yourself. The doctors have said you can’t live alone, and you can’t drive anymore.”
“Who said I can’t drive?”
“Mom, we’ve been through this. You failed the driving test. You can’t get insurance. You can’t drive, Mom.”
“Those idiot doctors? What do they know? Make you walk in funny ways, and then flunk you if you can’t walk all goofy. Who walks that way? I’ve never walked that way in my whole life. [Expletive] doctors. Who trained them anyway?
“Besides, I’m going to retake the test. They give that test right here in Huntsville, and when they tell me to drive back, I’ll know exactly where I am, and I’ll just drive on back. They won’t take me to a city I’ve never been to and drive me around in circles, and then, tell me to drive back. It was a trap. It was the most unfair thing I’ve ever seen. If I ever see those two guys again, I’ll kick both of them.”
“Mom, you can’t drive, and you can’t live alone. We’ve been through all of this.”
I kept thinking Mom would remember all of the conversations we had, all of the doctors’ visits, and all of the results. She had Alzheimer’s. She couldn’t remember, and if she did remember, she certainly wasn’t going to tell me.
“You haven’t been through anything. You just sit there and nod your head when the doctors say this and that about me. You just lie. All of you just lie. I’ve been on my own since my mother died. I raised my three sisters and myself. Now, people tell me I can’t handle things. I’ve been handling things long before any of those [expletive] were even born.”
“Mom, we’re going to have to figure out something.”
“I’ve already figured it out. I’d take care of your dad for as long as God would let me. When he passed away, I’d stay here in our house until God called for me. That’s the plan.”
“No, Mom, that’s not the plan. You’re going to have to move to Nashville. You don’t have a choice.”
“Who made you the boss of me? I’ll tell you this right now, I don’t have to do anything. I’m not moving to Nashville. You can just get that out of your head right now.”
“But you have to . . .”
“No, I don’t. And I’m not. You and Jeannie have been planning this the whole time, haven’t you? You’ve been waiting to get me to move so you could steal everything your daddy and I worked for. She’s been stealing my stuff all along. Don’t think I haven’t seen her. My silver. She stole that.”
“Mom, Jeannie didn’t steal anything.”
“Yes, she did, and I’ve got proof. I’m going to get me a lawyer and sue you and her both. You know there are laws about elder abuse in Alabama. I’ll have them lock you up so long you’ll be older than me when you get out.”
“When they realize I’m dealing with you, Mom, they’ll probably give me a medal. Now, let’s talk about moving to Nashville.”
“I’m not moving to Nashville. You and Jeannie have your own lives and you don’t need to be worrying about me all of the time.”
Now, she was concerned about me. She didn’t want to interrupt my family life or interfere with my home life. If one trick wouldn’t work, the next one she tried would.
We had finally reached the time for action. I went to Huntsville and picked her up. I told her to pack for a week because we had several doctors’ appointments and procedures to have done. We’d be in Nashville for several days.
“Are you going to bring me home?”
“Yes, when we’re done with the doctors, I’ll bring you home.”
“You’re lying to me.”
“No, I’m not. When the doctors are finished, we’ll head straight back here.”
Of course, I was lying. I wasn’t going to bring Mom home. She was moving to Nashville and that was that.
The plan was simple. Jeannie and I would pick her up and take her to Morning Pointe. We’d introduce her to the team who worked there, and we would leave her for the night. When we drove up, she thought we were at the doctor’s office, but when we walked in, she knew we weren’t at the doctor’s office.
Furious? No, that would be too tame of a word. She exploded.
“What have you done to me?!”
“Nothing, Mom, we’re just here to look.”
“There’s nothing I want to see here. Take me home.”
“Let’s just look around. It can’t hurt anything.”
“You look around. I’m going back to the car.”
“No, you’re not, Mom. You’re going to look around with us.”
“Why?”
“Because this is where you’re staying.”
I can’t write what she said, and she kept on saying. She never swung at me, but she balled her fists as if that was her next option. The Morning Pointe caregivers had seen this before. They expertly slid between my mom and me and said it might be better if I left. If I left, then she could be distracted by them and their programs.
We agreed and began to walk out with my mom’s angry words falling on my head like hot rain. I remember pulling out and looking back. I could see Mom pounding on the door an
d yelling at me. She looked like a little kid being left at summer camp.
Had we done the right thing? If we had, it didn’t feel right. I felt awful. She hated me for what I had done. I hated me for what I had done.
Coffee with Mom: “What did I ever do to you that you would leave me in a place like this?”
On the way home, Jeannie reminded me of all the work we had put in selecting Morning Pointe. She reminded me of all the doctors’ visits and all they had told us. We were doing the right thing. No, she said, my mom didn’t understand. She would never understand, and that’s why we had to make the decision. Mom was safe. She was being cared for, and she would adapt.
No, she wouldn’t. Remember when I told you my mom never changed her mind? She didn’t change her mind about this either.
Chapter 9
I Don’t Want to Remember
Coffee with Mom: “Why are you worried about my brain? I keep all the important stuff in my heart, and my heart’s fine.”
“Has it ever occurred to you there are things I just don’t want to remember anymore?” Mom’s statement shocked me. Why wouldn’t she want to remember? She and Dad had a good life together. Their lives were filled with friends and laughter. Both of them were successful in every aspect of their lives. Why would anyone want to forget any of that?
She went on and described a handful of days she didn’t want to ever remember again, but she described them with such detail that let me know she hadn’t forgotten anything about those days. She didn’t want to remember the day her mother died. “Mother had told our daddy she’d let him know when to bring the girls to her. It wasn’t like it is now. They didn’t know everything about cancer like they do now. They treated my mother with cobalt radiation. It burned her horribly. I remember when our daddy came home and told us she had died. I didn’t know what to do. Everyone told me I had to be strong. What did that mean? I think I stopped crying and went to clean up my room. I didn’t know what else to do.”