Ran into an old acquaintance the other day who told me excitedly that they were now, “in renewable energy.” “Have you met my mum?” I answered. They were somewhat baffled but I was serious. Whatever force is driving my 95-year-old mother into another winter, it seems more reliable than the sun.
The obvious and traditional answer to this apparent mystery of maternal power would be food, and the time-honoured process of metabolism by which it is converted into energy. Except that last time I made dinner mum said, “I’m stuffed” and fed the rest of her portion to my brother’s dog. The canine connection is apposite since the miraculous energy puppies access from a handful of dry biscuits seems to stem from the same mystical font as my mum’s late life flair for transmuting the occasional mouthful of this and that into almost a century of survival.
OK – she isn’t chasing any sticks, but it is still remarkable. Until last month I was part of a trio of friends, all of whom had surviving mums in their mid-nineties. Over the course of a week, a week we now refer to as ‘Mumageddon’ both my friend’s mum’s died. It feels useful to note how upsetting I found this, and I think that was because my own mother’s mortality is much on my mind – or perhaps I should say I am constantly maintaining my defences around it – whereas the passing of my friend’s mums, one in particular, really took me by surprise. So I am alone then – last mum standing – though not as alone as I will be.
Meantime I take mum’s survival and relative stoicism as a lesson in itself – if she can do this, so can I. In an effort to get my head around where her head is at I have been studying Oliver James’ book ‘Contented Dementia.’ Contented Dementia: A Revolutionary New Way of Treating Dementia : 24-hour Wraparound Care for Lifelong Well-being : James, Oliver: Amazon.co.uk: Books Since my own book came out https://www.panmacmillan.com/authors/the-reluctant-carer/the-reluctant-carer/9781529029390 James’ has been frequently recommended to me, and so, despite some resistance to abandon my own ‘make it up as you go along’ policy I decided to buy the book and take some advice.
At the book’s opening James outlines three points as the foundation of his approach, one of them is “always agree with everything they say, never asking questions.” As you will have instinctively understood, this is as not as simple as it sounds. “We haven’t seen much of Dad lately,” says mum. Where once I might have pointed out gently that her husband – my father – passed away two and a half years ago, I adopt the new strategy instead and answer. “I haven’t seen him, and I’d be worried if I did.” This works, Mum laughs, and does a plausible impression of seeing a ghost. This would not have been the case if I had simply set her straight, however gently. So this method is much in favour now, although compared to some of the allegations against reality that I hear these days – that was an easy one.
The book also explores how dementia gets in the way of forming new memories. I realise that something similarly dementia-like is happening to me thanks to mum’s carer’s addiction to greatest hits radio. The non-stop eighties soundtrack that accompanies my interactions with my parent in her nineties adds the emotional complication of making me feel as though I am sixteen. This is amplified by the fact this is taking place in the same house I lived in when I was sixteen. So I do the elderly stuff while another part of me is convinced by music that I am going out for the evening. It is an odd juxtaposition until I realise what teenage and present predicament me have in common is that we are both trying to work out what women are thinking. I would page Dr Freud but I think he’s busy. I must make do with Dr and the Medics, and the beat goes on.
The Reluctant Carer 
Thank you for this beautiful writing
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Thank you, Ann.
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I love your writing so much! Thank you for the laughs, and I hope your mom and you have had a wonderful weekend of wondering where your father is. 🙂
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Cheers, Kitty
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You manage to find the right balance in explaining the emotional tangle of dealing with your parents. As the caretaker to my 90+ yr old widowed mother I laughed out loud at some of your statements. It’s truly a IYKYK club. Thanks.
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Thanks Elaine
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Dear Reluctant Carer
Thanks for the update on your mother, as always when I read your posts I am struck by how well you cope with the demands of unwell parents – now parent – without losing your sense of humour or your sense of who you, I think it would be so easy to become overwhelmed. As well as following your blog I have read your book and found it inspirational, but haven’t commented before.
I’m very struck by how ways of interacting with people who have dementia has changed over the years. When I was training to be a Registered Mental Nurse in the early 1970s psychiatry was moving away from the “just go along with everything they say” approach in favour of the new regime of Reality Orientation. In this, we had to remind the patients of who and where they were, we had charts in the wards giving the day and date, the season of the year and the current weather. We were encouraged to talk about current events, and gently correct patients when they talked about seeing their long-dead parents, and other erroneous ideas. The thinking behind this was to keep the patient in the real here and now, so as to help them preserve what marbles they still had (a technical term). I’m sure there must have been some research basis to support this form of treatment, and I have to admit it sat better with me than going along with clearly delusional thinking.
Ten years ago my mother developed vascular dementia, she was fortunate to be living in a very good sheltered housing scheme with very caring staff and their approach was to keep her very much in touch with reality. However, in time she deteriorated and she spent the last year of her life in an excellent care home run by the Royal British Legion, and there I found that the treatment approach had swung back the other way. Residents weren’t challenged when they said they were going out to work, or to see long-dead relations, and ideas I would think of as delusions were cheerfully accepted. Some residents were even given dolls which they would nurse as if they were babies, something I really found abhorrent but had to admit they seemed happy with the dolls. I had a combative relationship with my mother all my life, my default setting being to always disagree with her this, so this coupled with my previous professional training made it very hard for me to go along with everything she said although I did try very hard to follow the home’s approach. I think I’m still processing her death, 7 years on, I was an only child and my father died many years ago, so it was an intense relationship, mitigated by the fact that we lived 120 miles apart.
I hope you continue to find the strength to do what you do, and to write about it with some compassion and humour.
With very best wishes
Lesley
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Dear Lesley, thank you for your message, your enthusiasm for my writing and for this considered comment. I hear everything your saying, I suspect there is a mix and match world for every person affected dementia which will probably vary as the condition progresses – we come into being as individuals and we let that go in equally singular ways, it seems to me. Obviously institutions require policies but from person to person and say to day there will always be scope to interpret and act accordingly – let’s hope. Thank you for your good wishes. TRC
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