Rollercoaster

I've never been fond of carnival rides.  Tilt-a-Whirls, Himalayans, rollercoasters, that thing that looks like a viking ship...  the abrupt changing of direction always made my stomach wish to eject the cotton candy and hot dog contents (never did though).  I've done a pretty good job of avoiding carnivals, only consenting to go to the fair to see the animals or the various exhibits of artwork or pies.

But I find myself on a rollercoaster now...  and my stomach still feels the same effects.

The rollercoaster in question is my mother's moods.  I never know what I'm going to get when I go visit her.  The Month-of-Clarity was really wonderful.  Mom was there and present and happy to see people.  These days, the sundowning is hard.  Her days are still okay, though getting less so, but the evenings are awful.  

I try to see her around dinner time in rehab.  Rehab is different from the Memory Care Home.  While she gets a lot of individual attention at the Home, rehab is manned by nurses and CNAs stretched thin.  They do their best, but aren't really set up to deal with someone who has dementia long-term.  So I make sure she eats and I get her ready for bed.  She gets changed, PJs are put on, the bed is adjusted, water in the CPAP and all of her water cups are topped up for the night.  Lighting has to be just so.  We talk and if it's a pretty good night, it's pleasant and easy to do with joy.  

But the other nights...  when I walk in she throws up her hands and cries "where have you been???"  The look on her face is terrible, like an animated version of Eduard Munch's "The Scream".  She worries and frets and cries.  She can't understand her calendar.  Her back hurts; the TV is on the wrong channel; her bottom hurts (closed bedsores); she's scared.  She worries incessantly.  She wants to hold my hand constantly and looks at me with such distress that my heart drops.  I guess I can count myself lucky that violence and biting aren't part of her repertoire.  The near constant moaning is hard to bear.  And she cries when I leave.  I reassure her that she is safe and that she is all right and that I'll see her tomorrow, then close the door with a heavy heart.

She's had a couple of roommates.  The first one died.  The second one was, in her words, a psycho.  She bit people and was ambulatory, so she would go through Mom's stuff while Mom pressed the nurse button repeatedly.  That one was moved out after one night to a different room.  She has a lovely woman in with her as of last night.  She can't walk and has no teeth so roaming and biting aren't a concern.  A former CNA, she knows the drill.  I hope that Mom can find some comfort in sharing her room with this woman.  

It really is a rollercoaster.  I grit my teeth and hang on tight when we're plunging towards the bottom, and try to relax and breathe on the climb up, knowing that the other side of that climb is another plunge.  It's a ride I'd like to get off of, but the only way that happens is if Mom dies... and I'm not ready for the ride to end just yet.