This ole house is getting shaky
This ole house is getting old
In May 2016 – a few months after my father died – we moved my mother (who turns 95 next week) from her home in Missouri to an assisted-living facility in the Washington, DC-area.
Until covid hit, I saw her most days – either to have lunch with her, or to accompany her to the daily group exercise sessions. But I haven’t been allowed inside her building since March – for the last nine months, our contact has been limited to brief “sunshine” visits on the facility’s patio.
I wasn’t doing a very good job of overseeing and managing my mother’s health – in particular, her mental health – before covid, and the restrictions necessitated by the pandemic haven’t made that task any easier.
For example, I used to put her hearing aids in when I visited. (For some reason, she stopped allowing the nursing staff to put them in.) Since I’m not able to personally put them in, she doesn’t wear them any more.
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| My mother in 1947 |
Earlier this year, she was told that she needed to wear compression stockings the remedy the swelling in her lower legs. But she never has them on when I see her at one of the “sunshine” visits – she refuses to let the nurses put them on. (You couldn’t pay me enough to be one of the nursing staff that has to deal with her – my mother was as meek and mild as they come during most of her life, but these days she can be very nasty to her caregivers.)
If I was able to go into her apartment to visit her, I could get her hearing aids in – she would resist, but I wouldn’t take “no” for an answer – and I could bully her into allowing the nurses to put the compression stockings on (as well as do various other small tasks that she refuses to allow them to do). I would also insist that she wear her sneakers (instead of her clumsy, fall-waiting-to-happen house slippers) and take a walk up and down the hallways.
But I can’t go into her apartment, so a lot of stuff is sliding.
* * * * *
It was hard to communicate with my mother even when she would wear her hearing aids, and it’s virtually impossible to talk with her now that she’s not – not to mention that we have to wear masks, which makes it even more difficult to be heard and understood.
So when I visit, I take several sheets of paper and write notes to her.
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| My family in 1961 |
If you’re like me, you don’t handwrite letters anymore – everything is done via text message or e-mail. (I rarely even sign my name any more.) I find it exasperating enough to have to deal with all my mother’s issues – I’m not at all patient, and apparently I’m not a very empathetic person either – and it’s very annoying to have to write every word down in big, printed letters so she can comprehend what I’m saying.
The notes from my last visit with her appear below in italics. As you read them, imagine me writing each one by hand and then holding the paper up in front of her face so she can read it – after which I wait for her reply, then cross out the previous message and write a follow-up message.
* * * * *
You need to always use your walker – so you don’t fall so often.
(NOTE: My mother has fallen in her apartment several times in the last few weeks. Before covid, she got around reasonably well with a cane. But her physical activity has been very limited since the pandemic began – no group exercise classes, no walks to the dining hall for meals, etc. – and now she really needs to use a walker even when she’s just moving from room to room in her apartment.)
You fell in the bathroom because you didn’t use your walker.
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The last time you fell, you didn’t use it.
You need to use the walker all the time.
Every time you walk somewhere! To the bathroom!
Use the walker in your apartment!
* * * * *
(NOTE: I used to call my mother every day on her cell phone. Since she hasn’t been wearing her hearing aids for months, she rarely hears the phone when I call now. She always blames the phone, so I always tell her to bring the phone with her when I visit so I can check it. The phone usually is fine – she just can’t hear the ringer.)
[Your phone] worked when you called me yesterday.
Did you hear the phone ring? (NOTE: I said this after calling her phone while I was standing next to her to see if the volume was at its highest setting. I could easily hear the phone ringing, but she couldn’t.)
The phone is working.
Why don’t you wear your hearing aids?
Let the nurse put your hearing aids in!
NOW!
(At this point, she told me the nurses weren’t trying to put her hearing aids in any more – if that’s true, it’s because of her resistance to their efforts.)
I will tell them to try again to put the hearing aids in. Will you let them do it?
The phone is fixed!
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(NOTE: I wrote that last note after she continued to say there was something wrong with her phone, which was not the case.)
* * * * *
(NOTE: This summer, an outside nurse came to check the edema in my mother’s lower legs – she doesn’t walk enough, and when she sits, she fails to prop her feet up. The nurse prescribed compression stockings, but I’ve never seen my mother actually wearing them. I’m sure the in-house nursing staff has tried to get her to wear them, but can’t talk her into cooperating. To make matters worse, she won’t wear her sneakers – she shuffles around in loose-fitting slippers, which are a disaster waiting to happen in terms of tripping and falling. When I was able to go to her apartment, I would insist that she put on the sneakers, but I can’t do that any more.)
You need to wear your [compression] stockings!
Let the nurses help you!
Wear the stockings TODAY!
* * * * *
(Note: My only sibling Terri lives in Texas. When I visit my mother, I usually call Terri on FaceTime so the two of them can say hello to each other. But I don’t think my mother understands that Terri is actually speaking to her on the phone – she can’t hear Terri, and thinks I am showing her a photo or a video.)
We’re calling Terri now [on FaceTime].
Terri doesn’t know when she will visit next.
It’s not safe to come yet.
You might get a virus shot soon!
* * * * *
(NOTE: My mother is falling more frequently, and her assisted-living facility has suggested that we hire an aide to be in her apartment to oversee and help her. I have no clue how to find someone to do that job, but I need to get started finding someone after the holidays are over. At times, my mother expresses a desire to have someone with her, but when she had home-health-care people in her house in Missouri, she was so nasty to them that several quit – one after only a couple of days. So I’m not optimistic about finding an aide she will be happy with.)
Would you like to have an aide in your apartment with you?
(NOTE: No answer.)
Should we hire a helper to be with you?
(NOTE: Still no answer.)
YES or NO?
* * * * *
After I drafted this post – but before I published it – my mother’s assisted-living place sent her to the local emergency room.
They told me they did that because she seemed even more confused and anxious than usual – which is saying a lot – and was having trouble walking. I’m not optimistic about the hospital being able to help her – she’s a week shy of her 95th birthday, so there’s no reason to think that she’s going to get better rather than continuing to go downhill.
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| My mother with her oldest great-grandchild in February |
Nine months of being more or less isolated in her apartment – with little physical activity – has no doubt accelerated her decline. Given the pandemic, I understand why strict restrictions had to be imposed. But in her case, the cure may have been as bad (if not worse) than the disease.
* * * * *
Stuart Hamblen wrote and recorded “This Ole House” in 1954, and it’s been covered by dozens of recording artists since then. (The royalties were sufficient for Hamblen to buy Errol Flynn’s mansion.)
“This Ole House” was one of my mother’s favorites. She loved male quartets, so I’m featuring the Statler Brothers 1966 recording of the song – the group’s inimitable bass singer, the late Harold Reid, took the lead on their version of it, and he knocked it out of the park.
Click here to listen to “This Ole House.”
Click on the link below to buy the song from Amazon:
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