Mom’s movements are slow. It takes a bit of time for her to prepare herself for any motion. She’ll say, “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” the entire time she’s being moved. Her speed is less than 1 mile an hour, and I tend to move as fast as I can in any given moment. Even as I am sitting here typing, I am grateful for Mrs. Trimair, my typing teacher in junior high school, who made me practice those same patterns over and over again to learn speed on an electric typewriter in her class. Although I didn’t like the class, she was a good teacher to me and I can still type quickly.
Mom hurt her left wrist this weekend. It’s probably nerve or tendon damage. She can still put weight on it. Since her right arm is still broken and unreliable, I am grateful the left wrist is still usable. Because of the pain, however, she’s slower than ever today. A short trip from her chair to the potty is a 4-5 minute transfer. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” The process is then repeated later to get her back in her chair.
I am not the most patient of people. Since I am related to both Ruth and Dwight Bunn, I received a super dose of impatience from both sides of my family tree. Some might say I didn’t have a chance to have patience in my genetics. I’ve been a caregiver for most of my adult life, however, so I’ve learned a lot.
Maybe I’ve learned because I love to garden and gardening takes patience. Maybe it’s because I had three strong-willed children. For whatever reason, I can care for Mom without getting restless. I do have things I can do while she rests and that helps the time pass. These Mondays with Mom articles have been a very positive part of my day with her. When I pause in my writing, I really pay attention to her and really observe her. Being fully present in these moments makes the quiet easier to tolerate.
Mom’s thoughts wander all over these days. She just told me that it was time for her to get dressed to go out for the day. By the time I had her chair halfway up the lifting process, she had changed her mind. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” She didn’t want to stand. So I put the chair in reverse and laid her back down. Even after repeating this scenario four or five times a day, I’m still calm. Why? In the “real” world, I would be seething.
I think the extra patience I have with Mom is a God-given gift. I would have never dreamed of such a time as this. None of us could have anticipated Mom’s physical dependence on others. I am so grateful for God’s other gifts for Mom’s daily life, too: Dad’s extraordinary patience and calm, wonderful caregivers, and an amazing Hospice team.
When Mom’s health first started declining, I wasn’t sure I could deal with it. Many of you know how difficult it is to watch someone you love lose their strength and their mental aptitude. Mom was a force of nature, independent and capable. I think she would have been miserable with her diminished physical health if she had her strong mind intact. God has spared us some of the most common difficulties of dementia including wandering and undressing and personality changes. Mom still has her sweet disposition and warm spirit. So the waiting isn’t as hard as I thought it would be. With medication calming her nights, it’s easy to care for her most of the time. And the times it does get tougher, I’m okay. She waited on me all those years in my childhood (and I know I was a handful!)
I can wait for her now.
