I’ve written several Mondays with Mom articles about fog. It seems to be the best analogy for what Mom’s mind is going through. We’ve had “fog” in March 2016 and “foggy again” in April 2017. Now, in August 2019, we are in what I can only call “foggier.” I know we have further to go, but these days feel pretty deep.
When I was thinking about fog, I started thinking about how to navigate through it. According to the National Weather Service, we are to use these precautions when driving in fog:
Slow down and allow extra time to reach your destination. Make your vehicle visible to others both ahead of you and behind you by using your low-beam headlights since this means your taillights will also be on.
Good advice, not only for cars, but dealing with the fog of dementia.
Slow down. There is no way to rush Mom. The effort is difficult and the results are often disastrous. Though we sometimes must move her in spite of her cries of “Wait a minute! Wait a minute!”, a few moments of pause helps her connect to the movement. Her meals do not start until she’s ready. Often she’ll push food back out of her mouth with her tongue on the first few bites until she’s convinced that it is safe to eat. She only operates on her timing, so sit back and get comfortable because I guarantee it’s much slower than a normal pace.
Make your vehicle visible. This is a hard part of caregiving. Mom is forgotten by most of the world. She has a few friends who still make time for her, but often she’s not aware of them when they visit. I know how difficult it is to make time for those out of our daily line of sight. I have a hard time making time for anyone outside of the pattern of my days. Mom’s pattern is so very limited. Unless someone comes to her, she’s not going to run into them.
Mom’s fog is impenetrable some days. Of course, since I’m writing about it, she’s had a breakthrough and been very talkative today. (I recorded her story on my phone so I can transcribe it for you next week!) Many days, however, I cannot reach her. I tell her I love her and she’ll just say, “Thank you.” I’ll prod her and ask if she loves me. “Of course,” she’ll say. Sometimes I pester her more and tell her that she needs to tell me she loves me. On good days, she’ll say it. Lots of times I’ll just get a little smile.
We knew foggier days would come and there’s more ahead yet. I’ll keep slowing down, and thanks in part to this article, keep making her visible.
