Mom's been here for two full days so far, and one thing among many I've learned that jumps out at me: Time loses all meaning when you're caring for a dementia/Parkinson's patient. Wait, strike that -- it has greater meaning, because you seem to need so much more of it.
I'm one of those prepare-hours-before kinds of people, the woman who makes her kids' lunches the night before and is at the airport exactly two hours ahead. Given a deadline, I'll mentally put it at days before.
I've had to rethink my habits. Mom needs twice as much time and dozens of steps more to even get out the door, and you can't rush. A shirt simply has to be drawn slowly over her arms, one of which can't lift past 65 degrees, thanks to last year's bone-breaking fall; rush it, and she'll get tangled. If she eats too quickly and she'll choke, and she almost always eats too quickly, so one needs to force her to slow down, which requires parceling out tiny portions. Toileting requires at least ten minutes simply for her to fold five squares into a neat rectangular shape, and she will not -- will not -- use it bunched. Going down the stairs is a delicate balancing/strength move for both of us, and walking quickly is an invitation to disaster.
I'd like to think that all this extra time between actions gives me the chance to achieve a Zen-like perfection in each one. Wax on, wax off. Breathe. Regrettably, I'm not that enlightened, but I will say that magnifying each little chore we go through makes you appreciate just how much each of us do each day.
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