Unaware of Limitations
Unaware of Limitations
Ruby – Rosie’s Mom
Individuals with dementia may not recognize their declining abilities, leading them to overestimate their capacity to handle both mundane tasks like dressing or bathing and more complex activities such as driving, cooking, or managing finances. As dementia progresses, this gap in self-awareness can grow, increasing the risk of accidents and financial errors as they attempt tasks that are increasingly beyond their capabilities.
Bathed in the gentle morning light that sneaked through the gauzy curtains, I found myself watching Mom, my heart filled with both admiration and worry. Her fierce independence and unwavering spirit, traits I’ve always admired, now seemed to be the very things that led us into frightening situations.
“Mom, why don’t we let the caregiver help with your shower today, just to be safe?” I suggested, trying to keep my voice soft, hoping to avoid reigniting the memories of her past falls.
As expected, Mom’s response was firm and immediate. “Rosie, I’ve been taking care of myself long before you started worrying about me. I’ll be fine,” she stated, her voice leaving no room for negotiation.
Each time I heard the bathroom door click shut, my heart sank. That sound wasn’t just the closing of a door; it represented Mom’s resistance to facing her growing vulnerabilities. Even the grab bars we’d installed, which she had agreed to with great reluctance, didn’t ease my concern.
It took a particularly harsh fall for Mom to start reconsidering her stance. Bruised but thankfully not seriously hurt, she began leaving the bathroom door slightly ajar during her showers, a minor concession, but a significant one for us both.
The day Mom finally asked for my help with her bathing marked a turning point. “Okay, Rosie, maybe you can help with the shampoo… and the soap,” she said, her voice carrying a new note of vulnerability.
Those moments together in the humid bathroom, with me gently working shampoo into her hair, evolved into unexpected oases of closeness amidst the turbulent journey of caregiving. Each shower became a poignant reflection of our changing roles, a reversal that neither of us had fully prepared for.
As Mom’s condition worsened, the arrival of Julie from Hospice by the Sea introduced a new phase in our lives. Julie’s skilled, compassionate care brought a new level of dignity to these intimate moments. Watching her bathe Mom, I was struck by the grace and respect she brought to the task, turning a routine chore into a ritual of genuine care and compassion.
Even towards the end, Mom’s spirit never waned, her yearning for independence clashing with her physical limitations. “I want to get up, take a shower,” she would whisper, her once strong voice reduced to a frail echo of its former self.
However, at the end she was in a coma and getting dry showers. I marveled at the hospice caregiver’s skills. She would change my mom’s clothes, give her a dry shower, brush her teeth, change her bed sheets, and cut her nails, all while my mom stayed fast asleep. I would stand in the room, hoping against hope to hear her overconfident voice say “I will do it myself… Take me to the shower…”
Navigating this journey with Mom, from her steadfast denials to the quiet acceptance of assistance, has been a profound lesson in the intricate dance of caregiving. The story of our lives together, capturing the moments of holding on and the grace of letting go, and the unexpected strength discovered in moments of vulnerability.
A New Understanding
Violet and Steve’s Story
Violet stood in the doorway, watching her father, Steve, fumble with the buttons on his shirt. His once strong and steady hands now trembled with the effort. It broke her heart to see him like this, but his stubborn nature made it difficult for her to offer help.
“Hey, Dad, could I give you a hand with that?” Violet suggested, her voice casual, hoping to ease his frustration.
Steve glanced up, his pride flashing in his eyes. “I’ve been dressing myself for over seventy years, Violet. I don’t need help now,” he replied gruffly.
Violet sighed inwardly, knowing how much he valued his independence. “I know, Dad, but sometimes it’s okay to let someone help. It doesn’t mean you’re any less capable.”
He finally managed to button his shirt, but the effort had clearly taken its toll. Violet stepped forward, handing him his cane. “Let’s take it slow today, okay? We don’t need to rush.”
Their walk to the park was a silent one, each slow step a reminder of the changes time had brought. As they approached a bench, Steve stumbled, and Violet quickly caught him.
“Maybe we should sit for a bit, Dad,” she suggested, guiding him to the bench.
Steve sighed heavily. “I used to run circles around this park, you know. Now I can barely make it halfway.”
Violet sat beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done so much, Dad. It’s okay to slow down. We can find new ways to enjoy things.”
Steve looked at her, a mix of gratitude and sadness in his eyes. “It’s just hard, Violet. Accepting that I can’t do everything I used to.”
“I know, Dad. But we’ll figure it out,” she reassured him, her voice filled with determination.
As the days passed, Violet found subtle ways to help her father without bruising his pride. She’d prepare his clothes the night before, lay out his medications, and make sure everything he needed was within easy reach. She also found him a button hook, a device that made it easier for him to pull the buttons through the tiny holes.
One evening, as they sat watching television, Steve sat proudly wearing his favorite buttoned up shirt. He turned to her and said, “Thank you, Violet. For everything. I don’t say it enough, but I appreciate all you do.”
Violet smiled, her heart swelling with love. “You don’t have to thank me, Dad. Your happiness is mine, too.”
Their journey together was a lesson in patience and understanding, a delicate balance between maintaining independence and accepting help. Through it all, their bond grew stronger, each challenge met with unwavering support and love.
The Joy of Restoration
Micheal and Desmond’s Story
Desmond sat in the garage, the scent of motor oil and old leather enveloping him as he looked at the partially restored vintage car before him. His chronic back pain had made it impossible for him to get down on the ground and work on the car, something he loved deeply. The car, once a representation of his passion and skill, now seemed like a symbol of his limitations.
“Hey, Pa,” Michael called, stepping into the garage with a curious look. “How’s the car coming along?”
Desmond sighed, frustration evident in his voice. “It’s not, Michael. I can’t get under the chasse anymore. It’s just sitting there, waiting for someone who can.”
Michael thought for a moment, then his face lit up with an idea. “Well, maybe I could do it? You can teach me everything, and I’ll do the physical work. We can do it together.”
Desmond looked at his grandson, a mix of hope and hesitation in his eyes. “You’d do that, Michael? It’s not easy work.”
Michael grinned. “I’d love to, Grandpa. I’ve always wanted to learn more about cars, and it’d be great to have you as a mentor.”
Over the next few weeks, the garage became their sanctuary. Desmond’s detailed instructions and Michael’s youthful energy combined to breathe new life into the vintage car. “Pass me the wrench, Michael,” Desmond would say, pointing to the exact size needed.
“Got it, Grandpa. What’s next?” Michael replied eagerly, ready to dive into the next task.
Desmond watched with pride as Michael tackled each job with enthusiasm and growing skill. “You’re getting the hang of this, kid. I might just have to put you in charge of the next project.”
Michael laughed, wiping grease from his hands. “Only if you promise to keep teaching me. I still have a ways to go.”
Their bond deepened with each session, the shared goal bringing them closer than ever. The vintage car, once a symbol of lost ability, now represented their teamwork and shared love for restoration.
One Saturday, as they tightened the last bolt and stepped back to admire their work, Desmond placed a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “You’ve done an amazing job, Michael. I couldn’t have done this without you.”
Michael beamed, the pride in his grandfather’s eyes more rewarding than any trophy. “We did it together, Pa. I couldn’t have done it without you, either.”
The joy of working on the car not only reignited Desmond’s passion but also gave Michael a new skill and a deeper connection with his grandfather.
As they took the car out for its first drive, the wind in their hair and the engine purring smoothly, Desmond felt a sense of fulfillment he hadn’t experienced in years. “Thank you, Michael. This means more to me than you’ll ever know.”
Michael smiled, looking at his grandfather with admiration. “Thank you, Grandpa. For teaching me and for all the time we’ve spent together. It’s been amazing.”
The journey of restoring the car had been more than just a project; it was a bridge that connected generations, paved with shared memories and newfound respect.
