Found!

Sis2 and I are coping with our mother's increasing dementia that's exhibiting itself in the forms of hallucinations at night that people are getting into her apartment, sleeping there, using the toilet, and moving her possessions around, and she's so sure that one of the people is someone who works there that she's accused him, in public, of being in her apartment, much to his utter chagrin. There is no evidence that any of this is true, and mother has excuses as to why no evidence can be gathered. Even someone staying in her apartment with her wouldn't help because the people would know and would wait until the invited visitor was gone. A camera wouldn't work because the people are too quick and her camera is too slow, and besides, he'd probably take it and break it anyway. Etc, etc. That issue is the most troublesome because of her accusations, so we're on the case to keep her from being immediately shipped off in a white straitjacket.

A shortcoming that's bothered me for several years is her unawareness of chronology or length of time. Even when my dad was alive and I'd go with them to a doctor's appointment, they'd be asked how long something had been happening or when it began, and many times she'd provide an answer that was very inaccurate or just plain wrong. At first I'd speak up as tactfully as I knew how to provide what I knew to be the correct information, but that made for some nasty times. Eventually I learned to determine if the inaccurate information was crucial or just a point of interest and to very quietly provide the correction when she wasn't focused on me. This still happens, and her physician knows to check with me out of the corner of his eye when he asks her a crucial question that needs an accurate response. Socially, I'm not there to do it for her, so some of the folks at the community where she lives realize that she gets confused about time order. She chalks it up to "the stroke" which she may or may not have had, or at least to "something not working right in my brain." At least she acknowledges that her brain isn't working the way it used to.

One of the ways in which mother admits, however, that her faculties are diminishing is her inability to remember things. People's names, adjectives, numbers, some generic nouns, kinds of cars that her kids drive... they're either gone or they surface hours or even days later. She gets frustrated when the word isn't accessible, and mostly she's thankful when someone can fill in a word that seems to be what she intended to say. Here's the thing: I, too, have times when I can't come up with the right word, one I know but can't find. The other day my second period seniors had to help me find the word "quarantine" when all I could come up with was "medical isolation." I get that way when I'm on medication (Percocet is NOT my friend) or when I'm tired, and this week my brain is tired.

Between the "Mom issues," some nights when I keep waking up because the bedroom is too warm (the mister sometimes gets over-enthusiastic with the wood stove), and the time change to Daylight Savings Time, I haven't slept well at all this past week. I felt better on Thursday after a really solid 6 1/2 hours of restful sleep....until that afternoon when I made a discovery: I couldn't find my ATM card. The last time I remembered using it was to buy $10 of gas on the way home from visiting my mother. I recalled swiping the card and putting it in my coat pocket as I pumped the fuel into my car. I checked my long down coat which I was sure I'd worn, my wool peacoat, my pants pockets, my purse, my wallet, the car seat and console... nothing. I checked again. And again on Friday, everywhere that I could have put it if I'd pulled it out of my pocket before coming home. Nothing. I checked my bank balance online to be sure that it hadn't been used, and I was relieved to see it hadn't. This morning I called the station where I'd pumped gas to ask if an ATM card had been turned in, but the one they had found bore a man's name. Either I'd have to call the bank, tell them I'd lost it, ask for a new one, and transfer my money to another account in the same bank to be able to use it via ATM card, or I'd have to find the card somehow. I began to feel the frustration that my mother must feel on a daily basis.

A friend and I drove to the state university today for a pole vault clinic, and we commiserated about our aging parents, our new awareness of annuities, mutual funds, and retirment funds, and our love of traveling to new places where a friend or connection could help steer us to the cool, funky, fascinating parts of the area that guide books often overlook. Arriving back at home, in early afternoon, I realized that being surrounded by daylight gave me a much clearer perspective, so I breathed in some fresh outdoor air, opened the front door to let the sunlight in, and I cleared my mind. Where hadn't I looked for the ATM card? I emptied my book bag...not there. I went into the livingroom and sat down, straightening the black cowboy boots sitting by the sofa (yes, a touch of OCD), when suddenly I remembered: I'd worn them on Wednesday because it was rainy, and....I'D WORN MY RAINCOAT! Bingo! There in my olive green London Fog coat pocket was... my ATM card. :))

FOUND!

(Now, if only we could help my mother find the solution to her situation as easily!)