Day 8 - Halos, Sundowning, and A Giving Tree

Have I mentioned my husband, Peter, whose halo is glowing more brightly each and every day?  Here he is building a wheelchair ramp for Myrtle to make things easier on us.  Our front door entry is very hard to navigate with a wheelchair.
Myrtle usually yells at me, "Am I on some boardwalk amusement ride?!"
"Sorry, mom, it's a big step, mom, what can I say?"

That's a kind and loving man, alright.    Lucky me :c)

The new ramp leads to my front door, which is now a revolving door for people of all kinds - home care aids, social workers, nurses, chaplains, and hospice workers.  This is a world of people with whom I have never before had an opportunity to interact.  Their small kindnesses for my mother and the depth of understanding they have all revealed in their words and deeds ... it is profoundly moving.

These good souls who walk in and out of my days with Myrtle - they bring with them a wisdom and a preference for simple comforts and gentle words.  I am always in a race against the clock, striving for efficient use of each hour in the day; it is the way I've always been.  But these sensible souls simply do not operate this way.  The language of hospice workers and nurses is not the same as my own.  It is a language inflected with tranquility.   I have much to learn from them.

It feels a little lonely when they leave for the next customer/patient. I wonder how Myrtle experiences these comings and goings.  She receives every visitor with sheer delight.  She needs no detailed explanations for their presence.  She states their names clearly, after being introduced, and she pats the chair next to hers, eager for the company....for a little 'sit-down'.

And sitting down with Myrt is very pleasant. Until the sun goes down. Then everything changes.

Sundowning is a terribly sad symptom of dementia.  Later in the day, cognitive function declines steeply.  In Myrtle's case, she takes up residence in the late 1930's and early 1940's.  When Myrtle was young, her mother died and her father disappeared for a period of time after.  She relives this as though it is happening in the present.  Each night she weeps asking if I think her mother is in heaven and if she will be able to find her father.  All I can do is hold her and assure her that her mom is watching over her and that her father is well.  These nightly episodes don't seem to be stored anywhere; they are utterly gone the next day, which I count as no small mercy.

Yet, there is a joyful side of not remembering certain things, I learned.   Each day I walk mom up my driveway in her wheelchair.  On our property, we have a sprinkling of exquisite dogwood trees, which are now in bloom.  White and pink.  Everyday she looks at these lovely trees and she gasps in delight, "Oh, look, look!  Those beautiful trees, do you see them?  Oooohhhhh, what a perfect tree, just look at that pink!"

She is eternally stunned by the beauty of these trees experiencing them anew each day.  Imagine that.  Being able to look upon the beauty of nature over and over and over again yet each time see it  as though you are seeing it for the first time.  Wow.  That's a different kind of Giving Tree, I guess.  One from which Myrtle takes the same gift every day.