Inside the Dementia Epidemic: A Daughter's Memoir by Martha Stettinius Read Free Book Online

decline, this does.
    A s an introvert, I long for time alone to recharge and relax. All day, my job requires me to listen carefully to my boss, coworkers and clients. When I get home I’m accustomed to time by myself when the kids go out to play.
    Now I usually find Mom sitting at the table waiting for me with paperwork to go over, bills for me to explain. Sometimes she has written notes to remind herself to ask me something. I coach her through each step to write and record the checks and address the envelopes. One day, I help her fill out the paperwork for a new Medigap health insurance policy so she can see local doctors. I soon learn that if we spend more than an hour going over paperwork, or even just talking, we are both exhausted and snarky. As I listen to her talk on and on, as I explain the same thing again and again, my shoulders scrunch up, my breathing grows shallow; I want to jump out of my skin, the wooden chair feels so hard. After a few weeks of this, I learn to say at the end of the hour, even if we’re not done, “Mom, that’s all I can do for today.”
    Later, as I clean or cook, Mom asks me questions every few minutes. “What is this? Is this new? Has Trinka been out for a walk? Has she been fed? Do you have any ice cubes, my dear?”
    As soon as I can, I retreat behind a book.
    W hen I come home from work one day, my mother hands me another note that she wrote to remind herself to ask me a certain question. “Have you and Ben taken over my money?” she asks. “I haven’t gotten a bank statement in weeks. The only thing I can think of is that the two of you have cleared out my bank account.”
    A wave of heat scalds my cheeks. “We just had your mail forwarded, Mom,” I say. “You’ve only been living with us for three weeks!” I do not yet understand that dementia makes the confused person come up with strange, off-base explanations for what they don’t understand or can’t remember. My head is spinning, full of static, my chest feels heavy. How can my mother accuse me of stealing her money?
    I arrange for a volunteer from the “Check It” program at the senior center to meet with Mom at our house while I’m at work, to go over Mom’s bills and checkbook. When I try to help Mom balance her checkbook, she blames her confusion on my calculator. The woman from Check-It manages—I’d love to know how—to convince Mom that she can no longer keep track of her checkbook on her own. But when I ask Mom if the volunteer will come back, she smiles at me and says, “You can just do it.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes, honey. I’ve tried and I just can’t make sense of it any more.” She leans back, gestures to the newest pile of paperwork on the table, and then slumps down onto the arms of the chair. “I’d appreciate your help.”
    As soon as a stranger—not me—showed her how she could no longer balance her checkbook, Mom could let go of this essential piece of her autonomy, and accept its loss.
    After that, we institute a new procedure: I open her bills, write and record her checks, and just have her sign them. I feel both relieved that I don’t have to explain each step to her, and nervous because I’m taking on more responsibility for making sure that her bills are paid.
    M ore problems surface: Ben, Morgan, and I all have asthma, and cannot tolerate cigarette smoke. Though we repeatedly ask Mom to please smoke outside, she sneaks cigarettes in her room. For fifty years, she’s smoked up to two packs a day. She’s tried many times in the past to quit, but without success. When she lived at the cottage, I convinced myself somehow that she wouldn’t fall asleep with a lit cigarette and set the place on fire. Years ago, on an overnight visit, before the garbage and recyclables piled up, I remember standing in her bedroom door while we said good-night, and watching her deliberately snuff out her cigarette in an ashtray before she switched off her lamp. Here in our house, I’m