Whip-Poor-Will of Bliss
Apr. 23rd, 2025 09:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ismoToday I visited Madame in her new digs in memory care. It's painful to see her world shrink by yet another stage. She has just one small room instead of the rather spacious two rooms of her former apartment, and the common areas are not as large and bright. However, this is purely a matter of aesthetics that apply more to the observer than to the inhabitant, since she hasn't really noticed much of her environment for quite awhile. Her time is mostly spent in her recliner, sometimes looking out the window. The new place has a window that also has a nice view. Honestly, this meets her needs, and is more open to the comings and goings of people around her. She was too isolated in the old place. I noted her receiving much more attention from staff, and also observed how much she needed it. She seems unaware that she's actually in the same building, just east instead of west on the same hall. I wonder if she'll ever figure that out.
When I arrived, she exclaimed "My friend!" and I experienced a pang, because I'm pretty sure she had momentarily forgotten my name. That's what my other friend with dementia always calls me. She remembered after a few minutes, but it's flickering. All through the visit, she referred to her daughter persistently as "My mother." This perplexed me until I realized what she meant. She was still eager to go out, and seemed able to get around, so we gave it a whirl. At the door, I was secretly amused to see that she had written her own name in the sign-out book a couple of days ago, and scrawled underneath "Let me go!" Oh, Madame! Still swinging! She no longer even pretends to read the menu, but just asks me, "What do I like?" But she can still discuss some deep subjects, like how we make choices without full knowledge, not knowing what the consequences will be until later. "I suppose you know you're talking about my life," she commented. I had actually thought I was talking about mine, but I guess we all have that in common. I sent her daughter a brief report when I got home. I think her time here will probably extend through the week, and then continue indefinitely. I hope it will make her life and her daughter's life easier for awhile. This gets harder and harder for me, but I hope it will be easier for her.
When I arrived, she exclaimed "My friend!" and I experienced a pang, because I'm pretty sure she had momentarily forgotten my name. That's what my other friend with dementia always calls me. She remembered after a few minutes, but it's flickering. All through the visit, she referred to her daughter persistently as "My mother." This perplexed me until I realized what she meant. She was still eager to go out, and seemed able to get around, so we gave it a whirl. At the door, I was secretly amused to see that she had written her own name in the sign-out book a couple of days ago, and scrawled underneath "Let me go!" Oh, Madame! Still swinging! She no longer even pretends to read the menu, but just asks me, "What do I like?" But she can still discuss some deep subjects, like how we make choices without full knowledge, not knowing what the consequences will be until later. "I suppose you know you're talking about my life," she commented. I had actually thought I was talking about mine, but I guess we all have that in common. I sent her daughter a brief report when I got home. I think her time here will probably extend through the week, and then continue indefinitely. I hope it will make her life and her daughter's life easier for awhile. This gets harder and harder for me, but I hope it will be easier for her.
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Date: 2025-04-24 12:45 pm (UTC)