A New Prayer

"Pray for acceptance,” Dr. Harley, my new naturopath suggested, as she handed me a bottle of Hawthorne, an herbal remedy that uplifts and strengthens both the physical and emotional heart.

After managing a major crisis with my mother this month, when she was mercilessly thrown out of the Memory care facility where she’s lived the last couple of years, and sent without my consent to Marin General, where she was pumped full of Haldol for two and a half days until I could get her discharged (she only had a mild cold), my blood pressure soared; at night, for the next week, my broken heart would not stop racing.  

My mom has been on a difficult dementia journey for almost a decade. A blunt, judgmental, and tough-minded woman, she's become gentler as her dementia has progressed. Recently, however, in her fear and confusion, she’s gotten aggressive towards her caregivers and peers. This isn’t unusual for dementia folks, it’s just a lot to handle. Many corporate-owned Senior facilities appear to be more inclined to either drug or remove problematic individuals rather than attend to their needs. Time is money, and mercy is in short supply.

“Shirley was always such a live wire,” Rita, one of her Gary, Indiana friends from the way back machine, reminded me when she called my cell phone the other morning, concerned that my mom’s landline had been disconnected.

“I moved my mom to Shalom House,” I explained. “It’s a smaller home near to my house.” This peaceful place is run by Pilar de Olave, a compassionate and smart Sephardic Jewish woman, who has 25 years experience caring for adults with dementia including her own mother. 

Shalom House is situated in a sweet neighborhood built in the 1950’s in Terra Linda, near the Montessori pre-school where I brought my daughter Sophie when she was three. In those days I used to marvel at how Sophie’s magnificent brain rapidly developed.  With glee, I accompanied her on this delightful ride as her neurons formed new pathways while she played and sang and learned each day, becoming more and more herself.  Conversely, as helpless as a passenger in a car wreck, I have watched my mom’s brain deteriorate. Instead of becoming, she has come undone. 

Just when I think it can’t get worse, it does. Years ago, my mom stopped doing her crossword and acrostic puzzles and reading novels; she discontinued past times like playing mahjong, bridge, and computer games. Once extremely competent running her own pharmacy business, as well as our household, I took over as her executive function failed,  She would call me on the phone, as many as 40 times a day, demanding to know what she should do next.

She lost the ability to think, learn, reason, and pay attention.  Short term memory, then long term memory abandoned her. Now, in what I hope is the final stage of this cruel demise, she is having difficulty walking and feeding herself, as the signals no longer travel from her brain to her body. She sits listing slightly to the left, and vacantly stares, her lovely blue eyes clouded over.  

Today, on my way over to Shalom House I listened to an interview with Scott Galloway, a former investment banker/entrepreneur who has written a book called “The Algebra of Happiness.”  He mentioned that caregivers live longer than any other professionals. 

I smiled as I shared this information with my mom’s attendants, Pilar, Maria, and Betty. My mom and I sat together at the dining room table and completed a puzzle for toddlers. I placed each piece, and she pressed it down with her trembling hands. “We do good work,” I noted.  “We’re a team.”  

 “Do you pray?” Dr. Harley asked me. I nodded in affirmation.  “Pray for acceptance.”

On Sunday, mother’s day, my mom, a willful Taurus, who I would never describe as easy going, turns 90. When I tell her that her grandchildren Sophie and Zak will be home from college to celebrate her birthday she lights up. “Can you believe that you will be 90?” I say. “No,” she responds. “How old do you think you are?” I ask.  “Twelve,” she responds.  “Just kidding,” she clarifies.  Remarkably, her sense of humor, as well as the lyrics to her favorite Frank Sinatra tunes, still remain somewhat intact. 

“These are not dementia patients, they are people, adults who happen to have a disease,” Pilar says. “We live here with dignity; at Shalom House we are family.”  I feel very grateful to have found Shalom House for my mother. My blood pressure registered normal when I visited Dr. Harley yesterday.

I used to pray that my mom would leave the planet soon -- that my dad, dead now for 8 years, would come to pick her up.  And every so often she turns to us and says, “Sid will be here in a few minutes. He’s just around the corner.”   I sure hope so. But in the meantime I will shift my focus, and do as Dr. Harley prescribes. I will pray for acceptance.