Mom
lived in her own home with my brother for several years until one day, she decided
to try and leave the home, undress herself and walk aimlessly. With the help of
Rush Presbyterian Alzheimer's Disease Center, Dr. B. Gierl and his staff, we all
decided it was time that Mom needed nursing home care.
After
several attempts at finding the right one, we found one where the staff was consistent:
two aides that worked on the unit for over 17 years, as well as a some very caring
nurses. I do believe that our attentiveness to our mother with frequent visits
and many talks to the staff helped assure the best possible care under the terrible
circumstances. My
visits to her consisted of bringing her favorite foods, holding her hand, telling
her everything about my life, the birth of two of my grandsons who she got to
see, but I don't know if she knew. I recall the smile on her face when I brought
them for her to see. I would put them in her lap, and although she couldn't express
in words, she definitely expressed by the stroke of her hands on their faces and
the smile on her face. She would just nod her head in approval. We
made our visits to her meaningful, not only for her, but for us. I didn't realize
until after her death how much I still needed her, even though I was taking care
of her. She
lost her ability to speak, focus, walk or relate in our terms, but she never lost
her ability to smile when she saw a visitor. I remain firm that there was a piece
inside of her that knew each and every one of us, however she mixed information
and couldn't verbalize her feelings. The
nursing home unit had 40 beds, and I recall only seeing a handful of visitors.
Most people put them behind locked doors, thinking they were not human anymore.
I have no regrets from beginning to her death as I know I still treated her with
respect and dignity, never correcting her and getting angry. I did leave the nursing
home with tears, though, on many occasions. The
week before her death, I felt restless as she broke her arm and her energy began
fading. I'd call the nursing home daily to check on her. They didn't report that
she was failing, however; I knew in my heart that her death was approaching. I
think the pain of her broken arm, and finally, the lack of will to go on is what
began her very easy decline into her final days. I
called one day to speak to the head nurse and the physician that was on duty.
I asked how my mother was and he said "She's failing". I said,
"You mean she's dying," and he said yes. I called my sisters
and brothers and then hospice. Hospice said they'd meet me at 3 p.m. I
arrived and immediately went to my mom's room where her eyes were closed and she
was restless. I knew she was in her dying phase. Hospice confirmed that; all I
could do was sob. I
wanted to take her home to my place to die, yet the loving nurse from hospice
asked me why that was so important. She informed me it would be difficult on my
mother to transport her, that she was in this nursing home for six years, and
we could all stay there for the evening; they'd give us a private room. We
brought a CD player and some of her favorite tunes. We ordered pizza and sat holding
her hand telling her our stories as well as thanks for all her love throughout
the years and prayed with the hospice nurse. It was 7 a.m. on September 30 when
our favorite nurse came on duty. She opened the Bible and began reading one of
my mother's favorite passages; then mom took her final breath. I
will never forget her, her life, her illness or her last day. I still cry over
her loss, over her disease, but I know now she is at peace. Everyday I feel her
in my heart, in my own actions, in what she taught me. She is gone but not that
far away. Courtesy
of Alz.org 
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