Sometimes it’s just hard
I came to work with you the year before you died from Alzheimer’s. When we first met you were happy to have me around and treated me like a guest. We chatted on the porch, you told stories of your youth on the cattle ranch up the road, and of your children’s youth when you had a ranch and a family of your own to manage.
The initial decorum faded quickly, and you soon began asking me to leave at bedtime. Each night I would calmly explain that I was there to help you through the night, should you need anything while in bed. You were a strong and decisive woman, mother to three wild country boys; relinquishing control over your life had been exceptionally terrible for you. Unfortunately for me, you also had a violent streak, as attested to by your sons. I was hit, pinched, slapped and screamed at many times within the first few months of spending nights with you.
Sometimes in between the rages and crying fits we would have sweet moments outside, watching awestruck as the horses crossed the meadow in front of your house. We would watch television together, and you would find moments of happiness.
Most days you sat in your chair, lamenting the absence of your sons. One of them lived next door and visited you twice a day. Another lived down the road and came several times a week, and your youngest son stopped by a few times a month. Regardless of the frequency of their visits, you still missed them and longed for them to be with you. For you, there was no substitute for being with your boys.
In your final weeks, your doctors changed your medications frequently in an attempt to manage the debilitating symptoms of dementia- extreme anxiety, delusions, erratic emotional behaviors. This period was one of the most difficult of my career as a caregiver. I could see how miserable you were, how you terrified and confused most of the time and there absolutely nothing I could do or say to ease your suffering. Your teeth were falling out one by one, you were unable to recognize friends and family, you rarely slept more than a few hours at a time. You would pray and beg for help, for relief from your pain.
I was relieved when your son called to tell me you had passed. The mercy you prayed for had come. I didn’t cry at your funeral as they lowered the pink coffin into the ground, I looked up at the sun setting on the mountain behind the graveyard and felt happiness that you had finished your long walk through the shadows and finally arrived home.
