Fading away, part II

I wrote a bit ago about my 89-year-old mother who was fading away.  Not in the physical sense, but in a sort of family sense.  As her short-term memory weakened and my brothers, my sister and I found ourselves repeating stories, somehow her role as matriarch faded.  She was, of course, just as loved, but now instead of being the one who you most wanted to tell your story to, she was more of an observer, sitting off to the side.

Well, that was a few months ago back before I realized that fading away is a several part process, and that there was a stage two.  This is the stage where, despite the fact that you can hear perfectly well, and that your mind is still right there with you, people begin to talk as if you're not in the room.
A week ago she fell and broke her hip.  Classic little old lady thing.  When my sister, who lives in the same town with her, called to tell me about it,  she used a tone in her voice that is somehow universal - it's the one that says ‘oh, she's fine' but means ‘this is the beginning of the end'.

 
I went to visit her in the hospital, then a couple of days ago, in what is called the University Retirement Center Care Center - another name for a place where ‘we're going to separate you from everything you've known and loved and see if bad food, and smiley faces will cure you.'  Now, I'm all for smiley faces, and these were very smiley.  All well intentioned, caring, fussing, and for the most part professional.  They were also completely oblivious to who my mother was or the condition she was in.


And, that's the strange part.  Picture this.  I'm standing at the foot of my mother's bed talking to the doctor.  She's busy chewing one bite of ‘New England Beef Stroganoff' that I've cut for her. Now, I'm from New England, and what she was eating had no relationship to the place, and based on how long it took her to chew it, no relationship to beef.  But, she was good naturedly working away at it.


But the thing was, the doctor was talking to me as though she wasn't there.  He had performed her hip surgery just a few days earlier and had spoken to her on a number of occasions.  But, now when he spoke, he would always bend down close to her, raise his voice, and speak slowly, as though she were deaf and a little slow.  He'd then stand, turn to me and tell me about her condition, as though she wasn't there and wouldn't care.


I don't know where this comes from, but it happened a lot.  That day, a parade of nurses, and caregivers would come in one at a time, introduce themselves and their specialty (diet, occupational therapy, physical therapy etc.) and proceed to do the same thing.  They'd poke, jostle or ask questions for some form or other, then turn to me and report, ignoring my mother.


To her credit, my mother put up with it all with patience and grace.  When they overdosed her with painkillers and she began to see imaginary spiders in webs of sparkling threads, it amused her...she'd smile and describe them to us.  When they'd wake her up to give her sleeping pills, she'd smile and say thank you.


When a rosy cheeked, young, bouncy, activities director came in and asked what kind of activities my mother would like to do today, my mother smiled and listened.  My mother couldn't even get out of bed by herself, nor could she stand or even sit in a wheelchair, but she let ‘Nancy' go on about dancing, exercise classes, and yoga.  When she came to the end of the list, and looked up expectantly, my mom said ‘How about some Gin, and I don't mean the card game'.