We went to tour the memory care wing of Porter Place yesterday. We looked at two tiny rooms and walked the one hallway of the wing that I so often passed on my way to my mother's fifth floor "penthouse" (as she liked to call it).
I don’t recall a single resident saying hi to us. Some would look and nod but none said hi. I felt the overwhelm of what this move encompasses for my mom and for us. My eyes welled up and I just blinked away the feeling, sniffling under my mask.
It’s clear this is the next step my mom needs to take. When she walked the floor, this sheer length of it tired her. She was not impacted by the small room size. She had a hard time envisioning or understanding not all her furniture could come with her. I could tell she felt comfortable and that the reduction of space made it easier for her to navigate.
It felt like the decision came down to what do we want to see when we come visit her because the surroundings didn't seem to impact the residents much. It is a lonely energy, a silent one. There are people physically there but not looking engaged. If they do interact, their actions leave most social conventions behind. It can be a little unnerving and also a little funny.
My mom just wanted to sit in the chair in the common area. She needed a break. Perhaps it was overwhelming for her too but she had no way of expressing it; I'm not even sure she really understood the proposal to move. She certainly wasn’t angry like I was expecting. The night before, I realized I was overthinking her response and just had to include her in the process.
Pretty soon, that step will be unwarranted. It feels like a slow decline and yet it has been a year and a half since her stroke. I've moved her three times since then and sold her house. I never would have guessed a year ago when we moved her in to her penthouse that we would be moving her to memory care so soon. I also hoped perhaps we would never get to this point.
I don’t understand the end of life struggle with this disease. It seems to slowly pull at the fabric of a persons being and leave the caretakers grappling with their character too. I’m at a loss for wanting to fight. I don’t know why we must drag this dying out. We walk with my mother slowly, each step worrying she will fall; while hoping something might steal her away.
Heartless I know.