“I Want to Go Home Now”
The human mind is a fragile thing when age or the onslaught of disease takes its toll. Since we’ve already been Care Givers for my mother and DH’s father, who both had Alzheimer’s, we’ve heard many, many pitiful pleas and angry demands for us to take them “home.” My Mama was in the hospital, with me there 24 hours a day for 35 days, recovering from a broken hip and going through rehab. She never could get straight in her head where she was, but I expected things to be better once I got her back into her own home.
I was very disappointed to find that she didn’t know she was in her own home, when we did get her back there. Each day involved question after question about when we would be leaving, why wasn’t I taking her home, who were these strange people, etc. No amount of reassuring her that she was home, and that the people were her family, would appease her. At one point she was in a panic, because she was worried about her dog being alone at the house, with no one to care for him. What could I say? She was remembering the house I had grown up in, and a dog I had as a little girl. So I had to play along that Cindy was being well taken care of, and for her not to worry.
We moved Pop out of his home, and moved him in with us. So his constant requests to go home at least made sense!
But I was not prepared to have these same conversations with my Daddy! He’s old – VERY old – but has been more or less lucid most of the time, even after he fell on Thanksgiving weekend. Well, he’s been lucid about everything EXCEPT that he was still in his own home! He’s forever asking me for his cap and jacket, so we can head home.
I’ve come to the conclusion that what they all mean when they ask to go home is to go back to a time when they were in control. A time in their lives when they had privacy. A time when someone else did not pick out the clothes they would wear, or decide what they would have for lunch, or when it was bedtime. A time in their lives when they could still drive, take a walk around the block, or, in Daddy’s case, cut the grass.
As Care Givers, we can do our best to keep them safe and comfortable physically, and we can even play along with their delusions at times, but the one thing we cannot do for them is to give them back that control over their own lives that they so long for.
My Daddy will be 102 in less than two weeks. His body becomes noticeably more frail each day, his speech has become all but nonexistent over the last few days, and we can get very little nutrition or fluids down him. It frustrates him to try to talk when he can’t get the words out. He can no longer help us when we turn him in the bed. His days and nights are spent for the most part sleeping. Sure he wants to go home. Who wouldn’t want to return to a better time??
I both rejoice and am deeply grieved that he soon will be truly HOME. Seeing my dear Mama again. Walking with a full strong stride. Enjoying seeing all the wonderful sights that his blind eyes have been missing for many, many years. Hearing the angelic choir in all its glory. And I betcha he’ll be on a riding lawn mower keeping the yard cut!!!
I’m already grieving his loss. Just writing these last words has the tears flowing. But he’s lived a long life, with much to be proud of and to enjoy. It’s time for him to go home.
I dry the tears, Ruth, but when I read the post again, I tear up at the end, regardless. What you and I are going through is called Anticipatory Grief, and it truly is grief, even though they are still with us.
Happy Birthday to Mick!!! We ARE Spring Chickens, aren’t we???
{{{{HUGS}}}} to you, too.
Hi Rosemary,
This post truly moved me. I think what we all want for the people we love is to know they’re free from pain. Nothing is as hard to watch as someone you love suffering. I remember when the end came for my Nana. She was close to one hundred. She didn’t have Alzheimer’s or any type of memory impairment, but she was bed bound. Luckily, she was never isolated—my great aunt (her daughter) lived with her and we visited frequently. I was only eleven years old when she died, but I remember wondering when I visited her how happy or unhappy she was. I’m happy for your father that he has you as his rock.
Bless your heart for being so strong.
Lori
Gilbert Guide
Dry those tears now and have a hug.A very moving and beautifully written post. I had not realised your Dad’s age. 102!!! On Suday it is Mick’s birthday he will be a mere youngster in comparison at 64. It strikes me that you and I are both trying to come to terms with the inevitability of our loved ones future….
More {{hugs}}
Rx
Hugs and prayers from Michigan.
I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you how priceless these last moments can be, even though they’re hard. (I’m crying thinking about it). An aside–a fellow in our church small-group, age about 62, is looking to buy a small house (his first home-buying). With tremendous insight he admitted that, while house-hunting could be exciting, it was sad, too, as he realized he was really searching for “home.” For him, that concept was poignantly illusive. I guess those of us who treasure “being home,” even if it’s just in memory, grasp an inescapable blessing. MM
Lori, you give me far more credit than I deserve. Strong is not the right word for me – determined or stubborn might be, though. And a rock I ain’t!!! I’m the type who holds together surprisingly well during a time like this. Then, when it’s all over and the crisis is past – I fall apart! No rock here, for sure.
These last days together are a priceless treasure, MM. But frankly it’s only later that they can be seen that way. At least that’s the way it’s been for me, and is now. Right now I’m in an exhaustion filled haze that just keeps me plodding along, taking care of one minute, and then the next.
DB, you don’t know how much I had to read your post this evening. Watching my mother fail has been far more difficult than I anticipated. Your strength and wisdom has given me so much insight.Along with the inevitable tears.
I know how difficult it must be to keep up with everything you do…but thank you for this post.
Amazing that your dad is 102. WOW! I just made a documentary about a man with young onset PD — he is in his 40s now — and his parents are the caregivers. They are his inspiration and his source of strength. They are in their 70s, and still setting alarms every 3 hours to give their son his meds. Quiute the role reversal.
If you are interested in seeing this award-winning film about a young man with Parkinson’s, please check out http://www.lilafilms.com
The more people know about Parkinson’s — through blogs and films and sharing stories, the closer we are to finding a cure for all. Thanks.
Deborah Fryer
just popped over to give you a {{hug}}. Hope you got my email reply ok…sorry I couldn’t be more help.
Rx
Moving and touching…
Rosemary, I’m sorry to hear of your sadness and tears. You wouldn’t be the caring person you are without them. They are necessary. You know what’s coming. Only you do not know which day or time. Bless your heart and that of your father. I believe from all that I have read about this journey that you have done what all of us would wish our loved ones would do for us. That is all that we can ask.
Sorry I’ve not had time to reply to all your encouraging comments, folks, but it’s been hectic here the last few days. I’ll update as soon as I can.
Just popped in to give you a {{HUG}}
{{HUG}} DB!
First, I am so sorry I’m so late to see this. Second, I know how you feel.
This is such a beautiful post but also so sad. I can feel your exhaustion just reading it. I also completely relate to everything you’re feeling.
Please know I keep you and your Father in my thoughts daily. It’s the hardest thing, what you’re dealing with…I am in awe of all you do. You are a beautiful person and your family is very lucky to have you. {{Hug}}
Another {{hug}} visit.
Thinking of you, DB.