The Warning Signs of Change

In the time since my father passed away, and mom went through her depressive stages, she had a series a small problems that forced her to face some different health issues.

One day, mom and I took a late dinner out, and after we left the restaurant, she said that she wasn’t feeling right. I knew that she absolutely hated to go to any emergency room, and would avoid it at any cost, so I suggested that we check out a near-by hospital clinic. It was almost 10:00pm, and the clinic was about to close, but they let us in. In a short time, they took my mom’s blood pressure, and found it at around 235! Suddenly, there was a bit of panic. The attending doctor said that mom had to go to the emergency room at a near-by private hospital—luckily the same one that mom’s doctor was associated with. In no time, she was admitted, and I was later told that she came close to having a stroke or heart attack. I knew that mom had a congenital heart deformity (a small hole) that she had since birth, and her doctor had previously tried to convince her to get a pacemaker. Mom would not hear of it then, but it became more important now. Within a day or two, mom had her pacemaker implanted, and started on a regimen for high blood pressure. This was the first eye-opening experience for me and for mom, and the first of many changes associated with her aging process.

In 2002 and 2003, it was her eyes. She had been complaining about visual problems for several months. Mom loved crossword puzzles, and she began to notice “flecks” in her field of vision that were disturbing enough for her to back away from her favorite pastime. The flecks were only the beginning, which started in one eye. Within a short period of time, she complained about a “crackling” effect in her vision similar to a kaleidoscope. Mom indicated that it was starting to become a problem for her, so she gave in and went to see an ophthalmologist who determined that she had cataracts and the beginning stages of glaucoma.

The ophthalmologist at first prescribed some extremely expensive eye drops, which helped to a certain extent, but later gave way to a need for surgery. The doctor told her that she could have implants embedded in her eyes that he claimed would likely improve her vision. Mom was skeptical, but only for a short time since she was told that the alternative was to lose her eye sight completely. It turns out that there is a genetic predisposition for blindness on her side of our family, and this terrorized her immensely. So, she had the first eye implant procedure. Within a year, she had the other eye implanted as well. The implants were difficult for her to deal with, because even though her eyesight had improved somewhat, she still found that she could not focus as well as she used to. Her days of doing crossword puzzles were slowly and sadly coming to an end. On top of all of this, the doctor told her that she also had macular degeneration—the dry kind that is more difficult to help. From that day on, mom was in another slow downward spiral into depression.

When mom began having her visual problems, I started to focus more on her general way of life. I started to spend even more time with her and became more concerned for her well-being. After my dad died, mom continued her “normal way” of life living alone in the upper apartment of the family home that she once shared with him. While I was going to work and trying to pursue a college degree, she was home alone most of the time, although my sister was living in an apartment just below. At first, I wasn’t paying too much attention to what was actually going on in her life when I was not around, but slowly I did begin to notice things. For example, she would complain about how she would suddenly doze-off while watching television, and awake 15 or 20 minutes later feeling as if she had slept for eight hours. This was evidently happening more frequently over time. There then came a time when she admitted that she had left something cooking on the stove, usually a pot of water or soup, and forgot all about it. By the time that she realized what had happened, in-between “naps”, the pot had already cooked down to nothing. She said that this had occurred “a couple of times”, and that threw me into a panic. That was enough for me to hear, especially when I discovered the nylon window curtains in the kitchen partially melted from the ensuing heat of the stove. That’s when I insisted that she stay in the first floor apartment with me. I also began to depend upon my sister for more help, despite the fact that she had her own problems with Bi-Polar depression, and had unresolved personal issues with our mother as well.

It was not easy to convince mom to move out of her apartment, even under the circumstances. After all, she lived in that same place since 1940. It was home. It was where she lived independently since 1994. I did everything that I thought that I could do to convince her to leave, and what changed her mind was the safety and security factors of the situation. I really had to convince her that she could no longer rely on her own independent determinations for safety based on what she told me of her experiences. I had to go as far as to present several scenarios of “what could happen” if she tried to remain on her own. Besides having visual problems, the 25 stairs up or down from her apartment had become more challenging. She already had some problems walking and keeping her balance, so traversing those stairs was a tremendously daunting task. I continued to present the “what ifs” to her until she finally gave in to the reality of it all: her safety was at issue. It was one of the worst times in my life as a daughter because I knew only too well that she had to give up some of her independence, and begin to depend on someone else for her needs and well-being.

From that day on, everything went as well as it could. At least I knew that she was safer living with me than being alone. No one should be left alone, and especially someone with the beginning stages of diminishing capacity.