In my previous article, What Does Independence Mean?, I wrote about my uncertainty regarding recovery-phase rehabilitation.
After today's visit, a conversation with one of the nurses finally cleared things up for me.
After the visit, she told me:
“Mrs. F took her first bath today.”
“Really? That's wonderful!”
“Yes, but when we told her, ‘Please sit in the chair,’ she didn't understand what a chair was.”
“Well, that doesn't surprise me.”
“And when we said, ‘Let's wash your arms,’ she didn't understand that either.
But when we demonstrated washing an arm, she was able to imitate the action.”
“Do you think that's because of the dementia?”
“I think it's less the dementia and more the result of the damage to her brain.”
I suspect that words such as chair and arm are no longer connecting properly with the actual objects and body parts they represent.
Perhaps that is because the language centers of her brain have been affected.
Listening to this explanation, I finally began to understand the purpose of recovery rehabilitation.
On the transfer paperwork, I had written:
“Independent daily living.”
Lately I have been asking myself:
What does independence actually mean?
But now I think my mother's goal should not be independence.
Instead, it should be:
“Being able to enjoy life while accepting assistance from others.”
Imagine this:
“Please sit in the chair.”
“Okay.”
And she sits down.
Or:
“Let's wash your arms.”
“Okay.”
And she washes her arms.
Wouldn't that be wonderful?
The person providing assistance would be smiling.
The person receiving assistance would be smiling.
Everyone wins.
Tomorrow, I plan to discuss this with the care manager.
Postscript
I wrote rather gently about it in the original article, but the reason I decided to stop arranging video calls was for my mother's sake.
After the call, my mother asked:
“Who was that?”
The entire time during the video call, she had been thinking:
“Who is that person?”
“Do you recognize me?”
“Do you recognize me?”
“Do you recognize me?”
“Do you recognize me?”
No, she doesn't.
I explained beforehand that she probably wouldn't.
The constant stream of “Do you recognize me?” questions, combined with the camera moving around so much, caused her to furrow her brow.
“Who is this person?”
Imagine being asked the same question over and over when you absolutely do not know the answer.
It would be confusing, wouldn't it?
Memories lost to dementia do not return.
If asking “Do you remember?” could bring back the answer, it would not be dementia.
What my mother needs now is a way of communicating that does not constantly remind her of what she has forgotten.
During that barrage of “Do you recognize me?” questions, I watched her anxiously.
I was afraid she might once again say,
“I'm no good,”
and start hitting her head.
“Maybe she doesn't recognize me because I've gone bald.”
“Maybe she doesn't recognize me because I'm wearing glasses.”
That isn't the reason.
She doesn't fail to recognize people because their appearance has changed.
The memories are simply gone.
She no longer remembers what they looked like.
She no longer remembers that those people were once part of her life.
To my mother now, everyone is a stranger.
I could clearly see how much everyone cares about her.
For that, I am deeply grateful.
But...
“I want her to remember me.”
That is your wish.
My mother cannot grant that wish anymore.
I want her to spend her days doing only the things she still can do.
I don't want her blaming herself for the things she can no longer remember.
I want her to live happily, for herself.
Please.
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