In real life, the aging process is not as amusing as it is on TV. On TV we see 90 year olds who ride motorcycles and go disco dancing and say cute and outrageous things, as though decades of living have returned them to the status of a precocious toddler. I can’t speak for the children of other elderly parents, but that is certainly not my experience.
My mom will be 88 soon; several years ago she moved in with my older sister after a predictable series of events: After a minor fender bender she stopped driving. Once she stopped driving she became more and more dependent on her kids. Soon after, she had a really bad fall and all of us, including Mom, knew she could no longer live alone.
From my perspective, the aging process is not amusing, and not even to elicit a chuckle can I pretend otherwise. To me, as I watch my mother, growing old is a terrifying mix of daily, small indignities; of 911 calls that become more frequent and hospital stays that become longer, with no question at all about how this saga ends – only when.
The one bright side of this story is that in spite of her increasing frailty, my mom has always been as sharp a tack. I’ve always regarded this as a blessing compared to many of my friends whose parents are physically strong but mentally absent. No matter how much she declines physically, conversationally, she is still “Mom.”
When that began to change, my sisters and I got concerned. We had noticed that Mom was becoming a little vague and confused. She would forget what day it was, or even the year. At family gatherings she would smile and nod and eat her rice pudding while remaining curiously detached. One night after she finished her rice pudding she told my sister she was ready for her dessert. My sister laughed and reminded Mom that she had just eaten it. “No I didn’t,” said Mom, in a room that had grown very quiet. “I’d like my rice pudding now.”
After a series of tests , her doctor ruled out a stroke or anything physiological and suggested a neurologist. “It could be Alzheimer’s,” he said matter-of-factly, the word causing my heart to briefly suspend its beating, “but it could also be old age, or maybe something else.” Thanking the doctor for narrowing his diagnosis so succinctly, we were off to the neurologist. On the way, she asked me at least 3 times where we were going, and why.
The neurologist said he would do a series of tests to evaluate her cognitive function. He asked Mom her name, address and phone number, all of which she provided readily. Without being asked she also recited, from memory, the cell phone numbers for all 5 of her children. She easily performed a series of simple tasks, (“Draw a circle inside of a square,”) while making editorial comments to me: “This is really stupid,” she said.
Later the neurologist quizzed her on current events including the name of the current president, after which Mom gave her opinion as to whether Obama would reach consensus on health care reform, and threw in her views on the roots of the first World War in Sarajevo. My jaw dropped.
On the ride home, after the neurologist was done laughing us out of his office, Mom asked if I felt better, adding, “There’s nothing wrong with my mind, you know.” I chose my words carefully. “We were just concerned,” I said, speaking for my siblings, “because you’ve seemed a little confused sometimes. But you weren’t confused today,” I finished brightly.
“Of course not,” she said. “Today I was paying attention.”
I took a breath. “But what about the other day, the rice pudding?” I asked, and Mom laughed aloud. “I just wanted more rice pudding,” she said; “your sister never lets me have seconds unless I pretend that I never had any to start with.”