A Good Enough Daughter
As a professional in the field of aging, Sara had seen it all—until her own mother broke her hip at the age of 88 and became profoundly confused, unable to live in her own home. Join Sara on her journey through the strangeness that is dementia while trying to make sense of it all and finding humor in the details. [Editor's note: Sara no longer contributes to Silver Planet, but we have made her archived blog entries available as a service to our readers.]
Fine Clothing, Part Deux
The pink sweater
I want to thank you, Tricia, for your comment to my November 9 post, Going Shopping with Mom. I loved the part about your mom (who I assume was fairly advanced in age) looking in the mirror saying, “If I could only get this stomach down, they would fit.” My mom said exactly the same thing until she was about 80.
Tricia’s post reminded me of one of the ongoing “rubs” I have with my mom’s assisted living: how they treat her clothing.
Reorganizing the dresser drawers is now a regular part of my visits to Mom. It didn’t start out that way; but this year, when spring turned to summer, I went through my mom’s drawers to see if she needed more lightweight clothing and if I needed to store some of her warmer things at my house.
What a mess! Nothing was properly folded. Nothing was in order. The tops and pants were rolled up together and the nice cotton tops were rolled in a drawer, along with someone else’s clothes that weren’t even her size, not even close. All the nice pants, where were they? And the expensive thermal tops, where were they? I was really pissed.
Then I came across the beautiful, expensive, pink wool sweater. The staff had washed it and put it into the dryer, a very hot dryer. It was now a girl’s size 6.
Part of the emotional package that accompanied my choice to move my mother into Gaffney House included shopping for clothes for her. After living 60 years in Phoenix, Mom’s winter wardrobe included a couple of light sweaters and a raincoat purchased years ago. I had to buy lots of warm clothes for her new life in Seattle; so, that’s what I did, and I bought quality items, no junk. To see all her nice things treated so poorly. . . .
I told myself, take a deep breath and get over it. It was a bad idea to include any item of clothing that could not be easily washed and dried. It was a bad idea to include any item of clothing to which I attached any sentimental value. So what if other resident’s clothing got into her drawers. Finally, what would make me think that a beautiful, dry clean–only wool sweater was a good idea?
I still refold my Mom’s clothes every time I visit. I put the warm underclothing in the top drawer, along with the socks. I fold the tops as they should be folded and put them all in the second level and fold each pair of slacks, making sure each has a nice crease. I just bought some new warm nightgowns that will replace the lighter weight ones. They will go on the left. Everything will be in order, until the next visit.
I decided that folding the clothes nicely and putting the dresser drawers in order is my job. It’s my contribution to the effort. We have to work as a team. The staff provide loving care, I fold the clothes.
By Sara Myers
A Good Enough Daughter Blog
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Fine Clothing, Part Deux
I love your blog—your descriptions of the seemingly trivial Chinese-torture issues of caregiving are always spot-on!
Like clothes! The bane of a caregiver’s existence. Always clothes—bigger clothes, smaller clothes, summer clothes, winter clothes, jackets, shoes, underwear. Buying, trying, shortening, lengthening, washing, ironing, dry cleaning.
One of the first lessons I learned after my parents went into “intensive care” mode was never, ever send them to any care facility with any clothes they like. It was similar to my rule about sports arenas. Don’t ever wear anything you can’t bear to lose to beer or mustard. Same concept. Different threats.
My mother’s first stay in a nursing home (for rehab) was an eye-opener. She had happily been wearing sweats around the house for years, and so they went with her and into the closet in her room.
They asked that I sew labels into them (this was definitely not sleepaway camp) but at that point, with two parents in medical facilities, an empty house with two needy two cats still in residence, a job and a long-suffering live-in boyfriend to juggle, I declined. After all, I reasoned, she was only going to be there for a couple of weeks. So they wrote her name on the tags in permanent marker.
One of the first nights Mom was there, she took my sister aside and insisted someone had been in her room during the night, stealing her clothes and putting them into a suitcase. Because she’d had a very scary sundowners episode in the hospital, we assumed it was a flashback. But when I mentioned it to one of the nurses, she calmly told us that Mom’s roommate, Emma, had full-blown Alzheimer’s and was often up and down in the night. She was packing to go home. Just as she would sit on her bed at dinnertime, refusing to go to the dining room, waiting for her daughter to come to pick her up. How anyone could have defined this as a therapeutic environment for my mother was a complete mystery, but that was the way it was done in rural communities with no stand-alone rehab facilities ten years ago.
After about a week, I began to see her clothes come back from the laundry. Just as you said—they were shrunken, pale shadows of their former selves. Had she stayed long enough, I’m sure all their original colors would have run together into a cheerless muddy greige. She, too, lost a valued sweater to the monster machines before I smartened up, and several times her things took a mystery detour so long that they hadn’t made it back when it was time to get her dressed. So I took on one more chore—I took her clothes home with me to wash.
The day we pried her out of the nursing home, only a fraction of her clothes were in the closet. It was just as well—she refused to ever put on sweats again. The rest dribbled back for the next six months via phone calls from the facility asking me to come pick them up. I finally stopped calling back.
And then there was the time when Dad came home from a rehab stay wearing a pair of women’s pants! But that’s another story…
Tricia
www.elderland.net