Laugh... Love... Live

“Oh, that doesn’t go there,” she muttered as she began motoring her walker down the short hallway from the kitchen to her bedroom.  I didn’t give it much thought at the time, as Mother had been misplacing things for months now, and we had all become accustomed to finding a tube of toothpaste tucked away in the potato bin or the flyswatter sitting in a vase full of water in the center of the dining room table.  After a few minutes had gone by and I didn’t see her wheeling her way back from the bedroom, I got up from the easy chair to investigate. 

All was quiet in the darkened bedroom.  I paused to let my eyes adjust to the dim light trying to force its way through the heavy draperies covering the windows.  Mother preferred to keep her room completely blacked out as a deterrent to anyone who might try to peer in at her between the tightly closed slats of the plantation shutters.  After a few moments, I could make out the shape of the bed, the dresser, and various other odd pieces of furniture that were squeezed into the tiny bedroom.  Placing my ear to the bathroom door, I could hear the sound of an aerosol spray filling the room with long bursts of mist interspersed with short spurts like Morse code dots and dashes. 

“Mom, are you alright,” I ventured to ask after rapping softly on the door. 

“Yes, Honey.  I’m just touching up my hair,” was the sweet and innocent little reply.  Mother’s hair was always a source of conversation between my sister and me.  Her jaunts to the beauty college were seen as holy pilgrimages and nothing should interfere with her once-a-week beauty ritual.  We never had the courage to tell her that she got exactly what she paid for in her $12 hairdo – a beehive to rival all beehives, sprayed with so much hairspray that not even the strong West Texas winds could dislodge it. 

More sounds came from within the bathroom.  A drawer slid open – probably for her to retrieve a brush.  The cabinet door opened with a squeak for her to select a scarf, which upon her opening the door a few moments later, I discovered to be a washcloth lying delicately atop her hairdo.  As she positioned her walker to come back through the door into the bedroom, wisps of aerosol whirled around her head and into every corner of the white porcelain tiled bathroom.  Expecting to smell the slightly sticky perfume of hairspray, I almost choked on the poisonous mass of green fumes attacking my throat and nostrils.  
     

“Mother!  Show me the can you sprayed your hair with,” I said excitedly.  

She stopped in the middle of the doorway looking somewhat perplexed and pointed to the can on the countertop next to her toothbrush.  I squeezed past her and, turning the can around to the label, discovered that she had liberally sprayed her hair with Raid!

* * *

As caregivers we are presented with choices many times a day.  Caring for someone with memory loss is not for the impatient or the fainthearted.  Giving guidance to one’s own mother or father is emotionally taxing, and keeping a 24-7 vigil over their safety is exhausting.  One must expect the unexpected with the passing of every minute of every day, with the realization that your loved one will never get better. 

My reaction to Mom when she “decided” to exterminate her hair would set the tone for the day.  My initial response was to turn on my heels back toward her and severely chastise her for not reading the label and for potentially damaging her eyesight with lethal dose of bug spray.  But, what would that accomplish other than allowing me to get rid of some pent up frustration?  That response would only add fuel to the fire that always smoldered ready to flare up without any warning.  In reality, Mom had not “decided” to spray her hair with Raid.  Her mind was blurred by dementia and the big “R” at the beginning of the name on the familiar shape of an aerosol can said Rave hairspray to her.  Becoming angry with her was not a helpful response. 

Lecturing her was my next consideration.  As a retired school teacher, I could easily see myself delivering a mild educational speech on the dangers of inhaling poisonous fumes and asking what she could do in the future to be more careful.  Who was I kidding?!  Mom had reached a stage in her journey with dementia where she was not teachable.  No amount of information sharing in whatever form was going to prevent her from making the same mistake again.  Treating this as a teachable moment was not the solution. 

As the moments seemed to creep by, I slowly turned to look into the troubled eyes of my sweet mother and realized that the only thing I could do was to love her.  That meant refraining from harsh reprimands, putting aside my own frustrations, acknowledging that she was lost in an increasingly confusing world and to put my arms around her in a genuine embrace of affection.   

I started smiling and then let out a little laugh as I said, “Mom, you have sprayed the heck out of your beehive with Raid!  A bee wouldn’t dare come within a mile of your hair!” 

Perhaps, seeing the twinkle in my eyes, or maybe she actually understood what I was saying, Mom began to laugh with me.  She may have been capable of comprehending the humor in the situation, or maybe she was just responding to the laughter echoing in the little bathroom, but it was a moment of joy; and together we decided to wash her hair and create our own version of a beehive hairdo free of pesticides.

* * *

A Bandaid for the Caregiver is dedicated to all those families who journey with memory loss in their lives and the sharing of hope and joy and new possibilities.  In each difficult moment there lies an opportunity for love.

Journey with courage,
Elaine

Author of
"Conversations with Nora: a Family's Journey with Alzheimer's"

www.pouvonspublications.com