Did I Win This Round?

It was a typical Sunday morning. Not for the average person, but for me. No matter the schedule, I still have to get up early enough to make the coffee and pour mother's first cup so it can cool before she gets up. But, Sundays require a little extra diligence. I have to ensure that mother does not get dressed before she has finished breakfast and coffee, brushed her teeth and done her makeup - which makes Sunday is a real chore considering I have to try to get in the shower somewhere in the midst of her routine. If her clothing is donned prior to any of the other activites of the morning, it is guaranteed that something will be messed up in the process. Hence, a change of clothing will be in order and there will be a discussion of sorts. And it won't be a good discussion.

Have you ever argued with a three year old? Ah, so you know my dilemma. With advanced Alzheimer's there is no logic or reason. You just have to stand your ground and win the argument any way you can with the least amount of conflict. The less stress you put on yourself and your opponent the better. It has not been an easy lesson to learn. I have admitted to being a slow learner before, but the events of this particular Sunday morning left me baffled and with few options.

The conversation started with reminders about not getting dressed until teeth are brushed and makeup is finished. I get a blank look and the response, "Well, alright. Whatever." I know she didn't understand, so I went to her room, demonstrated what she was to do and made it clear that she was not to touch her clothes until she finished her face. I discovered later my efforts were to no avail.

I finished showering and getting myself ready. I walked into the family room to find her sitting in her chair watching TV with her jacket clamped shut with her arms. Red flags went up all over the place. I told mom to stand up and let me see her outfit. She replied, "It's okay." as she defiantly held the jacket closed. I was not buying it. "Open the jacket and let me see." was my response. She complied and sure enough, a big smear of makeup was down the front of her blouse and a coffee stain complimented it. To add insult to injury she had chosen a dreadful shirt that I had been plotting to throw away at my earliest convenience. It was a black knit top with cheap purple jewels and plastic beads that once had a pearlized coating that were pretty much hanging by a thread. What few beads still had the coating on them were cracked. The others were merely white plastic balls. Quite ugly, but in mom's eyes, it was delightful. To me it was an appalling sight.

How could I drop her off at church looking like that? Adult protective services would be on my doorstep if they had reason to believe I was not caring for her properly. You've seen those elderly people in public. I know you have thought to yourself that someone ought to take better care of them. I was determined not to be in the category of caregivers who let their elderly go around looking like homeless people on the street. Besides, mom was always elegantly dressed for church. I couldn't let this disease take away her dignity, even though dignity was no longer in her vocabulary or her understanding.

So, with her best interests in mind, I told her to go change. Her response was, "No. I'm going to wear this." If you have children, you will fully recognize this argument: Yes you will. No I won't.

After five minutes of this I tried another tactic. "Change your outfit or I will leave you home." She responded with, "You too will take me to that that that place. You will too go there." "No, I won't unless you change." "You can't not take me to there. I go every every every...." "Not unless you change."

I was quickly realizing that there was no winning this short of force. I simply couldn't let this go. How else could I enforce the fact that, if I say something is bad and she needs to change, she needed to do as I say? Where was I to draw the line at what constituted as too dirty to go in public? With Alzheimer's there are other types of soil to deal with. And with mom's comprehension level, how does one differentiate from acceptable levels of soil and non-acceptable?

I stood my ground. So did she. As I stood there arguing with her I noted that my kitchen scissors were on the bookcase beside me. My mind took a turn for the worse. I grabbed them and made one last remark. "Are you going to change?" She firmly said, "NO!"

Whoosh. . . . the scissors sliced right up the middle of her shirt. Beads and jewels went flying. She looked down and stammered, "You, you, you broke it!" My response was a firm, "Damn skippy I broke it. Now go change."

I didn't tell my sister what I had done that morning. When I called her to inquire about meeting her that afternon, Alicia remarked that she was surprised mom didn't argue during lunch about getting extra chips and didn't try to snatch anything from anyone's plate. . . mom was completely cooperative and did exactly as she was told.

Oops. How was I to explain this one?