‘Did you feed the hens?” my mother asks. “I did,” says I. We don’t have hens. We’ve never had hens. But my mother grew up on a farm with hens, and that’s where she is at this particular moment. I’m trying to be there with her.
I like to call it “momentfulness”. Mindfulness is about awareness in the present moment. The implication is that one has a continuous level of cognitive consciousness, to facilitate that awareness.
However, my mother has Alzheimer’s disease. Her mind drops in and out of the present, backwards and forwards, through a lifetime of memories. She’s back in a moment more than 60 years ago.
It’s pointless to tell her that we don’t have hens. That would only cause stress for me, trying to explain; and distress for her, trying to understand. I don’t attempt to jog her memory. Instead I go into the moment that she’s in. I reassure her. I distract her.
I have become adept at concocting reassurances and telling little lies. I prefer the term “therapeutic fiblet”, used by Alzheimer’s specialists. These fiblets calm my mother and minimise her worries. Their purpose is noble. “Have you seen any of the Corcorans recently?” she’ll say. “No, Mum; not for ages,” I’ll reply. The Corcorans were neighbours of my mother’s when she was a child. She hasn’t seen them for decades.
Yet there are times when I can’t be momentful, when danger is imminent. She may want to get out of her chair and walk without the aid of her walker. She’s convinced that she’s able. “I don’t need it,” she’ll say. She does. She’s very unsteady on her feet. Her mobility is compromised by severe arthritis in her knees, and by Parkinson’s disease, which affects her gait and balance.
Mum may be back in a moment where she’s a sprightly young woman full of energy. I can’t be with her in that moment because she’s at great risk of falling.
There are other times when I really struggle with momentfulness. Over and over she’s telling me she wants to go home. Home for her is the house where she grew up and it’s now a ruin. I’m frustrated and exhausted trying to invent fiblets and distractions.
“There’s snow up country Mum. We’ll have to go another day”; “We need to have our lunch first”; or “There are no buses on a Sunday.”
The odd time I fail completely to be momentful. Mum sometimes thinks I’m her sister or niece. She’s looking at a photo of my late father in her room. “That’s your uncle there,” she says. It’s the first time she has said this to me. “No Mum. That’s my dad,” I say.
“How could he be your dad? You’re John’s daughter.” John was my father’s brother. She thinks I’m my dad’s niece. It’s the eve of my father’s birthday; our second without him. I’m feeling emotional. It’s too much for me. “That’s my dad,” I insist. Afterwards I feel guilty. I should have been in her moment, but I couldn’t do it. It was too much to deny my father.
Thankfully, there are wonderfully funny times in the practice of momentfulness. We’re watching Donal Skehan cooking on TV. It’s one of her favourite programmes. She wriggles in her chair. Most times Mum doesn’t communicate about what she’s going to do. The wriggling is a sure sign that she’s getting up.
“Are you going somewhere?” I say. “Out to the kitchen”, she replies, “To make what he’s making”.
Mum hasn’t cooked for at least three years, but she was a great cook in her time. I need to let her down gently. “We’ve no mussels,” I say. She looks at me in disappointment, but then relaxes back in her chair to continue watching Donal. The moment has been rescued. There’s no need for a fiblet. For once I’m saved by the truth.
The fee for this article will be donated to the Alzheimer Society of Ireland. See alzheimer.ie
