Mama-Wife
It is almost 1 a.m. and I am at my computer, knowing that I really should be under my yummy pink blanket by now. I am simply so tired that it is easier just to sit and let my fingers do the walking on the computer keyboard.
It has been a hard week – on top of the normal agenda, my close friend’s brother passed away, and I wanted to be with her through much of the week which followed. Getting up early to go to the funeral which was a three-hour trip away, compounded with other commitments, just has left me feeling ancient.
Feeing antique is bad enough, but it was made much worse because Hubby became very confused about who I was. Two days ago, he was remembering his little brother with tears in his eyes. His ten-year-old brother died from meningitis when Hubby was 13-years-old. He has always felt responsible for his lovely little brother’s death even though it had nothing to do with him. He always regretted not being allowed to visit him in the hospital as he was dying. We are now 80 years later, and it still plagues him. I returned home to find Hubby thinking of this and quite upset. He addressed me:
“Is it terribly upsetting for you too mama? I know you loved him very much. You loved all your boys.”
I took the opportunity to gently, and clearly respond.
I never knew you little brother because he died when you were 13 years old. I did not meet you until you were 45. I am not Mama. I am your wife – Barbara.
He looked at me with considerable pity in his eyes, that I should be so confused. He continued to call me “mama.” Although I had explained a few times, it was worthless. Nothing I was saying permeated his already formed conclusions.
This is not the first time that Hubby has called me mama, although usually he self-corrects, and says “Oh yes – I should not call you that! You are my wife.”
There is a file in Hubby’s internal computer which keeps what it considers to be really important information secure. Apparently after almost fifty years of marriage, who I am in his current life is no longer of major concern. I must admit that I find this disease fascinating because the brain is so complex.
Another example: On Sunday, Hubby was dressed, had his hat, coat, gloves and walker ready to depart our home to go to his day-care facility with his aide. He went down the stairs to our front door and came to a halt. He refused to cross the threshold explaining that he did not want to go to the center today. He loves going there three days a week, so why not today? I was not home at the time and our aide could not convince him. The taxi driver waiting outside was not at all pleased to be informed that his services were no longer needed. So-what happened? For everything, there is a reason. Hubby remembered that the social worker at the center had agreed with him, when he complained that the programming offered on a Sunday was not to his liking. She (regrettably) said: “Avoid Sundays. They are not for you.” Hubby has reminded me of this conversation often, and in spite of my telling him what a great time he had the previous Sunday, he became intransigent with a will of steel. This internalized message that Sunday at the club was NOT for him, was VERY important to him. So off came the coat, gloves and hat which were no longer required.
Compare, if you will, the contrast between Hubby’s confusion about whether I was his mother or his wife with his absolute clarity that he should not go to the center on a Sunday. I could easily be irritated that remembering a wife, of 49 years is apparently less important to Hubby that the schedule on offer at his day care center! I will not go there, although I could. I suspect that the truth is, that Hubby quite simply takes my presence for granted. He always expected “mama” to be there for him and now he expects “wifey” to be ever present, so there is no need for him to keep my persona separated and secure in his secret file. I accept that his mother adored him as I did, and that he loved her and loves me still, so it is just fine that he gets us confused. It was not always fine. When it first happened, I was devastated. Time makes one more philosophical.
Yesterday I gave Hubby a piece of pizza for lunch. I added some fresh basil leaves to the previously frozen entity. Hubby ate it, but complained that the basil was very skimpy indeed. He doesn’t like basil, so why is he complaining? For breakfast he eats a half of a round pita bread with jam and chopped prunes on the top. Hubby was complaining, in fact, that the number of basil leaves did not equal the number of pieces of prunes on his morning fare. He did not recognize that the two meals were completely different, one sweet, one savory. No reason to correct him. Still, how interesting that he pays attention to certain details. We are just happy that he eats anything at all! Thus, the details of the pizza are more important than who I am in his life. This certainly gives one something of no value to ponder.
The mind is indeed fascinating. What it chooses to remember or forget, what is critical and what is not. In Hubby’s case, there is secreted away a section of his mind which still cares about some of the preferences he has developed. He demands that there are six gingersnaps with his morning coffee. Not four, not eight…exactly six. He requires two sweeteners in his coffee. He requires that there not be too many items on his dinner plate. He does not like wearing black. He insists his clothes are coordinated. This morning, he woke up and asked where his morning pills were. When I provided them and he double checked MY accuracy, all was well. This file is incomplete, but it has enough information stored to remind us all that Hubby is still his own person. Sometimes caregivers forget the person inside, and only see the disease. Our loved ones are quite desperate to be remembered.
It is however, somewhat unreasonable of the rest of us to wish for the same courtesy. We caregivers must at all times be stoic. Only the patient has the permission to be unreasonable. They cannot help their behavior. The child inside us all wants to rant and complain that this is quite unfair, but then, who ever said that life would be fair? Being mature is really quite exhausting!
