Dementia runs in the family. My father has an official diagnosis of Alzheimer’s. My mother is an interesting cocktail of narcissism and mixed dementia. This combination provides her with the attention span of a toddler and the empathy of an earthworm. She refuses to seek help because she believes the problem is stress. The source of stress? My father.
Together, they are a heady mixture. I live in their basement, acting as caregiver, household manager and (according to them) family inconvenience.
When I go out, even to the corner, I tell my parents:
Where,
With whom,
And for how long.
And I take my phone. My parents are very concerned about me.
One block from home is an upscale grocery store filled with all the middle class people you would ever want to see. Most of them over 80 using canes and walkers. But, my parents are concerned that there is evil out there. They don’t know the source or when The Apocalypse is coming. But, they are pretty sure they can hear the sound of horses’ hooves.
Therefore, everything, even a stroll to the corner is fraught with anxiety. “I’m going out now”, I call out when I leave.
“I’m back”, when I return.
Then, I am peppered with questions.
What took so long?
What did you buy?
Where did you buy it?
Sometimes, I run into a friend at the grocery store. We might stop and chat over the radishes. This will require a phone call to update my parents on my location. “I am at the corner. I will be home in 2 or 3 minutes.”
This is odd. And kind of confusing.
For over 50 years, this independent couple hardly knew my name. But, now they check on my every move. Not just outside of the home. They go through my mail and papers on my desk. This is done in a very obvious way. Not subtly. If I come home with a bag and leave it unattended, my mother will open it and look inside. A new bra wrapped in tissue. No matter. Pull it out and examine it.
Look at the size.
Look at the cost.
And don’t forget to remark on both. Then, discuss how I stack up in comparison with the other family members. Without fail, I come up short.
Their level of anxiety is such that my parents are concerned if I am not in the house all day and all night. And my whereabouts within the house are known. This does not mean that the front door stays locked. It does not. The reason for this is that neither of them can determine how the front door latch works. They will lock and unlock the front door several times before deciding it is safe to leave. Then, off they go, down the front steps. Leaving the door ajar.
They both do this. They blame each other.
You might assume that this level of high alert would mean that we know who has a key to the house. But we do not. Keys are given out freely. Most peculiarly, extra house keys are hung on hooks throughout the house. Anyone coming in the house can see them. Grocery deliveries, letter carriers, repairmen. You would think that this would scare the two people who are most concerned about security.
But it does not.
A few weeks ago, I suggested to my father that we change the locks, if only to ensure a reduced likelihood of an unwanted visitor? He looked at me with all of his shrunken, stooped and scrawny might. He said, “They had better look out, or they will have to deal with me.”
An interesting point of view, since he loses his balance walking across a carpet.
My mother finds the slope on the sidewalk to be a hazard requiring Cirque du Soleil dexterity.
So they dwell in the space between oblivious and panic. Between a tenement and the moon. Through the door, beyond the mirror and into the land of the Mad Hatter.