Caring for my parents has developed a new wrinkle—and I’m not talking about the ones around my eyes, although those are definitely alarming. Rather, my 86-year-old mother has started having hallucinations related to her dementia diagnosis, and my 90-year-old dad is feeling rather overwhelmed by this latest development.
Recently, the hallucinations seemed to be getting more frequent, so we took Mom in to ensure she didn’t have a UTI (I recently learned that an untreated UTI in an older person can really mess with how the brain operates). No UTI, thank goodness.
Mom’s doctor recommended a new drug that had a 50-50 chance of making Mom’s hallucinations better…or worse. I wasn’t loving those odds, but we gave it a go. Unfortunately, after three days on the medication, Mom’s hallucinations had spiked. She was talking nonstop to people we couldn’t see, many of them children, which might have been a callback to the 30 years she spent teaching preschool.
Thankfully, most of the visions didn’t seem to upset her. She loved talking to the children, although she worried why their deadbeat parents never came to pick them up. And, one afternoon, while I was cleaning the bathroom, I could hear her howling with laughter in the bedroom. I finally tiptoed to the door and peeked inside. She was talking with “a friend,” who appeared to be cracking her up with jokes.
Daily calls to the doctor to report on Mom’s progress resulted in the new medication being discontinued. However, the doctor warned us, it could take a few days for the drug to leave her system, so Mom might continue to experience increased hallucinations for a few more days.
My sister and I were taking turns staying with Mom throughout the day, making sure she ate, didn’t wander outside alone, and got enough sleep each night. Between bouts of heartbreak and tears, we occasionally found ourselves using humor as a coping mechanism. One afternoon, Mom looked outside and remarked on a group of women she claimed were standing in the front yard. “I can’t see them,” my sister said. “What are they doing?” “Well,” Mom replied disapprovingly, “they have a lot of makeup on; I think they’re hookers.”
The fact that the word “hookers” came out of my angelic mother’s mouth was shocking. It was definitely a record-scratch moment. And then my sister quipped that the imaginary sex workers weren’t going to see much drive-by business loitering on the lawn of a gated rural property. We all laughed, including Mom, and it was a welcome release.
My sister and I are learning the art of gentle redirection. If Mom gets too upset about something—like those deadbeat parents who never seem to pick up their kids—we’ll say that we’re sure the parents are on their way and that we should go look at the flowers on the deck. That’s usually enough to lower her anxiety and get her off a troublesome topic.
Routine tasks can be soothing, too. When Mom was at my house recently, she kept saying she wanted to go home. I knew my dad needed a few more hours of alone time, so I took all the kitchen towels out of the cupboard and threw them into the dryer. I asked Mom if she would mind folding the towels for me while I made lunch. Mom’s always been a helpful, loving person, so she was delighted to do so. She’d fold 10 or so towels, and I would take them back to the laundry room, shake them out and put them back in the dryer. Then I’d tell her there were more towels in the dryer to fold. This ruse kept her busy, made her feel useful and productive, and took her mind off wanting to be home with Dad.
My sister and I are still figuring out how to balance our own lives with caregiving. And while our equilibrium at times can feel as steady as a one-legged ladder, we’re glad to have each other to lean on. My sister can make me laugh harder than anyone, and I can ugly cry in front of her without feeling self-conscious. For now, we’re our own little support group.
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