Containment

It was around 4:00 in the morning.

 

My dad's doorbell rang.  When he opened the door, he saw a policeman.  Seated in the police car in front of his house, was my mom.

 

The policeman explained they had found her walking along a busy street and had stopped to check on her.  They must have offered her a ride home, seeing she was confused.  She had directed them to this house...her home.  But when they asked if she knew this bathrobed and house slippered man standing in the middle of the front yard, she told them she had never seen him before in her life.

 

For some period of time my father and the officer stood in the yard, while Mom continued to deny knowing her husband.  The officer didn't know what to do.  He couldn't just leave her there, even though she had said this was her house and my dad said she was his wife.  As long as she denied knowing him, they weren't going to leave her with my dad.

 

Finally, in frustration, my dad said, "I don't know what to do.  I guess I'll call Mary."

 

"Who's Mary?" the office asked.

 

My mom chimed in, "She's our daughter."

 

Go ahead, chuckle!  I did!  Even in all its tragedy, it's a funny story.  The policeman made Mom get out of the car, Dad called Mary, and that day began a new chapter in all our lives. 

 

The three of them sat around the breakfast room table and rationally discussed what needed to be done.  Mom agreed that she should move to an Alzheimer's facility where she had stayed temporarily after a recent minor surgery.  In later days, when she wanted to know why she was there and why she couldn't go home, I took comfort in remembering that it was her choice to go there.

 

I should tell you that I'm not telling her story in chronological order.  But, given the topic we're discussing, I think it's okay.  Maybe it's even appropriate to jump around a little!  Moving Mom to the Alzheimer's facility was not an easy decision, even though it may seem so here.  It was gut-wrenching.  My dad really wanted to care for her at home. 

 

So this is where we'll leave her today, nestled safely behind the locked doors of what was to be her home for the remaining years of her life.  It was a place for which I was grateful, and which I also hated.  Such is the ambiguous nature of this disease.  Given a choice between intolerable and unacceptable, what do you choose?  What I hope to share with you as we go along, is how find a way to choose love.