We are actively shopping for a new home for my mother. 

We have been to two so far and have two more to look at. I liked the second facility, the one where a resident named Joan wandered into the demo room and had herself a little nap on the demo bed, and the director just worked around her. My sister did not care for this one, she said the shower room was too creepy. It kind of was. They have to get the residents naked and strapped into this Doctor Octopus kind of contraption to wash them. This is why it helps to have more than one set of eyes. I am so grateful my sisters and I are working together on this. I don’t know how only-children of parents with dementia do this. I guess they do it sooner than we have. That is what my mother’s social worker told us the last time we had a family meeting to discuss how to get my mother moved into a facility. The social worker said other families would have done it by now, they usually do not have the strong teamwork we do. It was good to hear this.

What do you think the end of your life is going to look like? Me – I got it all planned out. I remember hearing a story years ago about a couple that went for a drive when Mount St Helen’s was exploding, and even though they were miles and miles away from any danger, some random rock blasted off the volcano and struck their car, splat!, and they were dead. I like to think that they were driving around after a really satisfying lunch of grilled sandwiches and microbrews, talking about how much they liked each other. Maybe they were holding hands. Now I just need to move myself and my loved ones closer to an active volcano.

My mother had the end of her life all planned out too. She wanted to die at home, and she wanted me to hit her over the head with a brick if she started to get goofy. Neither one of these things is going to happen.

Shopping for a facility to put your mother in is weird. Of course this is a business, and we are making informed choices. I call and make the appointments and juggle the emails and spend my vacation days coming to town, and my sisters ask the hard questions to the staff. I am not opposed to asking hard questions, I just often feel quiet when we are there at the facilities, doing our shopping.

I feel quiet, and I feel sad, and, I feel relieved. I have felt very afraid the past year, afraid she would get hurt at home or get hurt while she and my dad are out driving around during the day. I have confidence that she will be in a place that will keep her safe and hopefully happy. I am looking forward to my dad having some peace.

But she will not go willingly, and I feel a bit like a monster about that.  When she has been out with my sister or I and we go past a strip mall or hospital, she will manage to get her words together enough to say “Don’t you take me in there.” At first I couldn’t figure out what her deal was, but then I got it.  I have some vague memory of being a child and being overwhelmed with fever and being combative under the bright lights of the cold emergency room as adults tried to poke and prod at me. “You have to,” my mother told me, sadly, solidly. “You have to.”

Two more shopping sessions to go, and then a decision. Someday soon we will take her in “there.”  And I will feel relieved, and, like a quiet monster.