After my dad died, my mother started a long, slow decline, brought on by a type of dementia known as vascular dementia. Small strokes occur either from tiny blood clots or small hemorrhages in the vasculature of the brain, and before the person can recover from the previous one, another one has occurred. This apparently runs in my mother’s side of the family. Several of her siblings suffered from vascular dementia.

 

 

When she arrived, we used the money that she obtained from the sale of her house in KC to buy her a lovely condo on the bluffs above the river, which she absolutely adored. Richard and I got it all set up for her, but soon it became clear that she needed help living day-to-day. She didn’t want to drive any more, which was actually a good thing. But that meant she needed chauffeuring everywhere. I did some of it, but wasn’t able to do all of it, so we started on an ever-changing course of hiring help for her so that she could stay in her condo. Richard and I live on the side of a rugged foothill in the country, with steep draws on either side of the house, wood heat, one bathroom on the ground floor while our two bedrooms (one of which had become our home office) were on the second floor. Not to mention the occasional rattlesnake that liked to bask on our sidewalks and patios at dusk, absorbing the last of the heat from the day. It wouldn’t have been safe or practical for her to live with us.

 

But as soon as I thought I had plenty of care in place to meet her needs, she would have another stroke. And her needs would increase. Fortunately, when my parents sold their business, they received enough money from it that I could hire sufficient help for her once I realized just how much she needed. But it was a constant challenge. One of the people we hired, an old friend, ended up being a godsend. My mother (who was very picky and critical) absolutely adored her. But we needed evening care and weekend care, too. Again, a couple of times we lucked out, but there was a high turnover and we got a few very very funky caregivers, even through an agency who vetted their employees. Some employees whom we liked, my mom didn’t. And then my mom needed someone at night, too, so we hired a live-in. At first, the live-in seemed fine, but gradually, she started taking over more and more of the condo, undermining my relationship with my mother, and with her Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, required more handling than I was prepared to do on top of managing my mother’s care. My mother was starting to fall more, too, and she managed this once even when there were three people in her condo. I began to realize that she could no longer live there.

 

Fortunately, we were able to place her in assisted living by continuing to provide extra care during the day and evening. But we had to fight to keep her there once her disability deteriorated past a certain point. I went to check out the nursing home that had the best reputation in town at one point, but the minute I walked in there, I knew that I just couldn’t put my mother in there. I’m not saying no one should put their loved one in a nursing home. Sometimes it’s the only option and sometimes it’s the best option. I know that there are no doubt some stellar nursing homes out there. But the last one I visited to see a loved one reeked suffocatingly of ammonia, and some of the residents were crying, “Help me!!!! Hellllllp me!!!!” Lots of residents were totally gorked out. Their minds were gone, and their bodies were decaying, kept alive by medications and someone else feeding them and helping them stay hydrated. If left to their own devices, they would have left this life a long time ago.

 

Despite my best efforts, tears started spilling from my eyes very soon after I got there. I couldn’t stop them until I left. And I don’t think it was simply from seeing what state my loved one was in. It seemed to come from the unbearable sadness of the entire place. And I couldn’t stop thinking about what might happen to me, should I become demented. I don’t have children to look after me the way I looked after my mom. I wouldn’t want to burden anyone with that level of care even if I did. I probably won’t have the kind of money it would take to live out my last years the way my mom did. And what if Richard pre-deceases me?

 

We think it is the kind thing to do to put our beloved pets to sleep when they’re suffering. I have always wondered why we don’t feel the same way about our fellow beloved humans. I know the arguments: It’s a slippery slope! If you allow it, it will be abused! Elderly people will start being murdered before their time!

 

Well, I don’t know about you, but the reason I don’t go around murdering people is not because no one’s making it easy for me. It’s not even because it’s illegal, for God’s sake. Most people refrain from taking a life for personal gain because it goes against every moral grain in their being. And those who don’t feel this way will kill anyway, even though it is illegal. Making it illegal and making it difficult doesn’t stop those people.

 

And it’s not as if we could keep a dying elderly person alive a few weeks, months, or maybe even years longer that they will get to some point where they’ll start growing younger and live forever. This ride we’re on is one-way. We are all going to die eventually. And I personally think that’s a good thing. Death is part and parcel of life. Death makes room for new life. Death is part of the natural biological cycle. And we are biological creatures, even if we do ride around in cars and we created the Internet.

 

I’m not saying that we should impose anything on anyone. But what about offering a humane solution to those who would like it? My generation, the baby boomer generation, is huge. When we get into our late 70s, 80s, and 90s, we could easily overwhelm the health care system with our sheer numbers. The thought of mega-nursing homes with the elderly stockpiled in there simply being kept alive for … well, I’m not even sure what—makes me shudder. I realize I might feel differently if I get to that point and my choice is between being warehoused in some institution that reeked of ammonia 24-hours a day/7 days a week, and being eased out of this life gently, kindly, and lovingly, that I might actually choose to cling to the least little scrap of life in what I currently consider to be a living hell. But I would like to have the choice. I would like to have it available to me.

 

In my next post, I’ll describe my fantasy of how I would like this to go. Perhaps some people will find such a discussion morbid. But I don’t feel that it is. I find it comforting. And perhaps you will, too.