Adapting
My mother has not been able to tell time for over a year, but she knows that the mail-woman stops by the house during the hour that The Price is Right airs. The show has many commercials, and each break offers her the opportunity to look out the window.
My mother starts having problems washing her hair because she cannot keep the shampoo from getting in her eyes. My father gets her a pair of swimming goggles to wear in the shower. They hang next to her towel, and now she puts on her "shower eyes" as if she's used them for this her whole life.
As Fall ushers in cold weather and winter layers, my mother struggles to put on her coat. She swings it around to the left, hoping that her arm will find the sleeve and allow her to slip on the rest. Sometimes her arm catches in the hood, and sometimes she misses it altogether. She gets frustrated when the coat is halfway on and the other sleeve seems to have disappeared somewhere behind her back. When these roadblocks occur, she takes it off and starts over. She does not remember what to do if someone holds the garment up for her, and two people trying to guide her arms in the sleeves also yields depressing results. The only way she can now put on a coat is to hold it (facing backwards) in front of her and go through the familiar motion of swinging it around (though sometimes she gets frustrated with this, too, and just wraps it around her shoulders).
My mother loses her ability to understand numbers, including dialing the phone. My father installs a new phone that has a separate button for each programmed number. On each speed-dial button, we attach a photograph of the person who has that number. We point to the the phone and tell my mother, "If you want to talk to someone, push their face." We repeat this for days: just push the face. When I say this to her again, she squints at me, reaches out her hand, taps my nose with her finger, and then laughs "push face."
My mother starts having problems washing her hair because she cannot keep the shampoo from getting in her eyes. My father gets her a pair of swimming goggles to wear in the shower. They hang next to her towel, and now she puts on her "shower eyes" as if she's used them for this her whole life.
As Fall ushers in cold weather and winter layers, my mother struggles to put on her coat. She swings it around to the left, hoping that her arm will find the sleeve and allow her to slip on the rest. Sometimes her arm catches in the hood, and sometimes she misses it altogether. She gets frustrated when the coat is halfway on and the other sleeve seems to have disappeared somewhere behind her back. When these roadblocks occur, she takes it off and starts over. She does not remember what to do if someone holds the garment up for her, and two people trying to guide her arms in the sleeves also yields depressing results. The only way she can now put on a coat is to hold it (facing backwards) in front of her and go through the familiar motion of swinging it around (though sometimes she gets frustrated with this, too, and just wraps it around her shoulders).
My mother loses her ability to understand numbers, including dialing the phone. My father installs a new phone that has a separate button for each programmed number. On each speed-dial button, we attach a photograph of the person who has that number. We point to the the phone and tell my mother, "If you want to talk to someone, push their face." We repeat this for days: just push the face. When I say this to her again, she squints at me, reaches out her hand, taps my nose with her finger, and then laughs "push face."
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