Elder Care: Conversations about Dying

Some months ago I read an article in the NY Times that moved me so much, I cut it out, stashed it in my "to write about" file and never dared look at it again. The author, a psychotherapist, dared to bare her heart and soul in the article. More than anyone else I've read or talked to, she captured the poignancy, sadness and privilege of participating in the waning months of an elderly person's life.

In Mimi's Place, I've written much about caregiving and caregiver issues, about the strains and uncertainties related to helping one's aged parents as they become older and frailer. But I've not yet tackled the subject of talking with your parent(s) about dying and death. As I go through this experience myself, I find I have little patience for complainers and whiners in this situation. Rather, I've become a sponge for the wisdom of those who are willing to take the time to analyze their relationships in thoughtful ways. Like them, I try to distill my experience into something both practical and meaningful for others. It thrills me to see more caregivers recognizing that, regardless of the trauma and drama of their situation, they have skills they never realized they possessed, and are gaining experience which will have real-world applications.

I want here to quote a few passages from the article, which was written by Dr. Ruth H. Livingston of the William Alanson White Institute in New York. Dr. Livingston has addressed the subject with great gentleness and insight. I couldn't ask for a better introduction for my readers, nor a more inspiring article on this very difficult subject. Reviewing her visits with a dying patient she writes, "Awkwardly, haltingly, I speak of mundane events of my day.... I feel strange, out of role and incredibly selfish....Yet as I speak, she smiles. The furrows of pain creasing her forehead relax....And so I go on....The work is draining and lonely. I often feel inadequate, out of my element, helpless. And I wonder about my motives....But I know that I'm deeply grateful to my patient...This work is paradoxically enlivening: it has given my professional life--and my personal life--new richness and meaning."

I hope you will all click through to read the article, which is not terribly long, in its entirety. And I hope you will all find it as bittersweet yet uplifting as I did.

Dementia: What do you say?

Dementia is not a kind illness. It robs those it afflicts of the one treasure trove that neither bankruptcy nor other losses can touch: one's memories. For those caring for someone with dementia, the illness presents an extra sharp edge. That's because it progresses at unpredictable paces. No one can tell when an aspect of memory or cognition will vanish. And no one can say after that what will go next.

In my experience, one of the more profoundly disturbing aspects of dementia, at least for the caregiver, is when your parent can no longer tell where they live. This starts simply enough, with a confusion, often temporary, about where they are. The questions go something like: "Where am I? Am I at home? Where am I living?" Answering those questions truthfully usually is enough to bring your parent back to reality. At this stage, the confusion is more like temporary amnesia, an affliction one moment, gone the next.

But over time, the state of confusion, of not knowing where they live or where home is, deepens and lengthens. I liken what happens in this stage to balloons breaking loose, each with a disconnected snippet of memory attached to its string. Imagine that your parent simply doesn't have a clue where she is living. In a continuous effort to figure that out, her brain offers her a few unassociated options. For example, a balloon floats free, bringing with it a memory of a house your parent used to live in, in Peoria, when you were 6 years old. So your mother tells you she's living back in Peoria. Now her brain offers her reasons for why she's there. It sends up a balloon attached to a memory of waiting for you to come home for a friend's house so she can cook dinner. And that's what she tells you she's doing. Or perhaps one day she'll tell you she's in a hotel room, packing for a flight home. All she knows is that she doesn't recognize where she is. Her reasoning for that is, "Hey, I'm at a hotel."

For you, these disconnected, seemingly irrational statements from your mother are concerning. For her, they give her a satisfying explanation that help her feel more peaceful. She's figured out where she is and what she's doing, at least for that moment.

This constant searching to understand where she is and why she's there, must be stunningly frightening and disturbing to the dementia sufferer. Disconnected from the present, disconnected from the past, with random memories ricocheting about without anchor. It's terribly poignant and filled with pathos.

So, what do you say when your parent presents you with a statement that you know is incorrect, and which reflects a scary lack of understanding of where they are. In discussing this with a psychiatrist recently, he called told me the parent's version of things is called "fictitious reality." This is a perfect label, which catches the made up aspect of the statement, along with the fact that, for your parent, it's very real.

Some caregivers are really thrown for a loop when these stories pop out of a parent's mouth. Here's what the psychiatrist suggests: You could try gently to remind her of her whereabouts by noting very simple things about who you are and where she is. If she insists this is not so, or this seems to upset her repeatedly, don't "dispute" with her, thinking you'll forcibly haul her back to "reality. This will likely be a frustrating and futile activity for you both. Instead, try to indulge her. Drop the notion of proceeding with your own planned line of conversation; make a switch to her side. Enjoy reminiscing with her about things from the past rather than trying to discuss the present. Or, if you prefer, change the subject to what you've done that day, and just regale her with a few stories from your present life.

ELDER CARE, DEMENTIA & ALZHEIMERS: QUALITY OF LIFE

Consider this a post-Mother's Day post, in which I am not going to swoon about the wonders of having a mother, or all the things my mother has done for me. There's plenty of that elsewhere in the blogosphere! What's on my mind, though, is triggered by thoughts of my mother. And what I'm thinking about this morning is quality of life.

This subject rears its head sporadically, usually when my mother has a health matter that crops up. The most recent health matter is two-fold: First, I learned that she has a severely narrowed aortic valve, which results in shortness of breath, dizziness (which in turn may make her experience nausea), swelling in her legs and other uncomfortable symptoms. Second, as her dementia has progressed she has disengaged from society, spending all her time in her apartment except when a caregiver arrives in the morning to urge her to go out for a walk or shopping.

I ask myself "What sort of quality of life does my mother have now?" Or, more specifically, "How do I evaluate what my mother's quality of life is?" And "What does quality of life mean in this situation?"

I am choosing my words carefully here. The key in this situation is not to judge whether your parent's QofL is good from YOUR perspective, but to put yourself in theer shoes. Here's how I go about it. In my mother's case, I would say that her QofL is not great, but OK. On a scale of 1-10, with 10 being best, I would say she's a 5. I'm going to list how I've done my evaluation, since what works for me may work for you as well:

Question A. Is she comfortable? My answer is yes.

1. Her various sources of pain, which she experienced as a terrible hammer hanging over her head during her pre-dementia days, are now controlled by a targeted array of medications that handle both the physical and the psychological components of the pain experience.
2. She has a spacious, yet manageable, apartment with lots of light, which means a lot to her.
3. Her environment in Assisted Living is safe and routinized, both of which lead to a sense of security and thereby a lessening of anxiety in dementia sufferers.

Question B. Does she have access to the things that were meaningful in her life. My answer is yes, but with a couple of caveats

1. Music, art, bridge, gardening, having a few close friends. These were my mother's passions. She can't do any of these things anymore, so initially I would say that has severely diminished her QofA. But her definition of herself has changed, too. At the start of her dementia memory loss, my mother remembered her bridge games and sorely missed them. She doesn't remember them now in that very tactile way of knowing that something meaningful is absent from her life. Same with music, which now confuses her instead of bringing joy.
   
2. My sister and I are the most meaningful things in her life, seconded by her companion caregivers. However, since her memory of the passage of days is severely limited now, she no longer misses us as she used to. A major component of missing anyone is the perception that a long time has passed since one last saw that person. Since my mother has no sense of the passage of hours or weeks or months, she doesn't experience the pain of lacking us in her life. She goes minute by minute, or sometimes day by day, and that's all she knows.

Question C: State of mind as it relates to QofL: so-so

1. Before moving to Assisted Living and getting the pain meds right, my mother was nearly addicted to Vicodin and Percocet, and had debilitating bouts of anxiety-induced nausea. She hasn't needed even a Tylenol for pain and has not mentioned nausea in over 6 months. This is great.
   
2. My mother's therapist and her psychiatrist both report statements from her that she wants to die. She has little energy left and spends most of her day lying down, dozing. They say she seems more resolutely down in the dumps than she was before (and this is a woman who's been on anti-depressants for 15 years). Given her situation, this seems like a perfectly lucid reaction on her part. She's losing her mind, her body is slowly failing her, she can't make friends because she can't remember anything. What's not to be depressed about?!
   

And now I have an "AH HA!!" moment. I've identified an area where I can make a meaningful difference to improve her QofL. I can work with her therapist and psychiatrist to modify her medication regimen to try to give her more energy during the day and to lessen her depression. If successful, then within the scope of her life as it is now, she will have an improved experience.

I hope you've gleaned some helpful tips from this. If you go through your own process of questioning what it is that defines YOUR parents' Quality of Life, you may find that, in their terms, much of their life is OK. And you also may identify some parts where you can make a noticeable difference, again on THEIR terms, in how they experience their end of days.