Showering an Alzheimer's victim
This morning, October 18, 1994, she’s gotten the new rug and her pajamas soaked. She stood with legs apart and peed before I could take her to the bathroom.
“C’mon, Ca, time for a shower,” I say.
It’s a battle keeping her clean, not smelling of urine or other odors. One woman in the support group takes her husband outside in summer and washes him off with the garden hose. What I learn each day with the progression of this disease brings me back to when I was a child at times. Except then, we called them hose fights.
I undress her and coax her into the shower with me—another tip learned from the group. Fear is on her face but not the uncontrollable kind that I’ve come to know. I take the showerhead hose and spray myself.
“Oh—it feels soooo good. See, Ca. There’s nothing to it.” I sprinkle my feet then hers. “Doesn’t the water feel nice?”
She steps back. I hope she’s not going to be difficult today and reach for her hand as I did days ago. I spray her feet and legs, work up to her private areas, keeping the water away from her face. She slaps at me trying to push me. I used to wash her head at the kitchen sink when she could no longer go to the hairdresser. Those were easy days.
I’ve been putting off head washing for days now. Her hair is greasy. I know it needs to be washed today, before another week goes by. It’s already three weeks. I spray her head, she pushes me hard against the glass doors. I give up.
“Okay, that’s it. You’re done.” But before I get the words out of my mouth she’s on a run through the living room, naked, wet, growling like a mad animal. How can this person be the one I knew so well?
Drying off, I want to spend the rest of the day here, in the bathroom. I want to fade into the walls and not be here or anywhere. I’ve lost her and nothing means anything. There are no dreams of future golf games to look forward to anymore.
Getting dressed, I pray she’s calmed down. I grab towels, cookies, and head to her room. I find her talking to her friend in the mirror. She’s calm. I understand why. The friend in the mirror isn’t a threat. I am.
by Rose Lamatt, Age 67, Geneva, FL
