These hands. They rocked babies, knitted blankets and folded in prayer on a daily basis for her family. These hands always sport brightly painted fingernails. These hands bear the map of her life, in wrinkles and veins and callouses and liver spots. These hands kneaded bread dough and ironed my dad’s handkerchiefs. Seriously, who irons something you’re just going to blow your nose into? But my mom did! These hands did so many things over the years, but today, with Alzheimer’s disease, these hands can no longer use a phone. Or operate the microwave, or use the coffee maker. There is no muscle memory with her hands, as her brain has a disease that won’t allow it.
Mom loves to talk – always has. I’m the opposite. I talk to people all day in my job, so when I get home, I’m tired of talking. We don’t make good roommates in that sense. Thank goodness for the home care aides that sit and talk with her eight hours/day. When I’m alone with mom over the weekends, I encourage her to talk to her friends on the phone. Even before Alzheimer’s, she was never really able to understand how to text. She had a smart phone, but it was getting too difficult for her to use, and she didn’t need all the bells and whistles – she just needed to make calls. Her old phone was an iPhone – and the version she had, had a round button at the bottom of the screen. It was home base. So whenever she needed to get out of whatever screen she was in, she pushed the round button. As did I on my phone. About a year ago, I decided that maybe a simple phone would be easier for her to use, and purchased one of those Jitterbug phones they advertise on daytime tv for old people. It’s a flip phone – and it’s great except for one design flaw. The button that is the life alert that connects you to 911 is in the same place as the home button on the iPhone. I mean, who designed that? How confusing! Consequently she’s forever pressing that button, and yep, I’m on a first-name basis with all the life alert folks, as they call me every time she pushes the button.
The seemingly simple task of dialing seven numbers escapes her. I have programmed all the numbers into her phone, I have made her lists of friends/family names and numbers, but she just makes things up. She will dial about 19 digits, and when the recording comes on that says “Number cannot be completed as dialed” she just starts talking: Betty is that you? It’s Joyce. How are you? So I will say to mom, what are you hearing in the phone? “I’m talking to Betty.” Because she’s extremely hard of hearing she can’t hear that it’s a recording. The good thing is, she will spend a good two hours on a Saturday afternoon trying to call people, so it occupies her time, and I can get some things done around the house. She never seems frustrated, just says nobody was at home. It’s frustrating for me listening to her, but she doesn’t seem to mind. I help her dial when I can. One day I could hear her praying out loud “Jesus, please help me to make this phone call.” So I sent into her room to see what was happening. She had the tv remote in her hand, trying to dial. I wanted to say “Mom, even Jesus isn’t going to be able to make a call on the remote” – but instead I said “Mom what are you trying to do?” Call Carol. “What’s in your hand?” My phone. “Look again.” It’s my phone. “Mom it’s the tv remote.” It is? Sigh….
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