Leaving our Loved Ones “Sad and Sick…and Lost”
Every time I visit 82-year old Ruth Cuddlepot I read this poem.
She has it up on a wall of her home near the toaster, just above the kitchen bench. I know it by heart now because it’s so hard to miss and I stand there every Wednesday reading it (at least three times over) – while I’m waiting for her crumpets to pop!
It’s a short, but popular verse and most of us carers have encountered it on our travels in and around the Aged-Care industry. To be honest, I always feel annoyed whenever I read it because as far as describing the hopelessness and grim reality of Alzheimer’s disease – it’s pretty spot on.
It is also completely sad.
The story goes that back in her day, Ruth Cuddlepot had etched herself out and prospered, in an outstanding career as a principal in some posh private school for boys (at the time the youngest female to obtain such a role). She never married, didn’t have children and had no real family to speak of. Therefore, she had bucket-loads of money tucked away ready to spend totally on herself, whenever she might need it.
That day came a few years back when Ruth received the official crushing diagnosis of Alzheimer’s Disease. Being such an insightful person however, she decided early on that she would set herself up for when the time came, when she could no longer work or take care of herself.
Indeed, there would be NO nursing home for Ms Ruth Cuddlepot!
Instead, she arranged her affairs and teed-up the lawyers so she could be completely looked after and cared for IN HER OWN HOME. No matter what. She knew her condition would deteriorate; that her memory would crumble, and she would eventually “lose my marbles completely!”
Apparently, that’s how Ruth used to say it, although I didn’t know her then and have relied on verbal reports from other carers to fill me in on all the background reading.
Needless to say, she was a very clever lady. Although, by the time I had the pleasure of caring for Ruth Cuddlepot she was no longer the organised and efficient educator I had been told she once was.
Ruth had, instead, evolved into ‘Ruthie’.
And thanks to the personality-morphing Alzheimer’s, Ruthie had become a frail, yet openly happy and affectionate elderly woman…. WHO LOVED TO HUG!
Even when her speech faltered, Ruthie could at least continue to communicate with a nice big welcoming embrace whenever I arrived for my shift. I looked forward to it in fact!
There she would be, sitting at her favourite spot on a chair in the sun at her enormous loungeroom windows… the spot where she had the wonderful view of her garden and a watchful eye on the next visitor she could throw her arms around and give a great big squeeeeze to!
Really if it wasn’t so heart-breaking, it would be lovely.
Recently though, Ruthie had started calling me Wendy.
Which is fine by me because you can imagine it happens a lot in this line of work (I’m also known as Debbie, Louise and Margie with some of my other cognitively-challenged clients). Let’s face it, remembering each carer’s name, rank and serial number is understandably not high on the priority list for some seniors – especially when they no longer know their OWN name!
I knew something had started to change in Ruthie when one day – the hugs stopped.
And another cruel stage of the Alzheimer’s curse set in… Ruthie Cuddlepot started to become aggressive.
Without much warning her moods became erratic and it eventuated that Ruthie couldn’t STAND to be touched. Not even a handshake or a gentle pat on the shoulder. You just wouldn’t dare in case she would flare up and start screaming and punching the air (or anything else within proximity) in what appeared to be the ultimate frustration within Ruthie’s muddled-up brain.
This most heartless and indiscriminate disease had finally taken hold of her … it has been just awful to watch.
Finally, after accusations that Ruthie had started slapping and pushing her carer’s, we were told there was a serious incident last week where she had to be whisked away by ambulance and sedated in hospital.
Quite honestly, it became apparent to us all, that they didnt know WHAT to do with her!
After all Ruth’s organising, having purposely prepared herself and her future to remain forever being tended to in her own home by an army of paid care-working bees, it now seemed this was no longer a viable option.
I wonder now looking back, how Ruthie could have possibly planned for this gloom-ridden stage of her illness?
Perhaps she’d anticipated that by this late phase: 1) she wouldn’t know where she lived, and 2) she wouldn’t care?
I hoped so for her sake.
The poem was right, and the best of Ruth had gone.
And yes, we had failed in standing beside her. Basically, it had become too unsafe to do so! Poor Ruthie had become a danger not only to herself, but to everyone else as well. And if a support worker is under any threat whilst looking after an elderly person in their home, then the people in charge needed to move to an ulterior arrangement.
I was informed only today that the once proud and brilliant Ruth Cuddlepot had been relocated ‘indefinitely’ into a High Care facility.
Just like the poem had foretold she was now sad and sick and lost. Her beautiful forward-thinking mind now full-to-capacity on sensory-depriving medication to keep her comatose and manageable (for her own protection, we were told).
I have deliberated greatly about going to visit Ruthie but honestly, what would be the point? Without sounding totally selfish – I don’t think I could bear it.
The worst part is finding out she doesn’t even have a window.