EXCERPT
 | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  | |  |
From: When Can I Go Home?
..........When I visited her, she would repeatedly ask, “Joe,
when can I go home? Can I go home? Can I go home soon?”
Once again the familiar feeling of living death took over
inside me. Just when I thought I had nothing left, it seemed to
kill me a little more every time she asked this. I did not know
if the guilt was killing me or the utter sadness and unfairness of
the situation. I felt I had betrayed her in that she now lived in
a nursing home. Most days I had no hope for her or myself but
I went on with life. Once again, I had to block out my own pain
because there was nothing on the other side except psychological
death if I let myself feel it too much.
I did not have the heart to tell her that our home in
Erie had ceased to exist. The furniture was gone, divided up
between siblings; the house was empty, soon to be rented.
Ultimately it would be sold. I wanted to go home as much as
she did. There was no chance of her comprehending any of
this. I could barely believe it myself. I instinctively answered
her questions by redirecting her and telling her that right
now she lived with the nuns and had her own room and everything
was okay. Although I grew up learning to be honest
and candid, I struggled with what I thought was a less than
honest answer. Perhaps at the time, it was the most humane
answer, given the context. I certainly could not tell her that
she was never going home again. I was in a state of shock
over this and perhaps in a bit of denial myself. I remembered
a couple years before in theology class in high school discussing
morality and ethics and being honest and the end
justifying the means. I never knew I would be facing these
moral questions at age nineteen.
The illness had taken on new proportions. Not only had
it stolen my mother’s mind and personality, it had also stolen
my home and basic psychological safety net. My mother
would wander the halls of the nursing home, carrying her
purse, as did many of the other demented ladies. The purse
carry is an automatic response on some more primitive
organic brain level. It is almost a reflex. It can be seen on
any Alzheimer’s nursing home unit nowadays anywhere in
the United States. Despite the origins it seems to defy the
illness. The behavior seems to outlast many other cognitive
functions that have declined. It is almost a sign or atavistic
symbol that shouts, “Hey! I was a strong independent person
once, with real thoughts and feelings. I made my own decisions
and took care of my family and myself!”
