What I Learned from My Mother-in-Law's Unexpected Visit
In early February, my mother-in-law (MIL) went rogue and announced her surprise arrival at the ungodly hour of 5:45 a.m. the next day. Thus, a few days before her eighty-eighth birthday, my MIL unexpectedly hopped a train from Baltimore to Providence like a hobo with just the clothes on her back and slippers on her feet during New England’s coldest weekend of the winter. My husband and I frantically attempted to reorganize our daughter’s bedroom in our 864-square-foot, one-bathroom home on Cape Cod to accommodate our last-minute guest.
Turned out my MIL was not oriented as to who or where she was, and her short-term memory eluded her. She seasoned her meals with a red flashlight, rearranged my kitchen utensils, and mistook the dishwasher for an oven.
During her first day on the Cape, she grew increasingly hostile toward me as I tried to reason with her as to why she would not be able to return to the nursing home in Maryland for a meeting the following day on the recovery of the ninety-year-old husband she had left behind without foresight. I called my husband with the unfortunate news that the situation had gone off the rails, so when he arrived home from work, so did the local police, who de-escalated the situation expertly and convinced my MIL to ride in the ambulance to the local hospital for evaluation. This eval showed that my MIL was suffering from an altered mental status due to a urinary tract infection.
Meanwhile, I was experiencing sharp abdominal pains for which my husband rushed me to the ER, where a CT-scan showed I had diverticulitis. With both of us on different antibiotic treatments, we each experienced bowel consequences the likes of which you don’t want to endure with just one bathroom!
Why am I sharing all of this? Because my MIL’s dementia was so invasive and unstoppable it made me question my ability to read or write altogether. Instead, I filled my mind with a myriad of useless information like where I last saw my MIL’s yellow toothbrush as the television blared with mindless blathering all day long. And then there was the occasional unsavory soggy pair of underwear dangling from the doorknob that really clinched the deal.
I thought I could give myself a writing ‘pass’ until my challenging guest left and my lost privacy and sleep were once again restored in early March. But my body had other plans for me. While recovering from diverticulitis, I developed the contagious and highly pernicious c-diff and was too weak to do anything but necessary laundry. Another trip to the ER yielded a rigorous new course of antibiotics. C-diff consumed my life, and I preserved the leftover shreds of my sanity for self-defense against the intolerable trials of dementia.
For the entire month of February, my life was compromised; from a weakened body to a difficult houseguest, my resentment grew like a saltwater barnacle clinging to the underside of my daily life. As I regained my health, so too did compassion take root in my crusty old heart. I began to understand the terror my MIL must’ve felt at not knowing who or where she was, nor what she was doing from one moment to the next. I no longer felt the undertow of negative energy, just a wash of sadness sweeping over me. My anger at my MIL’s dementia stemmed from the fear that I too might one day confront the disturbing loss of my faculties with nothing to do but helplessly watch the sun set on my own life, beautiful but tragic.
As soon as my MIL departed for Baltimore, my abdominal pains returned, and this time I was hospitalized for one week with recurring diverticulitis and c-diff. One night in the hospital bed I awoke to my own loud whispered conversation with the imagined contentious ghost of my MIL I had conjured up so severe was my PTSD. My March has been consumed by my deteriorating gut health, a struggle for my own sanity in the face of my toxic MIL.
Case in point, while waiting for my hospital discharge and feeling hopeful, my cell phone rang, and the caller proved to be none other than my MIL, so I answered optimistically if cautiously.
The usual pleasantries were exchanged. So far, so good.
My MIL said, “I need new sneakers and a new toothbrush, but no one wants me to drive. Do you think I can drive?”
“No, you should not drive. Ninety percent of the time you don’t know who you are or where you are. This is dangerous. You could hurt yourself or someone else. Do not drive.”
My MIL proceeded to argue.
“You called ME. You asked MY opinion. So I’ve given it to you–” I said.
“--Well, I guess this ends our friendship. Goodbye.”
Never mind the hot acid bile rising in my throat as I tried to prepare for my at-home recovery by swallowing it back…
So, while March was the month that straddled the seasons, winter and spring, it has also been the month wherein my mind has succumbed to the demands of my body. And the month in which I struggled with defining myself as a writer while grappling with dementia, which my gut literally told me could’ve been my condition as much as it was my MIL’s…
Finally, the takeaway is that my MIL’s astonishing cognitive decline forced me to confront my own inability to read or write during a fearsome time of questionable mental and physical health, and more importantly to face my imposter’s syndrome.