Pee, Poop & Other Questionable Pleasures (My Mom’s Alzheimer’s)

Photo by Karolina Grabowska from Pexels

Pre-dawn on a Sunday morning is a refreshing time for me. I lay there thinking,

“Today’s an easy day, no getting Mom up early for adult daycare. Laundry is done, dinner is ready.”

I go to the kitchen for a drink of water and see the first warning sign; my mother’s bathroom light is on.

I call out to her and walk into the bathroom expecting something, but I am ill-prepared for the new terrain. There is a sodden de-bowelled adult diaper on the bathroom counter. The urine-soaked bits of foam padding are piled on the other end of the counter. There is a trail of wet footsteps from the bed to the bathroom. The bathroom floor is wet with urine. It’s 7 a.m. and this is only the beginning of the mess.

“A bruised reed He would not break,” keeps echoing in my mind. My mother is very private about her personal hygiene. I know somewhere inside Mom knows that something is terribly wrong, and she is mortified, so I speak quietly and tenderly to her.

“Good morning, Mom. Great time for a bath.”

I lead her into the tub, set the water to the temperature she likes and remind her that we will be visiting her granddaughter and family today. It’s the day we find out the sex of her next great-grandchild. I am hoping to distract her from dwelling on her confusion and…