I visited the Como Conservatory orchid show with my mom. During this yearly show the greenhouse complex is embellished with these fascinating plants in arrangements that complement the regular foliage. Experts on orchids proudly display their own specimens and share their vast knowledge of the plants with visitors.
I hated every minute of it.
Because of my mom’s dementia, navigating the crowded, narrow walkways was difficult. She was confused and claustrophobic. The crowds were almost at a standstill, making most of the visit an exercise in standing in a queue. Bulky coats, wheelchairs and strollers obstructed the paths. People on cell phones fumbling to take photos (or just playing dumb games while waiting in line) also blocked movement and enjoyment.
Then there were the strong fragrances of the visitors. As people warmed up in the greenhouse and removed layers, I got regular mouthfuls of personal odors. Some people just want every stranger in the room to smell them.
My mom started asking to leave almost immediately.
On the way out a dull child shouted, “Bye Felicia” to my mom to impress her two dull friends. My mom, good-natured as always, said “Hello, how are you?” The kid then said another dumb thing. My childfree lifestyle helps me avoid these awful fountains of nonsense for the most part. But occasional interactions are unavoidable.
On the walk back to the car, my mom cried and begged to be taken home. She repeated that she just couldn’t do it, couldn’t stand it anymore. I got the feeling I was torturing her, putting her through pain she could not understand.
Looking back on the day, I realized I hated the long drive through ugly gray Minneapolis and Saint Paul. I hated searching for parking. I hated the cold and the hints of the subzero weather that is once again approaching.
Looking back further, to the night before, I realized I had not slept well. I was dreading being with my mom. And the dread may have been appropriate because the outing went just as bad as I had predicted. The night before I had been turning over the idea of Alzheimer’s dementia in my head, ruminating on it. I thought about how my mom’s existence is a continual present, and the present is usually confusion, discomfort and anxiety. There are hours here and there when she is distracted by coloring books, gardening, meals or walks. But for most hours of the day she is restless or upset.
I thought ahead, too: there are five to ten more years to come where the condition worsens and becomes more difficult every month, with no hope for recovery. Then she dies in confusion, pain, and a shitty diaper.
When I brought my mom home my dad then became responsible for her. I used to think he had a special knack with her, but things are also very difficult for him. He is just habituated. Thus each visit of mine is a glimpse into his private hell.
I thought this outing would be like a breath of fresh air, a nice green oasis to punctuate a long January and bring some joy to my mom. Instead it turned out to be very frustrating and bleak.
Included: This Tillandsia in a glass orb cost $13 at Home Depot during Christmas. Afterward, it was marked down to $1.50. It even has a little LED light string inside.
pseudoisaac 