The Bathroom

When does something you dreamed about become something that happened? And when does something that happened turn into a dream? What if you don’t know anymore which is which, and what is what, but you can’t stop thinking about it.

Years ago, I was maybe in college, my Mom and I were driving somewhere. Mom really had to go to the bathroom but we were on a very long bridge and the traffic was backed up. She started to panic because she was sure she couldn’t hold it. I was very concerned about her panic – and I tried to tell her it was ok – if she had to wet her pants then she did and we would just deal with it. I could run in somewhere and buy new stuff I told her, even a towel. But by this time she was crying and in full on panic mode, gripping the steering wheel with anger and fear. I remember the desperation in that car. I remember the traffic, and I remember how desperately I wanted to help her and that there was nothing I could do. I do not remember if she lost the battle of holding it in. I don’t remember how the story ended. I just remember the reality of that situation and the panic and tears. I do know that she always carried toilet paper and a change of clothes in the car from then on. Always – up until the day I cleaned her car out they were in there in a Ziploc baggie.

Did this really happen? Was the scene on the bridge real? I can’t tell you. I feel like it was. The Ziploc baggie forever taking space in her car is evidence that it happened. But I could have dreamed this particular situation. I no longer know what is real and what isn’t. If I could have spared Mom this terrible day I would have – did I dream it based on her terror? It feels so real, even today.

Mom always had a bathroom obsession. Any store we went in the first thing to do was to find the bathroom. Not just to know where it was, but to go in and use it. Anytime we left the house she had to go to the bathroom a dozen times before we could leave. She’d clutch her stomach and say, “I just don’t know … my stomach is so upset.” I would try and be patient but eventually I would get annoyed. I think she knew this because she would snap “I’ll be ready in a minute.” Or she’d huff and puff and say, “I think we can leave now.” And I would say nothing. I wouldn’t point out that we could always stop at a store, or that she knew where every bathroom was in the thirty-mile radius of the house. (I wasn’t that dumb – she would have killed me.)

But she knew anyway. She knew that I was annoyed. She knew that her fear wasn’t justified – other than the time on the bridge *real or imagined – she never had an accident in the car. Still, she was very afraid of leaving the house. She loved going out and going shopping with me, but until we left the house it was an ordeal every time. Once we were in the car she would usually relax.

Mom had a “witching hour.” If we didn’t leave town by 4:00 she would start getting twitchy. She would lose focus and get snappy. We used to joke about it. If I was trying to make a decision (or a joke) and she “clicked” her tongue and shifted from one foot to the other I knew my time was up. We’d better get going I’d say, witching hour is here! And then to make dinner after that was just too much. She was never a late afternoon/evening person. In the evenings she just wanted to sit and drink beer and read, later this turned into watching TV when reading was no longer easy for her.

But I digress, back to the bathroom thing. In later years getting Mom to leave the house was near impossible. She would never go to any doctor appointments – you couldn’t get her to follow through on anything. She would get so distressed about leaving the house that my Dad would just cancel the appointment. I know now that she was comfortable in her house, and that she couldn’t compensate outside of it.

How long has she had dementia? She was always so smart and sharp. But somewhere along the way, and I don’t think she was as old as I originally thought she was when it started, somewhere along the way she started to falter. The witching hour? Early on sundowning maybe? Witching hour used to be about 6 or 7 pm but as she got older that time moved up to 5 pm, then 4. It even applied to me – if I was at a show and we didn’t leave until 5 or 6 pm she would always say in dismay “it’s SOO late!” Like she really felt for me. I remember leaving a show once about this time and her saying this to me as I called her on the way out – I answered by saying how I didn’t mind, this was my job and some days it was just like this. She just couldn’t fathom it. Even though she used to work at a bookstore until 11 pm and drive home at midnight. Those days were long behind us.

Leaving the house? Like I said, she couldn’t compensate outside of her comfort zone. She needed to know where everything was to feel safe. The bathroom thing got worse as she got older, too. She had to be SURE she knew where it was at all times. Even if I was with her, she was still uncomfortable. Going out by herself, which she used to love to do, slowly dwindled to never as well.

When should I have picked up on all the signs? When should I have known? It really doesn’t matter because I could never convince her to do anything she didn’t want to do. My Dad couldn’t either, though he was more successful that I was, just by virtue of always being in the house with her. But as the years went on she was less and less likely to leave the house, and less and less likely to let anyone in her house either. Even if I had known, even if I had an early diagnosis, there was precious little I would have been able to do about it. She wasn’t a woman to let others make decisions for her. I convinced her to take the Prevagen, which is a supplement made from jellyfish and supposed to be really good for memory loss, but as soon as her memory really started to go, so did the Prevagen. She resented Dad telling her to take her pills. She resented him even more when he did the pill tray for her and put them in front of her every day.

But losing the ability to go to the bathroom on her own has to have been the most excruciating detail for my Mom. I think about the dream I had, or the scene on the bridge and I wonder… was it real?

Does it matter?