I shared what I was doing for my Mother with many people and they would say, “It is not your job to wipe your mother’s bum.  You shouldn’t do that.  You should always remain her daughter and not become her nurse.” I couldn’t have agreed more until I did it and then my perspective changed.  They would look at me with disbelief when I said it was an honor to provide this small service to my mother.

When I visited Mom I would let the night staff go and have the house to just Mom and myself.  At this stage she needed rolling over every three to four hours to prevent bedsores.  We had been provided with an amazing mattress that was made of fingers of air.  Sort of an egg carton of air tubes.  Mom was the princess on the pea and was quite comfortable.  But still rolling was required.  Even the pressure between her knees was sufficient to cause a pressure sore as the circulation in her limbs was very limited.

I would set my alarm and in the middle of the night and get up to tend to my Mom.  Romantic bedroom light just strong enough to see my task. Her eyes would flutter open as I disturbed her.  Quietly I would peak under her sheets and check to see if she needed changing.  Always a happy small excitement when bowel movements were healthy as so many systems had broken down.  Armed with gloves, wet wipes, garbage can and a fresh diaper I would carefully change her.  Our roles had been reversed.  And while I am sure my legs flailed as a baby hers did not.

Fresh and clean I would snuggle her back in.  Placing pillows and special bolsters between her legs. Her skin was so smooth and she smelled of baby powder and hand cream.  Her curly white hair was soft.  Her eyes appreciative of the care as they closed and she drifted back to sleep.   There was nothing dirty or ugly about caring for someone at this level. It was simply what I wanted to do.