One of these days we’ll both be fine
Helen the Cat
A couple of weeks ago we found out the hospital recreation coordinator (who is amazing—she organizes karaoke, trivia, and other activities for patients awaiting long term care) ordered my mother a therapy cat.
At first my sister and I thought it was going to be a real cat, but then we discovered it was a robotic cat that purrs and meows.
We were initially apprehensive because we worried that the cat might be infantilizing, but we were willing to give it a try and get them to take it away if it caused her distress. Apparently robotic pets are supposed to help calm anxiety and loneliness in people with dementia.
My mother definitely did not want one of the robotic babies. That we knew for certain. I’m also certain she clearly communicated that to the recreation coordinator, which is likely why she ended up with the cat.
So far my mother seems pretty neutral about the cat. She often regards it with curiosity and sometimes confusion.
Every once in a while when I’m talking to her on FaceTime, she’ll say, “There’s a black and white cat staring at me.” Or “I think I just heard something meow.”
I ask her if she knows the cat is not real, and she says that she does. I explain to her that it’s a therapy cat, and it’s supposed to make her feel better.
The other day I suggested we name the cat. I threw out some random names like Simon or Bob, and then my mother blurted “Helen” which was her mother’s name.
I said, “Okay, let’s call the cat Helen.”
When we talk about the cat, I remind her that she’s named the cat Helen, and she’s always happy about that name. “Helen is my mother’s name,” she says.
Today talking about Helen the cat triggers questions about her parents. “Are my parents around?” she asks me.
At this stage in her illness, my mother likes to be told the truth that her parents have both passed on. Oddly she’s always relieved, if not glad, to hear they are no longer alive. The weight of being responsible for them (she was an only child) agitates her, and once she’s told they are in heaven (I say heaven becasue that’s where my grandmother believed she was going) the burden leaves her.
Perhaps it’s the combination of the cat being named Helen along with the discussion about her deceased parents that causes my mother to look at the window sill where the cat is stretched out and say, “There’s a dead cat staring at me.”
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