[Home Care] The 'Toilet Paper Snow' Dancing in the Room. My Mother's Obsession and the Struggle of Reaching Hands.

On the side table by my mother's bed in our home, a roll of toilet paper always sits enthroned.
Not tissue paper, but specifically toilet paper.
There was a small bit of wisdom I arrived at during our caregiving life for this choice.

Lately, my mother's drooling and runny nose won't stop, and if left alone, it even wets her clothes.
Toilet paper, which can be wiped away quickly when noticed, is easy to dispose of because it dissolves in water, and above all, it has the advantage of 'not stripping away too much of the skin's natural oils'.

For the delicate skin of an elderly person who blows their nose repeatedly, this simple paper is actually kinder than high-quality tissues.

However, a change has recently occurred in that calm habit.
When I return from work and peek into my mother's room, there are times when white paper fragments are scattered about as if it had snowed.

My mother has started pulling the toilet paper out with all her might, tearing it into small pieces, and rolling it up to throw.
'Mom, what's wrong? It's all scattered.'
When I speak to her gently, my mother always answers like this.

'It wasn't me. Someone else came and did it on their own.'

Her eyes are not the eyes of someone trying to deceive me, but have a somewhat frightened color, as if she truly believes it.
As I wrote in a previous article, I understand this as a 'shield' created by my mother's last bit of self-esteem, unable to admit to a 'self that cannot do things'.

'In that case, since it's hard to clean up, shall we put it somewhere a little further away?'
Thinking that, I once moved the roll to a shelf out of my mother's reach.

However, that was a big mistake.
The moment she realized that the 'white sense of security' that should always be at hand was missing, my mother fell into a panic.

'It's gone! It's gone! My toilet paper is gone!'
My mother shouted in a loud voice that echoed throughout the room, desperately groping around her.
Seeing that, my heart felt like it was being squeezed.

For her, toilet paper was not just a hygiene product.
'I can wipe it up as soon as it gets dirty.'
'I can take care of my own surroundings myself.'
It was, so to speak, a 'lifeline' to protect her fading sense of independence.

From then on, no matter how full the room became with paper snow, I decided to keep the toilet paper right by my mother's side.
Picking up the tattered paper is certainly a chore.
Honestly, with the current high prices, it also costs money...
When I come home tired from work, there are times when I let out a sigh.

At such times, I talk to the brown tabby cat that rubs against my feet and Ginji-kun, the Rough Collie who watches me with concern, saying, 'It snowed again today, didn't it?'
They don't say anything, they just snuggle up to me.

My mother's excuse that 'it wasn't me' and the messy room are all proof that my mother is alive and desperately trying to maintain herself.
In my relearning since my 50s, I have learned to prioritize 'dignity' over 'efficiency'.

Today, too, I place a new roll by my mother's pillow.
Even if it snows in the room again tomorrow, having 'peace of mind' within my mother's reach.

Daily life in caregiving is not just about the pretty things.
It is a daily accumulation of doing what I can, one step at a time.

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