I’ve hated boxing ever since I was around age ten, thanks to my Grandpa Victor. He had a terrible case of shingles, and when he and my grandma came for their weekly visits he’d plunk himself down right in front of the only television set in the house and turn on professional boxing. Shirtless and hunched over in terrible pain from the rashes, he was pathetic to look at. Still, he cheered with fist pumps with every bloody punch. I was nauseated at the glorified brutality.
So when I accepted a casual invite about a year ago to try out a boxing class at the gym I attend, never would it have occurred to me that I’d fall in love with the sport. I even have my own pair of pink gloves. There’s something so Neanderthal about all that aggression that is so cathartic. The hitting, the grunting, the sweating, and the power of smacking the bags is way more fun than I ever imagined.
The boxing area at the gym has a dummy named “BOB” (an acronym for “Body Opponent Bag”) and hitting him is just about my favorite thing we do. The other boxers and I joke that sometimes BOB is someone’s ex, or a sadistic boss. The coach encourages us to transfer any anger onto BOB’s face. It’s a good thing he’s made of rubber, as we weekly pound the hell out of him. Of late, to me, BOB is The Demon.
I have nick-named my mother’s dementia “The Demon” because like a horror movie, it has taken over her mind and body and spirit. Sadly, no priest can exorcise this demon, but that hasn’t stopped my mother from doing her best to avoid a knockout. She displayed her “Million Dollar Baby” moves when she awoke from her very serious, nine-hour arterial bypass surgery on her leg. To everyone’s shock, she came out swinging.
My sweet and obliging 79-year-old mother came out of her anesthesia as if she were possessed. As my father is describing this to me over the phone from 1800 miles away, I’m aghast. Spewing the “F” word to anyone and everyone nearby, her eyes wild with anger and fright, she had yanked out her IV from her hand and blood squirt everywhere like a kitchen mixer pulled out of the bowl while spinning. Indignant, she was begging to be taken to the home where she’s lived the last fifty-three years.
My dad, her husband of nearly 60 years, was so disturbed by her behavior he was too emotional to tell me much. The next day, I decided to call the nurse’s station near my mom’s room to check on her. The kind nurse gently explained that not only did Mom try to rip out her IV again, she took a swipe at Dad again, enraged and exasperated at my father’s refusal to take her home. This time, she actually made contact. A left jab to the chin. The ICU nurse quickly called for additional help, and my mom’s wrists had to be strapped down. Dad has become my mom’s “BOB”. She blames him for her predicament.
Dementia has robbed my mother of the ability to reason. It’s like disciplining a toddler. It’s futile. Toddlers are unreasonable, and now, so is my mother. Even with IV’s attached, wearing a paper-thin hospital gown, and having her left leg recovering from surgery, she doesn’t understand why she can’t “just go home.” It’s heartbreaking.
My mother’s use of the “F” word was completely out of character for her until recently, as her dementia progressed. The extent of her decline came spilling out as my dad recounted what living with her the last few months has been like. She had grown angrier and angrier and began using profanity to express her frustrations with her memory lapses. Oh, and the occasional throwing of the TV remote as well, and a few other things within reach. It is unbearable to think of her as such an angry person. Ever since she became aware of the early stages of her failing memory, she’s been one angry woman. Trying desperately to hold onto her sanity, she was aware she was getting worse.
So when my dad called me last night and told me the nurses decided to untie my mom’s straps and replace them with a pair of mittens that resemble boxing gloves, I felt defeated. My father explained that every time he goes to see her, in her confused and frustrated mental state, she takes a few swings at him when he tries to kiss her goodbye after visiting. In her very confused mental state, she cannot understand why he own’t take her with him.
After I had time to process this new, sad turn of events, I had to smile. Mom has always had a fighting spirit; she didn’t just “cope”, she fought back. Whether it was my dad losing his job, the suicide of my older brother, or her many health crises (including open heart surgery at age 69 and a hip replacement shortly after), she was determined never to let life knock her down for long. She’d get right back up and face whatever the challenge was head-on.
I’ve always been proud of my mom. I had a very happy childhood for the most part. All my friends loved her and wished she were their mother. She was a decent cook but an even better baker. She was smart, well-read, and she had the best laugh. Thankfully, the demon hasn’t stolen her laugh, but now, sadly, she laughs at things that don’t make any sense to anyone but her.
As the demon threatens to steal the last, few things we recognize of my mom, this tough, old broad is not to be underestimated. She is going the full ten rounds. Now, fighting a fight she doesn’t know she can’t win, she’s not going to just hang on the ropes until the Demon knocks her out. The challenger, starring in the lightweight division, my beloved mother. Trapped in her hospital bed, unable to walk, she’s a danger to anyone within reach.
He leg is healing well enough that she was recently transferred to a physical rehab facility, and I’m happy to report that dad says she’s been more cooperative. She’s calmed down quite a bit thanks to the anti-anxiety medications she’s being given to reduce her combativeness. The nurses have even been able to take her gloves off.
As my mother re-learns to walk again, she will still have to battle the Demon. It’s a losing fight. She is out-matched by her opponent. When she stops fighting back is when I will really begin to worry.
I’m certain my mother has forgotten I’d taken up boxing. She may not even know who I am by the time I fly out to see her mid-March. I like to think I got my own fighting spirit from her; and despite the scary first images of boxing that burned into my brain from my grandfather at an early age, I can see now that we all fight our demons in our own ways. I’ve read about dementia being genetic but in my family, I wonder if boxing is as well.
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