The tall male nurse bounces into the room buoyant and upbeat, tying bibs around the patients necks. Another aide tosses a carton of milk into the air and catches it athletically setting it on the table in front of the patient. It is dinner time.
Joleen, who appears to have severe cerebral palsy spasms as she drinks from her sippy-cups. One for milk, and another for her strawberry milk shake. George across the horse shoe shaped table has oxygen tubes in his nose and develops a serious coughing attack while trying to swallow his pizza. Melba sits with her eyes closed and looks as though she is blind, waiting quietly, patiently for the aid to feed her while the super that is sitting in front of her is getting cold. This is meal time at the convalescent hospital. My dad appears to be the most cognitive one there.
I look at each of these people wondering what sorts of lives they once lived. I would guess that Joleen has had cerebral palsy all or most of her life and is used to institutional living. She wears a constant smile and tries to communicate. I can't understand her.
George, big and burly, has large hands like someone who was used to manual labor. Perhaps he held down a variety of blue collar jobs, a one time mechanic who chatted freely with his customers, barking at those who irritated him. Or perhaps a truck driver maneuvering large 18 wheelers over treacherous highways and mountain roads.
Melba could have been any ones mother. I wonder how many children she has? Or had she been a nurse tending the needs of others, now on the receiving end?
My husband leans over to me and says, "Did you hear what that old guy across the room just said?" No I didn't so my husband reiterated to me, "I'm going to stand up and poop in my pants and I'm not going to clean it up," were the exact words. We cringe but can't help but laugh!
Pop turns to me several times throughout his meal and cheerfully asks me the same question, "Are you going to eat, too?" Looking at his portion I think to myself how glad I am that I am not. Always the first to finish his meal he puts down his cloth napkin and indicates that he is ready to leave his left overs behind. He's not even interested in taking the tea with him. I unlock the breaks on his wheel chair and attempt to maneuver him around the rest of the diners also in their rolling chairs.
My husband and I comment on how stuffy it is. My dad comments on how cold he is. I retrieve his signature cardigan and help him pull it on over his boney, protruding shoulders. "I'm tired," he says. We roll him back to his room. Help him into bed. Tell him good night and that we'll be back tomorrow.
My husband and I find the experience shocking. My dad doesn't seem to notice.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Where Will Pop Spend Christmas?
It was about 5:00 a.m. when my husband awakened me and said, "Your dad is sick, Jude. You'd better get up." I learned that Pop had been vomiting since about 4:00 a.m. We visited him in his bedroom over the hours watching him weaken. Through the day he continued to appear to have some sort of virus. But by evening we began to question our theory of "viral." Very much against his will (he was sure he was just fine) we carefully loaded him into the car and drove to the emergency room. That night he was admitted and the next day was in surgery to repair an intestinal blockage.
The following week, during my daily visits, I watched his strength drain from his body until he looked like a Holocaust victim. The lack of solid food had taken its toll. In those hours I was reminded again the truth behind the old adage "ignorance can be bliss." As the hours rolled into days his continuous, repetitive questions reminded me that he had no recollection as to how much misery he had endured, how close to death he had been, and how uncertain his future was. As we approach the Christmas holiday season he is resting and recuperating in a convalescent hospital. I can't help but wonder, where will Pop spend Christmas?
I know that his memory challenges have trapped him in a chronic state of oblivion sort of like being locked in a room with one way mirrors; we are able to see in but he is unable to see out. Oblivious to the seasons, the celebrations, the life which swirls on around him he continues to live but not really live. Thanks giving was a blur, a non happening. I assume Christmas will be the same. While I bustle around preparing for this blessed holiday season I fit in time to see him daily but he has no idea how many hours have transpired between our visits.
Unless you've been through something like this you might not understand the following statement and think that it sounds cruel, but I often wish Pop could just spend Christmas in heaven.
The following week, during my daily visits, I watched his strength drain from his body until he looked like a Holocaust victim. The lack of solid food had taken its toll. In those hours I was reminded again the truth behind the old adage "ignorance can be bliss." As the hours rolled into days his continuous, repetitive questions reminded me that he had no recollection as to how much misery he had endured, how close to death he had been, and how uncertain his future was. As we approach the Christmas holiday season he is resting and recuperating in a convalescent hospital. I can't help but wonder, where will Pop spend Christmas?
I know that his memory challenges have trapped him in a chronic state of oblivion sort of like being locked in a room with one way mirrors; we are able to see in but he is unable to see out. Oblivious to the seasons, the celebrations, the life which swirls on around him he continues to live but not really live. Thanks giving was a blur, a non happening. I assume Christmas will be the same. While I bustle around preparing for this blessed holiday season I fit in time to see him daily but he has no idea how many hours have transpired between our visits.
Unless you've been through something like this you might not understand the following statement and think that it sounds cruel, but I often wish Pop could just spend Christmas in heaven.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
I Guess Those Are Mine
It appears these days my dad views anything which smacks of familiarity as belonging to him. "This probably belongs to me, so I'll take it," seems to be his line of thinking. Food, personal items, clothing is up for grabs around our house.
The microwave hums thawing the hot dog buns while Bret, works at the island preparing his lunch. Turning his attention back to the microwave, he leaves the hot dogs on a plate on the island, sizzling, steamy and vulnerable. Stomach growling, he turns back to the island, warm buns in hand anticipating that first juicy bite, mustard and catchup dripping off the end onto the plate. But to his shock he discovers a dog that has been violated. Quietly, secretly, without notice the end has been bitten off rendering it totally unappetizing. Bret coming to me with exasperation written all over his face, reports yet another incident of food theft. We all know who the hot dog thief is but there is obviously no sense of remorse on his part. Grandpa is innocently sitting in his chair of choice oblivious to the stir he has just created. I laugh and try to console my son. He doesn't laugh.
Picking up my basket of ironing I plunk it down next to our green, over stuffed chair, the one with the best view of the TV. In the evenings this perch is my favorite knitting hub, as well. I have learned though, that getting up for any reason, no matter how brief, can be dangerous. Often when I return I will find that in my absence Pop has hunkered down crowding in front of my ironing board or among my knitting which is snugly trapped between his thigh and the arm of the chair. To the common observer the arrangement I have created upon leaving would seem to scream, "This space is occupied. Stay out!" But not to Pop.
My can of ice cold beverage sits in the cup holder between the two front seats. As I anticipate a nice cool swig of refreshment, Pop reaches down, picks up the can and raises it to his lips. "Well, now it is his," I think to myself.
Walking over to the key rack hanging on the wall by our front door I reach for the key to our car. No key. After digging through my purse, checking jeans pockets, inquiring of my husband, digging through his bags, brief case and searching his desk and pockets, no key. I resort to driving the truck. Upon returning home further exploration begins. That little voice which sometimes speaks to me from the far reaches of my mind whispered to me, "ask your dad to check his pockets." So I did. He pulled out a house key and a few miscellaneous non-essentials. But no car key. An hour or so later that little voice spoke to me again saying, "check his pockets yourself." Going over to him I requested that he stand up. Reaching into his front pocket I feel metal and plastic. Grasping the objects between my fingers and pulling them out I am shocked to find in my hand our car keys. The only answer is that Pop seeing them hanging on the key rack concluded "I guess those are mine."
The microwave hums thawing the hot dog buns while Bret, works at the island preparing his lunch. Turning his attention back to the microwave, he leaves the hot dogs on a plate on the island, sizzling, steamy and vulnerable. Stomach growling, he turns back to the island, warm buns in hand anticipating that first juicy bite, mustard and catchup dripping off the end onto the plate. But to his shock he discovers a dog that has been violated. Quietly, secretly, without notice the end has been bitten off rendering it totally unappetizing. Bret coming to me with exasperation written all over his face, reports yet another incident of food theft. We all know who the hot dog thief is but there is obviously no sense of remorse on his part. Grandpa is innocently sitting in his chair of choice oblivious to the stir he has just created. I laugh and try to console my son. He doesn't laugh.
Picking up my basket of ironing I plunk it down next to our green, over stuffed chair, the one with the best view of the TV. In the evenings this perch is my favorite knitting hub, as well. I have learned though, that getting up for any reason, no matter how brief, can be dangerous. Often when I return I will find that in my absence Pop has hunkered down crowding in front of my ironing board or among my knitting which is snugly trapped between his thigh and the arm of the chair. To the common observer the arrangement I have created upon leaving would seem to scream, "This space is occupied. Stay out!" But not to Pop.
My can of ice cold beverage sits in the cup holder between the two front seats. As I anticipate a nice cool swig of refreshment, Pop reaches down, picks up the can and raises it to his lips. "Well, now it is his," I think to myself.
Walking over to the key rack hanging on the wall by our front door I reach for the key to our car. No key. After digging through my purse, checking jeans pockets, inquiring of my husband, digging through his bags, brief case and searching his desk and pockets, no key. I resort to driving the truck. Upon returning home further exploration begins. That little voice which sometimes speaks to me from the far reaches of my mind whispered to me, "ask your dad to check his pockets." So I did. He pulled out a house key and a few miscellaneous non-essentials. But no car key. An hour or so later that little voice spoke to me again saying, "check his pockets yourself." Going over to him I requested that he stand up. Reaching into his front pocket I feel metal and plastic. Grasping the objects between my fingers and pulling them out I am shocked to find in my hand our car keys. The only answer is that Pop seeing them hanging on the key rack concluded "I guess those are mine."
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
The New Cane
Observing my dad's daily walks I began to note that the stair steps on our porches seemed to have stretched farther apart and the paths around our house had suddenly become more uneven. Pop's dexterity and balance were becoming noticeably diminished causing me to feel that it was time to purchase a little walking assistance -- a cane. Considering his 88 years it is amazing to me that the need has not presented itself before now.
Once given to him it was obviously a welcomed addition that he wholeheartedly embraced. Knowing his streak of Sawyer pride, I had thought that perhaps the new stick might be viewed as an insult, a blow to his male ego. But, after endless thank yous and questions about its exorbitant price ($15), he took hold of the grip and moved out with confidence and a look of debonair.
Not only was I surprised at how well he embraced the use of the new cane for his practical needs but I have also become surprised at how creatively he is finding new and unusual uses for it. Bounce, bounce, bounce goes the cane in rhythmic taps on the floor, reverberating throughout the house. My dad's cane is an instrument! Walking out onto our front deck I observe him jabbing it at our fainting goats as he fends off imagined danger. It is now a sword! Gliding along swinging the cane rhythmically at his side, it has become a fashion statement. Competing for a chair that our black furry kitty had first dibs on, he takes it and pokes at the seat attempting to uproot Tazz. His cane becomes an element of aggression and power!
What a purchase! The possibilities for this new instrument of balance appears to be endless!
Once given to him it was obviously a welcomed addition that he wholeheartedly embraced. Knowing his streak of Sawyer pride, I had thought that perhaps the new stick might be viewed as an insult, a blow to his male ego. But, after endless thank yous and questions about its exorbitant price ($15), he took hold of the grip and moved out with confidence and a look of debonair.
Not only was I surprised at how well he embraced the use of the new cane for his practical needs but I have also become surprised at how creatively he is finding new and unusual uses for it. Bounce, bounce, bounce goes the cane in rhythmic taps on the floor, reverberating throughout the house. My dad's cane is an instrument! Walking out onto our front deck I observe him jabbing it at our fainting goats as he fends off imagined danger. It is now a sword! Gliding along swinging the cane rhythmically at his side, it has become a fashion statement. Competing for a chair that our black furry kitty had first dibs on, he takes it and pokes at the seat attempting to uproot Tazz. His cane becomes an element of aggression and power!
What a purchase! The possibilities for this new instrument of balance appears to be endless!
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Slight of Hand
Do you remember your picky eater? It seems like most moms have at least one of those in their brood. The stomach was too full for anymore of the meal that was set before them but there was ALWAYS room for dessert. So it is with my dad.
Glancing toward my father's plate I note that he has perhaps one bite left of his grilled cheese sandwich. I also note that the bites he is now taking are bird bites which means that he is running out of interest in his lunch. These days trying to get him to eat a reasonable meal is becoming harder and harder. His appetite seems to be getting smaller and smaller and even the small portions offered to him do not get completely finished. BUT sure enough. There is always room for a few cookies followed by a few pieces of candy, or whatever else satisfies the sweet tooth.
"Pop I see you just have one more bite of your sandwich left. Can you just finish that and I'll get you some cookies?" I encourage. Looking straight ahead, as innocent as a lamb he takes one more bird bite and then, like a magician, slight of hand the last chunk disappears. I know this trick. Going over to him I offer to take his napkin for him and inside I find the remaining bread and cheese rolled up ready for him to toss into the garbage when he leaves the table. (Did your kids ever do this?) I re-offer the last bite and suggest again that if it "disappears" into his mouth, he'll get his dessert. After one more bird bite, he takes a swath across his face with his new napkin ending the charade with a clenched fist. This time that last bite is hiding in his fist. But at this point I am feeling like the grilled cheese sandwich policewoman and decide to refrain from giving him a citation. I hand him the bag of cookies. He digs in. Pretty soon I see him in the living room enjoying the salt water taffy that I purchased this morning. Kids!
Glancing toward my father's plate I note that he has perhaps one bite left of his grilled cheese sandwich. I also note that the bites he is now taking are bird bites which means that he is running out of interest in his lunch. These days trying to get him to eat a reasonable meal is becoming harder and harder. His appetite seems to be getting smaller and smaller and even the small portions offered to him do not get completely finished. BUT sure enough. There is always room for a few cookies followed by a few pieces of candy, or whatever else satisfies the sweet tooth.
"Pop I see you just have one more bite of your sandwich left. Can you just finish that and I'll get you some cookies?" I encourage. Looking straight ahead, as innocent as a lamb he takes one more bird bite and then, like a magician, slight of hand the last chunk disappears. I know this trick. Going over to him I offer to take his napkin for him and inside I find the remaining bread and cheese rolled up ready for him to toss into the garbage when he leaves the table. (Did your kids ever do this?) I re-offer the last bite and suggest again that if it "disappears" into his mouth, he'll get his dessert. After one more bird bite, he takes a swath across his face with his new napkin ending the charade with a clenched fist. This time that last bite is hiding in his fist. But at this point I am feeling like the grilled cheese sandwich policewoman and decide to refrain from giving him a citation. I hand him the bag of cookies. He digs in. Pretty soon I see him in the living room enjoying the salt water taffy that I purchased this morning. Kids!
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Melt Down
I had quite a melt down at the dinner table last night. Ever since day light savings time started ... let's see, about 4 moths ago ... Pop has been getting up late in the morning, 10 sometimes 11 making his breakfast time close to lunch time, his lunch time around 3 and dinner around 6:30 or 7:30. The rest of the family is eating on a traditional meal schedule; breakfast between 8 and 8:30, lunch around 11:30 or noon, and dinner around 5:30 or 6:00. His lack of adjustment has put me in the position of double duty. Reminiscent of the days when my newborns controlled my schedule with their irregular eating habits, I am finding myself preparing our meals and then accommodating Pop when he is "good and ready." And ready means just the right degree of hunger pangs. No sooner, no later.
Around 5:45, last evening, I called everyone to the table for dinner. But as usual my dad just sat in his chair and would not budge, looking rather distraught like he was thinking "how am I going to manage this? I'm not at that perfect degree of hunger yet." Ignoring his decision to not come to the table, the three of us sat down to a very nice meal of fried chicken, buttered potatoes, broccoli and a fruit salad, a meal that probably took me a good 45 minutes of preparation time. Half way into our dinner, Pop comes moseying over to the table eying our food and looking like he was wondering, "how come I wasn't invited?" Of course he had been invited 30 minutes earlier but did not remember.
I guess the months of built up aggravation hit me. Out tumbled a flurry of angry words as I reminded him that I could not be preparing individual meals for him all day long. Obviously I was not thinking, just venting because first of all it was ridiculous for me to unload on someone with a memory span of 2 minutes. Secondly, it was very rude of me to be reprimanding an elderly man who is not in his right mind, especially doing so in front of the rest of the family. But I was mad, spittin' mad and my tempter flared.
Observing my inappropriate melt down, my sweet, compassionate, equally rude husband (rude to me) reprimanded me soundly making me feel like a two year old and proceeded to fill my dad's plate. In his sweetest voice he invited my dad to sit down and partake, causing me to look even more like a jerk. In teen-age fashion I exited the table with a flourish, leaving my half eaten meal behind. Taking long, exaggerated steps, I walked out the front door, closing it rather loudly.
After licking my wounds for about an hour at Barnes and Noble Book store, I tucked my tail between my legs and quietly returned home. Pop, who had obviously completely forgotten the whole table incident was off getting his blue striped jammie top on, with buttons in random button holes and still wearing his blue jeans. Trying to avoid the topic with my husband I focused on the dishes in the sink.
After an appropriate time of sulking, my husband and I had a good chat, apologies were made and a very clear decision on my part regarding future meal times materialized, an epiphany that should have occurred last April; put Pop on a schedule! How divinely, supremely, brilliant!
As I sit here at my computer pecking at the keyboard it is 8:00 a.m. I walked into Pop's room where he was snuggled between the covers, greeted him with a cheery "Good morning" and raised his shade. With an equally cheery voice I bribed him out of bed with an offer of his morning tea. Tea being the miracle worker in every difficult situation, he responded in like manner with, "Oh, that would be very nice." 8:15 a.m. he is up and dressed and sipping his tea!
I don't have any idea why it took me so long to come up with this ingenious plan!
Around 5:45, last evening, I called everyone to the table for dinner. But as usual my dad just sat in his chair and would not budge, looking rather distraught like he was thinking "how am I going to manage this? I'm not at that perfect degree of hunger yet." Ignoring his decision to not come to the table, the three of us sat down to a very nice meal of fried chicken, buttered potatoes, broccoli and a fruit salad, a meal that probably took me a good 45 minutes of preparation time. Half way into our dinner, Pop comes moseying over to the table eying our food and looking like he was wondering, "how come I wasn't invited?" Of course he had been invited 30 minutes earlier but did not remember.
I guess the months of built up aggravation hit me. Out tumbled a flurry of angry words as I reminded him that I could not be preparing individual meals for him all day long. Obviously I was not thinking, just venting because first of all it was ridiculous for me to unload on someone with a memory span of 2 minutes. Secondly, it was very rude of me to be reprimanding an elderly man who is not in his right mind, especially doing so in front of the rest of the family. But I was mad, spittin' mad and my tempter flared.
Observing my inappropriate melt down, my sweet, compassionate, equally rude husband (rude to me) reprimanded me soundly making me feel like a two year old and proceeded to fill my dad's plate. In his sweetest voice he invited my dad to sit down and partake, causing me to look even more like a jerk. In teen-age fashion I exited the table with a flourish, leaving my half eaten meal behind. Taking long, exaggerated steps, I walked out the front door, closing it rather loudly.
After licking my wounds for about an hour at Barnes and Noble Book store, I tucked my tail between my legs and quietly returned home. Pop, who had obviously completely forgotten the whole table incident was off getting his blue striped jammie top on, with buttons in random button holes and still wearing his blue jeans. Trying to avoid the topic with my husband I focused on the dishes in the sink.
After an appropriate time of sulking, my husband and I had a good chat, apologies were made and a very clear decision on my part regarding future meal times materialized, an epiphany that should have occurred last April; put Pop on a schedule! How divinely, supremely, brilliant!
As I sit here at my computer pecking at the keyboard it is 8:00 a.m. I walked into Pop's room where he was snuggled between the covers, greeted him with a cheery "Good morning" and raised his shade. With an equally cheery voice I bribed him out of bed with an offer of his morning tea. Tea being the miracle worker in every difficult situation, he responded in like manner with, "Oh, that would be very nice." 8:15 a.m. he is up and dressed and sipping his tea!
I don't have any idea why it took me so long to come up with this ingenious plan!
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Managing Full Pockets
While the rest of us manage our jobs, our responsibilities in and around the house, family and friends Pop manages his pockets. This form of management consumes a significant portion of each day. Inside each shirt pocket is a litany of necessities including a couple of pens, maybe a pencil, his giant clip on sun glasses, and sometimes a cookie or two. Jeans pockets contain the manly stuff. Wallet, finger nail clippers (absolute essential), a house key that never gets used, a comb that gets used all the time, perhaps a penny or a nickel.
It is not unusual to observe him fingering those important supplies safely nested away in his pockets. One by one he'll pull them out, testing the pens to see if they are still operational, filing his finger nails into sharp points and opening his wallet to check all of the meaningless cards that we have put there to take the place of credit cards. Or, looking like a money tycoon, one by one, he will remove the bills that we have slipped into place, counting his wealth and determining the extent of his assets that day. Returning the cash safety inside the bill section, I observe that there is a look of security on his face.
The most time consuming item in his shirt pocket are his giant clip ons. He has about three sets and two of them seem to be malfunctioning, appearing to more or less jump right off of his face after slipping them over the rim of his glasses. While I am driving, out of the corner of my eye I can see him fingering with patient dexterity the monster shades, carefully finding just the right point at which to make connection. Once on, after all his panes taking efforts, they fall into his lap anyway. Eventually he is able to make a secure connection and they stay in place long enough to serve their purpose before they fall off again or are removed and safely returned to the shirt pocket ready for the next sunny outing.
It would never enter his mind to have me purchase new ones. Gotta make the old work, is his philosophy. I suppose I could buy a new pair for him, surprise him, or sneak them into his stash of necessities that he empties onto his night stand at bed time. But in reality ... the manipulation seems to give him something to do.
It is not unusual to observe him fingering those important supplies safely nested away in his pockets. One by one he'll pull them out, testing the pens to see if they are still operational, filing his finger nails into sharp points and opening his wallet to check all of the meaningless cards that we have put there to take the place of credit cards. Or, looking like a money tycoon, one by one, he will remove the bills that we have slipped into place, counting his wealth and determining the extent of his assets that day. Returning the cash safety inside the bill section, I observe that there is a look of security on his face.
The most time consuming item in his shirt pocket are his giant clip ons. He has about three sets and two of them seem to be malfunctioning, appearing to more or less jump right off of his face after slipping them over the rim of his glasses. While I am driving, out of the corner of my eye I can see him fingering with patient dexterity the monster shades, carefully finding just the right point at which to make connection. Once on, after all his panes taking efforts, they fall into his lap anyway. Eventually he is able to make a secure connection and they stay in place long enough to serve their purpose before they fall off again or are removed and safely returned to the shirt pocket ready for the next sunny outing.
It would never enter his mind to have me purchase new ones. Gotta make the old work, is his philosophy. I suppose I could buy a new pair for him, surprise him, or sneak them into his stash of necessities that he empties onto his night stand at bed time. But in reality ... the manipulation seems to give him something to do.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Herding Snails and Taking Insults
This morning I'm up at 6:00. Today is podiatrist day for dad. The receptionist had called a few days earlier indicating that there had been an early morning cancellation, that I was able to pick up -- 8:30 to be exact -- which meant I'd have to get him up by 6:45 or 7:00, 1 to 2 hours earlier then his normal rising time. And when one, namely my dad, moves like a snail it was questionable if I could pull it off.
7:00 Am -- I turn on the CD player in the family room and set it to Pop's favorite soloist hoping that the sounds outside his door will alert him to the fact that activity is taking place in and about the house ... meaning it is time to rise and shine! No movement from his room, so I go and rap on his bedroom door and let myself in. He is snuggled in his bed, eyes closed and no indication that he has even considered emerging from his nest. I decide to try bribery. "Pop," I say softly. "We have to get up early this morning and go to an appointment. How about if I take you to get a quick bite of breakfast on the way?" Pulling the covers up around his face I get a very short and emphatic, "I'm still tired and I don't want to get up yet!"
Not wanting to mention the word "doctor" as this would send him into a tizzy, I try to talk around it and encourage him that he just has to get up earlier then usual because WE have an appointment to get to. When I realize that none of my approaches seem to be working, a tumble of words pour from my lips as I attempt to get the bad news out in the open as quickly as possible enabling me to leave the room before he has a chance to look daggers at me. I dumped the whole honest truth that he has an appointment with the podiatrist and we, have to get out the door pronto! Pop does not like wasting money on doctors and I knew this approach was not going to work well, but I was out of subtleties and out of the room.
Realizing the clock was ticking, I left him in his cozy, warm bed and enlisted my husband. Out of Pop's room came my husband with an air of accomplishment. When in doubt, let a more distant family member do the dirty work. Daddy was now in the bathroom. I felt like we were making progress. Asking my husband to go and check on him again, he returns with a frustrated look and informs me that my dad is back in bed.
This time I bribe him with tea. My offer went like this; if he'd get up and get ready to go I'd be out in the kitchen brewing a cup of tea. This temporarily softened his crusty, stubborn attitude. I found him in his jeans, sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on his socks.
By now it is exit time and he is in the bathroom beginning to shave. My exasperation level is rising and in like manner, so does the tone of my voice. I inform him that there is no time to shave. He stubbornly and obviously totally ignores me! In a bad show of temper, I reach over and unplug his shaver. He slams the shaver down. I raise my voice another decibel and in so doing seem to gain the upper hand. Soon we are walking out the door, carrying his hot cup of bribery in my hand.
At the doctors office Pop turns to me rubbing his chin. "I really need a shave," he says. I console him by saying it is not noticeable. Two minutes later he turns to me rubbing his chin, "I really need a shave." I reassure him with the same line. After three or four of these repeats I pretend that I am engrossed in my magazine and don't hear him. I notice a woman across the room smiling at me. She is probably thinking what a patient woman I am and admiring the way I am handling his constant repetitive questions. Little does she know that I nearly cold coked him in the bathroom about an hour previous.
Eventually we are ushered into the exam room and the doctor bursts in. I mentally nick name him Dr. Behind Schedule. Rushing through his litany of questions, barely looking at me, he proceeds to doctor my father's thin, white feet as I think to myself how thankful I am that it is him and not me handling my dad's feet and doing the doctoring. At one point in the questioning it becomes obvious that Dr. Behind Schedule believes that I am my father's wife rather then his daughter. Giving him a stony, raised eye brow stare, I make it quite clear he is doctoring my FATHER! At this point Dr. Behind Schedule is nick named Dr. Insultingly and/or Dr. Stupid!
Dr. Stupid rushes out of the room looking for his next patient to insult. Pop and I mosey out to the reception desk take care of the paper work and out the door into the bright sunny morning.
By now the mornings events, prying my dad from his bed, unplugging his shaver and forcing him out the door had been overshadowed by Dr. Stupid-Insulting's comment about my relationship to my father. Could this morning get any worse?
7:00 Am -- I turn on the CD player in the family room and set it to Pop's favorite soloist hoping that the sounds outside his door will alert him to the fact that activity is taking place in and about the house ... meaning it is time to rise and shine! No movement from his room, so I go and rap on his bedroom door and let myself in. He is snuggled in his bed, eyes closed and no indication that he has even considered emerging from his nest. I decide to try bribery. "Pop," I say softly. "We have to get up early this morning and go to an appointment. How about if I take you to get a quick bite of breakfast on the way?" Pulling the covers up around his face I get a very short and emphatic, "I'm still tired and I don't want to get up yet!"
Not wanting to mention the word "doctor" as this would send him into a tizzy, I try to talk around it and encourage him that he just has to get up earlier then usual because WE have an appointment to get to. When I realize that none of my approaches seem to be working, a tumble of words pour from my lips as I attempt to get the bad news out in the open as quickly as possible enabling me to leave the room before he has a chance to look daggers at me. I dumped the whole honest truth that he has an appointment with the podiatrist and we, have to get out the door pronto! Pop does not like wasting money on doctors and I knew this approach was not going to work well, but I was out of subtleties and out of the room.
Realizing the clock was ticking, I left him in his cozy, warm bed and enlisted my husband. Out of Pop's room came my husband with an air of accomplishment. When in doubt, let a more distant family member do the dirty work. Daddy was now in the bathroom. I felt like we were making progress. Asking my husband to go and check on him again, he returns with a frustrated look and informs me that my dad is back in bed.
This time I bribe him with tea. My offer went like this; if he'd get up and get ready to go I'd be out in the kitchen brewing a cup of tea. This temporarily softened his crusty, stubborn attitude. I found him in his jeans, sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on his socks.
By now it is exit time and he is in the bathroom beginning to shave. My exasperation level is rising and in like manner, so does the tone of my voice. I inform him that there is no time to shave. He stubbornly and obviously totally ignores me! In a bad show of temper, I reach over and unplug his shaver. He slams the shaver down. I raise my voice another decibel and in so doing seem to gain the upper hand. Soon we are walking out the door, carrying his hot cup of bribery in my hand.
At the doctors office Pop turns to me rubbing his chin. "I really need a shave," he says. I console him by saying it is not noticeable. Two minutes later he turns to me rubbing his chin, "I really need a shave." I reassure him with the same line. After three or four of these repeats I pretend that I am engrossed in my magazine and don't hear him. I notice a woman across the room smiling at me. She is probably thinking what a patient woman I am and admiring the way I am handling his constant repetitive questions. Little does she know that I nearly cold coked him in the bathroom about an hour previous.
Eventually we are ushered into the exam room and the doctor bursts in. I mentally nick name him Dr. Behind Schedule. Rushing through his litany of questions, barely looking at me, he proceeds to doctor my father's thin, white feet as I think to myself how thankful I am that it is him and not me handling my dad's feet and doing the doctoring. At one point in the questioning it becomes obvious that Dr. Behind Schedule believes that I am my father's wife rather then his daughter. Giving him a stony, raised eye brow stare, I make it quite clear he is doctoring my FATHER! At this point Dr. Behind Schedule is nick named Dr. Insultingly and/or Dr. Stupid!
Dr. Stupid rushes out of the room looking for his next patient to insult. Pop and I mosey out to the reception desk take care of the paper work and out the door into the bright sunny morning.
By now the mornings events, prying my dad from his bed, unplugging his shaver and forcing him out the door had been overshadowed by Dr. Stupid-Insulting's comment about my relationship to my father. Could this morning get any worse?
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Physical
"Mr. Sawyer we're ready for you," says the nurse as she ushers my dad back to the scale. Fully clothed, including his big, black, suedish shoes, which could very well weight a full pound within themselves, the scale reads 125 lbs. I think to myself, how long it has been since the scale read that for me even in the nude. The nurse leads both of us to his little room. We wait. I read my magazine. Pop files his finger nails.
Soon the nurse appears again and begins taking his blood pressure, inserts a thermometer into his mouth as she scribbles on her note pad. Up, onto the exam table he goes as she continues to check and scribble. With his feet hanging off the end of the exam table I note that he is wearing two unmatched socks and he has on a very shabby shirt and a not-so-clean pair of jeans. I should have helped him dress this morning, I think to myself. Before leaving the room the nurse instructs my dad to take everything off except his underwear and hands him a white paper, drape to put around his lower torso to use after he has disrobed. Not wanting to see more then my eyes are prepared to handle, I leave the room hoping he will remember all the instructions. He remembers to open the door when he is undressed but there is no drape wrapped around the lower torso. His white toothpick legs appear to hang from the openings up his tighty whities and I grab the wrap and hand it back to him. He wraps it around his waist and like clothes pins, takes his two fingers and holds it at his back. The office AC is running colder then it needs to, so I drape his tan, signature sweater, around his shoulders. Soon he asks if he can put his shirts back on. "No, the doctor needs for you to be dressed down for the physical," I remind him.
After several chilly minutes, the doctor appears and begins a rather monotone line of questioning about urination, eating and sleeping habits, what medications Pop is taking and how often. Three, only three medications is my answer to his last question. As he continues to tap, tap, tap on his computer the questions go on. Does my dad wear pull ups, does he have accidents, does he dress and bathe himself, feed himself? The answers being, no, no, yes, yes, and yes, I think to myself how grateful I am that I can give those responses. Helping Pop up onto the exam table the poking and prodding begins; stethoscope moves over his loose, pale, skin around the heart and lungs region. As I sit watching and answering the emotionless questions that are tossed in my direction, I think to myself how truly amazing it is that at age 87 my dad is only taking three medications ... and how impersonal this whole experience is turning out to be as we are moved along in assembly line fashion. By the time the exam is over, the doctor has eliminated the third prescription saying that he does not believe it to be necessary. I comment on how amazingly healthy my dad is for his age and Dr. "Bland" as I have now mentally nick named him, returns my comment with a preoccupied nod.
I am asked to leave the room, for which I am very grateful, so the examination can move into a more private type of prodding. Shortly the door opens and I see that my dad is fully dressed in his grungy jeans, shabby shirt, mismatched socks, and of course his great big suedish black shoes.
The decision is made to do his labs without a fast and we are then taken to another room where we wait for the nurse to draw blood. My dad is patient, doesn't complain and asks very few questions. Once the blood is drawn, he is told to pee in a cup. He says to me, "What?" In ear shot of all who are in the office, I am obliged to raise my voice so he can hear and tell him, "You have to pee in the cup, Pop." With my dad following we head for the restroom. I help him find the cup and restate the instructions. Do I have to write my dad's name on the cup once it has been used, I think to myself? It becomes obvious that, yes, I do need to do that for the office staff and for my dad. I close the bathroom door and hope that when I return I will find a somewhat full cup. It is not full, but looks sufficient. Why didn't I think to write his name on the cup before he peed in it, I think to myself? Meeting one final time with Doctor "Bland," I get final instructions on salve for a couple of sores, vitamins, when he wants to see Pop again and out the door we go, heading for the front desk. Daddy follows obediently, hands me my umbrella and soon we are out in the humid, cloudy, summer, afternoon. As we move on to our final stops of the early evening, I think to myself, - This could be so much worse then it is. Thank you Lord for my dad's good health, his reasonable disposition and even for Dr. "Bland."
Soon the nurse appears again and begins taking his blood pressure, inserts a thermometer into his mouth as she scribbles on her note pad. Up, onto the exam table he goes as she continues to check and scribble. With his feet hanging off the end of the exam table I note that he is wearing two unmatched socks and he has on a very shabby shirt and a not-so-clean pair of jeans. I should have helped him dress this morning, I think to myself. Before leaving the room the nurse instructs my dad to take everything off except his underwear and hands him a white paper, drape to put around his lower torso to use after he has disrobed. Not wanting to see more then my eyes are prepared to handle, I leave the room hoping he will remember all the instructions. He remembers to open the door when he is undressed but there is no drape wrapped around the lower torso. His white toothpick legs appear to hang from the openings up his tighty whities and I grab the wrap and hand it back to him. He wraps it around his waist and like clothes pins, takes his two fingers and holds it at his back. The office AC is running colder then it needs to, so I drape his tan, signature sweater, around his shoulders. Soon he asks if he can put his shirts back on. "No, the doctor needs for you to be dressed down for the physical," I remind him.
After several chilly minutes, the doctor appears and begins a rather monotone line of questioning about urination, eating and sleeping habits, what medications Pop is taking and how often. Three, only three medications is my answer to his last question. As he continues to tap, tap, tap on his computer the questions go on. Does my dad wear pull ups, does he have accidents, does he dress and bathe himself, feed himself? The answers being, no, no, yes, yes, and yes, I think to myself how grateful I am that I can give those responses. Helping Pop up onto the exam table the poking and prodding begins; stethoscope moves over his loose, pale, skin around the heart and lungs region. As I sit watching and answering the emotionless questions that are tossed in my direction, I think to myself how truly amazing it is that at age 87 my dad is only taking three medications ... and how impersonal this whole experience is turning out to be as we are moved along in assembly line fashion. By the time the exam is over, the doctor has eliminated the third prescription saying that he does not believe it to be necessary. I comment on how amazingly healthy my dad is for his age and Dr. "Bland" as I have now mentally nick named him, returns my comment with a preoccupied nod.
I am asked to leave the room, for which I am very grateful, so the examination can move into a more private type of prodding. Shortly the door opens and I see that my dad is fully dressed in his grungy jeans, shabby shirt, mismatched socks, and of course his great big suedish black shoes.
The decision is made to do his labs without a fast and we are then taken to another room where we wait for the nurse to draw blood. My dad is patient, doesn't complain and asks very few questions. Once the blood is drawn, he is told to pee in a cup. He says to me, "What?" In ear shot of all who are in the office, I am obliged to raise my voice so he can hear and tell him, "You have to pee in the cup, Pop." With my dad following we head for the restroom. I help him find the cup and restate the instructions. Do I have to write my dad's name on the cup once it has been used, I think to myself? It becomes obvious that, yes, I do need to do that for the office staff and for my dad. I close the bathroom door and hope that when I return I will find a somewhat full cup. It is not full, but looks sufficient. Why didn't I think to write his name on the cup before he peed in it, I think to myself? Meeting one final time with Doctor "Bland," I get final instructions on salve for a couple of sores, vitamins, when he wants to see Pop again and out the door we go, heading for the front desk. Daddy follows obediently, hands me my umbrella and soon we are out in the humid, cloudy, summer, afternoon. As we move on to our final stops of the early evening, I think to myself, - This could be so much worse then it is. Thank you Lord for my dad's good health, his reasonable disposition and even for Dr. "Bland."
Monday, June 28, 2010
Granola Bars
I sit in our living room watching my dad meticulously unwrapping his granola bar, Nature Valley Granola Bars to be exact. He takes a little nibble and refolds it back into the paper and puts it into his pocket, his catch all for the necessities of life. Knowing this variety of bar, it is sweet, crunchy and quite crumbly and he loves them. I know the crumbs are falling all over his lap, between his legs, onto the seat of the chair and probably onto the floor. I don't say anything. I know it would just make him feel bad and it wouldn't accomplish any long lasting change. Five minutes from now he will not remember a word I said to him. When he leaves the room I go over to the chair and sweep the crumbs into my hand and dispose of them. The crumbs on the floor will have to wait because I just don't feel like digging out the vacuum right now. Tomorrow I'll clean the area around the chair. Another day.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Pop and Junk Mail
Being my dad's trustee, any mail that comes to our house addressed to him, is automatically opened by me. Bills have to go through my husband who manages the banking. Medical and financial reports I take and file away in a big, thick, blue binder that I keep on the shelf in our home office. Like the rest of us, he still gets his fare share of junk mail.
Mail arrives at our place between 3:30 and 4:30 Monday - Saturday. So around 4:45 I'll send him out the door for an afternoon jaunt down to the mail box to retrieve its contents. There was a time when he seemed to notice those pieces that were addressed to him. Anymore, his vision is poor enough that I don't think he even attempts to decipher the name. Knowing the approximate date that his social security check arrives, I avoid sending him out to the mail box knowing that if he should read the addressee and got his hands on it, there is no telling where it might end up. There were many occasions in the early stages of his dementia, while he was still trying to manage his accounts, that major mistakes were made producing a myriad of issues taking months to resolve.
Walking into the house he hands the bundle to me with an air of accomplishment. After all, he did find the mail box and make it back to the house safe and sound. Now, occasionally, after I've done my safety inspection, I will hand back to him his junk mail. News letters and meaningless reports are safe commodities which can't get him into trouble.
Today was no exception. Around 4:45, sending him to the mail box, he returned with an assortment of bills and junk mail. Discovering a newsletter from his former employer, PG&E I handed it to him. After examining the large print at the top of the page reading, "Retiree News," he took on a look of great interest and concern, as if this piece of information needed immediate and serious attention. Taking his glasses between his forefinger and his thumb he tipped them back and forth trying to manage the small print. Obviously giving up, he folded the paper back along its original creases and carried it to the next room. Sitting down he began to tap the pages on his leg with a sense of power in each tap, an attitude that shouted, "mail! addressed to me! I'm in charge! I'm still important!"
As I sit here at my computer, pecking away at the keys, I see out my window, Pop moving toward his "track." As he moves out onto the road, his back to me, I can see sticking out of his pocket the news letter ... those "important papers" that may require immediate and serious action. Returning, he takes a comfy seat, removes the junk mail from his pocket, taps it on his knee with his air of confident control, tilts his glasses, examines it one last time, gets up and moves toward his room. He is on his way to "file" it away on his night stand. All too soon, these papers, pages of such manifest importance will be completely and utterly forgotten.
Mail arrives at our place between 3:30 and 4:30 Monday - Saturday. So around 4:45 I'll send him out the door for an afternoon jaunt down to the mail box to retrieve its contents. There was a time when he seemed to notice those pieces that were addressed to him. Anymore, his vision is poor enough that I don't think he even attempts to decipher the name. Knowing the approximate date that his social security check arrives, I avoid sending him out to the mail box knowing that if he should read the addressee and got his hands on it, there is no telling where it might end up. There were many occasions in the early stages of his dementia, while he was still trying to manage his accounts, that major mistakes were made producing a myriad of issues taking months to resolve.
Walking into the house he hands the bundle to me with an air of accomplishment. After all, he did find the mail box and make it back to the house safe and sound. Now, occasionally, after I've done my safety inspection, I will hand back to him his junk mail. News letters and meaningless reports are safe commodities which can't get him into trouble.
Today was no exception. Around 4:45, sending him to the mail box, he returned with an assortment of bills and junk mail. Discovering a newsletter from his former employer, PG&E I handed it to him. After examining the large print at the top of the page reading, "Retiree News," he took on a look of great interest and concern, as if this piece of information needed immediate and serious attention. Taking his glasses between his forefinger and his thumb he tipped them back and forth trying to manage the small print. Obviously giving up, he folded the paper back along its original creases and carried it to the next room. Sitting down he began to tap the pages on his leg with a sense of power in each tap, an attitude that shouted, "mail! addressed to me! I'm in charge! I'm still important!"
As I sit here at my computer, pecking away at the keys, I see out my window, Pop moving toward his "track." As he moves out onto the road, his back to me, I can see sticking out of his pocket the news letter ... those "important papers" that may require immediate and serious action. Returning, he takes a comfy seat, removes the junk mail from his pocket, taps it on his knee with his air of confident control, tilts his glasses, examines it one last time, gets up and moves toward his room. He is on his way to "file" it away on his night stand. All too soon, these papers, pages of such manifest importance will be completely and utterly forgotten.
Summer outer ware
Temperature - 92 degrees
Humidity - 55%
Pop's outdoor walking attire: Black suede shoes, baseball cap, cardigan sweater.
After his walk, he comes back in the house, strips off the sweater and sits with his head in hands trying to cool down.
I look out the window, he is outside walking again wearing his black suede shoes, his baseball cap AND his cardigan sweater.
I give up!
Humidity - 55%
Pop's outdoor walking attire: Black suede shoes, baseball cap, cardigan sweater.
After his walk, he comes back in the house, strips off the sweater and sits with his head in hands trying to cool down.
I look out the window, he is outside walking again wearing his black suede shoes, his baseball cap AND his cardigan sweater.
I give up!
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Themes, Patterns, Phrases and Repetitions
These days Pop seems to communicate through ingrained themes, rote patterns, memorized phrases, with regular repetition. These themes, his fall back positions, seems to provide the means by which he can still communicate. He is quite able to answer our questions, but original thought and absorbing the subtleties of daily life, as the rest of us do so effortlessly, is beyond his ability anymore.
"Was I too noisy?"
"How'd you sleep?"
"Whatever you are making sure smells good"
plus many walks a day and several tea times are all examples of his canned phrases and repetitions that help him communicate and keep his foggy life consistent.
"Was I too noisy?" is a phrase that seems to have its roots in my dad's career. Pop was employed by Pacific Gas and Electric Company for 30+ years at a substation in the small farming town of Milpitas, California, about 35 minutes north/west of our home in San Jose. The substation was nothing more then a little box, maybe 900 square feet with walls and walls of dials and gauges and a few desks for the workers. The office was situated on an acre or so of land with huge wheels, or at least my childhood memory is that they were huge, which had to be manually turned to maintain the proper flow of gas to the outlying communities. Today, like a mini-ghost town, that little substation still exists, man less now, smaller and totally operational by computers. But in my dad's era this little substation had to be manned 24/7.
The crew worked three shifts; days, evenings and "grave yard" (grave yard meant working all night). My dad working grave yards was one of my strongest recollections in the Sawyer household because our mother's nightmare was having to keep two small children quiet while daddy slept in the day time. I recall distinctly her repeated exclamations, "Shhhhhhhhhhhh, Daddy is sleeping!" At the evening meal, before he prepared to leave for work, his sleep or lack of during the day was always the topic of discussion sometimes ending with my being firmly reminded that I needed to be more quiet. I believe his shift work ingrained in him the concept of maintaining a quiet household.
Living with us now, he usually rises after we have. Finding us around the kitchen table, his 1st question is, "Have I been too noisy?" To the common observer one would pick up on the fact that my husband, son and I had been up for some time. But this does not compute with him. He still asks if his morning ritual of toiletries had bothered anyone's sleep.
"How are you feeling today?" is another common phrase. As a child my dad struggled with asthma, so much so that he missed a whole year of high school and graduated with the class behind him. These asthmatic attacks seemed to have made him acutely tuned into health issues. I remember what a faithful care giver and companion he was to my mom through various illnesses that she experienced during their marriage. Interestingly, I have noticed that he never asks this health-question of my son or husband, only me which gives the clear impression that my gender is somehow wrapped up in his gesture of concern. I wish I could say that I appreciated his questioning. But being the strong assertive type that I am, I have to admit his regular questioning causes me to feel that I am being viewed as sickly which I resent. Sometimes I'll ask him, "Do I look sick to you Pop?" His response, "No, I just wanted to be sure you're OK." My response back is with a hearty, "I feel fine!!! And how are you feeling today?" He responds back, equally heartily "I feel great! Great!" It ends a tit for tat.
Tomorrow my dad will rise from his night of slumber, mosey out into the kitchen and ask, "How'd you sleep? I hope I wasn't too noisy." Later in the day he may inquire as to how I'm feeling, thank me profusely for the meals, take numerous walks, and drink numerous cups of tea. Such is life in Don's world -- full of themes, patterns, phrases and repetition.
"Was I too noisy?"
"How'd you sleep?"
"Whatever you are making sure smells good"
plus many walks a day and several tea times are all examples of his canned phrases and repetitions that help him communicate and keep his foggy life consistent.
"Was I too noisy?" is a phrase that seems to have its roots in my dad's career. Pop was employed by Pacific Gas and Electric Company for 30+ years at a substation in the small farming town of Milpitas, California, about 35 minutes north/west of our home in San Jose. The substation was nothing more then a little box, maybe 900 square feet with walls and walls of dials and gauges and a few desks for the workers. The office was situated on an acre or so of land with huge wheels, or at least my childhood memory is that they were huge, which had to be manually turned to maintain the proper flow of gas to the outlying communities. Today, like a mini-ghost town, that little substation still exists, man less now, smaller and totally operational by computers. But in my dad's era this little substation had to be manned 24/7.
The crew worked three shifts; days, evenings and "grave yard" (grave yard meant working all night). My dad working grave yards was one of my strongest recollections in the Sawyer household because our mother's nightmare was having to keep two small children quiet while daddy slept in the day time. I recall distinctly her repeated exclamations, "Shhhhhhhhhhhh, Daddy is sleeping!" At the evening meal, before he prepared to leave for work, his sleep or lack of during the day was always the topic of discussion sometimes ending with my being firmly reminded that I needed to be more quiet. I believe his shift work ingrained in him the concept of maintaining a quiet household.
Living with us now, he usually rises after we have. Finding us around the kitchen table, his 1st question is, "Have I been too noisy?" To the common observer one would pick up on the fact that my husband, son and I had been up for some time. But this does not compute with him. He still asks if his morning ritual of toiletries had bothered anyone's sleep.
"How are you feeling today?" is another common phrase. As a child my dad struggled with asthma, so much so that he missed a whole year of high school and graduated with the class behind him. These asthmatic attacks seemed to have made him acutely tuned into health issues. I remember what a faithful care giver and companion he was to my mom through various illnesses that she experienced during their marriage. Interestingly, I have noticed that he never asks this health-question of my son or husband, only me which gives the clear impression that my gender is somehow wrapped up in his gesture of concern. I wish I could say that I appreciated his questioning. But being the strong assertive type that I am, I have to admit his regular questioning causes me to feel that I am being viewed as sickly which I resent. Sometimes I'll ask him, "Do I look sick to you Pop?" His response, "No, I just wanted to be sure you're OK." My response back is with a hearty, "I feel fine!!! And how are you feeling today?" He responds back, equally heartily "I feel great! Great!" It ends a tit for tat.
Tomorrow my dad will rise from his night of slumber, mosey out into the kitchen and ask, "How'd you sleep? I hope I wasn't too noisy." Later in the day he may inquire as to how I'm feeling, thank me profusely for the meals, take numerous walks, and drink numerous cups of tea. Such is life in Don's world -- full of themes, patterns, phrases and repetition.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Drying Dry Dishes, Vacuuming and Sweeping Clean Floors
I can tell by his pacing that he is bored. The things that used to fill his days and give him a sense of self worth, job, errands, car, banking, yard work are no long a part of his life. Now most of his time is consumed with searching for what he has lost, taking walks, filing his finger nails, searching for what he has lost, sipping tea, doing a few chores, and searching for what he has lost.
Often when these spells of boredom plague his day and I can't come up with anything for him to do, I'll hand him a dish towel and let him dry the dry dishes that might be sitting in the dish drainer. I know this sounds bizarre but you know the old saying, "what you don't know doesn't hurt you" and that seems to apply in this case. He thinks they need drying, so he dries.
Another fall back position is to pull out the vacuum and have him vacuum the clean carpets. I don't know what it is, the cords, the roar of the engine, buttons to be pushed, but all of this seems to bring out the machismo in him. Taking a grip on the handle he starts to move back and forth, back and forth making numerous repetitions. He's my man when it comes to carpets. Vacuuming does present some obstacles though as it is often tough to remember how to get the box operational. I've found him with cord in hand flipping wall switches. They are electrical aren't they?
Sweeping clean floors is another fall back. The tools of the trade are easily taken down from their hooks in the pantry and simple to operate. No electricity necessary. Often I have to remind him where they are located but once that has been determined he is able to retrieve them himself, sweep without my involvement and return them to their storage location. Keeping me out of the scenario is a major plus!
Thanks Pop for the driest dry dishes, and the cleanest clean floors in Austin, TX.
Often when these spells of boredom plague his day and I can't come up with anything for him to do, I'll hand him a dish towel and let him dry the dry dishes that might be sitting in the dish drainer. I know this sounds bizarre but you know the old saying, "what you don't know doesn't hurt you" and that seems to apply in this case. He thinks they need drying, so he dries.
Another fall back position is to pull out the vacuum and have him vacuum the clean carpets. I don't know what it is, the cords, the roar of the engine, buttons to be pushed, but all of this seems to bring out the machismo in him. Taking a grip on the handle he starts to move back and forth, back and forth making numerous repetitions. He's my man when it comes to carpets. Vacuuming does present some obstacles though as it is often tough to remember how to get the box operational. I've found him with cord in hand flipping wall switches. They are electrical aren't they?
Sweeping clean floors is another fall back. The tools of the trade are easily taken down from their hooks in the pantry and simple to operate. No electricity necessary. Often I have to remind him where they are located but once that has been determined he is able to retrieve them himself, sweep without my involvement and return them to their storage location. Keeping me out of the scenario is a major plus!
Thanks Pop for the driest dry dishes, and the cleanest clean floors in Austin, TX.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
E-mail to my sister
Several months ago after returning from a trip to CA I wrote the following e-mail to my sister:
Well, I'm back ... entering the man's world of household chaos ... leaving behind the woman's world of emotional meltdowns and bling, bling LOL.
Pop hasn't bathed or changed his underwear in 2 weeks, Wink has two new brief cases, new shelving in his office and a new printer. They bought and returned 2 trucks all in the space of 10 days -- ahhhhh, testosterone. There is evidence all over the pantry floor of pop eating raisins, his blankets were on the floor at the end of his bed hidden under the comforter, and he has evidently been drying dishes because I can't find anything. I just hope the dishes in the draining rack are clean and not washed pop style, i.e. rinsed off under hot water.
Oh, and the cat is yowling at me.
Every time I walk out of my bedroom pop thinks he's seeing me for the first time and greets me with warmth. He wanted to know if I was home to stay or if I was going to go away again. When I informed him this morning that he needed to bathe I got the usual strained look. I showed him his bathroom and gave him his clean underwear. He wanted to know if the tub in his bathroom is where the dirty deed was supposed to take place. Then he wanted to know if the bathroom was available for his use. "Yes, pop this is your bathroom and it is always available for your use." Then he came out into the room and announced to me that he was going to be bathing. Pretty soon he came out again and said "See you later," and pointed toward the bathroom. I asked him if he was going on a journey and he said "No, I'm going to be taking a bath" and pointed toward the bathroom again. "OK, pop. I'll see you later," and he was gone. I just hope he doesn't get lost.
Well, the carpet needs vacuuming, the dishes need to be emptied from the dishwasher, clothes need to be washed and groceries bought. Better go.
I'M HOME!!!
Well, I'm back ... entering the man's world of household chaos ... leaving behind the woman's world of emotional meltdowns and bling, bling LOL.
Pop hasn't bathed or changed his underwear in 2 weeks, Wink has two new brief cases, new shelving in his office and a new printer. They bought and returned 2 trucks all in the space of 10 days -- ahhhhh, testosterone. There is evidence all over the pantry floor of pop eating raisins, his blankets were on the floor at the end of his bed hidden under the comforter, and he has evidently been drying dishes because I can't find anything. I just hope the dishes in the draining rack are clean and not washed pop style, i.e. rinsed off under hot water.
Oh, and the cat is yowling at me.
Every time I walk out of my bedroom pop thinks he's seeing me for the first time and greets me with warmth. He wanted to know if I was home to stay or if I was going to go away again. When I informed him this morning that he needed to bathe I got the usual strained look. I showed him his bathroom and gave him his clean underwear. He wanted to know if the tub in his bathroom is where the dirty deed was supposed to take place. Then he wanted to know if the bathroom was available for his use. "Yes, pop this is your bathroom and it is always available for your use." Then he came out into the room and announced to me that he was going to be bathing. Pretty soon he came out again and said "See you later," and pointed toward the bathroom. I asked him if he was going on a journey and he said "No, I'm going to be taking a bath" and pointed toward the bathroom again. "OK, pop. I'll see you later," and he was gone. I just hope he doesn't get lost.
Well, the carpet needs vacuuming, the dishes need to be emptied from the dishwasher, clothes need to be washed and groceries bought. Better go.
I'M HOME!!!
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
The Joke is on Me
As is the norm, each and every morning I pull from a little metal box two bottles of medications for my dad; Namenda which is for his cranial function and Flomax for his prostate. As I was preparing his pills this morning I was at the same time opening my bottles of vitamins which I take twice daily. Walking over to the sink I ran some cold water into a glass, raised my hand to my mouth and popped in the pills. As soon as I had done so the realization hit me. Those were not my vitamins I had just swallowed but my dad's prescriptions.
Calling the pharmacist I was assured that I would not begin growing male genitalia. Although it would be nice if the Namenda helped my brain function a bit.
I'll let you know how my prostate feels and if my mind seems to be a little clearer today.
Calling the pharmacist I was assured that I would not begin growing male genitalia. Although it would be nice if the Namenda helped my brain function a bit.
I'll let you know how my prostate feels and if my mind seems to be a little clearer today.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Candy Bar, Lucky Stars and Guardian Angels
Arriving at our home with a bouquet of flowers for the dinner table and a large candy bar for Pop, we welcomed our friends, Mike and Mary for our little dinner party. While I put the flowers in water, Pop exclaimed over the sizable gift; 1/4 pound of chocolate to be exact, all for him and him alone to satisfy his enormous sweet tooth.
When it came time to sit down to dinner, Pop preferred sitting by himself at his own table. Not able to follow the dinner conversation anymore, coupled perhaps with the fear of being asked a question he won't be able to answer makes dining with strangers uncomfortable for him. Why waste a great meal feeling uncomfortable must be his line of thinking. In earlier years he would have been gregarious and friendly, often exhibiting his warm sense of humor. I remember him always as the life of the party. Watching him from across the room, sitting alone in his strangely silent world, where he now lives, is almost eerie. Hopefully the ravages of his disease have erased the tendency to compare the present to his past.
In younger years, my dad loved an evening with friends. I recall fondly the many occasions our family spent with my parents friends. As a child I would be off in another room enjoying "kids play" with the other children. But drifting into our space would come an occasional burst of hoots and laughter from the adults, spontaneously erupting from one of my dad's jokes or one of his crazy shenanigans. Listening to the joy, the laughter made me feel safe, happy and a bit proud of the fact that it was my dad who was the hub of all the fun.
Being a busy hostess, I attempted to juggle the needs of our guests along with the needs of my dad, checking on him from time to time. Eventually the delightful conversation at our table got the best of me pulling my full attention toward our guests.
Now, I do believe in guardian angels. And if I understand correctly their job is to protect and warn, among other things. Either mine also has a terrific sense of humor and was enjoying so much what was taking place at my dad's table that he did not want to alert me to the gluttony. Or my dad's angel was sleeping on the job, because there was nothing that drew my attentions toward my dad until his deed was fully accomplished. When I finally turned in his direction, I observed the LAST bite of his 1/4 pound candy bar being popped into his mouth! During the dessert portion of our meal he had consumed all 4.5 ounces in one sitting!
My husband and I, along with our guests quietly chuckled aloud at the scene being played out before us. My dad, off in his own world was not aware that he had once again stirred the warmth of laughter in us and our guests. But he had. Knowing him as I do, I believe he was probably thanking his lucky stars, or his guardian angel for his wonderfully, chocolaty evening. He was content and full!
When it came time to sit down to dinner, Pop preferred sitting by himself at his own table. Not able to follow the dinner conversation anymore, coupled perhaps with the fear of being asked a question he won't be able to answer makes dining with strangers uncomfortable for him. Why waste a great meal feeling uncomfortable must be his line of thinking. In earlier years he would have been gregarious and friendly, often exhibiting his warm sense of humor. I remember him always as the life of the party. Watching him from across the room, sitting alone in his strangely silent world, where he now lives, is almost eerie. Hopefully the ravages of his disease have erased the tendency to compare the present to his past.
In younger years, my dad loved an evening with friends. I recall fondly the many occasions our family spent with my parents friends. As a child I would be off in another room enjoying "kids play" with the other children. But drifting into our space would come an occasional burst of hoots and laughter from the adults, spontaneously erupting from one of my dad's jokes or one of his crazy shenanigans. Listening to the joy, the laughter made me feel safe, happy and a bit proud of the fact that it was my dad who was the hub of all the fun.
Being a busy hostess, I attempted to juggle the needs of our guests along with the needs of my dad, checking on him from time to time. Eventually the delightful conversation at our table got the best of me pulling my full attention toward our guests.
Now, I do believe in guardian angels. And if I understand correctly their job is to protect and warn, among other things. Either mine also has a terrific sense of humor and was enjoying so much what was taking place at my dad's table that he did not want to alert me to the gluttony. Or my dad's angel was sleeping on the job, because there was nothing that drew my attentions toward my dad until his deed was fully accomplished. When I finally turned in his direction, I observed the LAST bite of his 1/4 pound candy bar being popped into his mouth! During the dessert portion of our meal he had consumed all 4.5 ounces in one sitting!
My husband and I, along with our guests quietly chuckled aloud at the scene being played out before us. My dad, off in his own world was not aware that he had once again stirred the warmth of laughter in us and our guests. But he had. Knowing him as I do, I believe he was probably thanking his lucky stars, or his guardian angel for his wonderfully, chocolaty evening. He was content and full!
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Gruene, Texas
Gruene, Texas is a slice right out of the state's past. A little community within the city limits of New Braufels, it boasts of the oldest dance hall in the state that is still in operation, Gruene Hall. If you entered Gruene from Hwy 306 and drove straight ahead on one of the two main drags in this little enclave, you'd run right onto her plank porch. She is definitely the hub of Gruene.
Part of her many claims to fame are the numerous celebrities who have graced her stages and floors including the dance hall scene from the movie "Michale" staring John Travolta. The original old flooring springs with each step creating the sense that it could give way at any moment. The rest of the community consists of restaurants, an old general store, a huge antique mall, and a myriad of houses converted into eclectic shops selling everything from Texas wine, to clothing. We love Gruene.
This past week end, with Pop in tow, we took our friends, who are visiting from Tennessee to this delightful community for a step back in time, to a quieter more simple, Texas, kind of life.
The Penny:
First stop, Gruene Hall, of course. This being a Saturday in May, a beautiful Saturday after a refreshing rain storm that had cleaned and cooled the air, it seemed that everyone in Texas was visiting this tiny little nitch. A stop light is desperately needed at its one main intersection but technology like that would only dampen the old-time-feel. So traffic is directed by a policeman who moves the vehicles and bodies like herds of cattle. When the officer blew his whistle and motioned for our crowd to cross, Pop came moseying along at his normal snails pace about 10 steps behind the 5 of us. He is always the last one causing me to regularly crane my neck making sure he is following, hasn't lost sight of us, or tripped.
As I have mentioned before, Pop is a frugal man; frugal to the core. On this occasion, as we crossed the street heading for our destination, I heard a woman's voice above the crowd, "He stopped to pick up a penny. Isn't that cute!"
In order to appreciate fully what was taking place here, let me try to paint a word picture. As the policeman blew his whistle, the mass of bodies began to quickly move from one curb to the next. Like a scene out of a Norman Rockwell painting, there in the middle of this fairly busy intersection, with a large white SUV breathing down his neck, my dad was bent over retrieving a penny off of the warm asphalt. Oblivious to those that he was holding up, to the dangers of the setting and to the attention that he drew to himself, he picked up the copper coin. As if his conscience would not permit him to keep what wasn't his, he offered it to the closest member of our group. Wasn't it Benjamin Franklin who said that a penny saved, is a penny earned?
The Dance Hall:
Making it safely to the other side, we were drawn into Gruene Hall by the lilting sounds of the country music which poured from the huge screened, open, air windows. Weaving our way through the crown, we stopped to exclaim over the black and white photos adorning the walls. Autographed pictures of Willy Nelson, John Travolta, Jerry Lee Lewis, among the many others, were enjoyable to us but meaningless to Pop.
Inside the dance hall the humid air was heavy with the warmth of the afternoon and the 100 plus bodies that sat at large, old picnic tables drinking beer and swaying to the tunes. On the dance floor were a very few brave souls two stepping to the delightful music and entertaining those not courageous enough to venture out and give it a whirl. Soon we heard a female voice singing a slow dance melody that my husband even felt we could tackle. Drawing me out onto the floor my husband took me into his arms for a cheek to cheek twirl. As we skimmed across the noticeably uneven floor, I sensed someone at my elbow. Looking over my shoulder there was Pop standing in the middle of the dance floor a foot or so away in the middle of the couples striving to stay as close to us as possible without causing a collision. Tapping his toe he stood out conspicuously among the dancers acting a bit like a fish out of water. Chuckling, we cut our dance a little short, and the five of us hustled Pop off the dance floor and out onto the warm streets of Gruene.
Sometimes I wonder if we are exposing my dad to more then we should at this stage in his decline; to potential mishaps, to embarrassing moments, to confusing circumstances that he has no control over. But when I saw him gathering that penny off of the warm asphalt, the smile on his face as he watched his daughter and son-in-law dancing, sometimes sort of tripping across the old plank dance floor, I though to myself, "Nope. I wouldn't change a thing."
Part of her many claims to fame are the numerous celebrities who have graced her stages and floors including the dance hall scene from the movie "Michale" staring John Travolta. The original old flooring springs with each step creating the sense that it could give way at any moment. The rest of the community consists of restaurants, an old general store, a huge antique mall, and a myriad of houses converted into eclectic shops selling everything from Texas wine, to clothing. We love Gruene.
This past week end, with Pop in tow, we took our friends, who are visiting from Tennessee to this delightful community for a step back in time, to a quieter more simple, Texas, kind of life.
The Penny:
First stop, Gruene Hall, of course. This being a Saturday in May, a beautiful Saturday after a refreshing rain storm that had cleaned and cooled the air, it seemed that everyone in Texas was visiting this tiny little nitch. A stop light is desperately needed at its one main intersection but technology like that would only dampen the old-time-feel. So traffic is directed by a policeman who moves the vehicles and bodies like herds of cattle. When the officer blew his whistle and motioned for our crowd to cross, Pop came moseying along at his normal snails pace about 10 steps behind the 5 of us. He is always the last one causing me to regularly crane my neck making sure he is following, hasn't lost sight of us, or tripped.
As I have mentioned before, Pop is a frugal man; frugal to the core. On this occasion, as we crossed the street heading for our destination, I heard a woman's voice above the crowd, "He stopped to pick up a penny. Isn't that cute!"
In order to appreciate fully what was taking place here, let me try to paint a word picture. As the policeman blew his whistle, the mass of bodies began to quickly move from one curb to the next. Like a scene out of a Norman Rockwell painting, there in the middle of this fairly busy intersection, with a large white SUV breathing down his neck, my dad was bent over retrieving a penny off of the warm asphalt. Oblivious to those that he was holding up, to the dangers of the setting and to the attention that he drew to himself, he picked up the copper coin. As if his conscience would not permit him to keep what wasn't his, he offered it to the closest member of our group. Wasn't it Benjamin Franklin who said that a penny saved, is a penny earned?
The Dance Hall:
Making it safely to the other side, we were drawn into Gruene Hall by the lilting sounds of the country music which poured from the huge screened, open, air windows. Weaving our way through the crown, we stopped to exclaim over the black and white photos adorning the walls. Autographed pictures of Willy Nelson, John Travolta, Jerry Lee Lewis, among the many others, were enjoyable to us but meaningless to Pop.
Inside the dance hall the humid air was heavy with the warmth of the afternoon and the 100 plus bodies that sat at large, old picnic tables drinking beer and swaying to the tunes. On the dance floor were a very few brave souls two stepping to the delightful music and entertaining those not courageous enough to venture out and give it a whirl. Soon we heard a female voice singing a slow dance melody that my husband even felt we could tackle. Drawing me out onto the floor my husband took me into his arms for a cheek to cheek twirl. As we skimmed across the noticeably uneven floor, I sensed someone at my elbow. Looking over my shoulder there was Pop standing in the middle of the dance floor a foot or so away in the middle of the couples striving to stay as close to us as possible without causing a collision. Tapping his toe he stood out conspicuously among the dancers acting a bit like a fish out of water. Chuckling, we cut our dance a little short, and the five of us hustled Pop off the dance floor and out onto the warm streets of Gruene.
Sometimes I wonder if we are exposing my dad to more then we should at this stage in his decline; to potential mishaps, to embarrassing moments, to confusing circumstances that he has no control over. But when I saw him gathering that penny off of the warm asphalt, the smile on his face as he watched his daughter and son-in-law dancing, sometimes sort of tripping across the old plank dance floor, I though to myself, "Nope. I wouldn't change a thing."
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Fort Worth and Pickton, Texas
The Trip:
My dad has always liked to travel and that still seems to be the case.I remember as a kid when it came time for our yearly family vacation he'd dig out our maps and pour over them determining the fastest route from point A to point B. His definition of travel was definitely not "stop and smell the roses." Once the four of us were in the car it was put the pedal to the metal and "make time."Even restroom stops were prohibited unless absolutely necessary. No stoppin' for nothin.' This philosophy was a huge source of frustration for my mom who's idea of travel was just the opposite; to not only get where we were going but to savor the trip along the way. No such luck.
But those days for my dad are gone now. Once he is buckled into his seat he has no idea what time we departed and no idea what time we need to be at our destination. I guess it is now his time to smell the traveling roses.
This past week end our family made a trip to Ft. Worth and then on to north east Texas to see our son's boys. Pulling out of the driveway early Saturday morning, suitcases in the rear, Pop in the passenger seat and the rest of us strapped into our places, we were on our way. I don't tell my dad anymore that we are taking a trip. That would be too overwhelming for him. Even though I pack his bags for him, the emotional responsibility that he takes on just throws him into a tizzy. What I say is we're going for a "ride," a 1/2 truth which allows all of us to relax and enjoy the journey.
The motel:
Once arriving at our motel the experience becomes a bit more stressful. Not wanting to duplicate our last adventure north east where Pop escaped in the wee hours of the morning wandering the halls only to be rescued by the hotel staff, we knew we needed a good security plan to keep him locked in. At our motel I noticed a couple of small tables in our suite. At bedtime I butted one of the tables up against the door. On top of that went an ice chest and on top of that went a suit case. In the end the door sort of looked like a wall. Voila! No way for Pop to get out!
Settling into our room, exhausted from our long drive and a busy day, we went through the rigmarole of helping Pop find adequate places for his stash of assorted pocket items; his pocket knife, his key to the house - which he never uses, his nail clippers and finger nail file which he uses ALL the time, some rolls of tissue and his wallet. Coupling these items with his over night bag, his flash light and his baseball cap, everything was placed on the night stand next to his bed. Then began the repetitions of showing him where everything was, reshowing him where everything was and showing him again where everything was.
Moments after the lights were out and eyes closed I became aware that there was light flashing around the room. Was I surprised to see that it was my dad swathing the room with streaks of light from his flash light? Was he trying to orient himself? I don't know. This went on for 30 minutes or more. I just tried to ignore it.
Rising the next morning, without incident, I quietly complimented myself on coming up with such an ingenious plan to secure the perimeter. My dad was still asleep when I rose. Wanting to make it to the "kitchen" for our complimentary breakfast before it closed at 9:00, the three of us, son, husband and I, dressed leaving Pop still in his bed. Stirring a bit, I went over to him and whispered in his ear that we were going to breakfast, that he could stay in bed and sleep and we'd bring his food to him. That seemed satisfactory and we slipped out the door.
After enjoying our table conversation around a breakfast consisting of waffles in the shape of Texas and a liquid they called coffee, I decided I should probably check on Pop and bring him his plate of "Texas." Quietly opening the door I found that he had roused and was up. Looking like Einstein with his white hair standing straight up and out around the sides of his head he was still in his blue stripped jammie shirt. Below the waist he was in his "tighty whities" that gaped open around his little, white, toothpick legs. I had obviously arrived in just the nick of time because he was ready to blow a gasket unable to locate his clothes.
Not wanting to observe the strip, I handed him a pair of clean underwear and ushered him into the bathroom with a promise that I'd hand in his clothing after he'd slipped out of yesterday's undies. That having been accomplished, the next challenge was finding his glasses. Not noticing, the night before, where he stashed his much needed eye ware, I realized that this was a more serious issue then finding his clothing. After searching the room a number of times I sat him down to his now cold breakfast assuring him that I'd find the glasses and that he should eat before it got so cold he'd have to gag it down. The search continued with him up and down from his breakfast trying to enter into the hunt, with me trying to get him to settle down and just eat and let me do the looking. After searching in all of the obvious and not so obvious places, I finally located them in the pocket of his overnight bag. Relieved, we both relaxed. Another mystery resolved.
Visiting the boys:
Checking out of our room we hopped in the truck and made our way to the tiny ranching community of Pickton, Texas. What! You've never heard of Pickton? Tucked 15 miles east of Sulphur Springs, Texas, (and you've never heard of Sulphur Springs, either?) which is 1 1/2 hours north east of Dallas, we picked up Bret's boys, 5 and 7 years old. Pop loves little kids and especially enjoys watching his great grandsons as they go about being little boys. Turning to me frequently throughout the afternoon, he'd say, "They sure are cute little guys!"
As he watched them bowling he beamed with joy and laughed out loud each time Troy, the 5 year old, bounced the bowling ball down the alley actually hitting some bowling pins. It was delightful for me to see my dad enjoying his great grandsons. It is moments like these that make our decision to bring him here to live with us very satisfying and causes an indescribable sense of rightness about what we are doing.
Leaving Pickton around 5:00 PM meant that we'd not get back to Austin until around 10:30 or 11:00 that night. We dreaded what lay ahead. The long trip did not disappoint us. It was grueling. I observed how rested Pop seemed as he sat in the passenger seat continuing to take in the homeward bound sights until darkness enveloped us. 36 + hours after our departure Saturday morning we pulled into our driveway in the pitch dark. Pop announced in his perky voice, "Thanks for the drive. I really enjoyed it!"
Today I rose still rather weary from our week end adventures. I won't mention the trip to my dad, the motel with it's Texas shaped waffles, the search for his glasses, the fun times he had watching his grandsons bowl and play arcade games, consuming ice cream and McDonalds hamburgers. He wouldn't remember. But I am thankful that we had this week end. I will remember.
My dad has always liked to travel and that still seems to be the case.I remember as a kid when it came time for our yearly family vacation he'd dig out our maps and pour over them determining the fastest route from point A to point B. His definition of travel was definitely not "stop and smell the roses." Once the four of us were in the car it was put the pedal to the metal and "make time."Even restroom stops were prohibited unless absolutely necessary. No stoppin' for nothin.' This philosophy was a huge source of frustration for my mom who's idea of travel was just the opposite; to not only get where we were going but to savor the trip along the way. No such luck.
But those days for my dad are gone now. Once he is buckled into his seat he has no idea what time we departed and no idea what time we need to be at our destination. I guess it is now his time to smell the traveling roses.
This past week end our family made a trip to Ft. Worth and then on to north east Texas to see our son's boys. Pulling out of the driveway early Saturday morning, suitcases in the rear, Pop in the passenger seat and the rest of us strapped into our places, we were on our way. I don't tell my dad anymore that we are taking a trip. That would be too overwhelming for him. Even though I pack his bags for him, the emotional responsibility that he takes on just throws him into a tizzy. What I say is we're going for a "ride," a 1/2 truth which allows all of us to relax and enjoy the journey.
The motel:
Once arriving at our motel the experience becomes a bit more stressful. Not wanting to duplicate our last adventure north east where Pop escaped in the wee hours of the morning wandering the halls only to be rescued by the hotel staff, we knew we needed a good security plan to keep him locked in. At our motel I noticed a couple of small tables in our suite. At bedtime I butted one of the tables up against the door. On top of that went an ice chest and on top of that went a suit case. In the end the door sort of looked like a wall. Voila! No way for Pop to get out!
Settling into our room, exhausted from our long drive and a busy day, we went through the rigmarole of helping Pop find adequate places for his stash of assorted pocket items; his pocket knife, his key to the house - which he never uses, his nail clippers and finger nail file which he uses ALL the time, some rolls of tissue and his wallet. Coupling these items with his over night bag, his flash light and his baseball cap, everything was placed on the night stand next to his bed. Then began the repetitions of showing him where everything was, reshowing him where everything was and showing him again where everything was.
Moments after the lights were out and eyes closed I became aware that there was light flashing around the room. Was I surprised to see that it was my dad swathing the room with streaks of light from his flash light? Was he trying to orient himself? I don't know. This went on for 30 minutes or more. I just tried to ignore it.
Rising the next morning, without incident, I quietly complimented myself on coming up with such an ingenious plan to secure the perimeter. My dad was still asleep when I rose. Wanting to make it to the "kitchen" for our complimentary breakfast before it closed at 9:00, the three of us, son, husband and I, dressed leaving Pop still in his bed. Stirring a bit, I went over to him and whispered in his ear that we were going to breakfast, that he could stay in bed and sleep and we'd bring his food to him. That seemed satisfactory and we slipped out the door.
After enjoying our table conversation around a breakfast consisting of waffles in the shape of Texas and a liquid they called coffee, I decided I should probably check on Pop and bring him his plate of "Texas." Quietly opening the door I found that he had roused and was up. Looking like Einstein with his white hair standing straight up and out around the sides of his head he was still in his blue stripped jammie shirt. Below the waist he was in his "tighty whities" that gaped open around his little, white, toothpick legs. I had obviously arrived in just the nick of time because he was ready to blow a gasket unable to locate his clothes.
Not wanting to observe the strip, I handed him a pair of clean underwear and ushered him into the bathroom with a promise that I'd hand in his clothing after he'd slipped out of yesterday's undies. That having been accomplished, the next challenge was finding his glasses. Not noticing, the night before, where he stashed his much needed eye ware, I realized that this was a more serious issue then finding his clothing. After searching the room a number of times I sat him down to his now cold breakfast assuring him that I'd find the glasses and that he should eat before it got so cold he'd have to gag it down. The search continued with him up and down from his breakfast trying to enter into the hunt, with me trying to get him to settle down and just eat and let me do the looking. After searching in all of the obvious and not so obvious places, I finally located them in the pocket of his overnight bag. Relieved, we both relaxed. Another mystery resolved.
Visiting the boys:
Checking out of our room we hopped in the truck and made our way to the tiny ranching community of Pickton, Texas. What! You've never heard of Pickton? Tucked 15 miles east of Sulphur Springs, Texas, (and you've never heard of Sulphur Springs, either?) which is 1 1/2 hours north east of Dallas, we picked up Bret's boys, 5 and 7 years old. Pop loves little kids and especially enjoys watching his great grandsons as they go about being little boys. Turning to me frequently throughout the afternoon, he'd say, "They sure are cute little guys!"
As he watched them bowling he beamed with joy and laughed out loud each time Troy, the 5 year old, bounced the bowling ball down the alley actually hitting some bowling pins. It was delightful for me to see my dad enjoying his great grandsons. It is moments like these that make our decision to bring him here to live with us very satisfying and causes an indescribable sense of rightness about what we are doing.
Leaving Pickton around 5:00 PM meant that we'd not get back to Austin until around 10:30 or 11:00 that night. We dreaded what lay ahead. The long trip did not disappoint us. It was grueling. I observed how rested Pop seemed as he sat in the passenger seat continuing to take in the homeward bound sights until darkness enveloped us. 36 + hours after our departure Saturday morning we pulled into our driveway in the pitch dark. Pop announced in his perky voice, "Thanks for the drive. I really enjoyed it!"
Today I rose still rather weary from our week end adventures. I won't mention the trip to my dad, the motel with it's Texas shaped waffles, the search for his glasses, the fun times he had watching his grandsons bowl and play arcade games, consuming ice cream and McDonalds hamburgers. He wouldn't remember. But I am thankful that we had this week end. I will remember.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Cardigan Sweaters and Jackets named George
What is it about the elderly and sweaters or jackets? I understand that their circulatory systems are not as efficient as when younger and they tend to get colder easier. But it is 93 degrees outside right now and my dad is still wanting to wear his signature cardigan sweater.
I remember years ago when my grandfather, my dad's father, was in a convalescent hospital always accompanied by his coat named George. Yes, he had a name for his coat and to my knowledge he wore it or at least had it near him most all of the time until he passed away. It was an ugly, brown, plaid version made of some kind of course fabric. I remember it distinctly because it gave me no clue as to why it would be any source of comfort. It looked itchy. Fortunately my dad has not named his sweaters or jackets, but he wears them year round, even in the Texas heat! (Maybe it's hereditary?)
I wonder if these forms of outer wear are a throw back to infancy when the familiar baby blanket or pacifier was a source of comfort? Perhaps the sweaters have a threefold significance providing warmth, comfort and familiarity. I don't know.
As I sit here at my computer I have a perfect view of my dad's "track." In the early dusk I am watching him taking his umpteenth walk today and he is wearing his rather heavy white version, the one with all of the pulled threads. As he approaches the house I observe he is now carrying it. I guess he finally got the message that in light of the temperatures the sweater is a source of discomfort rather then comfort.
Living with dementia causes me to often contemplate the aging process and how it might manifest itself in me when I am my dad's age. The implications of sweaters and jackets and the elderly is not fully clear to me. But this I am sure of. When I am 87 I do hope I'm not consumed with my need of jackets or sweaters, especially any named George.
I remember years ago when my grandfather, my dad's father, was in a convalescent hospital always accompanied by his coat named George. Yes, he had a name for his coat and to my knowledge he wore it or at least had it near him most all of the time until he passed away. It was an ugly, brown, plaid version made of some kind of course fabric. I remember it distinctly because it gave me no clue as to why it would be any source of comfort. It looked itchy. Fortunately my dad has not named his sweaters or jackets, but he wears them year round, even in the Texas heat! (Maybe it's hereditary?)
I wonder if these forms of outer wear are a throw back to infancy when the familiar baby blanket or pacifier was a source of comfort? Perhaps the sweaters have a threefold significance providing warmth, comfort and familiarity. I don't know.
As I sit here at my computer I have a perfect view of my dad's "track." In the early dusk I am watching him taking his umpteenth walk today and he is wearing his rather heavy white version, the one with all of the pulled threads. As he approaches the house I observe he is now carrying it. I guess he finally got the message that in light of the temperatures the sweater is a source of discomfort rather then comfort.
Living with dementia causes me to often contemplate the aging process and how it might manifest itself in me when I am my dad's age. The implications of sweaters and jackets and the elderly is not fully clear to me. But this I am sure of. When I am 87 I do hope I'm not consumed with my need of jackets or sweaters, especially any named George.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Back to Normal?
As usual my dad rose this morning in his uniform: jeans, shirt, cardigan sweater and his big, black, suede shoes. Ready for another day he joined us in the kitchen. After our typical exchange of "How'd you sleep?" followed by his usual bowl of raisin bran, the rest of us scattered to attack the responsibilities of our day.
Around noon I noted that I had not seen him for quite a while. There had been no interruptions asking me "Is there anything I can do to help?" No, "How's your day going?" No tea breaks. Typically this would mean he has slipped on his black base ball cap, giant clip on shades and is outside pounding the pavement around his little "track," our circular driveway. But when I checked, there was no Pop; just an empty yard with the trees and shrubbery swaying slowly in the warm, late, spring breeze.
The thought crossed my mind that perhaps he had gone for a ride with one of my men. But they usually tell me if he is going along. Besides, Bret was out on business and I knew he would not take Grandpa with him under those circumstances. And my husband was here at home in his office. When those two, more typical options turned up no results, I began searching the house.
It is not unusual for Pop to take a short mid-day nap in one of the overstuffed chairs. Somehow he is able to sleep in a full upright position with his head tucked, resting against his upper chest. How he does this I will never know as I need to be in full recline to get my zzzz's. But I did not find him in any of his favorite chairs.
Looking toward his bedroom I noted that his door, which usually stands open in the daytime, was closed. Approaching the door I quietly gave a little knock and then entered.
There, curled up in a ball, looking somewhat like a cat taking it's late morning nap, was my dad. Even though it is a bit unusual for him to snuggle down in his bed for his naps, it was not so much his location which surprised me as the way he was dress. He had fully undressed removing his shirt, jeans, socks and shoes and had dawned his blue, stripped jammies. He was in full night garb. With his white hair sprawled across the pillow I lightly tapped him on his shoulder. Thinking that he may not be feeling well or he had not slept well the night before I asked, "Are you feeling OK? Do you feel sick?" If he had not slept well the night before he would not know. There would be no recollection. Answering my question with a rather curt, "I'm sleeping!" I tucked my tail between my legs and slinked out of his room to let him "sleep it off" whatever "it" was.
20 minutes later, I happened to see out of the corner of my eye movement through the living room window. Garbed again in his day wear, black cap and giant clip on shades I saw Pop making his rounds on his "track." I guess everything is back to normal, whatever that is anymore around here.
Around noon I noted that I had not seen him for quite a while. There had been no interruptions asking me "Is there anything I can do to help?" No, "How's your day going?" No tea breaks. Typically this would mean he has slipped on his black base ball cap, giant clip on shades and is outside pounding the pavement around his little "track," our circular driveway. But when I checked, there was no Pop; just an empty yard with the trees and shrubbery swaying slowly in the warm, late, spring breeze.
The thought crossed my mind that perhaps he had gone for a ride with one of my men. But they usually tell me if he is going along. Besides, Bret was out on business and I knew he would not take Grandpa with him under those circumstances. And my husband was here at home in his office. When those two, more typical options turned up no results, I began searching the house.
It is not unusual for Pop to take a short mid-day nap in one of the overstuffed chairs. Somehow he is able to sleep in a full upright position with his head tucked, resting against his upper chest. How he does this I will never know as I need to be in full recline to get my zzzz's. But I did not find him in any of his favorite chairs.
Looking toward his bedroom I noted that his door, which usually stands open in the daytime, was closed. Approaching the door I quietly gave a little knock and then entered.
There, curled up in a ball, looking somewhat like a cat taking it's late morning nap, was my dad. Even though it is a bit unusual for him to snuggle down in his bed for his naps, it was not so much his location which surprised me as the way he was dress. He had fully undressed removing his shirt, jeans, socks and shoes and had dawned his blue, stripped jammies. He was in full night garb. With his white hair sprawled across the pillow I lightly tapped him on his shoulder. Thinking that he may not be feeling well or he had not slept well the night before I asked, "Are you feeling OK? Do you feel sick?" If he had not slept well the night before he would not know. There would be no recollection. Answering my question with a rather curt, "I'm sleeping!" I tucked my tail between my legs and slinked out of his room to let him "sleep it off" whatever "it" was.
20 minutes later, I happened to see out of the corner of my eye movement through the living room window. Garbed again in his day wear, black cap and giant clip on shades I saw Pop making his rounds on his "track." I guess everything is back to normal, whatever that is anymore around here.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
The Problem with Telephones
Technology and I just don't get along anymore. My famous line is, "What ever happened to the simple on/off button?" All the bells and whistles that come with each technological apparatus just overwhelms me. Even our telephone has buttons, buttons and more buttons. This much I do know, the green button means power connection, and the numbers are for dialing up the party I want to reach. I can handle that. But if one can't see the green button nor the numerals, let alone REMEMBER the numbers to be dialed ... well, you can see that there in lies a deeper problem. Enter my Dad; can't see well, can't figure out how to operate and can't remember the numbers even if his vision were 20/20. His lack of ability to operate a telephone was one of the deciding factors that lead us to conclude that there would be no more "home alone" for Pop, not even for short periods of time. Obviously in the event of an emergency there would be a total inability to find 911 on the phone pad and the memory banks would undoubtedly be unable to regurgitate the appropriate numerical combination anyway.
Occasionally my Dad's memory will turn to Mary, his wife in Oregon. The yearning to make a phone call will overpower his fear of failure and he will approach the frightening object with hope and anticipation. I guess today was one of those days because I came upon him punching buttons and trying to listen for a dial tone. Obviously having no luck at making his phone call he looked up at me, then back at the device and then at me again he said, "I'm not familiar with the phone system here," meaning in Texas. What being in Texas has to do with it I don't know. Aren't all phone systems across the country pretty universal?
Seeing his need for help I approached him and immediately recognized why there was no dial tone, no connection. Not being able to contain myself, I burst out in laughter! Pop looked at me confused. Rolling it around in his hands he took another look at the piece of plastic and then handed it to me. Calming myself, I took the "telephone" from him and began to explain. The odd looking phone that he had up to his ear was NOT a telephone at all. It was one of our TV remote controls!
Occasionally my Dad's memory will turn to Mary, his wife in Oregon. The yearning to make a phone call will overpower his fear of failure and he will approach the frightening object with hope and anticipation. I guess today was one of those days because I came upon him punching buttons and trying to listen for a dial tone. Obviously having no luck at making his phone call he looked up at me, then back at the device and then at me again he said, "I'm not familiar with the phone system here," meaning in Texas. What being in Texas has to do with it I don't know. Aren't all phone systems across the country pretty universal?
Seeing his need for help I approached him and immediately recognized why there was no dial tone, no connection. Not being able to contain myself, I burst out in laughter! Pop looked at me confused. Rolling it around in his hands he took another look at the piece of plastic and then handed it to me. Calming myself, I took the "telephone" from him and began to explain. The odd looking phone that he had up to his ear was NOT a telephone at all. It was one of our TV remote controls!
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Pouting and Sulking
Those who have children will remember the days when you sneaked off with the spouse leaving behind cribs and diapers for a day or so of respite. This being the Saturday before my birthday my dear hubby had planned a nice day for just the two of us and our dear son had Grandpa sitting duty.
Rising early we dressed and were out the door by 7:30, long before anyone else was up. After an early breakfast we made our way to an old locomotive train station. What fun! My husband had planned a whole day of travel through the hill country to the little town of Burnett, and best of all ... just for the two of us. After a couple of hours of train travel we arrived at our destination, enjoyed two more hours of antique shopping, some good eats and then boarded for the two hours back. All considered, this made for a full day bringing us back home around 5:00 P.m.
Walking in the front door I found my dad sitting in one of his favorite overstuffed chairs. No, "hello, I missed you." No, "how was your day?" Not even an acknowledgment of our presence in the house. Just silence, his chin resting in his hands a sorrowful, woe is me look on his face. With an obvious chill in the air, Pop was pouting and sulking.
Ordinarily if I found him in such low spirits I would inquire. But this time it was totally obvious to me what the problem was. I had even sort of anticipated this lack of welcome before I got home. You see, I had committed the unpardonable. I had been gone ALL DAY LONG.
I have also learned from experience that the best solution to these displays of attitude is to give a casual explanation as to why we were gone and follow it up with a little distraction, perhaps a ride in the car to run an errand, minus the car seat, of course. Soon I hear, "Is there anything I can do to help?" Everything is cool again.
Rising early we dressed and were out the door by 7:30, long before anyone else was up. After an early breakfast we made our way to an old locomotive train station. What fun! My husband had planned a whole day of travel through the hill country to the little town of Burnett, and best of all ... just for the two of us. After a couple of hours of train travel we arrived at our destination, enjoyed two more hours of antique shopping, some good eats and then boarded for the two hours back. All considered, this made for a full day bringing us back home around 5:00 P.m.
Walking in the front door I found my dad sitting in one of his favorite overstuffed chairs. No, "hello, I missed you." No, "how was your day?" Not even an acknowledgment of our presence in the house. Just silence, his chin resting in his hands a sorrowful, woe is me look on his face. With an obvious chill in the air, Pop was pouting and sulking.
Ordinarily if I found him in such low spirits I would inquire. But this time it was totally obvious to me what the problem was. I had even sort of anticipated this lack of welcome before I got home. You see, I had committed the unpardonable. I had been gone ALL DAY LONG.
I have also learned from experience that the best solution to these displays of attitude is to give a casual explanation as to why we were gone and follow it up with a little distraction, perhaps a ride in the car to run an errand, minus the car seat, of course. Soon I hear, "Is there anything I can do to help?" Everything is cool again.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Hill Billy vs. Don Jaun
"Pop it is bedtime and the dentist said that you need to take your partial out at bedtime," I remind him. If I don't mention that removing it is by dentist's orders, he would prefer to wear the teeth 24-7. Reluctantly he goes back into the bathroom and takes it out putting it into its little bath.
Reluctantly you might say?! Several weeks ago, his first day of wearing it, was shear misery for him and for me. After listening to his day long complaints, "it feels like a big wad of something in my mouth," I had assumed that this contraption would end up being an expensive experiment in failure. But the following day, after his morning toiletries, out he came with his "mouth full" and he's been faithfully wearing it ever since with no complaints. Day and night in fact, if I don't remind him to remove it.
For several weeks now I've been analyzing this whole experience trying to discern how I managed to be so successful at getting him to not only want to wear it daily but to never want to take it out. Perhaps telling him that he didn't want to look like a hill billy with all those teeth missing followed by the story about his wife getting used to wearing her's, was just the right does of comparisons. Then following up the disgrace and comparisons approach, I loaded on the compliments regarding how nice he looked wearing the teeth. Perhaps these were the "one-two punches" that I needed to seal the deal. No choppers = Hill billy or yellow. New choppers = Attractive and brave. Now really, ... what man would not be motivated by that approach?
Reluctantly you might say?! Several weeks ago, his first day of wearing it, was shear misery for him and for me. After listening to his day long complaints, "it feels like a big wad of something in my mouth," I had assumed that this contraption would end up being an expensive experiment in failure. But the following day, after his morning toiletries, out he came with his "mouth full" and he's been faithfully wearing it ever since with no complaints. Day and night in fact, if I don't remind him to remove it.
For several weeks now I've been analyzing this whole experience trying to discern how I managed to be so successful at getting him to not only want to wear it daily but to never want to take it out. Perhaps telling him that he didn't want to look like a hill billy with all those teeth missing followed by the story about his wife getting used to wearing her's, was just the right does of comparisons. Then following up the disgrace and comparisons approach, I loaded on the compliments regarding how nice he looked wearing the teeth. Perhaps these were the "one-two punches" that I needed to seal the deal. No choppers = Hill billy or yellow. New choppers = Attractive and brave. Now really, ... what man would not be motivated by that approach?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Mr. Sandman
Sometime around 6:30 we hear the whirrr, whirr, whir of Pop's crank flashlight an indication that he is beginning to think about winding up another day and prepare for bedtime. He may join us for a little TV, do a little roaming but soon I hear, "You gettin' tared?" When I respond with my "no, not yet. Are you?" he'll say, "Ya, I'm startin' to get tared," intentionally dropping the "g" in the word starting and slurring the word tired. His nightly routine has begun.
About 7:00 he starts checking his watch to see what time it is. Don't want to go to bed too early but we sure don't want to go to bed too late either, seems to be the philosophy. For the next hour or so he will check his watch regularly. By 8:00 he ups the ante and asks me again if I'm gettin' "tared."
Eventually he moseys off to his room and emerges, still in his blue jeans but with his night shirt on. I note that the first button is buttoned into the second button whole and so on down the shirt. The collar has a random fold like a dogs floppy ear giving him a very skewed appearance. Rather funny to observe but he seems to take the attitude that as long as the arms are in the sleeves and the torso covered, who cares? I guess he's right.
Eventually the sand man has made his final call and Pop will disappear into his bedroom and come out in full night garb; blue stripped night shirt, night pants and barefoot, the final pieces of the bed-time puzzle now in place indicating that he is seriously heading for slumber land. "You going to bed Pop?" I ask. "Yup, I think it's about that time. I'm tared," he says, again slurring the word tired.
On occasion he will pause before heading off to his room and ask, "What time are you folks getting up around here tomorrow?" Why that matters I have no idea but he'll ask as if he is a guest in our home needing to cooperate with our schedules. Other times he'll pause, a little hesitant but I know he is waiting for his bedtime hug. I respond, tell him to sleep well and feel his frail bear hug as he says "Oooooh, you sleep good, too." Hunch backed, in his blue jammies and barefoot he toddles across the family room to his bed. Another day of adventure behind him. Time to get some zzzz's.
About 7:00 he starts checking his watch to see what time it is. Don't want to go to bed too early but we sure don't want to go to bed too late either, seems to be the philosophy. For the next hour or so he will check his watch regularly. By 8:00 he ups the ante and asks me again if I'm gettin' "tared."
Eventually he moseys off to his room and emerges, still in his blue jeans but with his night shirt on. I note that the first button is buttoned into the second button whole and so on down the shirt. The collar has a random fold like a dogs floppy ear giving him a very skewed appearance. Rather funny to observe but he seems to take the attitude that as long as the arms are in the sleeves and the torso covered, who cares? I guess he's right.
Eventually the sand man has made his final call and Pop will disappear into his bedroom and come out in full night garb; blue stripped night shirt, night pants and barefoot, the final pieces of the bed-time puzzle now in place indicating that he is seriously heading for slumber land. "You going to bed Pop?" I ask. "Yup, I think it's about that time. I'm tared," he says, again slurring the word tired.
On occasion he will pause before heading off to his room and ask, "What time are you folks getting up around here tomorrow?" Why that matters I have no idea but he'll ask as if he is a guest in our home needing to cooperate with our schedules. Other times he'll pause, a little hesitant but I know he is waiting for his bedtime hug. I respond, tell him to sleep well and feel his frail bear hug as he says "Oooooh, you sleep good, too." Hunch backed, in his blue jammies and barefoot he toddles across the family room to his bed. Another day of adventure behind him. Time to get some zzzz's.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Sack Lunch
Pop likes his meals on time, on his time. Sometimes if I have an errand to run when he needs his lunch, I'll pack him a sack lunch to take in the vehicle so he can eat on the road. Sitting comfortably in shot gun position I hear the following:
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle; paper bag open.
Unlock the zip lock bag and take a bite of sandwich.
Ziiiiiiiip the bag back up.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag closed.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag opened.
Ziiiiiiiip. Take another bite of sandwich.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag closed.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag opened.
Ziiiiiiiip. Take a bite of chips.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag opened.
Ziiiiiiiip. Take a bite of chips.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Paper bag opened.
Ziiiiiiiip. Take a bite of chips.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Then I hear crinkle, crinkle, crinkle and the sack is placed neatly in his lap. He has completed round one.
15 minutes later:
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle; paper bag open.
Unlock the zip lock bag and take a bite of sandwich.
Ziiiiiiiip the bag back up.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag closed.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag opened.
Ziiiiiiiip. Take another bite of sandwich.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag closed.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag opened.
Ziiiiiiiip. Take a bite of chips.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag opened.
Ziiiiiiiip. Take a bite of chips.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Paper bag opened.
Ziiiiiiiip. Take a bite of chips.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
By this time I want to just scream, "Eat the whole darn sandwich! Eat the whole bag of chips! Please, can the sound effects and put the darn empty sack on the floor! ... But I don't.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle; paper bag open.
Unlock the zip lock bag and take a bite of sandwich.
Ziiiiiiiip the bag back up.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag closed.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag opened.
Ziiiiiiiip. Take another bite of sandwich.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag closed.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag opened.
Ziiiiiiiip. Take a bite of chips.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag opened.
Ziiiiiiiip. Take a bite of chips.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Paper bag opened.
Ziiiiiiiip. Take a bite of chips.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Then I hear crinkle, crinkle, crinkle and the sack is placed neatly in his lap. He has completed round one.
15 minutes later:
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle; paper bag open.
Unlock the zip lock bag and take a bite of sandwich.
Ziiiiiiiip the bag back up.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag closed.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag opened.
Ziiiiiiiip. Take another bite of sandwich.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag closed.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag opened.
Ziiiiiiiip. Take a bite of chips.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Bag opened.
Ziiiiiiiip. Take a bite of chips.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Paper bag opened.
Ziiiiiiiip. Take a bite of chips.
Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. Zip lock back into the sack.
By this time I want to just scream, "Eat the whole darn sandwich! Eat the whole bag of chips! Please, can the sound effects and put the darn empty sack on the floor! ... But I don't.
Friday, April 2, 2010
I recognize Those Jeans
Pulling up in the driveway I see Pop out on his "track," the loop in our front yard, preparing to take one of his many daily walks. "Pop, can you help me bring in these groceries?" I ask. He approaches and I notice the jeans he is wearing. Something doesn't look right.
Trying not to look conspicuous, I examine the pants as he walks away from me. Through the hips they fit rather nicely but I note that they are way too long. Across the left back thigh are smeared, white, finger prints which look like paint. And across the front right thigh are the same white finger prints. There is no mistaking it, those are MY painting jeans he is wearing!
Yesterday I had a sack of clothes going to the thrift store sitting by the front door but I really don't think I put those jeans in that bag. That means that some time while I was out grocery shopping this morning he found his way into my closet, searched through my clothes and found my painting jeans.
Many questions come to mind when dealing with dementia that really have no answer. But the questions do linger. I'm sure he came out of his room this morning dressed in his own jeans. So when and why did he change into mine? In my husband's and my closet are jeans for both him and me. Why did my dad happen to select this particular pair, mine? Also, they were hanging among other obviously women's clothing. Was that not a clue that perhaps he was in the wrong closet or at least on the wrong side of the closet?
Two weeks ago it was my green jacket he was wearing. Today, my painting jeans. Knowing that my dad is obviously no longer thinking clearly I don't want to sound disrespectful. But after these two incidents there are some rather humorous mental pictures that came to my mind ... like ... what's next? My undies?
Trying not to look conspicuous, I examine the pants as he walks away from me. Through the hips they fit rather nicely but I note that they are way too long. Across the left back thigh are smeared, white, finger prints which look like paint. And across the front right thigh are the same white finger prints. There is no mistaking it, those are MY painting jeans he is wearing!
Yesterday I had a sack of clothes going to the thrift store sitting by the front door but I really don't think I put those jeans in that bag. That means that some time while I was out grocery shopping this morning he found his way into my closet, searched through my clothes and found my painting jeans.
Many questions come to mind when dealing with dementia that really have no answer. But the questions do linger. I'm sure he came out of his room this morning dressed in his own jeans. So when and why did he change into mine? In my husband's and my closet are jeans for both him and me. Why did my dad happen to select this particular pair, mine? Also, they were hanging among other obviously women's clothing. Was that not a clue that perhaps he was in the wrong closet or at least on the wrong side of the closet?
Two weeks ago it was my green jacket he was wearing. Today, my painting jeans. Knowing that my dad is obviously no longer thinking clearly I don't want to sound disrespectful. But after these two incidents there are some rather humorous mental pictures that came to my mind ... like ... what's next? My undies?
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Life In Minature
As I mentioned in a previous blog, Pop takes his life in small portions. I attributed this idiosyncrasy to the fact that he grew up in the depression which appears to have left its mark on his psyche, ingraining in him the need to live life frugally, compactly. In his present state of mind, all of those idiosyncrasies seem to be exaggerated. Occasionally his approach to life manifests itself in exasperating ways. Like yesterday when I was outside working in my shed preparing for a staging job.
Pop was at my heels, as usual, wanting to help in some capacity. Seeing me lifting always sets him into a rescue mode. For example, usually when I return from grocery shopping he brings in the bags for me, one bag hanging from each arm making several trips back and forth to the vehicle. It always makes me a bit nervous because he can barely get his frail form up the steps with his loads and he looks like a breeze could blow him over. Yesterday I was packing, loading and lifting and he wanted to help; an impossibility. There really was nothing I could think of to give him to do. But I didn't want to turn him away. Realizing how thirsty I was I decided to get him to retrieve a nice, cold glass of water for me, making him feel useful and to help quench my parched tongue.
With a bounce in his step he headed for the house on his mission. Soon I heard the crunch, crunch of his footsteps coming up behind me. Looking forward to a nice big gulp I looked up to see him gingerly making his way toward me extending what looked like a thimble of water. He had found the smallest glass in the cupboard and when completely filled, it allowed for about two little swallows. What did I expect? Pop lives his life in miniature.
Pop was at my heels, as usual, wanting to help in some capacity. Seeing me lifting always sets him into a rescue mode. For example, usually when I return from grocery shopping he brings in the bags for me, one bag hanging from each arm making several trips back and forth to the vehicle. It always makes me a bit nervous because he can barely get his frail form up the steps with his loads and he looks like a breeze could blow him over. Yesterday I was packing, loading and lifting and he wanted to help; an impossibility. There really was nothing I could think of to give him to do. But I didn't want to turn him away. Realizing how thirsty I was I decided to get him to retrieve a nice, cold glass of water for me, making him feel useful and to help quench my parched tongue.
With a bounce in his step he headed for the house on his mission. Soon I heard the crunch, crunch of his footsteps coming up behind me. Looking forward to a nice big gulp I looked up to see him gingerly making his way toward me extending what looked like a thimble of water. He had found the smallest glass in the cupboard and when completely filled, it allowed for about two little swallows. What did I expect? Pop lives his life in miniature.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
No Privacy Around Here
Startled, I turned in the direction of Pop's voice to find him standing in the doorway of my bathroom. "It's going to be a cooooold night tonight," he said. I agreed with his weather forecast but what startled me was his sudden and unexpected appearance in my bathroom where I had just finished showering and was drying my hair. No knock on the door. No, "Is the coast clear." No, "Can I come in?" He just sort of appeared. This was the second time that I had stupidly left my bathroom door unlocked. The first time he stopped in for a "chat" I narrowly missed being caught in my birthday suit. I guess you can call me a slow learner because there's no privacy around here!
To him our bedroom and bathroom are just rooms to be used and enjoyed at will. If the sunshine has created a cozy resting place on our love seat in our bedroom, just go on in and enjoy it, is his line of thinking. And if you can't find your own bathroom, a toilet is a toilet, so use the one you are able to find. I guess you might call this an "open door policy" in the truest sense of the word. If our bedroom door is not closed, it is fare game. If it is closed, the sign on the door stating "Wink and Judy's room" sends him on his way to find another place to relax or to potty.
In the reverse, one evening after succeeding in getting him to take his weekly bath, I was enjoying a few quiet moments in our family room in front of the TV. Oblivious to the fact that there were others in the house, out he came in HIS birthday suit. There was no towel wrapped around his lower torso - actually it would have been nice if there had been a towel wrapped from the armpits down to the ankles but no such luck - no peeking out of the door to see if anyone was around. Out he strolled heading for his bedroom next door. Fortunately for me, one of our rather large over stuffed chairs blocked my view from his waist down saving me from seeing more then I think my eyes could handle.
To him our bedroom and bathroom are just rooms to be used and enjoyed at will. If the sunshine has created a cozy resting place on our love seat in our bedroom, just go on in and enjoy it, is his line of thinking. And if you can't find your own bathroom, a toilet is a toilet, so use the one you are able to find. I guess you might call this an "open door policy" in the truest sense of the word. If our bedroom door is not closed, it is fare game. If it is closed, the sign on the door stating "Wink and Judy's room" sends him on his way to find another place to relax or to potty.
In the reverse, one evening after succeeding in getting him to take his weekly bath, I was enjoying a few quiet moments in our family room in front of the TV. Oblivious to the fact that there were others in the house, out he came in HIS birthday suit. There was no towel wrapped around his lower torso - actually it would have been nice if there had been a towel wrapped from the armpits down to the ankles but no such luck - no peeking out of the door to see if anyone was around. Out he strolled heading for his bedroom next door. Fortunately for me, one of our rather large over stuffed chairs blocked my view from his waist down saving me from seeing more then I think my eyes could handle.
Friday, March 26, 2010
"Good Dinner. Thank You, Don"
For those of us who have had children, we remember all of the little home made cards, notes and pictures that our children wrote or drew for us in their scribbly little hand. To this day I have many tucked away in my sock drawer or archived under my mittens and caps. Recently one of those types of notes appeared on our kitchen table, on a napkin in balloon letters, with a hint of my dad's very distinctive hand writing, a message to the cook. "Good Dinner. Thank you, Don.". He even remembered the punctuation. Amazing!
There are days when my husband and I notice that Pop is going down hill and with concern we comment about his future. And then ... out of no where he will do something like this, an obvious cranial exercise and sentiment that just blows us away. Anecdotes of this type are what brings moments of brightness into our life with him; moments of laughter and amazement at what he still can do. I'm sure when he wrote that note he had no idea how much it would surprise us, bring smiles to our faces, and praise to God for the mysteries of the mind and its capabilities even under duress.
This little note, so artistically printed on a simple table napkin will be one of those memories that I will stash away under my socks or mittens.
There are days when my husband and I notice that Pop is going down hill and with concern we comment about his future. And then ... out of no where he will do something like this, an obvious cranial exercise and sentiment that just blows us away. Anecdotes of this type are what brings moments of brightness into our life with him; moments of laughter and amazement at what he still can do. I'm sure when he wrote that note he had no idea how much it would surprise us, bring smiles to our faces, and praise to God for the mysteries of the mind and its capabilities even under duress.
This little note, so artistically printed on a simple table napkin will be one of those memories that I will stash away under my socks or mittens.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Pop Calling on the Neighbors
When Pop came to live with us a little over 18 months ago, we were living in our house in South West Austin. Built of creamy white Texas limestone it is located at the end of a cul-de-sac flanked by two other homes built out of the same creamy rock.
Pop has always been very faithful to his walks and shortly after arriving he launched into his daily ritual. Because of the lack of traffic in the cul-de-sac, I felt quite safe letting him make his jaunts unattended. But wanting to be on the safe side, I would occasionally peak out the front door or window checking on him to be sure everything was OK. Usually I would see him making his rounds or returning at a nice even pace up the driveway to our house.
One day as my dad came casually strolling back in, hardly had he gotten in the door when my phone rang. Picking up the receiver I heard a rather disturbed voice on the other end, my neighbor to the left of us. As the story unfolded I learned that just moments before, her children, screaming at the top of their lungs came running to her while she was in the shower. Their terrifying tale was of an old man at the front door trying to "break and enter."
I guess the sound of the children's cries from the other side of the door caused my dad to realize his mistake. Moving on to the next driveway, ours, he made it safely home leaving behind the two very frightened kids and a rather irritated mom.
Not wanting to risk arrest and a jail sentence for him, I watched more carefully when he took his walks. But easier said then done. In a few days ring, ring, ring went my telephone again from my neighbor. "Oh, no," I thought to myself. The story this time was that his "breaking and entering" occurred through the garage. Coming into the house he forced his feeble frame over a baby gate and peaked in around a corner. Looking up from their play the children saw the same elderly face peering in at them. Alerted by their cries, mom looked up and all three of them shrieked in surprise.
Apparently this incident made a lasting impression, penetrating the boundaries of his forgetful mind, because, thankfully, the phone calls from her ceased. Thinking that these embarrassing visits had been nipped in the bud, I relaxed.
Several weeks later my door bell rang. Opening it I found on the porch my other neighbor on the other side of our house and beside her was ... Pop. Same story, other house.
Now the Lord must have been getting a pretty good chuckle out of all of this. In His mercy He recognized that aside from binding and gagging my dad I didn't have a rational solution for keeping the old guy from eventually getting himself arrested. Because soon we were to move out of the Texas limestone house into another on 10 acres of land. Set about a football field off of the main road, this new home has a nice little circular driveway out front proving to be the perfect little track for my dad's daily walks. And most importantly ... NO NEIGHBORS for Pop to go calling on.
Pop has always been very faithful to his walks and shortly after arriving he launched into his daily ritual. Because of the lack of traffic in the cul-de-sac, I felt quite safe letting him make his jaunts unattended. But wanting to be on the safe side, I would occasionally peak out the front door or window checking on him to be sure everything was OK. Usually I would see him making his rounds or returning at a nice even pace up the driveway to our house.
One day as my dad came casually strolling back in, hardly had he gotten in the door when my phone rang. Picking up the receiver I heard a rather disturbed voice on the other end, my neighbor to the left of us. As the story unfolded I learned that just moments before, her children, screaming at the top of their lungs came running to her while she was in the shower. Their terrifying tale was of an old man at the front door trying to "break and enter."
I guess the sound of the children's cries from the other side of the door caused my dad to realize his mistake. Moving on to the next driveway, ours, he made it safely home leaving behind the two very frightened kids and a rather irritated mom.
Not wanting to risk arrest and a jail sentence for him, I watched more carefully when he took his walks. But easier said then done. In a few days ring, ring, ring went my telephone again from my neighbor. "Oh, no," I thought to myself. The story this time was that his "breaking and entering" occurred through the garage. Coming into the house he forced his feeble frame over a baby gate and peaked in around a corner. Looking up from their play the children saw the same elderly face peering in at them. Alerted by their cries, mom looked up and all three of them shrieked in surprise.
Apparently this incident made a lasting impression, penetrating the boundaries of his forgetful mind, because, thankfully, the phone calls from her ceased. Thinking that these embarrassing visits had been nipped in the bud, I relaxed.
Several weeks later my door bell rang. Opening it I found on the porch my other neighbor on the other side of our house and beside her was ... Pop. Same story, other house.
Now the Lord must have been getting a pretty good chuckle out of all of this. In His mercy He recognized that aside from binding and gagging my dad I didn't have a rational solution for keeping the old guy from eventually getting himself arrested. Because soon we were to move out of the Texas limestone house into another on 10 acres of land. Set about a football field off of the main road, this new home has a nice little circular driveway out front proving to be the perfect little track for my dad's daily walks. And most importantly ... NO NEIGHBORS for Pop to go calling on.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Half Truths and Cunning
How does one get their father with memory issues to do what he doesn't want to do, what can't be explained or what can't be remembered? The answer -- half truths and cunning.
Half Truth #1 -- Extending his left hand he points to his pinky-finger and says, "My ring. It is gone." "Yes, I know. You lost it, Pop," I say. He seems to accept the news without great consternation which surprises me considering the ring is nearly as old as he is and has great sentimental value. I am relieved. In reality I have found the ring on a couple of occasions around the house. Once between a chair cushion and the arm of the chair and another on the floor. Realizing it was just a matter of time before it would be permanently lost if I didn't do something, I tucked it safely away in a drawer without his knowledge.
Half Truth #2 -- Taking him anywhere that he does not want to go, for example the doctor or the dentist, can produce a litany of repetitive questions from the front door of our house all the way to the doctors office creating unnecessary stress for both of us. So I have learned that asking him if he'd like to go for a "ride," just leaving out the doctor part, works quite well. We have a pleasant drive together and once we arrive at our destination I explain to him why we are there.
Cunning -- "Pop, I have some errands to run. Would you like to go for a drive with me?" "Nope. I think I'll just stay here," comes the response. OK. I can't drag him to the vehicle and I can't leave him home alone. Solution, I wait 10 minutes and present the same offer all over again. "Pop, I've got some errands to run. Would you like to go for a drive with me?" "Oh, sure," comes the reply. Given enough time the first negative response is forgotten and I usually get the positive that I need.
I believe you call this a win-win.
Half Truth #1 -- Extending his left hand he points to his pinky-finger and says, "My ring. It is gone." "Yes, I know. You lost it, Pop," I say. He seems to accept the news without great consternation which surprises me considering the ring is nearly as old as he is and has great sentimental value. I am relieved. In reality I have found the ring on a couple of occasions around the house. Once between a chair cushion and the arm of the chair and another on the floor. Realizing it was just a matter of time before it would be permanently lost if I didn't do something, I tucked it safely away in a drawer without his knowledge.
Half Truth #2 -- Taking him anywhere that he does not want to go, for example the doctor or the dentist, can produce a litany of repetitive questions from the front door of our house all the way to the doctors office creating unnecessary stress for both of us. So I have learned that asking him if he'd like to go for a "ride," just leaving out the doctor part, works quite well. We have a pleasant drive together and once we arrive at our destination I explain to him why we are there.
Cunning -- "Pop, I have some errands to run. Would you like to go for a drive with me?" "Nope. I think I'll just stay here," comes the response. OK. I can't drag him to the vehicle and I can't leave him home alone. Solution, I wait 10 minutes and present the same offer all over again. "Pop, I've got some errands to run. Would you like to go for a drive with me?" "Oh, sure," comes the reply. Given enough time the first negative response is forgotten and I usually get the positive that I need.
I believe you call this a win-win.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Pop Making His Rounds
In between Pop's chores and various activities of the day he makes sure that he includes making his rounds from one member of the family to the next; sort of like the surgeon who visits his patients in their hospital rooms post op to see how everyone is doing.
Once he has concluded his major surgeries of the morning -- made his bed, dried some dishes, swept and maybe vacuumed the floors, he drops in on all of us at our various locations of work around the house. Then later after he has had his numerous tea times, walked his numerous loops outside and made his numerous searches for things that he has lost, he may drop in on us again, just to touch base and make sure we are OK.
Entering our son's room where he is working at his computer, Pop will pat him on the shoulder and in a loud whisper say, "How you doin' Bret!?" Pretty soon he is at my back patting me on the shoulder with a similar cheery query, "How is your day going, honey!? Is your day turning out the way you'd hoped?" Turning to my husband, who is also busy at his computer, he pats him on the back and asks the same questions with the same upbeat but hushed tone. Diligent in this responsibility, he may return several times. Pat, pat, pat, "How's your day going?"
I too spend a lot of time making the rounds sort of like a floor nurse. Following after him I manage the mundane. I close the doors that he has left open; turn off the lights that he has left on; clean up his spills; retrieve dirty dishes from places they don't belong; clean up his tools of the trade, shaver, toothpaste spattered sink and wash his uniforms (jeans, cardigan sweater and shirts).
Pop's diligence at making the rounds, though has caused our son to confess that he is going to have to close his door to keep Grandpa from interrupting his work. I confessed to my son that I, too, often have to close the office door so that my husband and I can work. Don't we all wish that our doctor's were as attentive as Pop?
Once he has concluded his major surgeries of the morning -- made his bed, dried some dishes, swept and maybe vacuumed the floors, he drops in on all of us at our various locations of work around the house. Then later after he has had his numerous tea times, walked his numerous loops outside and made his numerous searches for things that he has lost, he may drop in on us again, just to touch base and make sure we are OK.
Entering our son's room where he is working at his computer, Pop will pat him on the shoulder and in a loud whisper say, "How you doin' Bret!?" Pretty soon he is at my back patting me on the shoulder with a similar cheery query, "How is your day going, honey!? Is your day turning out the way you'd hoped?" Turning to my husband, who is also busy at his computer, he pats him on the back and asks the same questions with the same upbeat but hushed tone. Diligent in this responsibility, he may return several times. Pat, pat, pat, "How's your day going?"
I too spend a lot of time making the rounds sort of like a floor nurse. Following after him I manage the mundane. I close the doors that he has left open; turn off the lights that he has left on; clean up his spills; retrieve dirty dishes from places they don't belong; clean up his tools of the trade, shaver, toothpaste spattered sink and wash his uniforms (jeans, cardigan sweater and shirts).
Pop's diligence at making the rounds, though has caused our son to confess that he is going to have to close his door to keep Grandpa from interrupting his work. I confessed to my son that I, too, often have to close the office door so that my husband and I can work. Don't we all wish that our doctor's were as attentive as Pop?
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Cookie Monster
Pop loves his meals but on his terms. Never too soon and never too late. If I should serve his eats a bit before his stomach is saying, "Now, feed me now!" he will cooperate out of politeness to me, the cook, but will only take a few bites. I envy him a bit because lack of hunger has never stopped me from eating. If it looks and smells good, bring it on! But I have noticed that no lack of appetite ever deters him from ending his meal, small or large, with cookies. As a result, I jokingly call him the "Cookie Monster."
Pop has a very big sweet tooth. Pies, cakes, ice cream, candy, he loves them all. But by far his favorite delicacy is cookies. They do not have to be home made or even Pepperidge Farm quality. They just have to be cookies. So with a pallet that easy to please why bother mortgaging the house on cookies? Actually, the cheaper they are the less I like them and the less I will therefore eat them. Once a week or so I go to my local Big Lots and stock up on the $1 variety and HEB, Texas' favorite grocery, where they have their brand of Vanilla wafers for only .99 a box! What bargains. "These are great little cookies. They can sure be addictive," he'll say as he pulls out one cookie after another. I'm sure glad he is easy to please because "Cookie Monster" is capable of eating a lot of cookies.
"How many have I had?" he thinks to himself. "I don't know. Guess I'll have another one," is his approach to a bag or box of cookies. "When was the last time I had a cookie? I don't know. Guess I'll go to the pantry and have a cookie." I believe it is possible that these continuous cookie breaks could go on indefinitely which has put me in the position of having to take on the role of cookie monitor. Finding appropriate hiding places so that Pop can't get to them has become my challenge. Like a mother cat who will instinctively move her kittens from one hiding place to another to keep predators from finding the nest, I have to relocate the cookies on a regular basis to keep the "Cookie Monster" from finding them and eating himself sick. One day they may be in the pantry behind the napkins. Another day they might be in the condiments cupboard way back in a corner.
Last Christmas, as is my annual routine, I was baking cookies to give as gifts to neighbors. Smelling the rich, sweet aroma come drifting from the kitchen, Pop found the fragrance irresistible. Every couple of minutes I was having to smack his hands away from the cooling cookies. Not remembering that I had just told him 3 minutes ago that these were for friends, he'd be drawn back for another attempt at getting into the fresh batch, over and over again. Finally he began to get a bit irritated with me, the cookie policewoman, for what appeared to him as micromanagement of the feast. In the holiday spirit I didn't want to start a war over these gifts from my heart. It became obvious that I needed to come up with a plan to camouflage the cooling delicacies. Beginning with a sign that read, "Christmas Cookies. Do Not Touch," I discovered that this approach did no good at all. Every time I'd turn around he'd come over and take a cookie totally ignoring the sign. Grabbing some kitchen towels I covered them hoping that "out-of-sight would make for out-of-mind." The towels slowed the cooling process but ended up solving the cookie thief problem.
I guess my experience with the Christmas cookies helped me develop my cunning for cookie hiding because lately I've been pretty deft at finding good places to conceal them. He has not raided the stash for a long time making it possible for me to ration the consumption after he eats. At the end of his meal I will ask him if he would like some cookies and of course the cheerful reply will always be an affirmative followed by, "Boy these little cookies are good. They can sure be addictive."
Pop has a very big sweet tooth. Pies, cakes, ice cream, candy, he loves them all. But by far his favorite delicacy is cookies. They do not have to be home made or even Pepperidge Farm quality. They just have to be cookies. So with a pallet that easy to please why bother mortgaging the house on cookies? Actually, the cheaper they are the less I like them and the less I will therefore eat them. Once a week or so I go to my local Big Lots and stock up on the $1 variety and HEB, Texas' favorite grocery, where they have their brand of Vanilla wafers for only .99 a box! What bargains. "These are great little cookies. They can sure be addictive," he'll say as he pulls out one cookie after another. I'm sure glad he is easy to please because "Cookie Monster" is capable of eating a lot of cookies.
"How many have I had?" he thinks to himself. "I don't know. Guess I'll have another one," is his approach to a bag or box of cookies. "When was the last time I had a cookie? I don't know. Guess I'll go to the pantry and have a cookie." I believe it is possible that these continuous cookie breaks could go on indefinitely which has put me in the position of having to take on the role of cookie monitor. Finding appropriate hiding places so that Pop can't get to them has become my challenge. Like a mother cat who will instinctively move her kittens from one hiding place to another to keep predators from finding the nest, I have to relocate the cookies on a regular basis to keep the "Cookie Monster" from finding them and eating himself sick. One day they may be in the pantry behind the napkins. Another day they might be in the condiments cupboard way back in a corner.
Last Christmas, as is my annual routine, I was baking cookies to give as gifts to neighbors. Smelling the rich, sweet aroma come drifting from the kitchen, Pop found the fragrance irresistible. Every couple of minutes I was having to smack his hands away from the cooling cookies. Not remembering that I had just told him 3 minutes ago that these were for friends, he'd be drawn back for another attempt at getting into the fresh batch, over and over again. Finally he began to get a bit irritated with me, the cookie policewoman, for what appeared to him as micromanagement of the feast. In the holiday spirit I didn't want to start a war over these gifts from my heart. It became obvious that I needed to come up with a plan to camouflage the cooling delicacies. Beginning with a sign that read, "Christmas Cookies. Do Not Touch," I discovered that this approach did no good at all. Every time I'd turn around he'd come over and take a cookie totally ignoring the sign. Grabbing some kitchen towels I covered them hoping that "out-of-sight would make for out-of-mind." The towels slowed the cooling process but ended up solving the cookie thief problem.
I guess my experience with the Christmas cookies helped me develop my cunning for cookie hiding because lately I've been pretty deft at finding good places to conceal them. He has not raided the stash for a long time making it possible for me to ration the consumption after he eats. At the end of his meal I will ask him if he would like some cookies and of course the cheerful reply will always be an affirmative followed by, "Boy these little cookies are good. They can sure be addictive."
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Keeping Pop and Honest Man
One of my favorite recent advertisements is the one with children coming up with ingenious ways to get rid of food that they don't like and don't want to eat. The ad shows several clips of these adorable kids each one doing his/her own version of disposal. The one that I enjoyed the most was a little dark haired boy who puts his portion into his toy dump truck that is sitting by his plate and then rolls it away. Runner up is the kid who feeds the dog under the table. I haven't the slightest recollection what the ad is about, which causes me to question the value of advertising, but the kids and the concept are sure cute.
Sometimes at meal time Pop reminds me a lot of those kids. I am assuming that somewhere along the way, as a child I would guess, his parents must have ingrained in him that wasting good food was a NO, NO. Often when I have prepared more then he wants to eat, or something that he doesn't want to eat, rather then telling me I will see him very discreetly roll the remains up in a napkin. Forgetting that I am a mother and I have eyes in the back of my head, he will quietly get up from the table, walk by the garbage can and sort of slip the wad into the garbage or sort of give it a side toss as he glides by, assuming that I won't see this sly maneuver.
If at any particular meal I see things moving in this direction, I have learned to beat him to the punch and ask him what he would like to do with the remains. Which ever suggestion I make, save it or toss it,"Oh, yes, yes," will come the response. "Yes, yes," can mean, "Dispose of that wretched excuse of a meal right away before I throw up." Or it can mean, "I enjoyed it so much I hate to see it go to waste. So put it into a container for me to finish tomorrow." My father has learned tact over his many years and I have learned that I have to discern the real meaning of his tactful, "Yes, yes," because he is not going to come clean with his true feelings. By going through this little exercise, I figure I am at least helping to keep him and honest man.
Sometimes at meal time Pop reminds me a lot of those kids. I am assuming that somewhere along the way, as a child I would guess, his parents must have ingrained in him that wasting good food was a NO, NO. Often when I have prepared more then he wants to eat, or something that he doesn't want to eat, rather then telling me I will see him very discreetly roll the remains up in a napkin. Forgetting that I am a mother and I have eyes in the back of my head, he will quietly get up from the table, walk by the garbage can and sort of slip the wad into the garbage or sort of give it a side toss as he glides by, assuming that I won't see this sly maneuver.
If at any particular meal I see things moving in this direction, I have learned to beat him to the punch and ask him what he would like to do with the remains. Which ever suggestion I make, save it or toss it,"Oh, yes, yes," will come the response. "Yes, yes," can mean, "Dispose of that wretched excuse of a meal right away before I throw up." Or it can mean, "I enjoyed it so much I hate to see it go to waste. So put it into a container for me to finish tomorrow." My father has learned tact over his many years and I have learned that I have to discern the real meaning of his tactful, "Yes, yes," because he is not going to come clean with his true feelings. By going through this little exercise, I figure I am at least helping to keep him and honest man.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Something Brown on the Cereal
Routine is the underpinning of my dad's life. Each and every morning he arises around 8. He always emerges from his room fully dressed, jeans, shirt, cardigan sweater, socks and shoes and goes directly to his bathroom to complete his toiletries. He makes his entry fully shaved, teeth brushed, hair combed, ready to conquer the day at hand. (Thank you Lord for washing machines and soap.)
First conquest, BREAKFAST. Every morning Raisin Bran, "Boy this is good stuff," he always says. We think it is important for him to be as independent as possible for his mental health so I am usually somewhere else in the house when he manages his breakfast. I can hear the clink, clink, clink of his spoon bumping the bowl as he scoops up his Raisin Bran. Sometimes I go out to check on him to make sure he is doing OK and ask if he is ready for his tea. I often check his bowl because he has been known to put unusual liquids on his cereal; 1/2 N 1/2 for one.
This morning after hearing the usual clink, clink, clink in the kitchen I go out to make a check. This time the "milk" on his cereal looks rather brown. "Pop, it looks like you've got chocolate soy milk on your cereal. Does it taste OK?" He responds, "Not really." I go to the sink and there are the remains of a dumped bowl of cereal with brownish looking liquid around it. It appears that he had poured out his first attempt at Raisin Bran and then turned around and made the same mistake all over again with his second bowl; Chocolate soy milk ... or is that tea?
First conquest, BREAKFAST. Every morning Raisin Bran, "Boy this is good stuff," he always says. We think it is important for him to be as independent as possible for his mental health so I am usually somewhere else in the house when he manages his breakfast. I can hear the clink, clink, clink of his spoon bumping the bowl as he scoops up his Raisin Bran. Sometimes I go out to check on him to make sure he is doing OK and ask if he is ready for his tea. I often check his bowl because he has been known to put unusual liquids on his cereal; 1/2 N 1/2 for one.
This morning after hearing the usual clink, clink, clink in the kitchen I go out to make a check. This time the "milk" on his cereal looks rather brown. "Pop, it looks like you've got chocolate soy milk on your cereal. Does it taste OK?" He responds, "Not really." I go to the sink and there are the remains of a dumped bowl of cereal with brownish looking liquid around it. It appears that he had poured out his first attempt at Raisin Bran and then turned around and made the same mistake all over again with his second bowl; Chocolate soy milk ... or is that tea?
Friday, March 12, 2010
Trauma
According to Websters Dictionary the word traumatic or trauma is defined as:
An emotional experience, or shock, which has a lasting psychic effect. Some examples of a trauma or traumatic experience might be an automobile accident, a life threatening disease, losing a home in a fire, or worse yet losing a loved one.
Trauma or traumatic defined by Pop:
Losing ones crank flash light.
Once again we had trauma in our household last evening. I noticed Pop roaming from room to room, which usually means he has lost something. Soon he came into the office where my husband and I were at work at our computers. Tapping me on the shoulder and asked, "Have you seen my flash light?"
As you will recall from a previous blog, my dad does not operate after dark in the conventional manner using electricity. He uses his crank flash light. He brushes his teeth by crank flash light, he looks into he pantry for his evening snack by crank flash light and I'm sure if he needs to potty in the middle of the night he does that by crank flash light as well. So you see, without it he is operating virtually blind. Trauma!
I have learned that when he comes to me it is my cue that he has looked in the same places at least a dozen times and the trauma level is beginning to rise. As I join him in the search I see that from his bathroom there is a very slight glimmer of light coming out from around the door frame. I opened the door, turned on the wall switch so I could see and found him beaming his tiny battery operated flash light which is attached to his key chain. I guess in his mind this flash light is his fall back. Flashing tiny swaths of light in and around the room I see him in desperate search.
Satisfied that the cranker is not in the bathroom I move on from room to room. I check the normal places like on top of counters, end tables, chairs, floor. No flash light in the more obvious places so I check in the pantry, in the refrigerator, in the garbage can. No flash light.
About the time that I am getting ready to hang up the search for the night and encourage him that we'll find it in the morning I made one last look in the living room. Seeing his jacket hanging on the hat tree I checked inside his pockets and ... THERE IT IS! Mystery solved yet another time. Handing it to my dad he is overwhelmed with gratitude. "Oh, thank you, thank you," he says!
Soon I hear the whirrrrr, whirrrr, whirr of his flash light as he cranks it in preparation for his evening routine before he turns in for the night. I am satisfied knowing that he can now brush his teeth in peace, sleep peacefully and potty peacefully in the middle of the night. Another traumatic event nipped in the bud.
An emotional experience, or shock, which has a lasting psychic effect. Some examples of a trauma or traumatic experience might be an automobile accident, a life threatening disease, losing a home in a fire, or worse yet losing a loved one.
Trauma or traumatic defined by Pop:
Losing ones crank flash light.
Once again we had trauma in our household last evening. I noticed Pop roaming from room to room, which usually means he has lost something. Soon he came into the office where my husband and I were at work at our computers. Tapping me on the shoulder and asked, "Have you seen my flash light?"
As you will recall from a previous blog, my dad does not operate after dark in the conventional manner using electricity. He uses his crank flash light. He brushes his teeth by crank flash light, he looks into he pantry for his evening snack by crank flash light and I'm sure if he needs to potty in the middle of the night he does that by crank flash light as well. So you see, without it he is operating virtually blind. Trauma!
I have learned that when he comes to me it is my cue that he has looked in the same places at least a dozen times and the trauma level is beginning to rise. As I join him in the search I see that from his bathroom there is a very slight glimmer of light coming out from around the door frame. I opened the door, turned on the wall switch so I could see and found him beaming his tiny battery operated flash light which is attached to his key chain. I guess in his mind this flash light is his fall back. Flashing tiny swaths of light in and around the room I see him in desperate search.
Satisfied that the cranker is not in the bathroom I move on from room to room. I check the normal places like on top of counters, end tables, chairs, floor. No flash light in the more obvious places so I check in the pantry, in the refrigerator, in the garbage can. No flash light.
About the time that I am getting ready to hang up the search for the night and encourage him that we'll find it in the morning I made one last look in the living room. Seeing his jacket hanging on the hat tree I checked inside his pockets and ... THERE IT IS! Mystery solved yet another time. Handing it to my dad he is overwhelmed with gratitude. "Oh, thank you, thank you," he says!
Soon I hear the whirrrrr, whirrrr, whirr of his flash light as he cranks it in preparation for his evening routine before he turns in for the night. I am satisfied knowing that he can now brush his teeth in peace, sleep peacefully and potty peacefully in the middle of the night. Another traumatic event nipped in the bud.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Well, I'll Be a Monkey's Uncle
Today, after returning home from one of my staging jobs I found Pop sitting in a chair by the sliding door absorbing the nice warm sunshine. I noted that he was pushing on his front ... "teeth?" "Wait a minute," I thought. There aren't any teeth there ... are there? The partial that we picked up from the dentist a couple of days ago was still in the bathroom in it's little white container, wasn't it? After all of the discouragement, depression and "Help me Lord's" that came from him during our day long attempt at wearing his new contraption, I had completely given up hope. I assumed that the issue was as good as dead. But it was very obvious that he was wearing his teeth.
I went over to him and said, "Pop, are you wearing your new partial?" He opened his mouth with a Chessy cat grin revealing his new pearly whites! "Oh, my gosh! I'll be a monkey's uncle!" I exclaimed. "That is great. You look so nice with your new teeth!" He smiled with satisfaction.
I walked away from him shaking my head. Will I ever cease to be amazed? Just when I thought he was incapable of embracing anything new he proves to me how incredibly wrong I can be. Not only had he found the partial himself, but he had remembered how to put it in and took the initiative to do so. "Thank you Lord for answered prayer, even something as simple as helping my dad adjust to his new partial."
I went over to him and said, "Pop, are you wearing your new partial?" He opened his mouth with a Chessy cat grin revealing his new pearly whites! "Oh, my gosh! I'll be a monkey's uncle!" I exclaimed. "That is great. You look so nice with your new teeth!" He smiled with satisfaction.
I walked away from him shaking my head. Will I ever cease to be amazed? Just when I thought he was incapable of embracing anything new he proves to me how incredibly wrong I can be. Not only had he found the partial himself, but he had remembered how to put it in and took the initiative to do so. "Thank you Lord for answered prayer, even something as simple as helping my dad adjust to his new partial."
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Lord Help Me!
Several months ago Pop walked up to me pulling on his lip to reveal yet another broken tooth. Opening his palm he revealed the broken remains as if pleading with me to fix it. This one equaled the 6th that he had now lost. It appeared to me it was time to go to the dentist and get some teeth for the old guy.
The dental assistant called me back to the space where my dad was reclining in the dental chair. "Looks like a good fit," said the dentist as he observed with satisfaction the new partial in my dad's mouth. Pop looked at me like he wasn't so sure. "Does this thing come out" was my dad's first question? "It feels like I've got a big wad of something in my mouth." "Yes, you do have something in your mouth. You've got teeth," the dentist said with a twinkle in his eyes. Ignoring the dentist he turned to me and asked with a hint of concern in his voice, "Jude, do you know how to get this out?"
We walked to the front desk and he asked the receptionist with obvious distress, "Does this thing come out? It feels like I've got a big wad of something in my mouth." She smiled, "Yes, it will take a little getting used to." A very grumpy Pop and I left the dental office with his new partial in place.
Once in the truck the long litany of repetition began. "Does this thing have to stay in? ... Do you know how to take it out? ... Feels like a big wad of something in my mouth ... Jude, do you know how to take this out? ... Feels like a big wad of something in my mouth ... Is this permanent?"
... "Does this thing come out?" ... OK, I could see that there was going to be a little adjustment period. Trying to put the lid on the stream of questions and anxieties, I decided that few men can handle an in-your-face, the wife-can-do-it better line. So I resorted to appealing to his manhood by saying, "Do you remember the partial that Mother had? She wore that for years and she got used to it. I think you can too." He was thoughtfully quiet and I concluded that we were making some progress.
At lunch he seemed relatively positive about the way the new teeth worked. "OK, this is good," I thought. After lunch a few more questions. I led him in a little lesson on taking it out and putting back it in. He did well.
Pretty soon I saw him outside taking his afternoon walk. Yeah, a little walk to distract him from his new mouth full. Soon I hear him approaching me from behind and turning to face him he said, "I've got something in my mouth. It feels like something in the back of my throat." I try to appease myself with "OK, he doesn't remember the trip to the dentist or the partial. Give him a little more time."
The afternoon passed into early evening and as I walked by the living room I observed Pop with his head bowed, great furrows in his brow, obviously deeply in prayer. Listening I heard him very softly saying, "Lord help me! Lord help me!" "Hmmmmmm," I think.
Being the determined person that I am I shook off my momentary discouragement and at dinner time suggested that we try the partial again. He did not push back and popped it right into place. But during the meal he sat eating with his head lowered over his plate obviously distressed. When I questioned him regarding the down cast look he said, "The teeth." This is not a good sign either.
Soon it was evening and the appliance was put to bed in its little white box. I observed Pop pushing it around with his forefinger in its watery bath. I could almost read his mind as he furrowed his brow in deep thought. "I have to get used to this confounded thing. I have to wear this heap of metal and plastic. Lord help me!"
Now I am definitely a persistent, determined person but even the most determined of us have to occasionally come to a point where we are willing to admit defeat. Today, a new day, I didn't even suggest that Pop wear his new partial. Realizing the hoops that I was going to have to jump through and his level of distress just didn't make sense for me to continue the fight. I have thrown up my hands and admitted that he has won ... again. If he dose ever wear it again it will probably be only occasionally when we go out. So, if you see my toothless Pop, don't laugh or cry, just know that we tried hard, really, really hard and Lord Help Me ... it didn't work!
The dental assistant called me back to the space where my dad was reclining in the dental chair. "Looks like a good fit," said the dentist as he observed with satisfaction the new partial in my dad's mouth. Pop looked at me like he wasn't so sure. "Does this thing come out" was my dad's first question? "It feels like I've got a big wad of something in my mouth." "Yes, you do have something in your mouth. You've got teeth," the dentist said with a twinkle in his eyes. Ignoring the dentist he turned to me and asked with a hint of concern in his voice, "Jude, do you know how to get this out?"
We walked to the front desk and he asked the receptionist with obvious distress, "Does this thing come out? It feels like I've got a big wad of something in my mouth." She smiled, "Yes, it will take a little getting used to." A very grumpy Pop and I left the dental office with his new partial in place.
Once in the truck the long litany of repetition began. "Does this thing have to stay in? ... Do you know how to take it out? ... Feels like a big wad of something in my mouth ... Jude, do you know how to take this out? ... Feels like a big wad of something in my mouth ... Is this permanent?"
... "Does this thing come out?" ... OK, I could see that there was going to be a little adjustment period. Trying to put the lid on the stream of questions and anxieties, I decided that few men can handle an in-your-face, the wife-can-do-it better line. So I resorted to appealing to his manhood by saying, "Do you remember the partial that Mother had? She wore that for years and she got used to it. I think you can too." He was thoughtfully quiet and I concluded that we were making some progress.
At lunch he seemed relatively positive about the way the new teeth worked. "OK, this is good," I thought. After lunch a few more questions. I led him in a little lesson on taking it out and putting back it in. He did well.
Pretty soon I saw him outside taking his afternoon walk. Yeah, a little walk to distract him from his new mouth full. Soon I hear him approaching me from behind and turning to face him he said, "I've got something in my mouth. It feels like something in the back of my throat." I try to appease myself with "OK, he doesn't remember the trip to the dentist or the partial. Give him a little more time."
The afternoon passed into early evening and as I walked by the living room I observed Pop with his head bowed, great furrows in his brow, obviously deeply in prayer. Listening I heard him very softly saying, "Lord help me! Lord help me!" "Hmmmmmm," I think.
Being the determined person that I am I shook off my momentary discouragement and at dinner time suggested that we try the partial again. He did not push back and popped it right into place. But during the meal he sat eating with his head lowered over his plate obviously distressed. When I questioned him regarding the down cast look he said, "The teeth." This is not a good sign either.
Soon it was evening and the appliance was put to bed in its little white box. I observed Pop pushing it around with his forefinger in its watery bath. I could almost read his mind as he furrowed his brow in deep thought. "I have to get used to this confounded thing. I have to wear this heap of metal and plastic. Lord help me!"
Now I am definitely a persistent, determined person but even the most determined of us have to occasionally come to a point where we are willing to admit defeat. Today, a new day, I didn't even suggest that Pop wear his new partial. Realizing the hoops that I was going to have to jump through and his level of distress just didn't make sense for me to continue the fight. I have thrown up my hands and admitted that he has won ... again. If he dose ever wear it again it will probably be only occasionally when we go out. So, if you see my toothless Pop, don't laugh or cry, just know that we tried hard, really, really hard and Lord Help Me ... it didn't work!
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