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.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
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!
Sunday, March 7, 2010
New York in my house
My house looks like the corner of a New York City street. Signs, signs everywhere; Only difference is mine are ugly signs printed on cheap white paper in big black letters from our home printer. Lovely, just lovely. For those of you who know me, you are aware that I am a decorator by vocation and avocation. Some months ago it was my dear, compassionate husband's idea to put up the signs as a directional experiment to see if they would help Pop who never seemed to be able to find the room that he wanted to be in. My husband wanting to protect my dad's male ego announced one day that we had put up some signs to help "US" find our way around the house. My dad's remark was, "Good idea!" as if the whole families directional welfare was at stake. These signs hardly equate nicely decorated but we soon learned that they worked. So hats off to my husband.
I see him searching the walls and I know he is looking for his signs. His eye catches the one on the TV amoir. This whole scenario reminds me of the game that we used to play as kids when we'd hide something and whoever was "it" would have to find the hidden object by us telling them when they are getting hot or cold. He sees the first sign. (You are getting hot Pop.) Then he sees the sign on the fireplace with a big arrow that points left. He turns a slight left around one of our over stuffed chairs. The next sign says, "office." That's not where he was headed. But right next to that sign on the door frame is a sign with an arrow that points to the door that says "DON." The next entrance to his room is his rest room and on that door in very bold letters are "BATH." And next to that is "Laundry Room." We have that one up just to let him know that he is getting cold if he heads in that direction.
This is just the beginning. In the kitchen we have a sign that reads, "Glasses" on one cupboard, another that reads "Bowls" and on a drawer a sign that reads "Silverware." We also have signs on our bedroom doors, one for my husband's and my room and one for our son's. This is how my dad navigates our home.
Sometime today my dad feeling compelled to "organize" his travel bag containing all of life's necessities or feeling the need to rearrange his closet or head off to the bathroom I will observe him working his way through the house reading his signs. Signs, signs, big ugly signs that help keep his life and ours sane!
I see him searching the walls and I know he is looking for his signs. His eye catches the one on the TV amoir. This whole scenario reminds me of the game that we used to play as kids when we'd hide something and whoever was "it" would have to find the hidden object by us telling them when they are getting hot or cold. He sees the first sign. (You are getting hot Pop.) Then he sees the sign on the fireplace with a big arrow that points left. He turns a slight left around one of our over stuffed chairs. The next sign says, "office." That's not where he was headed. But right next to that sign on the door frame is a sign with an arrow that points to the door that says "DON." The next entrance to his room is his rest room and on that door in very bold letters are "BATH." And next to that is "Laundry Room." We have that one up just to let him know that he is getting cold if he heads in that direction.
This is just the beginning. In the kitchen we have a sign that reads, "Glasses" on one cupboard, another that reads "Bowls" and on a drawer a sign that reads "Silverware." We also have signs on our bedroom doors, one for my husband's and my room and one for our son's. This is how my dad navigates our home.
Sometime today my dad feeling compelled to "organize" his travel bag containing all of life's necessities or feeling the need to rearrange his closet or head off to the bathroom I will observe him working his way through the house reading his signs. Signs, signs, big ugly signs that help keep his life and ours sane!
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Oblivious
My husband had quite a week end this past week. Following shoulder surgery he experienced numerous complications from infection to his back going out on him. He was in CA at the time that his back went into a spasm leaving him in terrific pain and totally incapacitated. In San Francisco he had just finished some intense Human Resources training for his consulting business and was looking forward to down-time with our daughter, my sister and brother-in-law who live in that area. Instead their leisurely visit turned into a medical night mare with our daughter up at night tending to her dad's aching back, hospital visits and ultimately his having to reschedule his flight home.
When the day of his arrival finally came, eager to get to the airport and rescue my man, I piled our son, Pop and myself into our truck and took off. What I didn't know is that I had left behind my key ring that had on it our house key. We arrived back home close to dusk with my weary husband in tow to a house locked tight-as-Fort Knox.
After calling the lock smith we discovered we had about 20 minutes to grab a sack at McDonalds to feed our growling stomachs before we had to be back at the casa to meet the door buster. Pop sat quietly in the truck until we got our food. "Who do I owe?" we heard from the back seat. Getting a buck from my dad for his hamburger was the least of my worries at this point so I told him we'd deal with that when we got home.
Arriving back at the house my exhausted husband and son met the Smith and they attacked the task at hand. Pop and I remained in the truck. It was now dark and the men worked by flash light with no luck. Pretty soon I heard from the back seat, "Are we disembarking?" "No, Pop, just stay in the back seat and finish your dinner. We're locked out of the house." "Oh," came his casual reply followed by "This sure is a good hamburger."
20 minutes went by and the house was still not unlocked. Pop looked out into the dark and said again, "Are we disembarking?" "No, Pop. Just stay put and finish your dinner." Again, "This is sure a good hamburger," came the cheerful reply.
Pretty soon Pop opened the truck door and out he went into the dark. I'm not sure what he was planning on doing but he wandered up to where the men were. The last bit of bad news was delivered to me at my truck window. They were going to have to drill out the lock. Pretty soon I saw the front door open and I took my cue that the mission had been accomplished and I headed in, too. $165 richer the Lock Smith left and Pop turned to me and asked, "How much do I owe you?" I felt like saying, $165, Pop!" But of course I didn't say that and told him not to worry about payment for the hamburger. He turned to mosey down the hall and I heard him say, "I sure enjoyed the ride." Patted my husband on the back and said, "Good to have you home!"
When the day of his arrival finally came, eager to get to the airport and rescue my man, I piled our son, Pop and myself into our truck and took off. What I didn't know is that I had left behind my key ring that had on it our house key. We arrived back home close to dusk with my weary husband in tow to a house locked tight-as-Fort Knox.
After calling the lock smith we discovered we had about 20 minutes to grab a sack at McDonalds to feed our growling stomachs before we had to be back at the casa to meet the door buster. Pop sat quietly in the truck until we got our food. "Who do I owe?" we heard from the back seat. Getting a buck from my dad for his hamburger was the least of my worries at this point so I told him we'd deal with that when we got home.
Arriving back at the house my exhausted husband and son met the Smith and they attacked the task at hand. Pop and I remained in the truck. It was now dark and the men worked by flash light with no luck. Pretty soon I heard from the back seat, "Are we disembarking?" "No, Pop, just stay in the back seat and finish your dinner. We're locked out of the house." "Oh," came his casual reply followed by "This sure is a good hamburger."
20 minutes went by and the house was still not unlocked. Pop looked out into the dark and said again, "Are we disembarking?" "No, Pop. Just stay put and finish your dinner." Again, "This is sure a good hamburger," came the cheerful reply.
Pretty soon Pop opened the truck door and out he went into the dark. I'm not sure what he was planning on doing but he wandered up to where the men were. The last bit of bad news was delivered to me at my truck window. They were going to have to drill out the lock. Pretty soon I saw the front door open and I took my cue that the mission had been accomplished and I headed in, too. $165 richer the Lock Smith left and Pop turned to me and asked, "How much do I owe you?" I felt like saying, $165, Pop!" But of course I didn't say that and told him not to worry about payment for the hamburger. He turned to mosey down the hall and I heard him say, "I sure enjoyed the ride." Patted my husband on the back and said, "Good to have you home!"
Monday, March 1, 2010
Pop the Meat and Potatoes Guy
Every once in a while, especially on a Sunday evening I enjoy breakfast for dinner. Last night was one of those times when I had a hankerin' for waffles and eggs. About 5:00 PM Pop began to become restless, "Is there anything I can do to help?" came the question, which at that time of day always means "I'm getting hungry. Please make some movement toward the kitchen."
Cranking up the waffle iron I began to whip up a batch; Mmmmm, into the mix went the egg, milk, a nice sprinkling of cinnamon and a little oil. Pouring the rich batter into the waffle iron I enjoyed the sizzling sound it made as it hit the hot iron. Into the skillet went the eggs. Into the microwave went the apple sauce for a nice piping hot side. Doesn't that just make your mouth water? It did mine.
Setting the plate in front of Pop he began to eat. Silence. More eating. Silence. Through the whole meal Pop was conspicuously quiet. Not one, "Boy this is good." Not one, "Mmmm, mmmmmmm, mmmmmm." Not a single, "Great from the first bite to the last!" No continuous, "Thank you Jude, this is delicious!" Just dead silence. Obviously my meal was a total strike out for my dad. I had up to this point honestly concluded that there wasn't anything on God's green earth that my dad would not eat with relish. But this meal had proven me wrong. Dead wrong.
Thinking over this selection disaster I had a vague recollection that as a kid, if my mom suggested breakfast for dinner, my dad was all but enthusiastic. He is definitely a meat and potatoes guy.
Leaving the kitchen still scratching my head and my ego a bit bruised, I began to analyze the pros and cons of what had just taken place. My observations went like this. Most of our meals are a continuous flow of repetitive thank yous and over the top accolades from my dad. Tonight we enjoyed a very quiet, serene meal together. I think to myself, "Silence definitely has its advantages. I think I'll remember this menu."
Cranking up the waffle iron I began to whip up a batch; Mmmmm, into the mix went the egg, milk, a nice sprinkling of cinnamon and a little oil. Pouring the rich batter into the waffle iron I enjoyed the sizzling sound it made as it hit the hot iron. Into the skillet went the eggs. Into the microwave went the apple sauce for a nice piping hot side. Doesn't that just make your mouth water? It did mine.
Setting the plate in front of Pop he began to eat. Silence. More eating. Silence. Through the whole meal Pop was conspicuously quiet. Not one, "Boy this is good." Not one, "Mmmm, mmmmmmm, mmmmmm." Not a single, "Great from the first bite to the last!" No continuous, "Thank you Jude, this is delicious!" Just dead silence. Obviously my meal was a total strike out for my dad. I had up to this point honestly concluded that there wasn't anything on God's green earth that my dad would not eat with relish. But this meal had proven me wrong. Dead wrong.
Thinking over this selection disaster I had a vague recollection that as a kid, if my mom suggested breakfast for dinner, my dad was all but enthusiastic. He is definitely a meat and potatoes guy.
Leaving the kitchen still scratching my head and my ego a bit bruised, I began to analyze the pros and cons of what had just taken place. My observations went like this. Most of our meals are a continuous flow of repetitive thank yous and over the top accolades from my dad. Tonight we enjoyed a very quiet, serene meal together. I think to myself, "Silence definitely has its advantages. I think I'll remember this menu."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)