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.

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?

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.

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.

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?

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.