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!!!
Sunday, May 30, 2010
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!
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