Monday, June 28, 2010
Granola Bars
I sit in our living room watching my dad meticulously unwrapping his granola bar, Nature Valley Granola Bars to be exact. He takes a little nibble and refolds it back into the paper and puts it into his pocket, his catch all for the necessities of life. Knowing this variety of bar, it is sweet, crunchy and quite crumbly and he loves them. I know the crumbs are falling all over his lap, between his legs, onto the seat of the chair and probably onto the floor. I don't say anything. I know it would just make him feel bad and it wouldn't accomplish any long lasting change. Five minutes from now he will not remember a word I said to him. When he leaves the room I go over to the chair and sweep the crumbs into my hand and dispose of them. The crumbs on the floor will have to wait because I just don't feel like digging out the vacuum right now. Tomorrow I'll clean the area around the chair. Another day.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Pop and Junk Mail
Being my dad's trustee, any mail that comes to our house addressed to him, is automatically opened by me. Bills have to go through my husband who manages the banking. Medical and financial reports I take and file away in a big, thick, blue binder that I keep on the shelf in our home office. Like the rest of us, he still gets his fare share of junk mail.
Mail arrives at our place between 3:30 and 4:30 Monday - Saturday. So around 4:45 I'll send him out the door for an afternoon jaunt down to the mail box to retrieve its contents. There was a time when he seemed to notice those pieces that were addressed to him. Anymore, his vision is poor enough that I don't think he even attempts to decipher the name. Knowing the approximate date that his social security check arrives, I avoid sending him out to the mail box knowing that if he should read the addressee and got his hands on it, there is no telling where it might end up. There were many occasions in the early stages of his dementia, while he was still trying to manage his accounts, that major mistakes were made producing a myriad of issues taking months to resolve.
Walking into the house he hands the bundle to me with an air of accomplishment. After all, he did find the mail box and make it back to the house safe and sound. Now, occasionally, after I've done my safety inspection, I will hand back to him his junk mail. News letters and meaningless reports are safe commodities which can't get him into trouble.
Today was no exception. Around 4:45, sending him to the mail box, he returned with an assortment of bills and junk mail. Discovering a newsletter from his former employer, PG&E I handed it to him. After examining the large print at the top of the page reading, "Retiree News," he took on a look of great interest and concern, as if this piece of information needed immediate and serious attention. Taking his glasses between his forefinger and his thumb he tipped them back and forth trying to manage the small print. Obviously giving up, he folded the paper back along its original creases and carried it to the next room. Sitting down he began to tap the pages on his leg with a sense of power in each tap, an attitude that shouted, "mail! addressed to me! I'm in charge! I'm still important!"
As I sit here at my computer, pecking away at the keys, I see out my window, Pop moving toward his "track." As he moves out onto the road, his back to me, I can see sticking out of his pocket the news letter ... those "important papers" that may require immediate and serious action. Returning, he takes a comfy seat, removes the junk mail from his pocket, taps it on his knee with his air of confident control, tilts his glasses, examines it one last time, gets up and moves toward his room. He is on his way to "file" it away on his night stand. All too soon, these papers, pages of such manifest importance will be completely and utterly forgotten.
Mail arrives at our place between 3:30 and 4:30 Monday - Saturday. So around 4:45 I'll send him out the door for an afternoon jaunt down to the mail box to retrieve its contents. There was a time when he seemed to notice those pieces that were addressed to him. Anymore, his vision is poor enough that I don't think he even attempts to decipher the name. Knowing the approximate date that his social security check arrives, I avoid sending him out to the mail box knowing that if he should read the addressee and got his hands on it, there is no telling where it might end up. There were many occasions in the early stages of his dementia, while he was still trying to manage his accounts, that major mistakes were made producing a myriad of issues taking months to resolve.
Walking into the house he hands the bundle to me with an air of accomplishment. After all, he did find the mail box and make it back to the house safe and sound. Now, occasionally, after I've done my safety inspection, I will hand back to him his junk mail. News letters and meaningless reports are safe commodities which can't get him into trouble.
Today was no exception. Around 4:45, sending him to the mail box, he returned with an assortment of bills and junk mail. Discovering a newsletter from his former employer, PG&E I handed it to him. After examining the large print at the top of the page reading, "Retiree News," he took on a look of great interest and concern, as if this piece of information needed immediate and serious attention. Taking his glasses between his forefinger and his thumb he tipped them back and forth trying to manage the small print. Obviously giving up, he folded the paper back along its original creases and carried it to the next room. Sitting down he began to tap the pages on his leg with a sense of power in each tap, an attitude that shouted, "mail! addressed to me! I'm in charge! I'm still important!"
As I sit here at my computer, pecking away at the keys, I see out my window, Pop moving toward his "track." As he moves out onto the road, his back to me, I can see sticking out of his pocket the news letter ... those "important papers" that may require immediate and serious action. Returning, he takes a comfy seat, removes the junk mail from his pocket, taps it on his knee with his air of confident control, tilts his glasses, examines it one last time, gets up and moves toward his room. He is on his way to "file" it away on his night stand. All too soon, these papers, pages of such manifest importance will be completely and utterly forgotten.
Summer outer ware
Temperature - 92 degrees
Humidity - 55%
Pop's outdoor walking attire: Black suede shoes, baseball cap, cardigan sweater.
After his walk, he comes back in the house, strips off the sweater and sits with his head in hands trying to cool down.
I look out the window, he is outside walking again wearing his black suede shoes, his baseball cap AND his cardigan sweater.
I give up!
Humidity - 55%
Pop's outdoor walking attire: Black suede shoes, baseball cap, cardigan sweater.
After his walk, he comes back in the house, strips off the sweater and sits with his head in hands trying to cool down.
I look out the window, he is outside walking again wearing his black suede shoes, his baseball cap AND his cardigan sweater.
I give up!
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Themes, Patterns, Phrases and Repetitions
These days Pop seems to communicate through ingrained themes, rote patterns, memorized phrases, with regular repetition. These themes, his fall back positions, seems to provide the means by which he can still communicate. He is quite able to answer our questions, but original thought and absorbing the subtleties of daily life, as the rest of us do so effortlessly, is beyond his ability anymore.
"Was I too noisy?"
"How'd you sleep?"
"Whatever you are making sure smells good"
plus many walks a day and several tea times are all examples of his canned phrases and repetitions that help him communicate and keep his foggy life consistent.
"Was I too noisy?" is a phrase that seems to have its roots in my dad's career. Pop was employed by Pacific Gas and Electric Company for 30+ years at a substation in the small farming town of Milpitas, California, about 35 minutes north/west of our home in San Jose. The substation was nothing more then a little box, maybe 900 square feet with walls and walls of dials and gauges and a few desks for the workers. The office was situated on an acre or so of land with huge wheels, or at least my childhood memory is that they were huge, which had to be manually turned to maintain the proper flow of gas to the outlying communities. Today, like a mini-ghost town, that little substation still exists, man less now, smaller and totally operational by computers. But in my dad's era this little substation had to be manned 24/7.
The crew worked three shifts; days, evenings and "grave yard" (grave yard meant working all night). My dad working grave yards was one of my strongest recollections in the Sawyer household because our mother's nightmare was having to keep two small children quiet while daddy slept in the day time. I recall distinctly her repeated exclamations, "Shhhhhhhhhhhh, Daddy is sleeping!" At the evening meal, before he prepared to leave for work, his sleep or lack of during the day was always the topic of discussion sometimes ending with my being firmly reminded that I needed to be more quiet. I believe his shift work ingrained in him the concept of maintaining a quiet household.
Living with us now, he usually rises after we have. Finding us around the kitchen table, his 1st question is, "Have I been too noisy?" To the common observer one would pick up on the fact that my husband, son and I had been up for some time. But this does not compute with him. He still asks if his morning ritual of toiletries had bothered anyone's sleep.
"How are you feeling today?" is another common phrase. As a child my dad struggled with asthma, so much so that he missed a whole year of high school and graduated with the class behind him. These asthmatic attacks seemed to have made him acutely tuned into health issues. I remember what a faithful care giver and companion he was to my mom through various illnesses that she experienced during their marriage. Interestingly, I have noticed that he never asks this health-question of my son or husband, only me which gives the clear impression that my gender is somehow wrapped up in his gesture of concern. I wish I could say that I appreciated his questioning. But being the strong assertive type that I am, I have to admit his regular questioning causes me to feel that I am being viewed as sickly which I resent. Sometimes I'll ask him, "Do I look sick to you Pop?" His response, "No, I just wanted to be sure you're OK." My response back is with a hearty, "I feel fine!!! And how are you feeling today?" He responds back, equally heartily "I feel great! Great!" It ends a tit for tat.
Tomorrow my dad will rise from his night of slumber, mosey out into the kitchen and ask, "How'd you sleep? I hope I wasn't too noisy." Later in the day he may inquire as to how I'm feeling, thank me profusely for the meals, take numerous walks, and drink numerous cups of tea. Such is life in Don's world -- full of themes, patterns, phrases and repetition.
"Was I too noisy?"
"How'd you sleep?"
"Whatever you are making sure smells good"
plus many walks a day and several tea times are all examples of his canned phrases and repetitions that help him communicate and keep his foggy life consistent.
"Was I too noisy?" is a phrase that seems to have its roots in my dad's career. Pop was employed by Pacific Gas and Electric Company for 30+ years at a substation in the small farming town of Milpitas, California, about 35 minutes north/west of our home in San Jose. The substation was nothing more then a little box, maybe 900 square feet with walls and walls of dials and gauges and a few desks for the workers. The office was situated on an acre or so of land with huge wheels, or at least my childhood memory is that they were huge, which had to be manually turned to maintain the proper flow of gas to the outlying communities. Today, like a mini-ghost town, that little substation still exists, man less now, smaller and totally operational by computers. But in my dad's era this little substation had to be manned 24/7.
The crew worked three shifts; days, evenings and "grave yard" (grave yard meant working all night). My dad working grave yards was one of my strongest recollections in the Sawyer household because our mother's nightmare was having to keep two small children quiet while daddy slept in the day time. I recall distinctly her repeated exclamations, "Shhhhhhhhhhhh, Daddy is sleeping!" At the evening meal, before he prepared to leave for work, his sleep or lack of during the day was always the topic of discussion sometimes ending with my being firmly reminded that I needed to be more quiet. I believe his shift work ingrained in him the concept of maintaining a quiet household.
Living with us now, he usually rises after we have. Finding us around the kitchen table, his 1st question is, "Have I been too noisy?" To the common observer one would pick up on the fact that my husband, son and I had been up for some time. But this does not compute with him. He still asks if his morning ritual of toiletries had bothered anyone's sleep.
"How are you feeling today?" is another common phrase. As a child my dad struggled with asthma, so much so that he missed a whole year of high school and graduated with the class behind him. These asthmatic attacks seemed to have made him acutely tuned into health issues. I remember what a faithful care giver and companion he was to my mom through various illnesses that she experienced during their marriage. Interestingly, I have noticed that he never asks this health-question of my son or husband, only me which gives the clear impression that my gender is somehow wrapped up in his gesture of concern. I wish I could say that I appreciated his questioning. But being the strong assertive type that I am, I have to admit his regular questioning causes me to feel that I am being viewed as sickly which I resent. Sometimes I'll ask him, "Do I look sick to you Pop?" His response, "No, I just wanted to be sure you're OK." My response back is with a hearty, "I feel fine!!! And how are you feeling today?" He responds back, equally heartily "I feel great! Great!" It ends a tit for tat.
Tomorrow my dad will rise from his night of slumber, mosey out into the kitchen and ask, "How'd you sleep? I hope I wasn't too noisy." Later in the day he may inquire as to how I'm feeling, thank me profusely for the meals, take numerous walks, and drink numerous cups of tea. Such is life in Don's world -- full of themes, patterns, phrases and repetition.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Drying Dry Dishes, Vacuuming and Sweeping Clean Floors
I can tell by his pacing that he is bored. The things that used to fill his days and give him a sense of self worth, job, errands, car, banking, yard work are no long a part of his life. Now most of his time is consumed with searching for what he has lost, taking walks, filing his finger nails, searching for what he has lost, sipping tea, doing a few chores, and searching for what he has lost.
Often when these spells of boredom plague his day and I can't come up with anything for him to do, I'll hand him a dish towel and let him dry the dry dishes that might be sitting in the dish drainer. I know this sounds bizarre but you know the old saying, "what you don't know doesn't hurt you" and that seems to apply in this case. He thinks they need drying, so he dries.
Another fall back position is to pull out the vacuum and have him vacuum the clean carpets. I don't know what it is, the cords, the roar of the engine, buttons to be pushed, but all of this seems to bring out the machismo in him. Taking a grip on the handle he starts to move back and forth, back and forth making numerous repetitions. He's my man when it comes to carpets. Vacuuming does present some obstacles though as it is often tough to remember how to get the box operational. I've found him with cord in hand flipping wall switches. They are electrical aren't they?
Sweeping clean floors is another fall back. The tools of the trade are easily taken down from their hooks in the pantry and simple to operate. No electricity necessary. Often I have to remind him where they are located but once that has been determined he is able to retrieve them himself, sweep without my involvement and return them to their storage location. Keeping me out of the scenario is a major plus!
Thanks Pop for the driest dry dishes, and the cleanest clean floors in Austin, TX.
Often when these spells of boredom plague his day and I can't come up with anything for him to do, I'll hand him a dish towel and let him dry the dry dishes that might be sitting in the dish drainer. I know this sounds bizarre but you know the old saying, "what you don't know doesn't hurt you" and that seems to apply in this case. He thinks they need drying, so he dries.
Another fall back position is to pull out the vacuum and have him vacuum the clean carpets. I don't know what it is, the cords, the roar of the engine, buttons to be pushed, but all of this seems to bring out the machismo in him. Taking a grip on the handle he starts to move back and forth, back and forth making numerous repetitions. He's my man when it comes to carpets. Vacuuming does present some obstacles though as it is often tough to remember how to get the box operational. I've found him with cord in hand flipping wall switches. They are electrical aren't they?
Sweeping clean floors is another fall back. The tools of the trade are easily taken down from their hooks in the pantry and simple to operate. No electricity necessary. Often I have to remind him where they are located but once that has been determined he is able to retrieve them himself, sweep without my involvement and return them to their storage location. Keeping me out of the scenario is a major plus!
Thanks Pop for the driest dry dishes, and the cleanest clean floors in Austin, TX.
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