tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50718696008173719992010-01-23T08:22:23.431-08:00Life With My Father and His DementiaA Humorous PerspectiveJudyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16110475881631071564noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5071869600817371999.post-40163979411782320262010-01-23T07:15:00.000-08:002010-01-23T07:41:46.756-08:002010-01-23T07:41:46.756-08:00"How'd You Sleep?"I see the light on underneath my dad's bathroom door. He's up. I hear the whirrrr of his electric shaver. He comes out of the bathroom to put his razor back into his travel bag. He has not taken his "essentials" out of his travel bag since he arrived here 19 months ago. I don't know if he thinks that one of these days he is going to need to make a quick exit or just because the bag is familiar. Probably the later. At any rate, these trips back and forth from the bathroom to his room go on for about an hour. Soon he emerges from his morning routine and I hear, "How'd you sleep?" I turn to him. He's all dressed; jeans, shirt and signature cardigan sweater and fully shaved (he wears the sweaters year round) Still in my jammies I greet him with "Fine, pop. How'd you sleep?"<br /><br />At this stage in his condition his conversation is for the most part restricted to pat phrases. Because he doesn't remember that my husband and I were out last evening with friends he doesn't have much else to ask or say. As I still have on the tell tale clues of just getting out of bed, my night ware, this particular phrase for this time of day is safe and appropriate. <br /><br />If I leave the room and come back I will get the same warm greeting as if he is just seeing me for the first time this morning. If I leave the room again and come back ... well, you get the idea. Repeat, repeat, repeat. <br /><br />As I prepare to close this blog and leave the computer room to go have my breakfast, I know I will hear "How'd you sleep?" Guess I'd better get out of my jammies.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5071869600817371999-4016397941178232026?l=myfatheranddementia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16110475881631071564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5071869600817371999.post-7338085085160737402010-01-21T17:56:00.000-08:002010-01-22T14:59:00.307-08:002010-01-22T14:59:00.307-08:00Pop: On Eating OutI don't know if the Great Depression traumatized my dad or just had a tremendous impact on his views about money and the way he spends it. But whatever it was, he turned out to be an extremely frugal guy. Not only is he financially frugal but he is compulsively living in a world of the:<br />small, modest, used, simple, free, recycled, inexpensive, few, worn and patched. For example I can hardly get him to change his socks because he has decided that washing them wears them out faster requiring an eventual purchase(I won't get onto the topic of his underwear). A small glass for his drink. A small bowl for his cereal. A small amount of cereal in the bowl. A small amount of milk on the cereal. And when he is still hungry after eating the small bowl of cereal he will pour another small amount of cereal and eat again from his small bowl with a small amount of milk and drink from his small glass of water. So on and so on and so on. Thus when we announce that we are all going out to a restaurant to eat he receives the news with very mixed emotions. Food, yeah! Spending the extra money to eat out, ugh! Now as frugal as he is he is still a fare minded guy and wants to pay his own way. So before we walk out the door, with a strained look on his face, he will pull his wallet from his back pocket, carefully examining its contents making sure he has enough on hand (we actually sneak bills into his wallet so he feels that he has his own spending money). <br /><br />From the moment the food arrives he starts in with, "How much do I owe you?" To ease his pain we say, "A buck, pop." Followed by, "Are you sure that is enough?" We have learned that once he pays his dollar it is best to leave the George Washington sitting on the table so that when he asks 5 to 10 times more about payment all we have to do is tap the dollar bill and say, "See pop you've already paid."<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5071869600817371999-733808508516073740?l=myfatheranddementia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16110475881631071564noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5071869600817371999.post-46808589877667875962010-01-20T11:51:00.000-08:002010-01-23T06:44:30.356-08:002010-01-23T06:44:30.356-08:00Pop and His Chores: SweepingSometime after breakfast I hear, "Is there anything I can do?" Pop loves to "help." I think he feels that this is his way of repaying us for our opening our home to him. <br /><br />Sweeping is one of his favorite chores and because we have hardwood floors in our kitchen, sweeping is an on-going need. He does not like disorder so I often find him inspecting the floor looking for specks of lint, crumbs etc. that one finds in and around the house, especially in the kitchen. If I can't think of anything else for him to do, sweeping is my fall back position. <br /><br />Once the chore of preference has been identified, his question will always be, "Where is the broom and dust pan?" I haven't moved them. They are still hanging on the pantry door like they always are but his memory doesn't cooperate. <br /><br />Sweeping, sweeping, sweeping keeps him occupied for a good 10 minutes or more. But the down side is that following his chore he always wants an inspection from me. "I'm not sure I did a very good job. Would you come and check out my work?" Most often the sweeping is something I have given him to do to keep him occupied and out of my hair. Examining his work takes me away from what I need to be doing and is the last thing I want to take time to do. My response is usually, "You always do a great job, pop so I am sure that it turned out fine. I'll look at it later." Or if I have time I'll check it and give him my favorable response, "You did a great job, pop. Looks really good." In a couple of hours we will repeat all of the above.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5071869600817371999-4680858987766787596?l=myfatheranddementia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16110475881631071564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5071869600817371999.post-40638289185483912672010-01-18T11:34:00.000-08:002010-01-20T08:04:00.113-08:002010-01-20T08:04:00.113-08:00Pop: On walkingI'm in our bedroom and in walks my dad, totally unannounced. "Where you goin' pop. Do you need something?" "Oh, I don't know. Just walking," is his reply. Pop raps on the computer room door (privacy all of a sudden?), "What'cha doin' pop?" Just wandering around looking for you," he says. Whether lost, confused or for exercise, Pop is a good walker. <br /><br />Somewhere along the way he picked up the concept that walking is very beneficial to one's health. Several times a day, winter, spring, summer or fall he will dawn his baseball cap and out the door he goes. I see him through the window tooling around the loop in our yard. Once, twice and then back into the house. This will happen several times a day and each time he comes in he acts as if he has just climbed Mt. Everest. "Pop, you want some tea?" "Yes!" is the reply. "I just took a couple of laps around the yard and I really need something to bring me down." Bring me down? Not sure what that means but, OK. Tea coming right up (tea time is another topic that I will address in another blog). <br /><br />In the evenings the walking picks up. Sundowners? Not sure but while we are all watching TV it is very hard to keep him in a chair for long. Up and down. Up and down. From the chair to his room, from his room to his bathroom, back to the chair, out into the living room. Maybe even into our bedroom, again. "What cha' doin' pop?" "Oh, I don't know, just walkin," comes the reply.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5071869600817371999-4063828918548391267?l=myfatheranddementia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16110475881631071564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5071869600817371999.post-28997868302868447622010-01-16T10:06:00.000-08:002010-01-18T09:54:56.467-08:002010-01-18T09:54:56.467-08:00"Hey, Jude"Trying to figure out how my dad's mind operates at this stage in his dementia is a bit of a mystery. When I am out running an errand I am Mary to him, his wife who is now living in Oregon close to her children. He will ask my husband or my son, "where is Mary?" Or "When will Mary be home?" When I am around the house I am Jude, like in the Beatles song "Hey Jude," his daughter. <br /><br />I am obviously the hub of his life; his source of security, his source of direction, his meal provider, his house keeper, his friend. Such a strange role reversal from the days when he was the hub of my life, my dad, my daddy, the one who called me June Bug, whose knee I sat on, who tucked me in at night and told me it was OK when I couldn't sleep. <br /><br />Fortunately his memory still embraces the people in his life both present and past. I can bring up a name and recollection is there. Sometimes I'm not sure if he has it all sorted out especially newer additions to the family circle. He knows my grandsons, Bret's sons because he sees them often. My nephew, Dusty who lives in California is a new father to an adorable little boy, Ryder. Pop enjoys hearing stories about Ryder but he has to be reminded who he is and whom he belongs to. New acquaintances/friends definitely are new to him every time he sees them. New information does not sink in quickly and much repetition must occur before it becomes, if ever, embedded in his mind.<br /><br />Often when I leave the room and return I hear, "Hi, Jude. Welcome back. I missed you!" He thinks I've been out of the house and just returned home. In the morning the familiar phrase is, "Hi. How'd you sleep?" I leave the room and come back and I hear, "Hi, how'd you sleep?" This may go on until I have changed out of my jammies and into my day wear. <br /><br />So glad he at least remembers me.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5071869600817371999-2899786830286844762?l=myfatheranddementia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16110475881631071564noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5071869600817371999.post-90113671274001307032010-01-15T13:38:00.000-08:002010-01-22T12:21:14.384-08:002010-01-22T12:21:14.384-08:00Pop in the Kitchen: Part IIDishes ... who likes to do dishes? I see that hand, Pop. <br /><br />Daddy loooooooooves doing dishes. But I won't let him. "Why," you say? Because his idea of washing dishes is running some hot water over them and then into the drying rack. That's it. No soap, no washing, it's just rinse and then into the rack. After my mother passed away, before he had dementia I had many a lunch at his house. Now that I understand his idea of clean, I have wondered how many dirty dishes and utensils I have eaten from without knowing it?<br /><br />Before I became wise to his dish washing practices I occasionally let him do the washing. I couldn't figure out why I kept finding dingy looking glasses in my cupboards and silverware that still had food stuck to them. Once I realized the problem, pop was banned from the sink and handed a dish towel. He seems to have accepted his demotion and doesn't often ask to wash anymore.<br /><br />Most of the dirty dishes go into the dishwasher, which he hates because that means he will have to wait. He's been seen standing in front of the dishwasher with towel in hand waiting for the machine to finish it's lengthy cycle so he can dry its contents. The ones that do not go into the dish washer I wash by hand and yeah!!!! pop gets to dry them on the spot. What fun! And when we are done I usually announce, "Well I guess that's it for now, pop" And he says, "Oh. Are we done already?"<br /><br />If I decide, as I occasionally do, that after preparing the evening meal I'd rather leave the dishes until morning ... heaven forbid! My mother left behind a wonderful spy to make sure that her daughter never got away with such a sin. I have observed him after the evening meal fingering the mess that I have put on hold and then turning to me ask, "Can I do these dishes for you?" I know he and my mom have a conspiracy going on from across the grave because every time those 7 little words are uttered what power they have over me. As ill equipped as he is mentally at this stage in life it is amazing to me how much power he still has sway over me. Before I know it I'm up to my elbows in sudsy water. "Here pop. Here's the dish towel. I'll wash. You dry." He wins again.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5071869600817371999-9011367127400130703?l=myfatheranddementia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16110475881631071564noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5071869600817371999.post-29506844480716704222010-01-13T15:57:00.000-08:002010-01-15T20:24:46.874-08:002010-01-15T20:24:46.874-08:00I Cut Down The Cherry Tree. I Can Not Tell a Lie.As honest as Honest Abe or George Washington, pop is right up there among the greats. We've been having quite a bit of trouble with him losing a ruby ring that he has had 60 plus years. Because his finger is smaller now then it was when he first purchased the it years and years ago the ring kept falling off. In and of itself it is probably not worth a whole lot but the sentimental value makes it invaluable to our family. About three weeks ago he came to me, showed me his finger and announced that the ring was missing. Sure enough. I examined his hand where the ring usually adorns his pinky finger and it was most definitely not there. Thinking that all was lost I tried to put it out of my mind. Then this morning I noticed that there on his pinky was the ruby ring. "Pop, where did you find your ring," I exclaimed? "I don't know," was his response. And he didn't know.<br /><br />Well, to make a long story short I found stashed away a less valuable but much flashier ring with a cubic zirconium set in a fake gold band and swapped this for the ruby ring. My intention was to take the ruby and have it sized to fit him so he would not continue to lose it.<br /><br />Later in the day I came home from shopping to a very breathless and distraught dad. "I have something to show you," he said with a sorrowful frown on his face. He held out his pinky finger and said, "I think I walked out of the store with this ring on." He held out the gold ring with the CZ and showed it to me with an expression that screamed, "I'm dead meat and I'm sure the police are on their way to haul me off to jail." Poor guy thought he'd stolen a diamond ring.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5071869600817371999-2950684448071670422?l=myfatheranddementia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16110475881631071564noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5071869600817371999.post-55893794941739044052010-01-10T07:23:00.000-08:002010-01-22T12:21:54.915-08:002010-01-22T12:21:54.915-08:00Pop in the Kitchen: Part IAt this stage in pop's life simple pleasures are the riches of life. A box of raisin bran is a source of great delight. "You can't beat this stuff," he says with relish in his voice, tapping on the box top. Meal time, snacking, food anything to do with food is the all of end all's, Nirvana, bliss, the high light of every day ... especially dinner time.<br /><br />Around 4:30 he starts to get restless. If I am at the computer or somewhere in the house other then in the kitchen he will find me and begin to engage me with comments like, "How is your day going?" Or "Is there anything I can do to help?" What he is really saying is, "I am getting a bit nervous because I don't see you in the kitchen."<br /><br />As soon as I do make my way to the kitchen he starts in, "Can I help?" When I say, "No." He continues, "Well, if there is anything I can do just let me know." "Thanks, pop." This continues until I come up with some creative method of removing him from the room or I simply lose my cool and point in exasperation for him to LEAVE THE ROOM. I'm finding that I can turn on the news and get him side tracked for a few minutes before I hear again, "Is there anything I can do to help?"<br /><br />Once I call, "come and get it" the exclamations begin. "Oh, boy ... sure smells good ..." and once the meal commences the scenario is right out of the Bill Murry movie, <span style="font-style: italic;">What About Bob</span>? From pop's direction we hear sounds like "MMMM".... mmmm .... mmmm, "Oh, boy this is good," repeat, repeat, repeat. Under his breath we'll hear him say with great sincerity, "thank you Jesus, oh, boy."<br /><br />Now after hearing this you would think that I am the world's greatest cook. Perhaps I was even beginning to believe his press. But one evening that bubble was soundly popped. In a rush to get his meal on the table before he exploded I ran to the refrigerator, which looked like Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard. In desperation I pulled out from the freezer a box of off-brand chicken tenders, microwaved them, dumped some soy sauce on them, threw a few canned green beans on the plate along with some form of a potato concoction and put it front of him. "From first bite to last, gourmet all the way, Jude" is what I heard. The accolades did not cease. "Boy this is good. Gourmet all the way!!!! Thank you, Jude. This is really gourmet!"<br /><br />What can I say? The man is easy to please.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5071869600817371999-5589379494173904405?l=myfatheranddementia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16110475881631071564noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5071869600817371999.post-7598377541786142172010-01-09T12:51:00.000-08:002010-01-09T19:32:25.041-08:002010-01-09T19:32:25.041-08:00Pop: On getting locked in the truck
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<br /></i>We've all read stories in the newspaper about children who lock themselves in or get locked into a vehicle. Sometimes the stories are funny ... sometimes tragic. Have you ever heard of locking a parent in a vehicle?
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<br />This morning pop and I were off in our new, not new like 2010-new or even 2009-new, but new to us, Chevy, Avalanche to have our one and only key made into another set of keys. As I drove down our little road to the main street I noticed that a yellow light on the dash was on indicating that I was low on fuel; very, very low on fuel. Rather then risk driving the distance to my favorite, less expensive gas station I had to choose the price gouger's on the corner (we call them the terrorists) to get a few gallons to tide us over. On our rear view mirror we have a handy, dandy temperature gage that indicates what the temp is outside. I noted that it was 27 degrees.
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<br />We pulled into the station. I hopped out leaving pop snug in the co-pilot seat eager to get those few gallons so I could get out of the cold and on our way to buy the extra truck keys. Now there are several bells and whistles on this truck. One that I especially don't care for is the automatic lock which locks all the doors shortly after the engine has been turned off. It means that the driver is always having to unlock the truck to re-enter and obviously it could lead to some real problems if for example, the keys were left in the vehicle, or ... somebody unable to open the door got left in the vehicle. As I closed the drivers side door and moved out into the cold toward the pump I heard that chilling sound ... click, click indicating that the truck doors were locked! I peaked in and next to my warm comfy pop were the truck keys, the one and only set sitting on the console.
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<br />Pop sat and stared at me as I began to tap on the window trying to tell him that I was locked out. He does not hear well, see well or comprehend well. In an agitated voice I began to make pounding gestures with my finger trying to show him he needed to push a button on my door panel. The longer I gestured the more my volume went up and the gesturing and tapping became more hysterical. At one point I tried to get him to put the key in the ignition to start the truck hoping the doors would open. What was I thinking? When I realized how dumb that was I began to make frantic, sweeping gestures with my arm directing and yelling for him to crawl over the console into the drivers seat where he could get to the buttons on my door. Why I did that I'll never know! First of all how was an 87 year old man going to climb over this rather large console? Secondly, he had his own buttons on his door that would have accomplished the needed task. He stared at me blankly trying to figure out what this crazy woman was wanting him to do. Not only was he locked in this truck, but he had a nit whit outside in rapid fire fashion tapping on the window, pointing, gesturing and hollering incomprehensible instructions at him. When a moment of understanding finally came he strained to reach the drivers door and with fumbling fingers pushed at the buttons on the panel. "Yes, yes that is the one I yelled." But being a double sided button -- one side for lock and the other side for unlock -- he could not get the combination correct. As the emotions in both of us rose he grabbed at his door handle, said a couple of choice words, and finally in a gesture of frustration hit the window. Somehow by some streak of luck he happened to hit the unlock button on his door and I heard that wonderful sound ... click, click!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5071869600817371999-759837754178614217?l=myfatheranddementia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16110475881631071564noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5071869600817371999.post-87865266709917601052010-01-07T08:35:00.000-08:002010-01-09T19:33:57.993-08:002010-01-09T19:33:57.993-08:00How it all started</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Pop has been living with my husband, son and myself for about 1 ½ years now. He arrived via a coup that my sister and I very successfully pulled off in July of 2008. He was at that time in a home for the elderly, in the Alzheimers ward, a patient but still not yet really a patient, not nearly advanced enough in his disease to be “imprisoned.” Via the encouragement of my husband, my sister and I decided to check him out of the home and created a vast plan as to how we were going to get his belongings out of the facility without his knowledge and board him on a plane bound for Austin, TX. He does not like flying nor disruptions of his simple life. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Now this story may sound rather simple but it actually was a very complicated task to pull off. Daddy has been known to be enormously stubborn and can dig his heals in and get rather blustery if he does not want to do something. And after all we had purchased a plane ticket for him and there could be no mishaps. With pounding heart and sweaty palms, desperately trying to act normal and calm my sister and I pulled off the following: </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> While the staff distracted our dad, we rushed up to his room, stripped his closet of his earthly possessions, stuffed them into a suit case, ran downstairs and loaded it into the back of her car. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> When pop returned we got him into the car under the auspices of making a trip across town to my sister's house for a visit. Once there we encouraged him to go with us to the airport to say good bye to me, who was flying back to Austin. Little did he know that he and my sister were going, too.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Once at the airport, we checked him through all of the boarding security, all the way up to the gate, the whole time listening to him lament my departure. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Once at the gate and boarding time arrived, my sister and I cried, “surprise, the three of us are making a trip to Austin!” He looked at us dumbfounded and with a tug at his arm we were on the plane. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Once on the plane there was no exiting and the coup was complete. My sister and I breathed a sigh of relief and inwardly relished our unbelievable success at pulling off such a grand plan of espionage.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Several weeks later, back in our home in Austin pop said to me, “There isn't a round trip ticket for me is there?” We chuckled and said, “no, how do you like the idea of living with your family now?” All things considered he agreed that a a room of his own, a comfortable bed, a nice roof over his head and three decent meals a day was not so bad. Thus the adventure began.</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5071869600817371999-8786526670991760105?l=myfatheranddementia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Judyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16110475881631071564noreply@blogger.com1