Night Time Prison

Nearly every night pop has been venturing into our bedroom waking us up in the wee hours, either coming from or trying to find his bathroom. Not sure which. So .... it dawned on me one day that we needed to find a way to batten down the hatches, secure the borders, imprison the escapee while still allowing him access to the needed rest room. Looking around the house, the most obvious forms of containment seemed to be furniture. So for the past couple of nights we have been experimenting with just that. Our dining room chairs, substantial and a bit heavy, have become our barricades between the dining room and kitchen which leads to the dinette, the living room and yes, even to the garage where we have on occasion found him searching for his bedroom, bathroom, comb, wallet, you name it. Our deacons bench turned diagonally blocks access to the hallway which also leads toward those rooms and toward our bedroom. All of this, more or less, imprisons him into the south east portion of the house creating a little maze from his room to his bathroom and making it impossible for him to venture into the remaining rooms of the downstairs.

Seems to be working! We've not had a visit in two nights and haven't heard any furnishings trying to be moved. Prison life most certainly has it's benefits. Everyone seems to be sleeping much better.

Greasy Pockets

How a man survives without a purse has always been one of my curiosities. Pockets being the male substitute for a purse still seems inadequate to me but so be it. Upon close examination this morning I noticed my dad's shirt pocket, carrying only a wad of tissues, looked gray at the base. And upon closer examination I determined the gray was caused by something greasy.

Now, Pop has never been what I would call a pack rat when it comes to possessions. But when it comes to cookies, ... well that is a whole different scenario. Never waste a good cookie is dad's philosophy. Yesterday sitting in one of his favorite wicker chairs I noticed him munching on the chocolate variety, one that I had not recently given him. Where it had come from I did not know and asking him would have proven fruitless, the memory long gone. Finding the cookie jar or the bags in the pantry would also have been beyond his capability. So I ruled that out, which left me with the only genuinely plausible answer -- cookie hoarding. And where would be the most logical place to stash your hoard? In the shirt pocket, of course! It is handy for the taking and it won't get sat upon to become crushed. Very logical. Greasy pocket mystery solved!

Can I Help?

I never know which pop is going to show up. Yesterday it was the oblivious pop. Today he is the constant companion who follows me around the house offering his services at every turn. "Is there anything I can do to help," has been the repetition for today? This is a gracious offer but one that is hard to oblige. His balance is poor so anymore sweeping is not an option. Vision is weak so eye hand coordinated tasks are difficult. I used to give him a basket of change and have him sort it by pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters but yesterday the challenge seemed daunting. He managed to bag the copper pennies but the silver change all looked the same to him.

This afternoon, having returned from Costco with a large bag of individually wrapped rolls of paper towels I invited him to remove the rolls from their outer covering and place them on the table for me to relocate to the pantry. Not taking long to accomplish he was ready again to be of more assistance. I resorted again to the magic bullet which always seems to salve any lonely or boring moment. Tea time! Intentionally locating him at the bar eye ball to eye ball with me he is able to sip his tea and at least feel a part of what is happening as I busy myself in the kitchen. Maybe tomorrow he'll be oblivious.

Lamp shade glasses

"What ya' got there Don," my husband asked as pop ambled down the hall pushing his trusty walker? On my fathers finger was attached the mini lamp shade from his bedroom night light. Extending it toward my husband to be examined he responded, "I don't know but I think it belongs on my glasses."

Wheels and Repetitions

"Hi Pop. You want to go with me for a bit," I ask?
Sitting at the round dining table along with three other residents, pop sits with his head in his hands. I smile at the group coordinator and indicate that I'll be taking him home for a visit and have him back at Arveda by dinner time.
"No," Pop says."I'm kind of sleepy. I think I'll just stay here."
Feeling guilty because my visit with him is long overdue and knowing the drive and time with his family will be more beneficial then a nap, I persist.
"It is a beautiful day outside and I've got some errands to run. Thought you'd like to take a drive with me." His expression reveals his exasperation with my insistence but he gets up and follows me to the door anyway.

Moving out onto the high way I hear the same line that I always do when I pick him up for our visits, "Man those cars are moving fast."
Continuing down the road I hear the second repetition, "Boy this little car rides nice."
I respond as if I've never heard either of these remarks before.
Again, "Man those cars are moving fast!"

Third repetition,"How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine. How are you feeling?"
"Good," comes the response.
"You healthy? Wink is healthy?"
"Yes, we're all healthy."

"Man this little car rides nice."
"Yes, Beamers are nice cars."

"How's Deb?"
"She's good. She and Dick will be here next week."
"OOOOOOOh! How long will they be here for?"
"About a week."
"OOOOOOOOh!"

"Man this little car rides nice. These Hondas are great cars."
I don't correct him on the make of the car.

Fourth repetition comes ... "So how do you like living in Texas?"
"I like it."
"How do YOU like living in Texas, Pop?"
"It's different."
"Do you miss California?"
"Sometimes."

"Man this little car rides nice."
I try to change the subject with my previous comment. "Deb and Dick are coming next week." It is new news to him.
"Ooooooooh! Really? How long they going to be here?"
"A week."
"How are they doing? Everyone healthy?"

"So how do you like living in Texas?"
"Well, we've been here for nearly 11 years now so it feels pretty much like home."
"Oh, man. Has it been that long? Do you think you are going to stay?"
"Well, Wink has his business here. I think we'll be here until something changes."

Entering the bank parking lot, pop says to me, "You sure know your way around here."
"Yes, I've been living here for nearly 11 years, I repeat, so it is pretty clear to me now."
"Ooooooh. That long? How do you like living in Texas?"
Pop has obviously gotten onto a wheel, and our living in Texas has become the theme for today.
"How do YOU like living in Texas, Pop," I respond back?
"Oh, it's OK. Different."
"Are you homesick for California," I ask again?
"No, not really."
I ignore the discrepancy in his answer from his previous comment and continue to the ATM and then on to our next destination.

Moving at a snails pace we navigate Costco. Pop pushes the cart as it kills two birds with one stone. Pushing gives him some responsibility so he feels helpful and at the same time provides the necessary grip for his balance. I decide that shopping at pop's pace is too time consuming and it will involve too much effort for him to make my last stop at the lens counter. I pass on that for another visit and we make our way through the check-out and exit the store.

Hoping, again that the diversion at Costco would break into other avenues of discussion we head home. Soon I hear, "Well, I've gotten to see a little more of Texas today," sounding more like a visitor then a resident.

Finally arriving at our house I help him out of the car, up the short set of steps to our front deck and through the door. I note that he seems weaker and less steady on his feet then when he lived with us just 6 months ago. My husband greets him and ushers him to one of his favorite, comfy chairs.

"So how do you like Texas, Wink," says my dad?
"Oh, we like it, Don," comes the polite response.
"Do you think you'll stay here?"
"I think so."

Fortunately for my husband he has work to do in his office and gets up leaving me to field the litany of questions about Texas. Weary of the past 2 hours of repetition and feeling a bit trapped I excuse myself and go into the kitchen to prepare pop a second cup of tea. Texting my sister I give her a blow by blow account of my afternoon with our dad. We both text, LOL.

Hanging up my phone I realize that I have run out of reasons for hiding and I return to the living room with the cup of tea. Pop says, "Thank you and then ... So how long do you think you will live in Texas?" I look at my watch and decide that 2 and 1/2 hours of visiting is plenty. Besides it is nearly within an hour of dinner time at his residence and this is excuse enough for me to pack up and return him to his "home." I invite him to go for a drive. He responds in upbeat fashion and out the door we shuffle. Strapped in our seats, with 4.5 miles of listening time, I smile to myself as I hear him say one last time, "So how do you like living in Texas?"

DinnerTime

The tall male nurse bounces into the room buoyant and upbeat, tying bibs around the patients necks. Another aide tosses a carton of milk into the air and catches it athletically setting it on the table in front of the patient. It is dinner time.

Joleen, who appears to have severe cerebral palsy spasms as she drinks from her sippy-cups. One for milk, and another for her strawberry milk shake. George across the horse shoe shaped table has oxygen tubes in his nose and develops a serious coughing attack while trying to swallow his pizza. Melba sits with her eyes closed and looks as though she is blind, waiting quietly, patiently for the aid to feed her while the super that is sitting in front of her is getting cold. This is meal time at the convalescent hospital. My dad appears to be the most cognitive one there.

I look at each of these people wondering what sorts of lives they once lived. I would guess that Joleen has had cerebral palsy all or most of her life and is used to institutional living. She wears a constant smile and tries to communicate. I can't understand her.

George, big and burly, has large hands like someone who was used to manual labor. Perhaps he held down a variety of blue collar jobs, a one time mechanic who chatted freely with his customers, barking at those who irritated him. Or perhaps a truck driver maneuvering large 18 wheelers over treacherous highways and mountain roads.

Melba could have been any ones mother. I wonder how many children she has? Or had she been a nurse tending the needs of others, now on the receiving end?

My husband leans over to me and says, "Did you hear what that old guy across the room just said?" No I didn't so my husband reiterated to me, "I'm going to stand up and poop in my pants and I'm not going to clean it up," were the exact words. We cringe but can't help but laugh!

Pop turns to me several times throughout his meal and cheerfully asks me the same question, "Are you going to eat, too?" Looking at his portion I think to myself how glad I am that I am not. Always the first to finish his meal he puts down his cloth napkin and indicates that he is ready to leave his left overs behind. He's not even interested in taking the tea with him. I unlock the breaks on his wheel chair and attempt to maneuver him around the rest of the diners also in their rolling chairs.

My husband and I comment on how stuffy it is. My dad comments on how cold he is. I retrieve his signature cardigan and help him pull it on over his boney, protruding shoulders. "I'm tired," he says. We roll him back to his room. Help him into bed. Tell him good night and that we'll be back tomorrow.

My husband and I find the experience shocking. My dad doesn't seem to notice.

Where Will Pop Spend Christmas?

It was about 5:00 a.m. when my husband awakened me and said, "Your dad is sick, Jude. You'd better get up." I learned that Pop had been vomiting since about 4:00 a.m. We visited him in his bedroom over the hours watching him weaken. Through the day he continued to appear to have some sort of virus. But by evening we began to question our theory of "viral." Very much against his will (he was sure he was just fine) we carefully loaded him into the car and drove to the emergency room. That night he was admitted and the next day was in surgery to repair an intestinal blockage.

The following week, during my daily visits, I watched his strength drain from his body until he looked like a Holocaust victim. The lack of solid food had taken its toll. In those hours I was reminded again the truth behind the old adage "ignorance can be bliss." As the hours rolled into days his continuous, repetitive questions reminded me that he had no recollection as to how much misery he had endured, how close to death he had been, and how uncertain his future was. As we approach the Christmas holiday season he is resting and recuperating in a convalescent hospital. I can't help but wonder, where will Pop spend Christmas?

I know that his memory challenges have trapped him in a chronic state of oblivion sort of like being locked in a room with one way mirrors; we are able to see in but he is unable to see out. Oblivious to the seasons, the celebrations, the life which swirls on around him he continues to live but not really live. Thanks giving was a blur, a non happening. I assume Christmas will be the same. While I bustle around preparing for this blessed holiday season I fit in time to see him daily but he has no idea how many hours have transpired between our visits.

Unless you've been through something like this you might not understand the following statement and think that it sounds cruel, but I often wish Pop could just spend Christmas in heaven.

I Guess Those Are Mine

It appears these days my dad views anything which smacks of familiarity as belonging to him. "This probably belongs to me, so I'll take it," seems to be his line of thinking. Food, personal items, clothing is up for grabs around our house.

The microwave hums thawing the hot dog buns while Bret, works at the island preparing his lunch. Turning his attention back to the microwave, he leaves the hot dogs on a plate on the island, sizzling, steamy and vulnerable. Stomach growling, he turns back to the island, warm buns in hand anticipating that first juicy bite, mustard and catchup dripping off the end onto the plate. But to his shock he discovers a dog that has been violated. Quietly, secretly, without notice the end has been bitten off rendering it totally unappetizing. Bret coming to me with exasperation written all over his face, reports yet another incident of food theft. We all know who the hot dog thief is but there is obviously no sense of remorse on his part. Grandpa is innocently sitting in his chair of choice oblivious to the stir he has just created. I laugh and try to console my son. He doesn't laugh.

Picking up my basket of ironing I plunk it down next to our green, over stuffed chair, the one with the best view of the TV. In the evenings this perch is my favorite knitting hub, as well. I have learned though, that getting up for any reason, no matter how brief, can be dangerous. Often when I return I will find that in my absence Pop has hunkered down crowding in front of my ironing board or among my knitting which is snugly trapped between his thigh and the arm of the chair. To the common observer the arrangement I have created upon leaving would seem to scream, "This space is occupied. Stay out!" But not to Pop.

My can of ice cold beverage sits in the cup holder between the two front seats. As I anticipate a nice cool swig of refreshment, Pop reaches down, picks up the can and raises it to his lips. "Well, now it is his," I think to myself.

Walking over to the key rack hanging on the wall by our front door I reach for the key to our car. No key. After digging through my purse, checking jeans pockets, inquiring of my husband, digging through his bags, brief case and searching his desk and pockets, no key. I resort to driving the truck. Upon returning home further exploration begins. That little voice which sometimes speaks to me from the far reaches of my mind whispered to me, "ask your dad to check his pockets." So I did. He pulled out a house key and a few miscellaneous non-essentials. But no car key. An hour or so later that little voice spoke to me again saying, "check his pockets yourself." Going over to him I requested that he stand up. Reaching into his front pocket I feel metal and plastic. Grasping the objects between my fingers and pulling them out I am shocked to find in my hand our car keys. The only answer is that Pop seeing them hanging on the key rack concluded "I guess those are mine."

The New Cane

Observing my dad's daily walks I began to note that the stair steps on our porches seemed to have stretched farther apart and the paths around our house had suddenly become more uneven. Pop's dexterity and balance were becoming noticeably diminished causing me to feel that it was time to purchase a little walking assistance -- a cane. Considering his 88 years it is amazing to me that the need has not presented itself before now.

Once given to him it was obviously a welcomed addition that he wholeheartedly embraced. Knowing his streak of Sawyer pride, I had thought that perhaps the new stick might be viewed as an insult, a blow to his male ego. But, after endless thank yous and questions about its exorbitant price ($15), he took hold of the grip and moved out with confidence and a look of debonair.

Not only was I surprised at how well he embraced the use of the new cane for his practical needs but I have also become surprised at how creatively he is finding new and unusual uses for it. Bounce, bounce, bounce goes the cane in rhythmic taps on the floor, reverberating throughout the house. My dad's cane is an instrument! Walking out onto our front deck I observe him jabbing it at our fainting goats as he fends off imagined danger. It is now a sword! Gliding along swinging the cane rhythmically at his side, it has become a fashion statement. Competing for a chair that our black furry kitty had first dibs on, he takes it and pokes at the seat attempting to uproot Tazz. His cane becomes an element of aggression and power!

What a purchase! The possibilities for this new instrument of balance appears to be endless!

Slight of Hand

Do you remember your picky eater? It seems like most moms have at least one of those in their brood. The stomach was too full for anymore of the meal that was set before them but there was ALWAYS room for dessert. So it is with my dad.

Glancing toward my father's plate I note that he has perhaps one bite left of his grilled cheese sandwich. I also note that the bites he is now taking are bird bites which means that he is running out of interest in his lunch. These days trying to get him to eat a reasonable meal is becoming harder and harder. His appetite seems to be getting smaller and smaller and even the small portions offered to him do not get completely finished. BUT sure enough. There is always room for a few cookies followed by a few pieces of candy, or whatever else satisfies the sweet tooth.

"Pop I see you just have one more bite of your sandwich left. Can you just finish that and I'll get you some cookies?" I encourage. Looking straight ahead, as innocent as a lamb he takes one more bird bite and then, like a magician, slight of hand the last chunk disappears. I know this trick. Going over to him I offer to take his napkin for him and inside I find the remaining bread and cheese rolled up ready for him to toss into the garbage when he leaves the table. (Did your kids ever do this?) I re-offer the last bite and suggest again that if it "disappears" into his mouth, he'll get his dessert. After one more bird bite, he takes a swath across his face with his new napkin ending the charade with a clenched fist. This time that last bite is hiding in his fist. But at this point I am feeling like the grilled cheese sandwich policewoman and decide to refrain from giving him a citation. I hand him the bag of cookies. He digs in. Pretty soon I see him in the living room enjoying the salt water taffy that I purchased this morning. Kids!

Melt Down

I had quite a melt down at the dinner table last night. Ever since day light savings time started ... let's see, about 4 moths ago ... Pop has been getting up late in the morning, 10 sometimes 11 making his breakfast time close to lunch time, his lunch time around 3 and dinner around 6:30 or 7:30. The rest of the family is eating on a traditional meal schedule; breakfast between 8 and 8:30, lunch around 11:30 or noon, and dinner around 5:30 or 6:00. His lack of adjustment has put me in the position of double duty. Reminiscent of the days when my newborns controlled my schedule with their irregular eating habits, I am finding myself preparing our meals and then accommodating Pop when he is "good and ready." And ready means just the right degree of hunger pangs. No sooner, no later.

Around 5:45, last evening, I called everyone to the table for dinner. But as usual my dad just sat in his chair and would not budge, looking rather distraught like he was thinking "how am I going to manage this? I'm not at that perfect degree of hunger yet." Ignoring his decision to not come to the table, the three of us sat down to a very nice meal of fried chicken, buttered potatoes, broccoli and a fruit salad, a meal that probably took me a good 45 minutes of preparation time. Half way into our dinner, Pop comes moseying over to the table eying our food and looking like he was wondering, "how come I wasn't invited?" Of course he had been invited 30 minutes earlier but did not remember.

I guess the months of built up aggravation hit me. Out tumbled a flurry of angry words as I reminded him that I could not be preparing individual meals for him all day long. Obviously I was not thinking, just venting because first of all it was ridiculous for me to unload on someone with a memory span of 2 minutes. Secondly, it was very rude of me to be reprimanding an elderly man who is not in his right mind, especially doing so in front of the rest of the family. But I was mad, spittin' mad and my tempter flared.

Observing my inappropriate melt down, my sweet, compassionate, equally rude husband (rude to me) reprimanded me soundly making me feel like a two year old and proceeded to fill my dad's plate. In his sweetest voice he invited my dad to sit down and partake, causing me to look even more like a jerk. In teen-age fashion I exited the table with a flourish, leaving my half eaten meal behind. Taking long, exaggerated steps, I walked out the front door, closing it rather loudly.

After licking my wounds for about an hour at Barnes and Noble Book store, I tucked my tail between my legs and quietly returned home. Pop, who had obviously completely forgotten the whole table incident was off getting his blue striped jammie top on, with buttons in random button holes and still wearing his blue jeans. Trying to avoid the topic with my husband I focused on the dishes in the sink.

After an appropriate time of sulking, my husband and I had a good chat, apologies were made and a very clear decision on my part regarding future meal times materialized, an epiphany that should have occurred last April; put Pop on a schedule! How divinely, supremely, brilliant!

As I sit here at my computer pecking at the keyboard it is 8:00 a.m. I walked into Pop's room where he was snuggled between the covers, greeted him with a cheery "Good morning" and raised his shade. With an equally cheery voice I bribed him out of bed with an offer of his morning tea. Tea being the miracle worker in every difficult situation, he responded in like manner with, "Oh, that would be very nice." 8:15 a.m. he is up and dressed and sipping his tea!

I don't have any idea why it took me so long to come up with this ingenious plan!

Managing Full Pockets

While the rest of us manage our jobs, our responsibilities in and around the house, family and friends Pop manages his pockets. This form of management consumes a significant portion of each day. Inside each shirt pocket is a litany of necessities including a couple of pens, maybe a pencil, his giant clip on sun glasses, and sometimes a cookie or two. Jeans pockets contain the manly stuff. Wallet, finger nail clippers (absolute essential), a house key that never gets used, a comb that gets used all the time, perhaps a penny or a nickel.

It is not unusual to observe him fingering those important supplies safely nested away in his pockets. One by one he'll pull them out, testing the pens to see if they are still operational, filing his finger nails into sharp points and opening his wallet to check all of the meaningless cards that we have put there to take the place of credit cards. Or, looking like a money tycoon, one by one, he will remove the bills that we have slipped into place, counting his wealth and determining the extent of his assets that day. Returning the cash safety inside the bill section, I observe that there is a look of security on his face.

The most time consuming item in his shirt pocket are his giant clip ons. He has about three sets and two of them seem to be malfunctioning, appearing to more or less jump right off of his face after slipping them over the rim of his glasses. While I am driving, out of the corner of my eye I can see him fingering with patient dexterity the monster shades, carefully finding just the right point at which to make connection. Once on, after all his panes taking efforts, they fall into his lap anyway. Eventually he is able to make a secure connection and they stay in place long enough to serve their purpose before they fall off again or are removed and safely returned to the shirt pocket ready for the next sunny outing.

It would never enter his mind to have me purchase new ones. Gotta make the old work, is his philosophy. I suppose I could buy a new pair for him, surprise him, or sneak them into his stash of necessities that he empties onto his night stand at bed time. But in reality ... the manipulation seems to give him something to do.

Herding Snails and Taking Insults

This morning I'm up at 6:00. Today is podiatrist day for dad. The receptionist had called a few days earlier indicating that there had been an early morning cancellation, that I was able to pick up -- 8:30 to be exact -- which meant I'd have to get him up by 6:45 or 7:00, 1 to 2 hours earlier then his normal rising time. And when one, namely my dad, moves like a snail it was questionable if I could pull it off.

7:00 Am -- I turn on the CD player in the family room and set it to Pop's favorite soloist hoping that the sounds outside his door will alert him to the fact that activity is taking place in and about the house ... meaning it is time to rise and shine! No movement from his room, so I go and rap on his bedroom door and let myself in. He is snuggled in his bed, eyes closed and no indication that he has even considered emerging from his nest. I decide to try bribery. "Pop," I say softly. "We have to get up early this morning and go to an appointment. How about if I take you to get a quick bite of breakfast on the way?" Pulling the covers up around his face I get a very short and emphatic, "I'm still tired and I don't want to get up yet!"

Not wanting to mention the word "doctor" as this would send him into a tizzy, I try to talk around it and encourage him that he just has to get up earlier then usual because WE have an appointment to get to. When I realize that none of my approaches seem to be working, a tumble of words pour from my lips as I attempt to get the bad news out in the open as quickly as possible enabling me to leave the room before he has a chance to look daggers at me. I dumped the whole honest truth that he has an appointment with the podiatrist and we, have to get out the door pronto! Pop does not like wasting money on doctors and I knew this approach was not going to work well, but I was out of subtleties and out of the room.

Realizing the clock was ticking, I left him in his cozy, warm bed and enlisted my husband. Out of Pop's room came my husband with an air of accomplishment. When in doubt, let a more distant family member do the dirty work. Daddy was now in the bathroom. I felt like we were making progress. Asking my husband to go and check on him again, he returns with a frustrated look and informs me that my dad is back in bed.

This time I bribe him with tea. My offer went like this; if he'd get up and get ready to go I'd be out in the kitchen brewing a cup of tea. This temporarily softened his crusty, stubborn attitude. I found him in his jeans, sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on his socks.

By now it is exit time and he is in the bathroom beginning to shave. My exasperation level is rising and in like manner, so does the tone of my voice. I inform him that there is no time to shave. He stubbornly and obviously totally ignores me! In a bad show of temper, I reach over and unplug his shaver. He slams the shaver down. I raise my voice another decibel and in so doing seem to gain the upper hand. Soon we are walking out the door, carrying his hot cup of bribery in my hand.

At the doctors office Pop turns to me rubbing his chin. "I really need a shave," he says. I console him by saying it is not noticeable. Two minutes later he turns to me rubbing his chin, "I really need a shave." I reassure him with the same line. After three or four of these repeats I pretend that I am engrossed in my magazine and don't hear him. I notice a woman across the room smiling at me. She is probably thinking what a patient woman I am and admiring the way I am handling his constant repetitive questions. Little does she know that I nearly cold coked him in the bathroom about an hour previous.

Eventually we are ushered into the exam room and the doctor bursts in. I mentally nick name him Dr. Behind Schedule. Rushing through his litany of questions, barely looking at me, he proceeds to doctor my father's thin, white feet as I think to myself how thankful I am that it is him and not me handling my dad's feet and doing the doctoring. At one point in the questioning it becomes obvious that Dr. Behind Schedule believes that I am my father's wife rather then his daughter. Giving him a stony, raised eye brow stare, I make it quite clear he is doctoring my FATHER! At this point Dr. Behind Schedule is nick named Dr. Insultingly and/or Dr. Stupid!

Dr. Stupid rushes out of the room looking for his next patient to insult. Pop and I mosey out to the reception desk take care of the paper work and out the door into the bright sunny morning.

By now the mornings events, prying my dad from his bed, unplugging his shaver and forcing him out the door had been overshadowed by Dr. Stupid-Insulting's comment about my relationship to my father. Could this morning get any worse?

The Physical

"Mr. Sawyer we're ready for you," says the nurse as she ushers my dad back to the scale. Fully clothed, including his big, black, suedish shoes, which could very well weight a full pound within themselves, the scale reads 125 lbs. I think to myself, how long it has been since the scale read that for me even in the nude. The nurse leads both of us to his little room. We wait. I read my magazine. Pop files his finger nails.

Soon the nurse appears again and begins taking his blood pressure, inserts a thermometer into his mouth as she scribbles on her note pad. Up, onto the exam table he goes as she continues to check and scribble. With his feet hanging off the end of the exam table I note that he is wearing two unmatched socks and he has on a very shabby shirt and a not-so-clean pair of jeans. I should have helped him dress this morning, I think to myself. Before leaving the room the nurse instructs my dad to take everything off except his underwear and hands him a white paper, drape to put around his lower torso to use after he has disrobed. Not wanting to see more then my eyes are prepared to handle, I leave the room hoping he will remember all the instructions. He remembers to open the door when he is undressed but there is no drape wrapped around the lower torso. His white toothpick legs appear to hang from the openings up his tighty whities and I grab the wrap and hand it back to him. He wraps it around his waist and like clothes pins, takes his two fingers and holds it at his back. The office AC is running colder then it needs to, so I drape his tan, signature sweater, around his shoulders. Soon he asks if he can put his shirts back on. "No, the doctor needs for you to be dressed down for the physical," I remind him.

After several chilly minutes, the doctor appears and begins a rather monotone line of questioning about urination, eating and sleeping habits, what medications Pop is taking and how often. Three, only three medications is my answer to his last question. As he continues to tap, tap, tap on his computer the questions go on. Does my dad wear pull ups, does he have accidents, does he dress and bathe himself, feed himself? The answers being, no, no, yes, yes, and yes, I think to myself how grateful I am that I can give those responses. Helping Pop up onto the exam table the poking and prodding begins; stethoscope moves over his loose, pale, skin around the heart and lungs region. As I sit watching and answering the emotionless questions that are tossed in my direction, I think to myself how truly amazing it is that at age 87 my dad is only taking three medications ... and how impersonal this whole experience is turning out to be as we are moved along in assembly line fashion. By the time the exam is over, the doctor has eliminated the third prescription saying that he does not believe it to be necessary. I comment on how amazingly healthy my dad is for his age and Dr. "Bland" as I have now mentally nick named him, returns my comment with a preoccupied nod.

I am asked to leave the room, for which I am very grateful, so the examination can move into a more private type of prodding. Shortly the door opens and I see that my dad is fully dressed in his grungy jeans, shabby shirt, mismatched socks, and of course his great big suedish black shoes.

The decision is made to do his labs without a fast and we are then taken to another room where we wait for the nurse to draw blood. My dad is patient, doesn't complain and asks very few questions. Once the blood is drawn, he is told to pee in a cup. He says to me, "What?" In ear shot of all who are in the office, I am obliged to raise my voice so he can hear and tell him, "You have to pee in the cup, Pop." With my dad following we head for the restroom. I help him find the cup and restate the instructions. Do I have to write my dad's name on the cup once it has been used, I think to myself? It becomes obvious that, yes, I do need to do that for the office staff and for my dad. I close the bathroom door and hope that when I return I will find a somewhat full cup. It is not full, but looks sufficient. Why didn't I think to write his name on the cup before he peed in it, I think to myself? Meeting one final time with Doctor "Bland," I get final instructions on salve for a couple of sores, vitamins, when he wants to see Pop again and out the door we go, heading for the front desk. Daddy follows obediently, hands me my umbrella and soon we are out in the humid, cloudy, summer, afternoon. As we move on to our final stops of the early evening, I think to myself, - This could be so much worse then it is. Thank you Lord for my dad's good health, his reasonable disposition and even for Dr. "Bland."

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

E-mail to my sister

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!!!