The Trip:
My dad has always liked to travel and that still seems to be the case.I remember as a kid when it came time for our yearly family vacation he'd dig out our maps and pour over them determining the fastest route from point A to point B. His definition of travel was definitely not "stop and smell the roses." Once the four of us were in the car it was put the pedal to the metal and "make time."Even restroom stops were prohibited unless absolutely necessary. No stoppin' for nothin.' This philosophy was a huge source of frustration for my mom who's idea of travel was just the opposite; to not only get where we were going but to savor the trip along the way. No such luck.
But those days for my dad are gone now. Once he is buckled into his seat he has no idea what time we departed and no idea what time we need to be at our destination. I guess it is now his time to smell the traveling roses.
This past week end our family made a trip to Ft. Worth and then on to north east Texas to see our son's boys. Pulling out of the driveway early Saturday morning, suitcases in the rear, Pop in the passenger seat and the rest of us strapped into our places, we were on our way. I don't tell my dad anymore that we are taking a trip. That would be too overwhelming for him. Even though I pack his bags for him, the emotional responsibility that he takes on just throws him into a tizzy. What I say is we're going for a "ride," a 1/2 truth which allows all of us to relax and enjoy the journey.
The motel:
Once arriving at our motel the experience becomes a bit more stressful. Not wanting to duplicate our last adventure north east where Pop escaped in the wee hours of the morning wandering the halls only to be rescued by the hotel staff, we knew we needed a good security plan to keep him locked in. At our motel I noticed a couple of small tables in our suite. At bedtime I butted one of the tables up against the door. On top of that went an ice chest and on top of that went a suit case. In the end the door sort of looked like a wall. Voila! No way for Pop to get out!
Settling into our room, exhausted from our long drive and a busy day, we went through the rigmarole of helping Pop find adequate places for his stash of assorted pocket items; his pocket knife, his key to the house - which he never uses, his nail clippers and finger nail file which he uses ALL the time, some rolls of tissue and his wallet. Coupling these items with his over night bag, his flash light and his baseball cap, everything was placed on the night stand next to his bed. Then began the repetitions of showing him where everything was, reshowing him where everything was and showing him again where everything was.
Moments after the lights were out and eyes closed I became aware that there was light flashing around the room. Was I surprised to see that it was my dad swathing the room with streaks of light from his flash light? Was he trying to orient himself? I don't know. This went on for 30 minutes or more. I just tried to ignore it.
Rising the next morning, without incident, I quietly complimented myself on coming up with such an ingenious plan to secure the perimeter. My dad was still asleep when I rose. Wanting to make it to the "kitchen" for our complimentary breakfast before it closed at 9:00, the three of us, son, husband and I, dressed leaving Pop still in his bed. Stirring a bit, I went over to him and whispered in his ear that we were going to breakfast, that he could stay in bed and sleep and we'd bring his food to him. That seemed satisfactory and we slipped out the door.
After enjoying our table conversation around a breakfast consisting of waffles in the shape of Texas and a liquid they called coffee, I decided I should probably check on Pop and bring him his plate of "Texas." Quietly opening the door I found that he had roused and was up. Looking like Einstein with his white hair standing straight up and out around the sides of his head he was still in his blue stripped jammie shirt. Below the waist he was in his "tighty whities" that gaped open around his little, white, toothpick legs. I had obviously arrived in just the nick of time because he was ready to blow a gasket unable to locate his clothes.
Not wanting to observe the strip, I handed him a pair of clean underwear and ushered him into the bathroom with a promise that I'd hand in his clothing after he'd slipped out of yesterday's undies. That having been accomplished, the next challenge was finding his glasses. Not noticing, the night before, where he stashed his much needed eye ware, I realized that this was a more serious issue then finding his clothing. After searching the room a number of times I sat him down to his now cold breakfast assuring him that I'd find the glasses and that he should eat before it got so cold he'd have to gag it down. The search continued with him up and down from his breakfast trying to enter into the hunt, with me trying to get him to settle down and just eat and let me do the looking. After searching in all of the obvious and not so obvious places, I finally located them in the pocket of his overnight bag. Relieved, we both relaxed. Another mystery resolved.
Visiting the boys:
Checking out of our room we hopped in the truck and made our way to the tiny ranching community of Pickton, Texas. What! You've never heard of Pickton? Tucked 15 miles east of Sulphur Springs, Texas, (and you've never heard of Sulphur Springs, either?) which is 1 1/2 hours north east of Dallas, we picked up Bret's boys, 5 and 7 years old. Pop loves little kids and especially enjoys watching his great grandsons as they go about being little boys. Turning to me frequently throughout the afternoon, he'd say, "They sure are cute little guys!"
As he watched them bowling he beamed with joy and laughed out loud each time Troy, the 5 year old, bounced the bowling ball down the alley actually hitting some bowling pins. It was delightful for me to see my dad enjoying his great grandsons. It is moments like these that make our decision to bring him here to live with us very satisfying and causes an indescribable sense of rightness about what we are doing.
Leaving Pickton around 5:00 PM meant that we'd not get back to Austin until around 10:30 or 11:00 that night. We dreaded what lay ahead. The long trip did not disappoint us. It was grueling. I observed how rested Pop seemed as he sat in the passenger seat continuing to take in the homeward bound sights until darkness enveloped us. 36 + hours after our departure Saturday morning we pulled into our driveway in the pitch dark. Pop announced in his perky voice, "Thanks for the drive. I really enjoyed it!"
Today I rose still rather weary from our week end adventures. I won't mention the trip to my dad, the motel with it's Texas shaped waffles, the search for his glasses, the fun times he had watching his grandsons bowl and play arcade games, consuming ice cream and McDonalds hamburgers. He wouldn't remember. But I am thankful that we had this week end. I will remember.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Cardigan Sweaters and Jackets named George
What is it about the elderly and sweaters or jackets? I understand that their circulatory systems are not as efficient as when younger and they tend to get colder easier. But it is 93 degrees outside right now and my dad is still wanting to wear his signature cardigan sweater.
I remember years ago when my grandfather, my dad's father, was in a convalescent hospital always accompanied by his coat named George. Yes, he had a name for his coat and to my knowledge he wore it or at least had it near him most all of the time until he passed away. It was an ugly, brown, plaid version made of some kind of course fabric. I remember it distinctly because it gave me no clue as to why it would be any source of comfort. It looked itchy. Fortunately my dad has not named his sweaters or jackets, but he wears them year round, even in the Texas heat! (Maybe it's hereditary?)
I wonder if these forms of outer wear are a throw back to infancy when the familiar baby blanket or pacifier was a source of comfort? Perhaps the sweaters have a threefold significance providing warmth, comfort and familiarity. I don't know.
As I sit here at my computer I have a perfect view of my dad's "track." In the early dusk I am watching him taking his umpteenth walk today and he is wearing his rather heavy white version, the one with all of the pulled threads. As he approaches the house I observe he is now carrying it. I guess he finally got the message that in light of the temperatures the sweater is a source of discomfort rather then comfort.
Living with dementia causes me to often contemplate the aging process and how it might manifest itself in me when I am my dad's age. The implications of sweaters and jackets and the elderly is not fully clear to me. But this I am sure of. When I am 87 I do hope I'm not consumed with my need of jackets or sweaters, especially any named George.
I remember years ago when my grandfather, my dad's father, was in a convalescent hospital always accompanied by his coat named George. Yes, he had a name for his coat and to my knowledge he wore it or at least had it near him most all of the time until he passed away. It was an ugly, brown, plaid version made of some kind of course fabric. I remember it distinctly because it gave me no clue as to why it would be any source of comfort. It looked itchy. Fortunately my dad has not named his sweaters or jackets, but he wears them year round, even in the Texas heat! (Maybe it's hereditary?)
I wonder if these forms of outer wear are a throw back to infancy when the familiar baby blanket or pacifier was a source of comfort? Perhaps the sweaters have a threefold significance providing warmth, comfort and familiarity. I don't know.
As I sit here at my computer I have a perfect view of my dad's "track." In the early dusk I am watching him taking his umpteenth walk today and he is wearing his rather heavy white version, the one with all of the pulled threads. As he approaches the house I observe he is now carrying it. I guess he finally got the message that in light of the temperatures the sweater is a source of discomfort rather then comfort.
Living with dementia causes me to often contemplate the aging process and how it might manifest itself in me when I am my dad's age. The implications of sweaters and jackets and the elderly is not fully clear to me. But this I am sure of. When I am 87 I do hope I'm not consumed with my need of jackets or sweaters, especially any named George.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Back to Normal?
As usual my dad rose this morning in his uniform: jeans, shirt, cardigan sweater and his big, black, suede shoes. Ready for another day he joined us in the kitchen. After our typical exchange of "How'd you sleep?" followed by his usual bowl of raisin bran, the rest of us scattered to attack the responsibilities of our day.
Around noon I noted that I had not seen him for quite a while. There had been no interruptions asking me "Is there anything I can do to help?" No, "How's your day going?" No tea breaks. Typically this would mean he has slipped on his black base ball cap, giant clip on shades and is outside pounding the pavement around his little "track," our circular driveway. But when I checked, there was no Pop; just an empty yard with the trees and shrubbery swaying slowly in the warm, late, spring breeze.
The thought crossed my mind that perhaps he had gone for a ride with one of my men. But they usually tell me if he is going along. Besides, Bret was out on business and I knew he would not take Grandpa with him under those circumstances. And my husband was here at home in his office. When those two, more typical options turned up no results, I began searching the house.
It is not unusual for Pop to take a short mid-day nap in one of the overstuffed chairs. Somehow he is able to sleep in a full upright position with his head tucked, resting against his upper chest. How he does this I will never know as I need to be in full recline to get my zzzz's. But I did not find him in any of his favorite chairs.
Looking toward his bedroom I noted that his door, which usually stands open in the daytime, was closed. Approaching the door I quietly gave a little knock and then entered.
There, curled up in a ball, looking somewhat like a cat taking it's late morning nap, was my dad. Even though it is a bit unusual for him to snuggle down in his bed for his naps, it was not so much his location which surprised me as the way he was dress. He had fully undressed removing his shirt, jeans, socks and shoes and had dawned his blue, stripped jammies. He was in full night garb. With his white hair sprawled across the pillow I lightly tapped him on his shoulder. Thinking that he may not be feeling well or he had not slept well the night before I asked, "Are you feeling OK? Do you feel sick?" If he had not slept well the night before he would not know. There would be no recollection. Answering my question with a rather curt, "I'm sleeping!" I tucked my tail between my legs and slinked out of his room to let him "sleep it off" whatever "it" was.
20 minutes later, I happened to see out of the corner of my eye movement through the living room window. Garbed again in his day wear, black cap and giant clip on shades I saw Pop making his rounds on his "track." I guess everything is back to normal, whatever that is anymore around here.
Around noon I noted that I had not seen him for quite a while. There had been no interruptions asking me "Is there anything I can do to help?" No, "How's your day going?" No tea breaks. Typically this would mean he has slipped on his black base ball cap, giant clip on shades and is outside pounding the pavement around his little "track," our circular driveway. But when I checked, there was no Pop; just an empty yard with the trees and shrubbery swaying slowly in the warm, late, spring breeze.
The thought crossed my mind that perhaps he had gone for a ride with one of my men. But they usually tell me if he is going along. Besides, Bret was out on business and I knew he would not take Grandpa with him under those circumstances. And my husband was here at home in his office. When those two, more typical options turned up no results, I began searching the house.
It is not unusual for Pop to take a short mid-day nap in one of the overstuffed chairs. Somehow he is able to sleep in a full upright position with his head tucked, resting against his upper chest. How he does this I will never know as I need to be in full recline to get my zzzz's. But I did not find him in any of his favorite chairs.
Looking toward his bedroom I noted that his door, which usually stands open in the daytime, was closed. Approaching the door I quietly gave a little knock and then entered.
There, curled up in a ball, looking somewhat like a cat taking it's late morning nap, was my dad. Even though it is a bit unusual for him to snuggle down in his bed for his naps, it was not so much his location which surprised me as the way he was dress. He had fully undressed removing his shirt, jeans, socks and shoes and had dawned his blue, stripped jammies. He was in full night garb. With his white hair sprawled across the pillow I lightly tapped him on his shoulder. Thinking that he may not be feeling well or he had not slept well the night before I asked, "Are you feeling OK? Do you feel sick?" If he had not slept well the night before he would not know. There would be no recollection. Answering my question with a rather curt, "I'm sleeping!" I tucked my tail between my legs and slinked out of his room to let him "sleep it off" whatever "it" was.
20 minutes later, I happened to see out of the corner of my eye movement through the living room window. Garbed again in his day wear, black cap and giant clip on shades I saw Pop making his rounds on his "track." I guess everything is back to normal, whatever that is anymore around here.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
The Problem with Telephones
Technology and I just don't get along anymore. My famous line is, "What ever happened to the simple on/off button?" All the bells and whistles that come with each technological apparatus just overwhelms me. Even our telephone has buttons, buttons and more buttons. This much I do know, the green button means power connection, and the numbers are for dialing up the party I want to reach. I can handle that. But if one can't see the green button nor the numerals, let alone REMEMBER the numbers to be dialed ... well, you can see that there in lies a deeper problem. Enter my Dad; can't see well, can't figure out how to operate and can't remember the numbers even if his vision were 20/20. His lack of ability to operate a telephone was one of the deciding factors that lead us to conclude that there would be no more "home alone" for Pop, not even for short periods of time. Obviously in the event of an emergency there would be a total inability to find 911 on the phone pad and the memory banks would undoubtedly be unable to regurgitate the appropriate numerical combination anyway.
Occasionally my Dad's memory will turn to Mary, his wife in Oregon. The yearning to make a phone call will overpower his fear of failure and he will approach the frightening object with hope and anticipation. I guess today was one of those days because I came upon him punching buttons and trying to listen for a dial tone. Obviously having no luck at making his phone call he looked up at me, then back at the device and then at me again he said, "I'm not familiar with the phone system here," meaning in Texas. What being in Texas has to do with it I don't know. Aren't all phone systems across the country pretty universal?
Seeing his need for help I approached him and immediately recognized why there was no dial tone, no connection. Not being able to contain myself, I burst out in laughter! Pop looked at me confused. Rolling it around in his hands he took another look at the piece of plastic and then handed it to me. Calming myself, I took the "telephone" from him and began to explain. The odd looking phone that he had up to his ear was NOT a telephone at all. It was one of our TV remote controls!
Occasionally my Dad's memory will turn to Mary, his wife in Oregon. The yearning to make a phone call will overpower his fear of failure and he will approach the frightening object with hope and anticipation. I guess today was one of those days because I came upon him punching buttons and trying to listen for a dial tone. Obviously having no luck at making his phone call he looked up at me, then back at the device and then at me again he said, "I'm not familiar with the phone system here," meaning in Texas. What being in Texas has to do with it I don't know. Aren't all phone systems across the country pretty universal?
Seeing his need for help I approached him and immediately recognized why there was no dial tone, no connection. Not being able to contain myself, I burst out in laughter! Pop looked at me confused. Rolling it around in his hands he took another look at the piece of plastic and then handed it to me. Calming myself, I took the "telephone" from him and began to explain. The odd looking phone that he had up to his ear was NOT a telephone at all. It was one of our TV remote controls!
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Pouting and Sulking
Those who have children will remember the days when you sneaked off with the spouse leaving behind cribs and diapers for a day or so of respite. This being the Saturday before my birthday my dear hubby had planned a nice day for just the two of us and our dear son had Grandpa sitting duty.
Rising early we dressed and were out the door by 7:30, long before anyone else was up. After an early breakfast we made our way to an old locomotive train station. What fun! My husband had planned a whole day of travel through the hill country to the little town of Burnett, and best of all ... just for the two of us. After a couple of hours of train travel we arrived at our destination, enjoyed two more hours of antique shopping, some good eats and then boarded for the two hours back. All considered, this made for a full day bringing us back home around 5:00 P.m.
Walking in the front door I found my dad sitting in one of his favorite overstuffed chairs. No, "hello, I missed you." No, "how was your day?" Not even an acknowledgment of our presence in the house. Just silence, his chin resting in his hands a sorrowful, woe is me look on his face. With an obvious chill in the air, Pop was pouting and sulking.
Ordinarily if I found him in such low spirits I would inquire. But this time it was totally obvious to me what the problem was. I had even sort of anticipated this lack of welcome before I got home. You see, I had committed the unpardonable. I had been gone ALL DAY LONG.
I have also learned from experience that the best solution to these displays of attitude is to give a casual explanation as to why we were gone and follow it up with a little distraction, perhaps a ride in the car to run an errand, minus the car seat, of course. Soon I hear, "Is there anything I can do to help?" Everything is cool again.
Rising early we dressed and were out the door by 7:30, long before anyone else was up. After an early breakfast we made our way to an old locomotive train station. What fun! My husband had planned a whole day of travel through the hill country to the little town of Burnett, and best of all ... just for the two of us. After a couple of hours of train travel we arrived at our destination, enjoyed two more hours of antique shopping, some good eats and then boarded for the two hours back. All considered, this made for a full day bringing us back home around 5:00 P.m.
Walking in the front door I found my dad sitting in one of his favorite overstuffed chairs. No, "hello, I missed you." No, "how was your day?" Not even an acknowledgment of our presence in the house. Just silence, his chin resting in his hands a sorrowful, woe is me look on his face. With an obvious chill in the air, Pop was pouting and sulking.
Ordinarily if I found him in such low spirits I would inquire. But this time it was totally obvious to me what the problem was. I had even sort of anticipated this lack of welcome before I got home. You see, I had committed the unpardonable. I had been gone ALL DAY LONG.
I have also learned from experience that the best solution to these displays of attitude is to give a casual explanation as to why we were gone and follow it up with a little distraction, perhaps a ride in the car to run an errand, minus the car seat, of course. Soon I hear, "Is there anything I can do to help?" Everything is cool again.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Hill Billy vs. Don Jaun
"Pop it is bedtime and the dentist said that you need to take your partial out at bedtime," I remind him. If I don't mention that removing it is by dentist's orders, he would prefer to wear the teeth 24-7. Reluctantly he goes back into the bathroom and takes it out putting it into its little bath.
Reluctantly you might say?! Several weeks ago, his first day of wearing it, was shear misery for him and for me. After listening to his day long complaints, "it feels like a big wad of something in my mouth," I had assumed that this contraption would end up being an expensive experiment in failure. But the following day, after his morning toiletries, out he came with his "mouth full" and he's been faithfully wearing it ever since with no complaints. Day and night in fact, if I don't remind him to remove it.
For several weeks now I've been analyzing this whole experience trying to discern how I managed to be so successful at getting him to not only want to wear it daily but to never want to take it out. Perhaps telling him that he didn't want to look like a hill billy with all those teeth missing followed by the story about his wife getting used to wearing her's, was just the right does of comparisons. Then following up the disgrace and comparisons approach, I loaded on the compliments regarding how nice he looked wearing the teeth. Perhaps these were the "one-two punches" that I needed to seal the deal. No choppers = Hill billy or yellow. New choppers = Attractive and brave. Now really, ... what man would not be motivated by that approach?
Reluctantly you might say?! Several weeks ago, his first day of wearing it, was shear misery for him and for me. After listening to his day long complaints, "it feels like a big wad of something in my mouth," I had assumed that this contraption would end up being an expensive experiment in failure. But the following day, after his morning toiletries, out he came with his "mouth full" and he's been faithfully wearing it ever since with no complaints. Day and night in fact, if I don't remind him to remove it.
For several weeks now I've been analyzing this whole experience trying to discern how I managed to be so successful at getting him to not only want to wear it daily but to never want to take it out. Perhaps telling him that he didn't want to look like a hill billy with all those teeth missing followed by the story about his wife getting used to wearing her's, was just the right does of comparisons. Then following up the disgrace and comparisons approach, I loaded on the compliments regarding how nice he looked wearing the teeth. Perhaps these were the "one-two punches" that I needed to seal the deal. No choppers = Hill billy or yellow. New choppers = Attractive and brave. Now really, ... what man would not be motivated by that approach?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Mr. Sandman
Sometime around 6:30 we hear the whirrr, whirr, whir of Pop's crank flashlight an indication that he is beginning to think about winding up another day and prepare for bedtime. He may join us for a little TV, do a little roaming but soon I hear, "You gettin' tared?" When I respond with my "no, not yet. Are you?" he'll say, "Ya, I'm startin' to get tared," intentionally dropping the "g" in the word starting and slurring the word tired. His nightly routine has begun.
About 7:00 he starts checking his watch to see what time it is. Don't want to go to bed too early but we sure don't want to go to bed too late either, seems to be the philosophy. For the next hour or so he will check his watch regularly. By 8:00 he ups the ante and asks me again if I'm gettin' "tared."
Eventually he moseys off to his room and emerges, still in his blue jeans but with his night shirt on. I note that the first button is buttoned into the second button whole and so on down the shirt. The collar has a random fold like a dogs floppy ear giving him a very skewed appearance. Rather funny to observe but he seems to take the attitude that as long as the arms are in the sleeves and the torso covered, who cares? I guess he's right.
Eventually the sand man has made his final call and Pop will disappear into his bedroom and come out in full night garb; blue stripped night shirt, night pants and barefoot, the final pieces of the bed-time puzzle now in place indicating that he is seriously heading for slumber land. "You going to bed Pop?" I ask. "Yup, I think it's about that time. I'm tared," he says, again slurring the word tired.
On occasion he will pause before heading off to his room and ask, "What time are you folks getting up around here tomorrow?" Why that matters I have no idea but he'll ask as if he is a guest in our home needing to cooperate with our schedules. Other times he'll pause, a little hesitant but I know he is waiting for his bedtime hug. I respond, tell him to sleep well and feel his frail bear hug as he says "Oooooh, you sleep good, too." Hunch backed, in his blue jammies and barefoot he toddles across the family room to his bed. Another day of adventure behind him. Time to get some zzzz's.
About 7:00 he starts checking his watch to see what time it is. Don't want to go to bed too early but we sure don't want to go to bed too late either, seems to be the philosophy. For the next hour or so he will check his watch regularly. By 8:00 he ups the ante and asks me again if I'm gettin' "tared."
Eventually he moseys off to his room and emerges, still in his blue jeans but with his night shirt on. I note that the first button is buttoned into the second button whole and so on down the shirt. The collar has a random fold like a dogs floppy ear giving him a very skewed appearance. Rather funny to observe but he seems to take the attitude that as long as the arms are in the sleeves and the torso covered, who cares? I guess he's right.
Eventually the sand man has made his final call and Pop will disappear into his bedroom and come out in full night garb; blue stripped night shirt, night pants and barefoot, the final pieces of the bed-time puzzle now in place indicating that he is seriously heading for slumber land. "You going to bed Pop?" I ask. "Yup, I think it's about that time. I'm tared," he says, again slurring the word tired.
On occasion he will pause before heading off to his room and ask, "What time are you folks getting up around here tomorrow?" Why that matters I have no idea but he'll ask as if he is a guest in our home needing to cooperate with our schedules. Other times he'll pause, a little hesitant but I know he is waiting for his bedtime hug. I respond, tell him to sleep well and feel his frail bear hug as he says "Oooooh, you sleep good, too." Hunch backed, in his blue jammies and barefoot he toddles across the family room to his bed. Another day of adventure behind him. Time to get some zzzz's.
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