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!
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
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!
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!
Saturday, July 17, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
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?
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?
Thursday, July 1, 2010
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."
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."
Monday, June 28, 2010
Granola Bars
I sit in our living room watching my dad meticulously unwrapping his granola bar, Nature Valley Granola Bars to be exact. He takes a little nibble and refolds it back into the paper and puts it into his pocket, his catch all for the necessities of life. Knowing this variety of bar, it is sweet, crunchy and quite crumbly and he loves them. I know the crumbs are falling all over his lap, between his legs, onto the seat of the chair and probably onto the floor. I don't say anything. I know it would just make him feel bad and it wouldn't accomplish any long lasting change. Five minutes from now he will not remember a word I said to him. When he leaves the room I go over to the chair and sweep the crumbs into my hand and dispose of them. The crumbs on the floor will have to wait because I just don't feel like digging out the vacuum right now. Tomorrow I'll clean the area around the chair. Another day.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Pop and Junk Mail
Being my dad's trustee, any mail that comes to our house addressed to him, is automatically opened by me. Bills have to go through my husband who manages the banking. Medical and financial reports I take and file away in a big, thick, blue binder that I keep on the shelf in our home office. Like the rest of us, he still gets his fare share of junk mail.
Mail arrives at our place between 3:30 and 4:30 Monday - Saturday. So around 4:45 I'll send him out the door for an afternoon jaunt down to the mail box to retrieve its contents. There was a time when he seemed to notice those pieces that were addressed to him. Anymore, his vision is poor enough that I don't think he even attempts to decipher the name. Knowing the approximate date that his social security check arrives, I avoid sending him out to the mail box knowing that if he should read the addressee and got his hands on it, there is no telling where it might end up. There were many occasions in the early stages of his dementia, while he was still trying to manage his accounts, that major mistakes were made producing a myriad of issues taking months to resolve.
Walking into the house he hands the bundle to me with an air of accomplishment. After all, he did find the mail box and make it back to the house safe and sound. Now, occasionally, after I've done my safety inspection, I will hand back to him his junk mail. News letters and meaningless reports are safe commodities which can't get him into trouble.
Today was no exception. Around 4:45, sending him to the mail box, he returned with an assortment of bills and junk mail. Discovering a newsletter from his former employer, PG&E I handed it to him. After examining the large print at the top of the page reading, "Retiree News," he took on a look of great interest and concern, as if this piece of information needed immediate and serious attention. Taking his glasses between his forefinger and his thumb he tipped them back and forth trying to manage the small print. Obviously giving up, he folded the paper back along its original creases and carried it to the next room. Sitting down he began to tap the pages on his leg with a sense of power in each tap, an attitude that shouted, "mail! addressed to me! I'm in charge! I'm still important!"
As I sit here at my computer, pecking away at the keys, I see out my window, Pop moving toward his "track." As he moves out onto the road, his back to me, I can see sticking out of his pocket the news letter ... those "important papers" that may require immediate and serious action. Returning, he takes a comfy seat, removes the junk mail from his pocket, taps it on his knee with his air of confident control, tilts his glasses, examines it one last time, gets up and moves toward his room. He is on his way to "file" it away on his night stand. All too soon, these papers, pages of such manifest importance will be completely and utterly forgotten.
Mail arrives at our place between 3:30 and 4:30 Monday - Saturday. So around 4:45 I'll send him out the door for an afternoon jaunt down to the mail box to retrieve its contents. There was a time when he seemed to notice those pieces that were addressed to him. Anymore, his vision is poor enough that I don't think he even attempts to decipher the name. Knowing the approximate date that his social security check arrives, I avoid sending him out to the mail box knowing that if he should read the addressee and got his hands on it, there is no telling where it might end up. There were many occasions in the early stages of his dementia, while he was still trying to manage his accounts, that major mistakes were made producing a myriad of issues taking months to resolve.
Walking into the house he hands the bundle to me with an air of accomplishment. After all, he did find the mail box and make it back to the house safe and sound. Now, occasionally, after I've done my safety inspection, I will hand back to him his junk mail. News letters and meaningless reports are safe commodities which can't get him into trouble.
Today was no exception. Around 4:45, sending him to the mail box, he returned with an assortment of bills and junk mail. Discovering a newsletter from his former employer, PG&E I handed it to him. After examining the large print at the top of the page reading, "Retiree News," he took on a look of great interest and concern, as if this piece of information needed immediate and serious attention. Taking his glasses between his forefinger and his thumb he tipped them back and forth trying to manage the small print. Obviously giving up, he folded the paper back along its original creases and carried it to the next room. Sitting down he began to tap the pages on his leg with a sense of power in each tap, an attitude that shouted, "mail! addressed to me! I'm in charge! I'm still important!"
As I sit here at my computer, pecking away at the keys, I see out my window, Pop moving toward his "track." As he moves out onto the road, his back to me, I can see sticking out of his pocket the news letter ... those "important papers" that may require immediate and serious action. Returning, he takes a comfy seat, removes the junk mail from his pocket, taps it on his knee with his air of confident control, tilts his glasses, examines it one last time, gets up and moves toward his room. He is on his way to "file" it away on his night stand. All too soon, these papers, pages of such manifest importance will be completely and utterly forgotten.
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