Dad’s hat – a maroon baseball cap today – tumbles to the floor while we’re sitting on the couch. Having gotten into the habit as a child (encouraged by my ballet teacher), I reach down, pick it up, and hand it to him using my foot. Dad proceeds to shake hands with my foot, and then pats it like a dog, saying “you’re a very, very good foot.”
Knowing that Saturdays, when I’m with Dad from noon-ish until 9pm, can get very long, I’ve come prepared. I pull sheets of bubble wrap from my bag and hand them to him. I love watching him pop them because he goes “oh!” after each one, as though he’s being surprised, over and over again. By the second sheet he has commanded me to join in, and he politely waits between each pop, so we’re taking turns.
Dad’s dessert addiction is taking a toll – for the first time in his life, he can’t get his jeans buttoned. He is completely perplexed. “I think someone boiled my jeans!” he announces, despite the fact that denim doesn’t shrink like wool. It takes a while for it to dawn on him that maybe he’s gotten bigger. “There’s lots of useless stuff in my guts that would be better gone,” he says, poking at flabby flesh. “If you take your clothes off, you see it’s bad because there’s at least ten extra pounds doing nothing,” he tells me.
Dad needs to exercise anyway, to maintain his mobility, so we go out the door – me in sweatpants and bare feet and him in jeans and orange crocs – and carefully navigate down one flight of stairs. Each time his foot lands on the step below, Dad yells “boom!” Thankfully, nobody in his building seems to be home. Then we go back up. Dad is winded, so I tell him that’s enough stairs – we’ll work our way up to the full three flights. When we get back in, I give Dad his 1 lb. weights and he does various exercises with his arms. When he’s done, he says he feels “loosened up.”
“What time is it?” Dad asks, a question he sometimes asks as often as every ten minutes. “5:49pm,” I answer. “Then we should begin singing,” he says, and launches into “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” I join in and we are loud and off-key, but Dad is happy. I have been trying to get Dad to sing “This Land is Your Land,” a song I know he knows – my grade school chorus sang it so much that every parent in that school probably heard it in their dreams – but he just bops along and won’t sing. I’ve also tried singing “Puff the Magic Dragon,” a tribute to his recently-deceased old friend, Mary Travers, who he remembers as a gorgeous blond twenty-something playing softball with him in Washington Square Park, but he doesn’t respond to the song.
“I have a whole field,” says Dad, running his hands over a month’s worth of beard and whiskers. It’s been a long time since he could shave himself. Marie has done it for years, but less and less frequently recently, and Dad says she doesn’t want to do it – I have no idea why. This produces a dilemma for me – I certainly don’t want to pressure Marie, but there’s no barber in the neighborhood, just a women’s beauty salon around the corner. The growth is clearly bothering Dad – he keeps commenting on it – so I’m beginning to think about attempting it myself. I’m definitely at a disadvantage here, never even having watched a man shave, but I’ve discovered that sometimes you just have to jump into the breach.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Sept. 26: I just sit around and eat people
2/26/09
“Do you have any dessert?” Dad asks as soon as I walk into his apartment. It’s only 4pm and I haven’t even started cooking dinner yet. “We’ll have dessert later,” I tell him, “After dinner.” I can tell he’s still focused on dessert, so I tell him what I’m going to be making. “We’re having oranges in a caramel and rum sauce, over vanilla ice cream.” He's thrilled
“Do you know where the witches are?” Dad asks, just as Brianna, a pagan, opens the door. “Everywhere,” she tells him. I have no idea where the question came from, but he seems satisfied with the answer.
While I’m cooking, Kate S. and Brianna watch the BBC. The trouble is,Dad can’t follow most TV, though he tries. He winds up having to ask what’s going on, and it’s way too complicated for them to explain. For the rest of their visit, he stays pretty quiet.
Once they leave, he’s back in his down mood. “Who did me in?” he asks. Later, he gets discouraged with his halting efforts at conversation. “What’s the sense of talking?” he asks. “We like talking to you, Dad,” I say. “Yeah, but I don’t enjoy talking to other people.” I wonder what other people he means. He has been growing more and more silent recently, a jarring contrast from my younger days when he used to expound endlessly about history and archaeology, oblivious to the fact that my mother and I were nearing catatonia. When she got fed up, my mother would amuse herself by making faces at him, knowing that he couldn’t see well enough to notice.
“I’m all through,” he says. “I can’t do anything more, I just sit around and eat people.” The amusement I would usually derive from this sentence fades into the general gloomy mood of the evening.
Finally, I decide to distract him with a cigar. Dad rarely smokes cigars spontaneously anymore, but if you offer him one, he is pleased. I’m the “cigar person” because Marie doesn’t like their smell and Kate S. has asthma. Even though I’ve never smoked one, I now go through the whole ritual of removing the plastic covering and the paper band, and cutting off one end. Dad used to bite off the end, but I can’t bring myself to do that. Once I get the cigar ready, he puts it in his mouth and I fetch the hidden matches and light it while he puffs. It was awkward at first, but we’ve got it all nicely choreographed by now. When he’s done, he announces “finished, finished, finis.” It’s the first French I’ve heard him use in quite a while. Even though they say first and second languages are stored differently in the brain, they both seem to be fading now.
I look up and see Dad’s face strangely contorted. “Dad, what are you doing?” I ask, alarmed. “Making faces,” he replies. I’m relieved. Silly Dad is back.
On my way out he says, “you live a lofty life.”
“Do you have any dessert?” Dad asks as soon as I walk into his apartment. It’s only 4pm and I haven’t even started cooking dinner yet. “We’ll have dessert later,” I tell him, “After dinner.” I can tell he’s still focused on dessert, so I tell him what I’m going to be making. “We’re having oranges in a caramel and rum sauce, over vanilla ice cream.” He's thrilled
“Do you know where the witches are?” Dad asks, just as Brianna, a pagan, opens the door. “Everywhere,” she tells him. I have no idea where the question came from, but he seems satisfied with the answer.
While I’m cooking, Kate S. and Brianna watch the BBC. The trouble is,Dad can’t follow most TV, though he tries. He winds up having to ask what’s going on, and it’s way too complicated for them to explain. For the rest of their visit, he stays pretty quiet.
Once they leave, he’s back in his down mood. “Who did me in?” he asks. Later, he gets discouraged with his halting efforts at conversation. “What’s the sense of talking?” he asks. “We like talking to you, Dad,” I say. “Yeah, but I don’t enjoy talking to other people.” I wonder what other people he means. He has been growing more and more silent recently, a jarring contrast from my younger days when he used to expound endlessly about history and archaeology, oblivious to the fact that my mother and I were nearing catatonia. When she got fed up, my mother would amuse herself by making faces at him, knowing that he couldn’t see well enough to notice.
“I’m all through,” he says. “I can’t do anything more, I just sit around and eat people.” The amusement I would usually derive from this sentence fades into the general gloomy mood of the evening.
Finally, I decide to distract him with a cigar. Dad rarely smokes cigars spontaneously anymore, but if you offer him one, he is pleased. I’m the “cigar person” because Marie doesn’t like their smell and Kate S. has asthma. Even though I’ve never smoked one, I now go through the whole ritual of removing the plastic covering and the paper band, and cutting off one end. Dad used to bite off the end, but I can’t bring myself to do that. Once I get the cigar ready, he puts it in his mouth and I fetch the hidden matches and light it while he puffs. It was awkward at first, but we’ve got it all nicely choreographed by now. When he’s done, he announces “finished, finished, finis.” It’s the first French I’ve heard him use in quite a while. Even though they say first and second languages are stored differently in the brain, they both seem to be fading now.
I look up and see Dad’s face strangely contorted. “Dad, what are you doing?” I ask, alarmed. “Making faces,” he replies. I’m relieved. Silly Dad is back.
On my way out he says, “you live a lofty life.”
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Sept 19: Sing-Sing
“Many horses are going by. They’re ready for their daily dessert,” Dad says, projecting his dessert obsession. Last night he kept insisting he wasn’t going to eat dinner – he wanted to have plenty of room for dessert! We got him through the meal by convincing him to have “just a little” soup, “just one piece of bread,” etc.
Tonight Dad is kind of down. “I’m not the guy who used to be here,” he tells me, settling beside me on the couch. It turns out that he’s having an attack of awareness about his condition. “The last two or three days have been a real shock to me,” he says. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, the last two days.” “I’m scared,” he says – a statement that always brings tears to my eyes when he says it. I get the cat and she and I snuggle close to him. “I’m going to land in Sing-Sing,” he says. “They don’t put you in Sing-Sing for being confused,” I reassure him. “What do they do with people who are completely dumb? They have to put them someplace,” he wants to know. “They just take care of them,” I say, hoping this will make him feel better, but the issue is still on his mind.
Later, he repeats his theory about the “vision utility” turning him off and making him blind, but this time it has a new twist – the motivation for doing this he tells me, is to get new customers for old-age homes, since people keep dying and they have to be replaced, so they make older people blind to get them to go into the homes. “I don’t want to be in an institution. I DON’T WANT IT!” he says.
I don’t know what to say to this – I’m definitely committed to keeping him at home as long as possible, but I don’t want to get trapped by promising him he’ll never be in a facility, because I don’t know what path all this is going to take. All I can do is assure him that he’s not – and won’t be – alone.
Tonight Dad is kind of down. “I’m not the guy who used to be here,” he tells me, settling beside me on the couch. It turns out that he’s having an attack of awareness about his condition. “The last two or three days have been a real shock to me,” he says. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, the last two days.” “I’m scared,” he says – a statement that always brings tears to my eyes when he says it. I get the cat and she and I snuggle close to him. “I’m going to land in Sing-Sing,” he says. “They don’t put you in Sing-Sing for being confused,” I reassure him. “What do they do with people who are completely dumb? They have to put them someplace,” he wants to know. “They just take care of them,” I say, hoping this will make him feel better, but the issue is still on his mind.
Later, he repeats his theory about the “vision utility” turning him off and making him blind, but this time it has a new twist – the motivation for doing this he tells me, is to get new customers for old-age homes, since people keep dying and they have to be replaced, so they make older people blind to get them to go into the homes. “I don’t want to be in an institution. I DON’T WANT IT!” he says.
I don’t know what to say to this – I’m definitely committed to keeping him at home as long as possible, but I don’t want to get trapped by promising him he’ll never be in a facility, because I don’t know what path all this is going to take. All I can do is assure him that he’s not – and won’t be – alone.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Sept. 13th: a line and a piece of ass
9/13/09
I made Dad French toast with vanilla and cinnamon and he is delighted. “I’ve never had anything like this before,” he says “but it’s delicious.”
Later, trying to compliment me, he says “you’re the number one contact capital wow wow.” More and more lately, his sentences are getting contaminated with extraneous words. Other times, he’ll say, “How do you say it?” as though he’s speaking a foreign language, but it’s hard to guess what “it” is, so a lot of time we can’t help him.
He’s not too mixed up today, so I can actually talk to him about my work a little. I tell him we’re serving inner for 50 homeless youth, and he says “you can’t have too much trouble with 50 kids. If you did, you’d fly out the window.” Going out the window seems to be a theme today. Later, imagining himself trying to do my job, he says “I, I wouldn’t know what to do, I’d run screaming out the window, probably.”
Dad keeps asking for more light, though all the lights in his house are on. Shuffling across the room, he complains, “all I can see is a line and a piece of ass,” making a curving gesture with his hand. He doesn’t understand that it’s not about the light – the darkness is in his eyes.
“I feel much better when you’re here than when you’re not here,” says Dad, causing me major guilt because I have to leave early to get to work. Sundays are our worst day I terms of Dad coverage – Kate S. and Brianna are unavailable and Michael can come but has to leave by 6pm to get to church in Brooklyn.
The last couple of days, Dad has been talking about death, more than I’ve ever heard from him before. “One of these days, I’ll wake up dead,” he says. “Dad, if you’re dead, you won’t wake up,” I tell him. We just keep reassuring him that there’s no reason for him to die anytime soon – his overall health is quite good. It’s actually quite a quandary for me – of course I want him to live as long as possible, but then, on the other hand, I worry about what shape he’s going to be in and the idea of him lingering on in a severely demented state is at least as bad as the idea of his death. Typing that made me cry.
I made Dad French toast with vanilla and cinnamon and he is delighted. “I’ve never had anything like this before,” he says “but it’s delicious.”
Later, trying to compliment me, he says “you’re the number one contact capital wow wow.” More and more lately, his sentences are getting contaminated with extraneous words. Other times, he’ll say, “How do you say it?” as though he’s speaking a foreign language, but it’s hard to guess what “it” is, so a lot of time we can’t help him.
He’s not too mixed up today, so I can actually talk to him about my work a little. I tell him we’re serving inner for 50 homeless youth, and he says “you can’t have too much trouble with 50 kids. If you did, you’d fly out the window.” Going out the window seems to be a theme today. Later, imagining himself trying to do my job, he says “I, I wouldn’t know what to do, I’d run screaming out the window, probably.”
Dad keeps asking for more light, though all the lights in his house are on. Shuffling across the room, he complains, “all I can see is a line and a piece of ass,” making a curving gesture with his hand. He doesn’t understand that it’s not about the light – the darkness is in his eyes.
“I feel much better when you’re here than when you’re not here,” says Dad, causing me major guilt because I have to leave early to get to work. Sundays are our worst day I terms of Dad coverage – Kate S. and Brianna are unavailable and Michael can come but has to leave by 6pm to get to church in Brooklyn.
The last couple of days, Dad has been talking about death, more than I’ve ever heard from him before. “One of these days, I’ll wake up dead,” he says. “Dad, if you’re dead, you won’t wake up,” I tell him. We just keep reassuring him that there’s no reason for him to die anytime soon – his overall health is quite good. It’s actually quite a quandary for me – of course I want him to live as long as possible, but then, on the other hand, I worry about what shape he’s going to be in and the idea of him lingering on in a severely demented state is at least as bad as the idea of his death. Typing that made me cry.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
september 11: jummox
9/11/09
Kate S. returns from the store with a bottle of rum, an “” for the banana compote I will serve over ice cream tonight. Surveying the bottle, Dad says “I don’t feel like drinking rum right now. I’m having enough trouble getting back to what I was.”
Later, while I’m cooking, Dad gets impatient. “Are we having any cereal or anything like that?” he asks. “Dinner’s cooking, Dad,” I tell him. “I thought we were going to do away with all that and just drink, drink, drink,” he says, focusing on the bottle of rum again.
During dinner, Dad keeps saying that he’s going to be “thrown out.” “They’re going to get me to the door and throw me out,” he says. We keep explaining that this is his home and that nobody’s going to throw him out. Eventually, he gets it and relaxes.
Making his way to the bathroom, Dad asks Kate S. “is this my home country?” She assures him that it is.
Later, sitting on the couch, because the seat of his beloved wicker rocker has given way, Dad exclaims “What a jummox!” “Jummox?” we ask him. “What does that mean?” He can’t explain. I leave a note for Marie to get the chair fixed, although it will have to be done by an expert and won’t be cheap.
Brianna puts the TV on. Dad can’t really follow the show, but he notices that people are watching it. “Everyone scanned that right down the middle,” he says.
Once they leave, Dad and I are sitting on the couch, and he says, “that fellow who crushed all the nails . . . “ “Crushed all the nails?” I ask, trying to figure out what he means. “He crushed all the nails around,” Dad elaborates, unhelpfully. “I was kind of embarrassed by that,” he adds.
“Have you had many experiences with sex?” Dad asks, his language suddenly clearing up. “Dad, that’s private,” I tell him firmly. “We can’t make up our minds whether we’re queer or what,” he says. “We can’t decide. A lot of things like that don’t make the news at all, but they’re there,” he continues.
I yawn. “You’re right,” Dad says, as though I had spoken.
Kate S. returns from the store with a bottle of rum, an “” for the banana compote I will serve over ice cream tonight. Surveying the bottle, Dad says “I don’t feel like drinking rum right now. I’m having enough trouble getting back to what I was.”
Later, while I’m cooking, Dad gets impatient. “Are we having any cereal or anything like that?” he asks. “Dinner’s cooking, Dad,” I tell him. “I thought we were going to do away with all that and just drink, drink, drink,” he says, focusing on the bottle of rum again.
During dinner, Dad keeps saying that he’s going to be “thrown out.” “They’re going to get me to the door and throw me out,” he says. We keep explaining that this is his home and that nobody’s going to throw him out. Eventually, he gets it and relaxes.
Making his way to the bathroom, Dad asks Kate S. “is this my home country?” She assures him that it is.
Later, sitting on the couch, because the seat of his beloved wicker rocker has given way, Dad exclaims “What a jummox!” “Jummox?” we ask him. “What does that mean?” He can’t explain. I leave a note for Marie to get the chair fixed, although it will have to be done by an expert and won’t be cheap.
Brianna puts the TV on. Dad can’t really follow the show, but he notices that people are watching it. “Everyone scanned that right down the middle,” he says.
Once they leave, Dad and I are sitting on the couch, and he says, “that fellow who crushed all the nails . . . “ “Crushed all the nails?” I ask, trying to figure out what he means. “He crushed all the nails around,” Dad elaborates, unhelpfully. “I was kind of embarrassed by that,” he adds.
“Have you had many experiences with sex?” Dad asks, his language suddenly clearing up. “Dad, that’s private,” I tell him firmly. “We can’t make up our minds whether we’re queer or what,” he says. “We can’t decide. A lot of things like that don’t make the news at all, but they’re there,” he continues.
I yawn. “You’re right,” Dad says, as though I had spoken.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Sept. 5: cat food
9/5/09
I arrived today just in time to prevent Dad from eating his lunch – ¾ of a can of cat food, served in a saucer. Judging by the saucer, he started out planning to feed the cat and then lost track of what he was doing and figured it was something to eat himself. When I pointed out to him that it was cat food, he said, in a curious – but not alarmed – tone, “I wonder how much cat food I’ve eaten?” Marie has suspected that he’s been eating cat food for a month or so now, once in a while. We tried hiding the cat food cans, but then he feeds the cat whatever he finds in the refrigerator, stuff that she doesn’t eat.
I think the only solution is to buy organic cat food, the kind that’s made with only human-quality ingredients. That way, it’ll be less of an issue if Dad happens to eat some. Too bad we’re boycotting Whole Foods – I’ll have to go to the holistic pet store in the East Village.
Watching the cat rub against his legs, Dad says, “I think I’ll be very depressed if the cat dies before I do.”
Dad is in a talkative mood, but he’s droning on, repeating things I”ve heard a thousand times. I start getting that familiar, falling-asleep-in-class feeling, where you’re struggling to listen, but you just can’t keep your eyes open. When I wake up, Dad is still talking. He hasn’t noticed that I was asleep.
Dad wants to know why women shave their legs. I’m stumped, I’ve never really thought about it - I was presented with a pretty razor at age 12 or 13, and I’ve just automatically done it all these years. “It’s kind of a tradition, I guess,” I tell him.
“What is that music I hear?” Dad asks. I listen hard, but I don’t hear any music, just the fan, whirring away.
“Is there any juice with this?” Dad asks, finishing his dinner. I don’t think he means a beverage – he calls all things to drink “milk” or occasionally, “water”. “Something to drink?” I ask, just in case. “Or something to shovel,” he says. “Oh, dessert,” I say and get him some. Once we finished, Dad pronounced us – cat and all – “stuffed” in four different voices.
I arrived today just in time to prevent Dad from eating his lunch – ¾ of a can of cat food, served in a saucer. Judging by the saucer, he started out planning to feed the cat and then lost track of what he was doing and figured it was something to eat himself. When I pointed out to him that it was cat food, he said, in a curious – but not alarmed – tone, “I wonder how much cat food I’ve eaten?” Marie has suspected that he’s been eating cat food for a month or so now, once in a while. We tried hiding the cat food cans, but then he feeds the cat whatever he finds in the refrigerator, stuff that she doesn’t eat.
I think the only solution is to buy organic cat food, the kind that’s made with only human-quality ingredients. That way, it’ll be less of an issue if Dad happens to eat some. Too bad we’re boycotting Whole Foods – I’ll have to go to the holistic pet store in the East Village.
Watching the cat rub against his legs, Dad says, “I think I’ll be very depressed if the cat dies before I do.”
Dad is in a talkative mood, but he’s droning on, repeating things I”ve heard a thousand times. I start getting that familiar, falling-asleep-in-class feeling, where you’re struggling to listen, but you just can’t keep your eyes open. When I wake up, Dad is still talking. He hasn’t noticed that I was asleep.
Dad wants to know why women shave their legs. I’m stumped, I’ve never really thought about it - I was presented with a pretty razor at age 12 or 13, and I’ve just automatically done it all these years. “It’s kind of a tradition, I guess,” I tell him.
“What is that music I hear?” Dad asks. I listen hard, but I don’t hear any music, just the fan, whirring away.
“Is there any juice with this?” Dad asks, finishing his dinner. I don’t think he means a beverage – he calls all things to drink “milk” or occasionally, “water”. “Something to drink?” I ask, just in case. “Or something to shovel,” he says. “Oh, dessert,” I say and get him some. Once we finished, Dad pronounced us – cat and all – “stuffed” in four different voices.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
September 2: fancy dishes
Over the weekend, Dad spent most of his time sleeping, while I read on the living room couch. Every now and then I would hear his voice and hurry back to the bedroom to see what he wanted, but he was mostly just mumbling nonsense in his sleep.
Even when he was sitting at the table, he was drifting off to sleep, then jolting awake and making completely incomprehensible statements such as “You got one of those low power ones?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I responded, bewildered. “Everything has to have some form of power. I just thought yours was 2 power or 4 power, something like that,” he said and went back to sleep. Waking up 20 minutes later, he asked “any idea where my mattress is?” “You want to go back to bed?” I guessed. “Not necessarily, but I don’t want to freeze. A couple of weeks ago, my mattress went boom!” he replied. “Your mattress is on your bed,” I told him. “Oh, OK,” he said, and fell asleep again. A while later, I heard him say, “but I don’t know where my scissors are.” “Why do you need them?” I asked suspiciously, afraid he was thinking about cutting his own nails again. “I can’t get in the house without them.” he said. “You mean your keys?” I asked. “I certainly need them,” he insisted. “I know where the keys are,” I told him, trying to reassure him. “I’d hate to arrive down there at 11pm and find I can’t get in,” he explained. Back to sleep. “When was that?” he asked, opening his eyes, though no one had said anything. “Was what?” I asked. “The milk train.” “What milk train?” I was totally confused. “Someone said there was a crack-up of a milk train,” He explained. I don’t know if he was dreaming or hearing voices.
On Sunday, he was still so sick that he refused to eat the dinner Brianna offered him, insisting on dessert only, though he had gotten up for the chicken soup I heated up at lunch.
On Monday, Dad seemed to be feeling a little better. Even though he was in bed when I arrived, he was awake and sat up and talked to me for a while. “Are you from Argentina?” he asked me, randomly, but after a while he started to remember who I was. “You’re the one with the cats!” he said, placing me.“I have lots of fancy dishes,” Dad said, pointing to his head. Apparently he meant he had a lot of fanciful thoughts, because he followed up with “I fantasize a lot.” Eventually, I lured him out of bed with the promise of ice cream.
By Tuesday, Kate S. reported that he was back to his talkative self, and sounded like the “Dad of five years ago” able to carry on a lengthy conversation with her without going off the rails. The only remaining trace of his illness was when he fell asleep in his chair at 7pm. When she roused him and suggested that he go to bed, he said “I think I’ll take you up on that.”
This whole episode has made me feel like a worried parent, responsible for this fragile, helpless life. I’ve been full of questions – how do you know when to take your geezer to the doctor? I based my decision on the lack of a fever and his willingness to eat and drink, the latter being the signs I use to evaluate the urgency of a vet visit for a sick cat. I was also in a quandary about whether to give him over-the-counter medicine – like children, elders can be much more strongly affected by pharmaceuticals than regular adults, plus I know some drugs can add to the confusion of people with Alzheimer’s. In the end, I brought him some plain Robitussin, but only wound up giving him a single dose, at the height of his cough.
Even when he was sitting at the table, he was drifting off to sleep, then jolting awake and making completely incomprehensible statements such as “You got one of those low power ones?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I responded, bewildered. “Everything has to have some form of power. I just thought yours was 2 power or 4 power, something like that,” he said and went back to sleep. Waking up 20 minutes later, he asked “any idea where my mattress is?” “You want to go back to bed?” I guessed. “Not necessarily, but I don’t want to freeze. A couple of weeks ago, my mattress went boom!” he replied. “Your mattress is on your bed,” I told him. “Oh, OK,” he said, and fell asleep again. A while later, I heard him say, “but I don’t know where my scissors are.” “Why do you need them?” I asked suspiciously, afraid he was thinking about cutting his own nails again. “I can’t get in the house without them.” he said. “You mean your keys?” I asked. “I certainly need them,” he insisted. “I know where the keys are,” I told him, trying to reassure him. “I’d hate to arrive down there at 11pm and find I can’t get in,” he explained. Back to sleep. “When was that?” he asked, opening his eyes, though no one had said anything. “Was what?” I asked. “The milk train.” “What milk train?” I was totally confused. “Someone said there was a crack-up of a milk train,” He explained. I don’t know if he was dreaming or hearing voices.
On Sunday, he was still so sick that he refused to eat the dinner Brianna offered him, insisting on dessert only, though he had gotten up for the chicken soup I heated up at lunch.
On Monday, Dad seemed to be feeling a little better. Even though he was in bed when I arrived, he was awake and sat up and talked to me for a while. “Are you from Argentina?” he asked me, randomly, but after a while he started to remember who I was. “You’re the one with the cats!” he said, placing me.“I have lots of fancy dishes,” Dad said, pointing to his head. Apparently he meant he had a lot of fanciful thoughts, because he followed up with “I fantasize a lot.” Eventually, I lured him out of bed with the promise of ice cream.
By Tuesday, Kate S. reported that he was back to his talkative self, and sounded like the “Dad of five years ago” able to carry on a lengthy conversation with her without going off the rails. The only remaining trace of his illness was when he fell asleep in his chair at 7pm. When she roused him and suggested that he go to bed, he said “I think I’ll take you up on that.”
This whole episode has made me feel like a worried parent, responsible for this fragile, helpless life. I’ve been full of questions – how do you know when to take your geezer to the doctor? I based my decision on the lack of a fever and his willingness to eat and drink, the latter being the signs I use to evaluate the urgency of a vet visit for a sick cat. I was also in a quandary about whether to give him over-the-counter medicine – like children, elders can be much more strongly affected by pharmaceuticals than regular adults, plus I know some drugs can add to the confusion of people with Alzheimer’s. In the end, I brought him some plain Robitussin, but only wound up giving him a single dose, at the height of his cough.
September 2: fancy dishes
Over the weekend, Dad spent most of his time sleeping, while I read on the living room couch. Every now and then I would hear his voice and hurry back to the bedroom to see what he wanted, but he was mostly just mumbling nonsense in his sleep.
Even when he was sitting at the table, he was drifting off to sleep, then jolting awake and making completely incomprehensible statements such as “You got one of those low power ones?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I responded, bewildered. “Everything has to have some form of power. I just thought yours was 2 power or 4 power, something like that,” he said and went back to sleep. Waking up 20 minutes later, he asked “any idea where my mattress is?” “You want to go back to bed?” I guessed. “Not necessarily, but I don’t want to freeze. A couple of weeks ago, my mattress went boom!” he replied. “Your mattress is on your bed,” I told him. “Oh, OK,” he said, and fell asleep again. A while later, I heard him say, “but I don’t know where my scissors are.” “Why do you need them?” I asked suspiciously, afraid he was thinking about cutting his own nails again. “I can’t get in the house without them.” he said. “You mean your keys?” I asked. “I certainly need them,” he insisted. “I know where the keys are,” I told him, trying to reassure him. “I’d hate to arrive down there at 11pm and find I can’t get in,” he explained. Back to sleep. “When was that?” he asked, opening his eyes, though no one had said anything. “Was what?” I asked. “The milk train.” “What milk train?” I was totally confused. “Someone said there was a crack-up of a milk train,” He explained. I don’t know if he was dreaming or hearing voices.
On Sunday, he was still so sick that he refused to eat the dinner Brianna offered him, insisting on dessert only, though he had gotten up for the chicken soup I heated up at lunch.
On Monday, Dad seemed to be feeling a little better. Even though he was in bed when I arrived, he was awake and sat up and talked to me for a while. “Are you from Argentina?” he asked me, randomly, but after a while he started to remember who I was. “You’re the one with the cats!” he said, placing me.“I have lots of fancy dishes,” Dad said, pointing to his head. Apparently he meant he had a lot of fanciful thoughts, because he followed up with “I fantasize a lot.” Eventually, I lured him out of bed with the promise of ice cream.
By Tuesday, Kate S. reported that he was back to his talkative self, and sounded like the “Dad of five years ago” able to carry on a lengthy conversation with her without going off the rails. The only remaining trace of his illness was when he fell asleep in his chair at 7pm. When she roused him and suggested that he go to bed, he said “I think I’ll take you up on that.”
This whole episode has made me feel like a worried parent, responsible for this fragile, helpless life. I’ve been full of questions – how do you know when to take your geezer to the doctor? I based my decision on the lack of a fever and his willingness to eat and drink, the latter being the signs I use to evaluate the urgency of a vet visit for a sick cat. I was also in a quandary about whether to give him over-the-counter medicine – like children, elders can be much more strongly affected by pharmaceuticals than regular adults, plus I know some drugs can add to the confusion of people with Alzheimer’s. In the end, I brought him some plain Robitussin, but only wound up giving him a single dose, at the height of his cough.
Even when he was sitting at the table, he was drifting off to sleep, then jolting awake and making completely incomprehensible statements such as “You got one of those low power ones?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I responded, bewildered. “Everything has to have some form of power. I just thought yours was 2 power or 4 power, something like that,” he said and went back to sleep. Waking up 20 minutes later, he asked “any idea where my mattress is?” “You want to go back to bed?” I guessed. “Not necessarily, but I don’t want to freeze. A couple of weeks ago, my mattress went boom!” he replied. “Your mattress is on your bed,” I told him. “Oh, OK,” he said, and fell asleep again. A while later, I heard him say, “but I don’t know where my scissors are.” “Why do you need them?” I asked suspiciously, afraid he was thinking about cutting his own nails again. “I can’t get in the house without them.” he said. “You mean your keys?” I asked. “I certainly need them,” he insisted. “I know where the keys are,” I told him, trying to reassure him. “I’d hate to arrive down there at 11pm and find I can’t get in,” he explained. Back to sleep. “When was that?” he asked, opening his eyes, though no one had said anything. “Was what?” I asked. “The milk train.” “What milk train?” I was totally confused. “Someone said there was a crack-up of a milk train,” He explained. I don’t know if he was dreaming or hearing voices.
On Sunday, he was still so sick that he refused to eat the dinner Brianna offered him, insisting on dessert only, though he had gotten up for the chicken soup I heated up at lunch.
On Monday, Dad seemed to be feeling a little better. Even though he was in bed when I arrived, he was awake and sat up and talked to me for a while. “Are you from Argentina?” he asked me, randomly, but after a while he started to remember who I was. “You’re the one with the cats!” he said, placing me.“I have lots of fancy dishes,” Dad said, pointing to his head. Apparently he meant he had a lot of fanciful thoughts, because he followed up with “I fantasize a lot.” Eventually, I lured him out of bed with the promise of ice cream.
By Tuesday, Kate S. reported that he was back to his talkative self, and sounded like the “Dad of five years ago” able to carry on a lengthy conversation with her without going off the rails. The only remaining trace of his illness was when he fell asleep in his chair at 7pm. When she roused him and suggested that he go to bed, he said “I think I’ll take you up on that.”
This whole episode has made me feel like a worried parent, responsible for this fragile, helpless life. I’ve been full of questions – how do you know when to take your geezer to the doctor? I based my decision on the lack of a fever and his willingness to eat and drink, the latter being the signs I use to evaluate the urgency of a vet visit for a sick cat. I was also in a quandary about whether to give him over-the-counter medicine – like children, elders can be much more strongly affected by pharmaceuticals than regular adults, plus I know some drugs can add to the confusion of people with Alzheimer’s. In the end, I brought him some plain Robitussin, but only wound up giving him a single dose, at the height of his cough.
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