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.