Dad is driving me crazy tonight. He's completely obsessed with his bed and the idea that someone's going to steal it. He keeps asking questions like “Somebody's going to come at 12 o'clock and push me out?” No matter how many times I reassure him, he can't shake the thought. “What about the guy that usually uses it?” he asks. When I tell him that he sleeps there every night, he won't believe me. When I ask him where he thinks he's been sleeping, he says “here and there.” So far, we've been to check on his bed three times, feeling it thoroughly to make sure there aren't any intruders. “Are you sure someone isn't there?” he keeps asking. “I'm always afraid that someone's going to come and say 'get out of there'!” “If every day, someone comes and gets into it, what do I do?” I'm running out of patience, and say, louder than I intend, “Dad! That's never happened and it never will.” It doesn't work. “What if the guy who sleeps here comes?” he asks again. I try a different approach. “He moved out.” I say, as confidently as I can. “Yesterday?” Dad asks. “Yes, he moved to Switzerland yesterday.” “I might as well use the bed, then,” says Dad.
On one of our bed-inspection trips, Dad decided he wanted an extra blanket, so I started rummaging in the closet. I found a blanket-bag, but it was labeled “1910-era bear skin lap robe”!!! I've never been good with dead animals so I just left the bag closed and shoved it back in the closet. The other blanket-bag contained a handmade patchwork quilt, made by a relative of Dad's who was injured while fighting the civil war and spent the rest of his life, unable to walk, making quilts. Given the quilt's age, I was afraid to actually put it on the bed, so I shoved that back, too. I think I'll just buy Dad a new blanket.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
January 28, 2010
January 28, 2010
On Tuesday Dad was really together – when Kate S. complained to him about her new bifocals he told her she should just get two pairs of glasses, one for daily life and one for reading. She told him her insurance wouldn't cover it, and he asked “How much would it cost?” while reaching for his wallet.
The next day, though, he was back to being disoriented – he spent several hours asking me and Brianna the same questions over and over again. “Where do I go if I have to pee?” “Do I own this building?” “Are there two beds?” When the questions finally stopped, he kept chatting, but he was making less and less sense – at once point he just started repeating the word “fuck” over and over. He wasn't upset or raising his voice, he was saying it like any other word. We figured he was tired, but trying to get him to bed didn't work – he vehemently insisted that he wasn't tired, and when Brianna suggested he go lie down, he glared at her suspiciously and said, “I know why you want me to go to bed!” When we asked him why, he said “You want my seat!” At that point we gave up and let him stay up, figuring JayLynn would get him to bed later, but she couldn't do it either – he stayed up until 6am!!!
I thought he'd be totally wiped out today and expected to find him in bed, but he was awake when I got here, though yawning. Today's questions were all about Obama: “First black president?” “Yes, Dad,” “Very good.” “Many people object?” “Yes, Dad, some racist people do.” “Anybody try to shoot him?” “No, Dad.” “Must have lots of guards?” “Yes, Dad.” “First black president?” “Yes, Dad,” etc.
Then he went to the bathroom and came out with something entirely else on his mind: “How many billions of shits have been shat?” he wondered aloud. From there, he moved on to toilet paper - “I wonder how many rolls . . . it's a wonder there's any paper left in the world!” At that point, I decided that a distraction was in order, so I scooped up the cat and put her in his lap.
On Tuesday Dad was really together – when Kate S. complained to him about her new bifocals he told her she should just get two pairs of glasses, one for daily life and one for reading. She told him her insurance wouldn't cover it, and he asked “How much would it cost?” while reaching for his wallet.
The next day, though, he was back to being disoriented – he spent several hours asking me and Brianna the same questions over and over again. “Where do I go if I have to pee?” “Do I own this building?” “Are there two beds?” When the questions finally stopped, he kept chatting, but he was making less and less sense – at once point he just started repeating the word “fuck” over and over. He wasn't upset or raising his voice, he was saying it like any other word. We figured he was tired, but trying to get him to bed didn't work – he vehemently insisted that he wasn't tired, and when Brianna suggested he go lie down, he glared at her suspiciously and said, “I know why you want me to go to bed!” When we asked him why, he said “You want my seat!” At that point we gave up and let him stay up, figuring JayLynn would get him to bed later, but she couldn't do it either – he stayed up until 6am!!!
I thought he'd be totally wiped out today and expected to find him in bed, but he was awake when I got here, though yawning. Today's questions were all about Obama: “First black president?” “Yes, Dad,” “Very good.” “Many people object?” “Yes, Dad, some racist people do.” “Anybody try to shoot him?” “No, Dad.” “Must have lots of guards?” “Yes, Dad.” “First black president?” “Yes, Dad,” etc.
Then he went to the bathroom and came out with something entirely else on his mind: “How many billions of shits have been shat?” he wondered aloud. From there, he moved on to toilet paper - “I wonder how many rolls . . . it's a wonder there's any paper left in the world!” At that point, I decided that a distraction was in order, so I scooped up the cat and put her in his lap.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Jan. 25, 2010
1/25/10
Dad is wandering around the apartment feeling things, clearly looking for something. “Dad, what are you looking for?” I ask. “The man,” he says. “What man?” “The man who's singing.” “Dad, that's Pete Seeger and it's a record, he's not actually here.” “He was earlier,” insists Dad. “No, it's just you and me.” I explain.
“What are we going to do?” Dad asks, looking around. I wait for the inevitable – when Dad is trying to think of something to do, his mind always goes down the same track. “I know,” he says, “we were going to eat!” “We already ate, Dad,” I remind him. “We had dinner AND dessert.” “What about a, a, a . . . “ - he gets stuck a lot lately. “A snack?” I say, completing the sentence and bringing him a cookie.
Earlier today, Dad got freaked out. He had just gotten off the phone with Charlie, when he choked on his juice. Recovering from the choking, he noticed that he was blind. “What happened?” he wanted to know. “Something shattered, shattered, shattered,” he kept saying, getting more agitated until he got out of his seat and started randomly groping around the apartment. “I should jump in the river and drown,” he said, trying to open the closet doors. “I should get in bed and stay there until I die.” I managed to steer him out of the closet and back to the couch, and Kristen, his cat, sensing his distress, jumped into his lap. I put on some soothing pan flutes, and Kristen snuggled, and we managed to calm Dad down.
At least the urinary infection is over. I spoke to the doctor the other day and he says Dad's blood-work, including his blood counts and sugar, look “amazing for a man his age.”
Dad is wandering around the apartment feeling things, clearly looking for something. “Dad, what are you looking for?” I ask. “The man,” he says. “What man?” “The man who's singing.” “Dad, that's Pete Seeger and it's a record, he's not actually here.” “He was earlier,” insists Dad. “No, it's just you and me.” I explain.
“What are we going to do?” Dad asks, looking around. I wait for the inevitable – when Dad is trying to think of something to do, his mind always goes down the same track. “I know,” he says, “we were going to eat!” “We already ate, Dad,” I remind him. “We had dinner AND dessert.” “What about a, a, a . . . “ - he gets stuck a lot lately. “A snack?” I say, completing the sentence and bringing him a cookie.
Earlier today, Dad got freaked out. He had just gotten off the phone with Charlie, when he choked on his juice. Recovering from the choking, he noticed that he was blind. “What happened?” he wanted to know. “Something shattered, shattered, shattered,” he kept saying, getting more agitated until he got out of his seat and started randomly groping around the apartment. “I should jump in the river and drown,” he said, trying to open the closet doors. “I should get in bed and stay there until I die.” I managed to steer him out of the closet and back to the couch, and Kristen, his cat, sensing his distress, jumped into his lap. I put on some soothing pan flutes, and Kristen snuggled, and we managed to calm Dad down.
At least the urinary infection is over. I spoke to the doctor the other day and he says Dad's blood-work, including his blood counts and sugar, look “amazing for a man his age.”
Thursday, January 14, 2010
january 14th, 2010
January 14th, 2010
Yesterday, I gave Dad a bath. It's really nerve-wracking, navigating all those hard, slippery surfaces with someone with poor balance, even though we had assorted grab bars installed years ago. Like many people with Alzheimer's, Dad's become very resistant to bathing – Marie used to be able to get him to do it with reasonable frequency, but now he tells her that it's too cold or just says he doesn't feel like it. So far, I've had better luck – I've given him the last two baths he's had and haven't gotten any resistance, though he did tell me to make sure the bathroom was “tropical.”
Bathing Dad is a very hands-on process, which makes me have to overcome my natural hesitance about touch. As a child, I used to believe that people, especially my mother, were touch-telepaths and I was always afraid to rest my head against her for fear of thoughts leaking through the skin. I still tend to shy away from casual hugs and other forms of touch, but here I am, physically anchoring Dad while he clambers into the tub, and wielding a washcloth once he's in.
Touching his papery skin jolts me into memories of the other two adults I've washed – my friend Ruth and my mother, both women toward the end stages of cancer, both baths given awkwardly in hospitals that were not well set up for such projects. It's been more than ten years, but the shock of seeing their bodies, hollowed by surgery and illness like winter tree trunks, still feels strong.
The purpose of this bath was to prepare him for today's expedition to the urologist. Due to scheduling issues, no one was available to help me cart Dad to the doctor. Marie got him dressed, and we set off on our own. The wait at the office wasn't long, but Dad does as well with waiting as a toddler with ADHD, and I found myself wishing for a bag of toys to distract him with. Someone should invent some Alzheimer's toys and market them in a little tote bag for these occasions. Luckily, a candy jar on the reception desk provided some relief.
The doctor examined him with an ultrasound and then he and I wedged ourselves into a too-small bathroom for the peeing-in-a-cup routine. He was diagnosed with a urinary tract infection – my instincts were right on target – and then we were dispatched to the lab for some bloodwork and another cup. Dad's having to pee all the time came in handy when we got to the second cup.
As a reward afterwards, I took him to Burger King. I normally never set foot in these temples-to-the-hamburger, but it was close and casual enough to allow for some of Dad's odd behaviors, such as humming and drumming.
Yesterday, I gave Dad a bath. It's really nerve-wracking, navigating all those hard, slippery surfaces with someone with poor balance, even though we had assorted grab bars installed years ago. Like many people with Alzheimer's, Dad's become very resistant to bathing – Marie used to be able to get him to do it with reasonable frequency, but now he tells her that it's too cold or just says he doesn't feel like it. So far, I've had better luck – I've given him the last two baths he's had and haven't gotten any resistance, though he did tell me to make sure the bathroom was “tropical.”
Bathing Dad is a very hands-on process, which makes me have to overcome my natural hesitance about touch. As a child, I used to believe that people, especially my mother, were touch-telepaths and I was always afraid to rest my head against her for fear of thoughts leaking through the skin. I still tend to shy away from casual hugs and other forms of touch, but here I am, physically anchoring Dad while he clambers into the tub, and wielding a washcloth once he's in.
Touching his papery skin jolts me into memories of the other two adults I've washed – my friend Ruth and my mother, both women toward the end stages of cancer, both baths given awkwardly in hospitals that were not well set up for such projects. It's been more than ten years, but the shock of seeing their bodies, hollowed by surgery and illness like winter tree trunks, still feels strong.
The purpose of this bath was to prepare him for today's expedition to the urologist. Due to scheduling issues, no one was available to help me cart Dad to the doctor. Marie got him dressed, and we set off on our own. The wait at the office wasn't long, but Dad does as well with waiting as a toddler with ADHD, and I found myself wishing for a bag of toys to distract him with. Someone should invent some Alzheimer's toys and market them in a little tote bag for these occasions. Luckily, a candy jar on the reception desk provided some relief.
The doctor examined him with an ultrasound and then he and I wedged ourselves into a too-small bathroom for the peeing-in-a-cup routine. He was diagnosed with a urinary tract infection – my instincts were right on target – and then we were dispatched to the lab for some bloodwork and another cup. Dad's having to pee all the time came in handy when we got to the second cup.
As a reward afterwards, I took him to Burger King. I normally never set foot in these temples-to-the-hamburger, but it was close and casual enough to allow for some of Dad's odd behaviors, such as humming and drumming.
january 9th, 2010
/9/10
I met a man today whose mother has Alzheimer's. We quickly got into a conversation about our parents, exchanging details and stories. His mother is in a nursing home in Florida, near his sister, and he doesn't see her often. He says she doesn't talk at all, just smiles. “Thank God for the daughters,” he said, causing a burst of what I hope was well-hidden anger in me. I know women still have plenty of areas where we're not equal, but looking at this man, I just wanted to shake him and say “It's not fair to leave this whole horrible task to your sister. Do your share!”
The other thing he said that upset me was, “your Dad sounds like he's in stage 2. Enjoy that stage, it's temporary.” I suppose he meant well, but it made me cry – I don't need to be reminded that this is a progressive disease.
Overall, I don't really find talking to other relatives of people with Alzheimer's that helpful. When Trish, who works in the Church office, told me about her grandparent with Alzheimer's, we both wound up crying.
More than a few people have tried to steer me towards the ubiquitous support groups for Alzheimer's caregivers, but, while I totally understand the theory behind peer support groups, I think that listening to other peoples' stories would just make me cry. The only thing I can think of that might help me cope better is art therapy, but it doesn't seem to be a common offering. Normally, I work through things by sculpting or drawing, but lately I just haven't had the right energy – the images don't flow in my head the way they used to. And, of course, time spent making art is time taken away from work, Dad, the housekeeping, etc.
I met a man today whose mother has Alzheimer's. We quickly got into a conversation about our parents, exchanging details and stories. His mother is in a nursing home in Florida, near his sister, and he doesn't see her often. He says she doesn't talk at all, just smiles. “Thank God for the daughters,” he said, causing a burst of what I hope was well-hidden anger in me. I know women still have plenty of areas where we're not equal, but looking at this man, I just wanted to shake him and say “It's not fair to leave this whole horrible task to your sister. Do your share!”
The other thing he said that upset me was, “your Dad sounds like he's in stage 2. Enjoy that stage, it's temporary.” I suppose he meant well, but it made me cry – I don't need to be reminded that this is a progressive disease.
Overall, I don't really find talking to other relatives of people with Alzheimer's that helpful. When Trish, who works in the Church office, told me about her grandparent with Alzheimer's, we both wound up crying.
More than a few people have tried to steer me towards the ubiquitous support groups for Alzheimer's caregivers, but, while I totally understand the theory behind peer support groups, I think that listening to other peoples' stories would just make me cry. The only thing I can think of that might help me cope better is art therapy, but it doesn't seem to be a common offering. Normally, I work through things by sculpting or drawing, but lately I just haven't had the right energy – the images don't flow in my head the way they used to. And, of course, time spent making art is time taken away from work, Dad, the housekeeping, etc.
Jan 7th 2010
Dad seems to be having problems with urinating lately. I noticed that he seemed to be going to the bathroom pretty frequently recently, but JaeLynn actually kept track and found that he wakes up pretty much every hour to urinate. Not only that, but yesterday morning around 5am, she heard him shouting and found that he had gotten totally disoriented in the bedroom and peed in a corner, which has never happened before. Last night, she said he had a couple of incidents where he wet his pants on his way to the toilet.
Just to complicate matters, we just got him a new toilet seat, which is raised and has arms – it's really needed, since he has gotten stuck sitting on the toilet a couple of times recently and need another person to help him get up. The trouble is that Dad's having trouble remembering that it's there and aiming appropriately – because the seat part is wider than a regular toilet's, he has a smaller hole to aim for.
The last time he had “accidents”, it turned out that he had a urinary tract infection, which reminds me of the way cats with UTIs stop using the litterbox. So tonight I'm taking the urologist's number – Dad calls him “the piss doctor” - so I can make an appointment to see if there's anything medical that would help with this problem.
On the up side, Dad seems to be pretty pleased with all his caregivers – tuesday night he said “I love you,” to Kate S. as she was tucking him into bed, and then he said it again to Jaelynn when she gave him his breakfast wednesday morning.
Just to complicate matters, we just got him a new toilet seat, which is raised and has arms – it's really needed, since he has gotten stuck sitting on the toilet a couple of times recently and need another person to help him get up. The trouble is that Dad's having trouble remembering that it's there and aiming appropriately – because the seat part is wider than a regular toilet's, he has a smaller hole to aim for.
The last time he had “accidents”, it turned out that he had a urinary tract infection, which reminds me of the way cats with UTIs stop using the litterbox. So tonight I'm taking the urologist's number – Dad calls him “the piss doctor” - so I can make an appointment to see if there's anything medical that would help with this problem.
On the up side, Dad seems to be pretty pleased with all his caregivers – tuesday night he said “I love you,” to Kate S. as she was tucking him into bed, and then he said it again to Jaelynn when she gave him his breakfast wednesday morning.
Jan 1 2010
1/1/09
Taking a shower after midnight, when I thought Dad was safely asleep, I felt a draft which turned out to be Dad opening the door. He didn't seem to realize I was in the shower, just sleep-walked to the toilet. Once he was done, he stood there staring into the toilet bowl for an extended period. “Dad?” I asked, sticking my foaming head around the curtain. “How do you make this stop?” he asked, still staring at the toilet, convinced that the water sound from my shower was emanating from the bowl.
“Dad!” I yelled, trying to make myself heard over the rushing water, “it's not the toilet! It's the shower! I'm in the shower!” He just stood there, trying to process, until I reached out a waterlogged hand. The touch of wet skin made the pieces comes together for him. “Oh!” he said and headed out the door.
I rushed through the rest of my shower, knowing that the unexpectedness of our encounter had probably thrown him off his routine. When I emerged, I found that he had taken a wrong turn, and, instead of heading back to bed, he was in the living room, delicately handling my discarded clothes like someone holding up a newly shed snakeskin. “What's all this?” he asked. “Those are my clothes, Dad,” I explained. “I was in the shower.” I took his hand and led him back to bed, but instead of taking off his shoes and lying down, he just sat there. “I think I'm going crazy,” he kept saying, over and over, and no wonder – how strange it must seem to have a dripping, towel-clad young woman materialize in your apartment in the middle of the night to lead you back to bed.
Taking a shower after midnight, when I thought Dad was safely asleep, I felt a draft which turned out to be Dad opening the door. He didn't seem to realize I was in the shower, just sleep-walked to the toilet. Once he was done, he stood there staring into the toilet bowl for an extended period. “Dad?” I asked, sticking my foaming head around the curtain. “How do you make this stop?” he asked, still staring at the toilet, convinced that the water sound from my shower was emanating from the bowl.
“Dad!” I yelled, trying to make myself heard over the rushing water, “it's not the toilet! It's the shower! I'm in the shower!” He just stood there, trying to process, until I reached out a waterlogged hand. The touch of wet skin made the pieces comes together for him. “Oh!” he said and headed out the door.
I rushed through the rest of my shower, knowing that the unexpectedness of our encounter had probably thrown him off his routine. When I emerged, I found that he had taken a wrong turn, and, instead of heading back to bed, he was in the living room, delicately handling my discarded clothes like someone holding up a newly shed snakeskin. “What's all this?” he asked. “Those are my clothes, Dad,” I explained. “I was in the shower.” I took his hand and led him back to bed, but instead of taking off his shoes and lying down, he just sat there. “I think I'm going crazy,” he kept saying, over and over, and no wonder – how strange it must seem to have a dripping, towel-clad young woman materialize in your apartment in the middle of the night to lead you back to bed.
Monday, January 11, 2010
12/20/09
12/20/09
Dad decided he wanted a Christmas tree this year. Not a fan of killing trees, I suggested a live one and Dad was thrilled by the idea. So, today I got him a small, potted spruce at the farmers' market, and was hauling it, melting snow and all, up Dad's stairs, when I was greeted at the top by Charlie McKenna.
“I've been wanting to talk to you,” he said, always an ominous beginning, I think. He went on to tell me that on a couple of occasions lately, late at night, he has heard Dad bumbling around in the hall outside his apartment!!! Apparently Dad has been waking up and wandering out of his apartment door. It's a miracle he hasn't fallen down the stairs – they're only a few feet from the door – but apparently Charlie has been retrieving him, cooking him eggs, and putting him back to bed. Charlie wasn't complaining – in fact, he seemed sincerely touched by being able to do this for his old friend – but clearly this can't continue. I decided on the spot that Dad could not be left alone, even though it meant I had to spend the night with no preparations like clean clothes or spare meds.
I started to cry right there in the hall, tree, Charlie McKenna and all, because I can't help but see this as further evidence of Dad's deteriorating condition. The thing about Alzheimer's is that you get used to one stage of badness and are coping with it, and then a trap door opens under your feet and you're abruptly plunged to the next level of badness.
I was still crying surreptitiously when I carried the tree in and set it down in front of Dad. He touched it gingerly, taking in the texture of the needles and the mixed smells of evergreen and damp soil. “It's beautiful,” he said. “It's beautiful. I love it.”
Dad decided he wanted a Christmas tree this year. Not a fan of killing trees, I suggested a live one and Dad was thrilled by the idea. So, today I got him a small, potted spruce at the farmers' market, and was hauling it, melting snow and all, up Dad's stairs, when I was greeted at the top by Charlie McKenna.
“I've been wanting to talk to you,” he said, always an ominous beginning, I think. He went on to tell me that on a couple of occasions lately, late at night, he has heard Dad bumbling around in the hall outside his apartment!!! Apparently Dad has been waking up and wandering out of his apartment door. It's a miracle he hasn't fallen down the stairs – they're only a few feet from the door – but apparently Charlie has been retrieving him, cooking him eggs, and putting him back to bed. Charlie wasn't complaining – in fact, he seemed sincerely touched by being able to do this for his old friend – but clearly this can't continue. I decided on the spot that Dad could not be left alone, even though it meant I had to spend the night with no preparations like clean clothes or spare meds.
I started to cry right there in the hall, tree, Charlie McKenna and all, because I can't help but see this as further evidence of Dad's deteriorating condition. The thing about Alzheimer's is that you get used to one stage of badness and are coping with it, and then a trap door opens under your feet and you're abruptly plunged to the next level of badness.
I was still crying surreptitiously when I carried the tree in and set it down in front of Dad. He touched it gingerly, taking in the texture of the needles and the mixed smells of evergreen and damp soil. “It's beautiful,” he said. “It's beautiful. I love it.”
Dec. 5th 2009
12/05/09
Dad took us on an imaginary train journey last night. He was sitting at the dining room table while I cooked dinner and he started asking “are we getting off the train in New York or Boston?” He obviously thought we were on a Northeast Corridor train, heading north.
At first Brianna tried to explain that we were in New York, in his apartment, and not on a train, but it wasn’t getting through, so I decided we should play along. There’s a fancy name for this in Alzheimer’s research, but I can’t remember it. “We’re going to New York,” I told him. This satisfied him for a while. “Is the train moving?” he asked. “Do you feel it moving?” I asked back, not knowing what the correct answer would be. “No,” he said. “We’re in the station,” Kate S. chimed in. “What are we going to do in New York?” asked Dad. “Have dinner,” I told him. “What if it’s all full?” He was worried. “We have reservations,” I explained. Next, he began to worry about his luggage. “It’ll be delivered to your apartment,” we told him. “How much does that cost?” he wanted to know. “It’s included in the price of your ticket,” Kate S. assured him.
Dad always loved trains – they were his preferred mode of transportation, even if he was traveling cross-country- and when his mother was elderly and widowed, he used to practically commute between his life in New York and Boston, the Amtrak stop closest to Gloucester, so it makes sense that his imaginary travels involve trains, too.
We made one surprising discovery last night – the day before, Dad had been so tormented by a snatch of song stuck in his head that I decided to try to overpower it with another song. The only thing that came to mind was “Row, row, row your boat,” so I sang the first line, and Dad joined in on the second, humming along. Tonight, I decided to show Kate S. and Brianna, so I sang it again – Dad didn’t join in on the 2nd line, so I stopped singing, and then Dad piped up and sang the last line, words and all, “Life is but a dream.” How true that is for him these days.
Dad took us on an imaginary train journey last night. He was sitting at the dining room table while I cooked dinner and he started asking “are we getting off the train in New York or Boston?” He obviously thought we were on a Northeast Corridor train, heading north.
At first Brianna tried to explain that we were in New York, in his apartment, and not on a train, but it wasn’t getting through, so I decided we should play along. There’s a fancy name for this in Alzheimer’s research, but I can’t remember it. “We’re going to New York,” I told him. This satisfied him for a while. “Is the train moving?” he asked. “Do you feel it moving?” I asked back, not knowing what the correct answer would be. “No,” he said. “We’re in the station,” Kate S. chimed in. “What are we going to do in New York?” asked Dad. “Have dinner,” I told him. “What if it’s all full?” He was worried. “We have reservations,” I explained. Next, he began to worry about his luggage. “It’ll be delivered to your apartment,” we told him. “How much does that cost?” he wanted to know. “It’s included in the price of your ticket,” Kate S. assured him.
Dad always loved trains – they were his preferred mode of transportation, even if he was traveling cross-country- and when his mother was elderly and widowed, he used to practically commute between his life in New York and Boston, the Amtrak stop closest to Gloucester, so it makes sense that his imaginary travels involve trains, too.
We made one surprising discovery last night – the day before, Dad had been so tormented by a snatch of song stuck in his head that I decided to try to overpower it with another song. The only thing that came to mind was “Row, row, row your boat,” so I sang the first line, and Dad joined in on the second, humming along. Tonight, I decided to show Kate S. and Brianna, so I sang it again – Dad didn’t join in on the 2nd line, so I stopped singing, and then Dad piped up and sang the last line, words and all, “Life is but a dream.” How true that is for him these days.
Nov. 27, 2009
Yesterday, I took Dad to spend thanksgiving with the youth at New Alternatives. He got dressed and out of the house relatively easily, but once we got there his newfound impatience kicked in. While waiting for a volunteer to get him a cup of coffee, he said, loudly, “that’s the longest cup of coffee, ever!” and then proceeded to ask everyone who got close enough when we were going to eat. Luckily, Russell found some Ritz crackers and we distracted him with those for a while. Then, after eating, he started announcing that it was time to go. It was only 2:30pm, and the idea of all the empty hours between then and bedtime made me want to stay a while longer, but Dad just wasn’t having it, so we headed back to his house.
“I haven’t cast a spell in thirty years,” said Dad, sitting beside me on his couch. His next sentence cleared away my mental images of Dad muttering incantations; “Should I take off my clothes and try?” “No.” I said firmly, and that ended the conversation.
Fifteen minutes later, suddenly my leg was seized by a cramp. “Ow.ow.ow,” I said, squirming around trying to find a more comfortable position. “That’s because you wouldn’t fuck,” said Dad, smugly.
Marie, his steadfast housekeeper, is taking today off to get married at City Hall. She has arranged for a substitute, so I only have to make it through my usual evening shift, but without Kate and Brianna, who are in Maine for thanksgiving, I’m afraid it’s going to be another boring evening. I’m having trouble finding ways to keep us occupied and today I’m dreading going over there and then feeling bad about wanting to avoid it.
“I haven’t cast a spell in thirty years,” said Dad, sitting beside me on his couch. His next sentence cleared away my mental images of Dad muttering incantations; “Should I take off my clothes and try?” “No.” I said firmly, and that ended the conversation.
Fifteen minutes later, suddenly my leg was seized by a cramp. “Ow.ow.ow,” I said, squirming around trying to find a more comfortable position. “That’s because you wouldn’t fuck,” said Dad, smugly.
Marie, his steadfast housekeeper, is taking today off to get married at City Hall. She has arranged for a substitute, so I only have to make it through my usual evening shift, but without Kate and Brianna, who are in Maine for thanksgiving, I’m afraid it’s going to be another boring evening. I’m having trouble finding ways to keep us occupied and today I’m dreading going over there and then feeling bad about wanting to avoid it.
Nov. 23, 2009
“I’m about as old as you can get,” says Dad.
I’m bustling around the kitchen, cooking dinner, while Dad sits at the dining room table listening to the chopping and the clanging of pots and the sound of the kettle boiling. “It sounds like a very good dinner,” he says, and I am struck by the unusual way he uses his senses.
Lately, every evening, Dad gets confused about where he is. “This is my place?” he asks. When we tell him it is, he says, “So I can stay here if I want to?” We encourage him to stay, and then the next question comes: “is there a bed?” We’ve taken to leading him down the hall by the hand, first to the bathroom, then to bed. Then the ritual requires waiting while he takes off his shoes and pants, and maybe a sweater, which he hands over to be put away, then saying good-night a few times, closing the door, and slipping quietly out of the apartment. There’s something about this process that reminds me of small children I have taken care of and their bedtime rituals.
Blog is back
Sorry for the delay - my old computer's slow death made it impossible to post entries, although I was still writing them. Now that I have a new computer, I will post them in order from November-present.
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