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.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
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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