Anxiety Dream: Dad and Samantha are walking somewhere when he is hit by a car and killed. He keeps reincarnating in the form of various discombobulated people. Even though they bear no physical resemblance to him – some of them are women and some are various races – somehow I know that they are him and feel compelled to take care of them.
Dad has been having trouble with pain in his right arm since Friday. It's an on-and-off kind of pain that he describes as “Wham! And then nothing,” but it is so severe when it occurs that he screams in pain. Jaelynn went running into his room in panic several times tuesday night, and Kate S. was similarly freaked out when he screamed while getting up from the couch on wednesday. Since it wasn't getting better, she and I decided to take him to the ER for an x-ray yesterday, knowing that old bones are fragile. Dad complained all the way down the stairs, but when we got to the hospital he was pretty good, though in the waiting room he speculated that they were going to give him a dose of poison and kill him. It took a long time, but eventually the results came back – nothing broken – so we bundled Dad up in JaeLynn's coat over his own and brought him home.
Today Dad says, “I feel sort of snorty and bitchy. I don't feel good.” I wonder if he's catching a cold. Even though he's not feeling well, Dad's all hands tonight – I have to catch his hands and hold them to keep him from trying to feel my legs and breasts. Finally, my explanation about how daughters don't do that sinks in, and he backs off. “What should we do now?” he asks, apparently unable to think of anything else two people could possibly do. “Listen to music?” I suggest. He agrees and is shortly happily tapping away to his steel drums cd.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
2/15/10
2/15/10
Today Dad seems to think we're shop-keepers. “Are you waiting for customers? When do they start coming in?” he asked me. When I explained that there wouldn't be any customers because today is President's Day, he said, “if anyone turns up, we say 'sorry, we're not in business today.'”
“My pants don't fit,” said Dad to Jaelynn last night. “I think I'm pregnant.”
Last week I accidentally gave Dad a stomach virus. Since I only vomited once, and I was on the train at the time, I figured it was an attack of motion sickness, and continued on my way to spend friday night with Dad. Saturday night, after Dad had gone to bed, Samantha heard a loud “Jesus Christ!” She ran to the bedroom to find Dad vomiting over the side of the bed. He was quite perplexed and kept asking her “why is this happening?” Luckily, he was better the next day.
Dad has a new nickname. It all started on Saturday, when I was on the phone with Kate S. “Dad's feeling perky,” I told her. “Did you say I feel like a turkey?” inquired Dad. “Not turkey, perky,” I said. Dad didn't get it. “PERKY, PERKY!!!” I yelled, but he still didn't get it. “Energetic!” “Energetic,” he repeated, and I thought he understood, but then he asked, “Quirky?” So now he's the Quirky Turkey.
Today Dad seems to think we're shop-keepers. “Are you waiting for customers? When do they start coming in?” he asked me. When I explained that there wouldn't be any customers because today is President's Day, he said, “if anyone turns up, we say 'sorry, we're not in business today.'”
“My pants don't fit,” said Dad to Jaelynn last night. “I think I'm pregnant.”
Last week I accidentally gave Dad a stomach virus. Since I only vomited once, and I was on the train at the time, I figured it was an attack of motion sickness, and continued on my way to spend friday night with Dad. Saturday night, after Dad had gone to bed, Samantha heard a loud “Jesus Christ!” She ran to the bedroom to find Dad vomiting over the side of the bed. He was quite perplexed and kept asking her “why is this happening?” Luckily, he was better the next day.
Dad has a new nickname. It all started on Saturday, when I was on the phone with Kate S. “Dad's feeling perky,” I told her. “Did you say I feel like a turkey?” inquired Dad. “Not turkey, perky,” I said. Dad didn't get it. “PERKY, PERKY!!!” I yelled, but he still didn't get it. “Energetic!” “Energetic,” he repeated, and I thought he understood, but then he asked, “Quirky?” So now he's the Quirky Turkey.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
January 30th, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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