Nobby did it.

Finding everyday things in strange places has become a daily occurrence at our house. I’ve found a milk carton in the bread drawer, Peter’s green coffee mug in the fridge’s butter keeper. Salt and pepper shakers and Coleman’s mustard are often in there too — that little compartment can hold a lot. One morning there was a plastic baggie filled with potatoes beside his chair in the family room, and the electric kettle was sitting next to the burner of our gas stove. The latter, a disaster waiting to happen.

Lately Peter insists it’s my fault that he’s never known he should put liquid soap into the sink to wash things that don’t go in the dishwasher. Likewise, it’s my fault I never told him where to put the teaspoons after I finally found all of them wrapped neatly inside a place mat. And after I’d searched all over the kitchen for the box of tea I knew I’d bought a few days before, Peter was as surprised as I was when he pulled the box out of the little table beside his chair.

“Ah ha!” I said.

“How did this get in here?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes and raised my left eyebrow, but I was smiling. “Nobby did it,” I said.

This morning around 11:30, I reminded Peter he still hadn’t taken the dog for his early walk. “I know, we’re going now,” he said. He fumbled with Nobby’s harness — he can hardly manage it anymore, but gets angry if I try to help — and started out the door wearing only a light sweater over his shirt.

“You’ll need your jacket and a hat,” I said

“But it looks like summer outside,” he said. “Looks like the sun is going to come up.”

“Peter, it’s nearly noon, the leaves are all gone, and it’s gray and cloudy and cold.”

“Oh-h, well…yes-s…,” he said as he went to get his jacket.

I sat down to write this post. Minutes later, my husband, zipped into his jacket, came up behind me. He held the dog’s leash and collar in his hand, but Nobby wasn’t attached. “Do you think Nobby wants to go for a walk? Is it too cold for him?”

“No, he’s got his fur coat on,” I said. “Go, go.” 

“OK, we’ll  back soon,” he said.

“Thanks for the warning,” I said, using one of his well-worn sayings. He laughed.

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2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest, second place, blog category.

 

 

Remember? November.

Lately, my husband’s downhill run has gotten steeper, faster. When we used to bicycle together, we both preferred climbing hills to zooming down them. The  inherent thrill of a downhill scared both of us. That’s still true, though neither of us bikes anymore, and we don’t really talk about his descent. I can’t imagine how difficult it is for him although he still uses his “braking” mechanism: corny jokes and silly laughs.

We eked out a chuckle the other day. The doorbell rang. As usual Peter wouldn’t answer it though he made sure I’d heard it. A young man stood on the step holding a gorgeous bouquet. A bright beautiful cheery surprise after a trying few weeks.

img_4348Peter was working on the daily sudoku. I walked in holding the flowers. When he looked up his eyes popped, his mouth fell open, and the ruddy color drained from his cheeks. He glanced quickly at the date at the top of the newspaper page. “November,” he said. “That’s not you…is it?”

“Not me what? My birthday? No.”

“Are they for me?”

“No-o,” I laughed, “for me, from Carolynn and Robin. November is ‘Caregivers’ Month,'” I said. He didn’t question that. He doesn’t recognize that I’m his caregiver, and insists he doesn’t need one.

I put the flowers on the kitchen table. At dinner that evening he studied them. “Have those been there all along? You know, for months and months?”

“No, they came this morning.”

“Did I know that.”

I nodded.

Minutes later he asked again, then again, and again.

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2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest, second place, blog category.

Another good thing.

Periodically, over several years writing this blog, I’ve posted about the occasional “good things” that are a part of our dementia journey, my husband’s and mine. Another became apparent two days ago.

In addition to being totally flattened by the outcome of the presidential election, I was steamrolled by an intestinal bug. As we sat at the dinner table Friday evening, Peter started making silly faces at me. Apparently I was lost, thinking dark thoughts while waiting for him to finish his pork barbecue and cole slaw. It hadn’t taken me long to eat half a baked potato.

When he finally got my attention he asked, “What’s wrong?”

I’m sure I sighed. “Just thinking about the election,” I said.

He nodded. “What will happen?” he asked.

“I dunno’.” Another sigh.

“Do you think he’ll win?”‘

screen-shot-2016-11-13-at-1-21-34-pmWhat? Wait! Really? Admittedly, my English husband never got his U.S. citizenship, has never voted here, but didn’t he understand the election was over?  He did not. All my ranting and carrying on in recent months, the enormous photo of the president-elect on the front page Wednesday morning, the endless news reports I’d watched, us watching Secretary Clinton’s concession speech together, none of that had soaked in?

But see, that’s a good thing. He doesn’t remember while I wish I couldn’t.

 

The National Society of Newspaper Columnists contest winner, 2016 —
online, blog, & monthly under 100,000 unique visitors category.

 

Apples and pears…stairs.

Peter looked at the lunch I was fixing for myself, my usual apple, chunk of Cheddar cheese, glass of milk. “Where did you get the apple?” he asked.

I pointed to the old wooden bowl that has always occupied our kitchen, that is always filled with fruit, and the occasional veg.

“Oh, I didn’t know that was there.” He picked out a piece of fruit, came back to the sink and turned on the water.

“That’s a pear,” I said as he washed it off.

Instantly, he collapsed laughing, his face as red as the apple’s cheeks, eyes twinkling. He hugged me. “I know it’s a pear, silly. I’m not that far gone.” I laughed with him and savored the hug.

That far gone, no, but he is more and more confused by the day, less and less able to find words or remember the simplest things. Still, I was grateful for the moment, the laugh, and the hug!

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Fruit with acorn squash.

The National Society of Newspaper Columnists contest winner, 2016 —
online, blog, & monthly under 100,000 unique visitors category.

Trouble with a capital T rhymes with me!

My friend Bette made it a point to tell me she’d seen Peter at the grocery store recently. She figured I must be in the store somewhere, although she didn’t see me. Bette introduced herself to him because she knew he wouldn’t remember her name. His response was quick and so typical of him. “Don’t tell ‘anyone’ I’m here. I’ll be in trouble.”

Anyone meant me, of course.

She didn’t remember what day it was, but I figured it was probably the Tuesday he snuck out without telling me he was leaving, nor where he was going. When I realized he wasn’t here and that he had probably been gone well over an hour, I went looking. By the time I got home, he was back. “Where’ve you been?” he asked, greeting me at the door as if he’d been out looking for me.

“You didn’t tell you were going out,” I said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I didn’t know where I was going,” he said. “I just went for a walk.”

“Where?”

DSC01592He shook his head. “Can’t remember.…that was a long time ago.” He uses the “long time ago” line a lot in attempt to joke his way out of Trouble. His only Trouble would’ve been if he had gotten lost for real!

That evening I found a Hershey bar wrapper and deduced that he’d gone to Kroger’s.

Several days later someone else told me she’d seen Peter at Kroger’s and he seemed confused. She saw him leave and decided to call me — it was that same Tuesday. I didn’t see her voice mail until after he’d “found himself,” but it is comforting to know we have friends to help me keep track.

Screen Shot 2016-06-15 at 11.56.06 AMI am researching personal tracking devices. There are several types on the market, but he wouldn’t use any of them willingly, and I know he would find ways to “lose” them. He’s crafty that way.  I wish someone would come up with a microchip like veterinarians implant in dogs. The idea would make Peter laugh…I think that will be my little secret.

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Breadcrumbs?

 

The National Society of Newspaper Columnists contest winner, 2016 —
online, blog, & monthly under 100,000 unique visitors category.

Play the cards you’re dealt.

My husband has taken to putting decks of cards in order, by suit, probably related to his need to control anything he can, however unimportant the activity seems to me. This latest obsession was especially noticeable when we visited Carolynn and Bill for a week.

Carolynn and I had put two decks of cards, a pad and pencil on the picnic table under a tree before lunch. The two of us were ready for an afternoon of canasta, part of our ritual weeklong championship.

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After we ate, Peter picked the cards up and began to lay them out, face up. He shook his head and frowned. “How do you know which deck to use?” he asked.

“We use both decks.”

“But they’re alike.”

“Doesn’t matter. Canasta is played with two decks, plus the four jokers.”

He continued sorting. When he finished, he knocked each deck sharply against the table and slid them neatly into their boxes. Even though Carolynn and I shuffled them over and over, the first hand we played after he’d organized them wasn’t well mixed. After she won that game too, we gave the cards back to Peter to organize all over again. He was happy.

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The joke is on me because later, when I Googled “organizing cards,” thinking I might learn another tidbit about dementia, I discovered instead that people around the world engage in contests to determine who can organize cards the fastest.  A young Canadian man set a record set a few years ago when he sorted a pack of cards in 00:22.60. There were no jokers in his deck though.

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The National Society of Newspaper Columnists contest winner, 2016 —
online, blog, & monthly under 100,000 unique visitors category.

Photos: Safari wallpaper

We soldier on.

One of my husband’s culinary successes has always been perfect fried eggs. And one of his favorite meals is egg and chips. Nowdays it’s my fall-back meal when I’m too tired to cook, even though I’ve never been able to fry an egg. Take last night.

I got out the eggs, skillet, oil, plates for him. I put the frozen chips in the oven and called Peter to fix the eggs when the chips were nearly done.

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Egg and soldier.

I sat down to read for a few minutes, but his grumbling got me up to see what was wrong. “These eggs are no good,” he growled. “I can’t get them out.” He had an egg in his left hand and was trying to peel it with his right, as if it had been soft-boiled for soldiers.

“Shall I do it?” I asked and cracked another against the skillet. In the meantime, he dumped the raw egg he’d scrambled in its shell into the skillet too. Except for that one, my eggs were done perfectly — first time ever! — and the chips were as good as frozen ones ever are.

Afterwards he thanked me and said he enjoyed our little snack. “What’s for afters?” he asked.

“Applesauce.” He was blank. “Stewed apple,” I translated.

Lately I’ve been helping him clear up after we eat. He just can’t seem to manage the task anymore. But this was a simple meal, with just plates and silverware for the dishwasher and cookie sheet and skillet for the sink. I went to watch the news.

“How am I going to get this stuff off?” he yelled. He was poking at the submerged cookie sheet which appeared to be floating on an oil slick.

“What did you put in the water?” I asked. He didn’t know, but I suspect he either dumped in the canola oil out of the skillet, or poured some straight from the bottle in lieu of dishwashing liquid. “Did you put the Dawn in?”

“Didn’t know I was supposed to,” he said.

Deep breath. “You go have your tea. I’ll take care of this.” I sopped up as much as I could and hoped all that oil wouldn’t glom up the drain.

It didn’t, but this morning when I came downstairs, the eggs in the refrigerator were soft boiled. The fridge had gone on the fritz in the night and warmed to 70°.  Not a laughing matter.

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Glossary of English vs American terms:
His chips are our French fries (Crisps, btw, are potato chips)
His stewed apple is our applesauce
Soldiers are strips of crustless buttered toast, dunked into soft-boiled eggs, (pointy ends removed neatly), that are placed in an egg cup. Why “soldiers?” Don’t ask me, I’m an American.

The National Society of Newspaper Columnists contest winner, 2016 —
online, blog, & monthly under 100,000 unique visitors category.

Header photo: Frambled eggs, photo courtesy Epicurious.

Fish story.

A rank smell had permeated our basement for weeks. I couldn’t find the source so chalked it up to our muggy summer and a husband who refuses to let the dehumidifier run.

When we got back from ten days away, the odor, now thick as mud, impregnated my nose. I asked Peter to help track it down, but his sense of smell only extends to candles and perfume, both of which he dislikes intensely. I was on my own.

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“Welcome to Dementialand: Living, Loving and Laughing through Alzheimers and Related Dementias” is an informative blog by Elaine Eshbaugh, PhD. A gerontologist at University of Northern Iowa, her expertise centers on many things we caregivers need to know. She has written a series on how dementia changes the way individuals experience the world, one post about each of the five senses. “Smell” couldn’t have been more timely for me.

“Many people…notice that as they get older, they no longer detect smells like they [did] in the past. However, the change…for individuals with dementia is more severe and can even be dangerous.” Burning food and smoke, for example. “Smell has an important function for us,” she says. “…People with dementia may lose the ability to interpret certain smells as signs of danger.… Smoke alerts us to fire…that connection is eventually lost for people with dementia.”

Eshbaugh’s words reminded me that my husband’s grandfather, over ninety then, had nearly set his house on fire because he forgot he’d put the kettle on for tea. Not long after, Peter’s dad had to move the old fellow to a nursing  home, because of his own Parkinson’s. He could no longer look after his father. Peter burned up our electric kettle several months ago when he put it on the gas stove to boil. He didn’t smell it smoldering, and I, upstairs reading, didn’t either. The next morning when Peter picked up the kettle, chunks of plastic fell off the bottom. I realized what happened, but he didn’t. He had no memory of it and wondered why the kettle wouldn’t work.

“Smell also alerts us to spoiled food. … It doesn’t work that way for people as dementia progresses,”  Eshbaugh writes. “Keep in mind that our actions are based on how we experience the world. Dementia alters [that] by changing sensory perceptions. … And those experiences are based on what they do and do not taste, see, hear, touch, and smell.”

And that brings me back to our stinking basement.

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screen-shot-2016-10-05-at-12-19-25-pmThe mystery wasn’t solved by Friday evening and I was tired. I decided to fall back on a frozen pizza from the basement refrigerator. When I  opened the freezer a stench rolled out like a London fog, yet everything inside was solid. I opened the fridge door and gagged. Hm, something suspicious in the crisper drawer.

Ah-h, two formerly frozen packages of trout my friend John had brought us months ago. I’d planned to fix them one night, then changed my mind. I asked Peter to put them back in the freezer, but obviously, he’d put them in the fridge instead. I never thought to check, then or while I sleuthed.

Since he can’t smell anything, he got the task of triple-bagging the reeking fish, dousing them with baking soda, and trashing them.

Nancy Drew would have laughed at my noticeably lacking skills.


The National Society of Newspaper Columnists contest winner, 2016 —

online, blog, & monthly under 100,000 unique visitors category.

Caregivers’ resource: “Welcome to Dementialand: Living, Loving, and Laughing through Alzheimer’s and other Dementias,” Elaine Eshbaugh, Phd.

 

Do I know where I am?

Peter was unusually silent. “Something wrong?” I asked. I was driving along a narrow road so could only glance at him.

The silence lengthened. “Do I know where I am?” he said at last.

Whoa, what?  “Do you mean this instant, here, on this road?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we just left Carolynn and Bill…we’re heading home…we’ll soon be in Waterville…” I paused to see if my words rang his bell. “Remember last week, on the way here, we had to stop for a parade in Waterville?”

Nothing.

I thought back to that Saturday. The long drive north had been uneventful until we got to Waterville (pop. 1,548), where we were blocked by a parade longer than the main thoroughfare. Stuck, twenty minutes away from Carolynn’s front door. I fumed, but Peter said, “It’s a pretty day. We’ve got time.”

“But I want to be there, not sitting here.” 

Forty minutes later we were zooming along the downhill drive to — whoops — Road Closed and Detour signs. “OK, I know how to get there from here, I used to bike along this road.” Several miles later I turned left onto another favorite bicycling road. “Do you remember? We used to ride along here a lot.”

Peter sighed. “You seem to know your way around.”

“We lived here seventeen years!”

“You did. I didn’t.”

A right at the next stop sign, then a quick left and we were on their street. “You sure know your way around,” Peter said again.

“We lived here seventeen years!

“I didn’t,” he insisted.

When I turned into their drive, he sat up straight and smiled. “I didn’t know we were coming here!” His eyes sparkled and when Carolynn and their two Westies ran toward us he chuckled. He knew where he was.

I laughed. “I’ve told you for weeks we were coming to see them…”

“I. Didn’t. Know.”

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Bill and Peter in front of a rock-hugging tree.

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Big Guy and/or It.

Throughout our visit, his usual confusion at being away from home eased a bit. After a couple of nights he was able to get from our bedroom to the bathroom and back without going into their room or Carolynn’s office. He didn’t even try to remember Duffy’s or Lily’s names, calling them instead “Big Guy” and/or “It.” He didn’t understand how to use the Wii remote to play golf or bowl with Bill, but he had fun trying. He could still keep track of the dominos played and plan moves accordingly. Bill took him fishing, golfing, and shopping; Carolynn and I took him to the farm stand; I took him to the Polish butcher and past our old house. He remembered the butcher, but had no memory of living in that house. It does look quite different — terrible — minus the two enormous maple trees in front.

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Bill, Lily and Duffy follow Peter around Moss Lake as if he knows the way.

But now, headed south again, Peter had asked if he knew where he was. I reminded him of all the things we’d done, his outings with Bill, our hike in the Adirondacks with the dogs. He shook his head. “Sorry, I just don’t remember.”

But I do. I remember a visit special for the girl-time with Carolynn and her friend Robin, a visit with friend Lisa, time off from caregiving thanks to Bill taking charge, and the laughs. Always the laughs.

I won’t forget.


The National Society of Newspaper Columnists contest winner, 2016 —

online, blog, & monthly under 100,000 unique visitors category.

Left? Right. Left. Wrong!

We were having lunch at Lefty’s. As always, Peter looked at the menu, then at me and asked, “What do I usually have?”

imagesAs always, I said, “You can have something different.” It does absolutely no good to encourage him to try other things on Lefty’s or any other restaurant’s menu. I looked up at the large blackboard where daily specials are posted. “Oh, look, pork BBQ burger, yum! I’ll bet that’s good.”

Peter looked at the board. “No, I’ll have what I usually have…” His eyes asked the question again.

“A Lefty’s burger with fries then?” I’d already settled on a turkey reuben, my favorite, or I would have had the special myself. So much for branching out from “the usual.”

Later, while waiting for the check, Peter looked at the blackboard again. “Pork BBQ burger,” he said. “That sounds good. I should have ordered that.”

I sputtered. “I tried to get you to have it, but you wouldn’t.”

“Pfff, never saw the sign.”

I raised my left eyebrow at him. “It’s just like when we traveled in England,” I said. “You drove and I navigated. Every time we came to an intersection or a roundabout you’d ask which way. If I said ‘left,’ you’d turn ‘right.’ I’d insist, ‘left,’ and you’d say ‘wrong.'” Peter was confused. “In other words, no matter what direction I said, you thought I was wrong, so you’d turn the opposite way. I never did learn that I should have said ‘right’ when I mean ‘left.’ We’d have gotten where we were going a lot quicker, and with less fuss.”

A smile tempted his lips. He didn’t remember specifically the time lost on tiny English lanes, but down deep, he knew what I meant.

Continuing my argument, I said, “So my point is, an hour ago, if I’d looked at the list of specials and said, ‘Ew-w, yuck, pork BBQ burger’ sounds awful,’ you would have ordered it.

“No-o, I didn’t see it,” he insisted.

Ri-i-ight.
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The National Society of Newspaper Columnists contest winner, 2016 —
online, blog, & monthly under 100,000 unique visitors category.