Just call me Lipton and pour the hot water.

Early in Peter’s the long journey, people warned me, Take care of yourself, take it easy, don’t wear yourself out. They were right, but I didn’t take their advice.

Several months ago, I added more hours to Peter’s two helpers’ schedules to give myself some time off. With those hours I run errands without worrying about getting home to Peter who can’t be on his own for more than a few minutes at a time. Really, he can’t be on his own for any time at all. And I’ve been able to schedule massages every other week, or go to the bookstore and sit with coffee and a new book for a whole hour.

I’ve wondered, how long can I continue doing this 24/7? What would happen to Peter if something catastropic happened to me?  He couldn’t live alone and he would make life miserable for himself and a caregiver without me as a buffer. Carolynn and Leslie have always said they’d take turns taking care of one or both of us. I know they mean it, and they would do it too, but at what cost to them? These are the kinds of questions that keep me awake nights.

I’ve known for months what I must do, but I played ostrich. I should have done my research, should have put my husband’s name on lists. The multiple choice answers to my question include Assisted Living? Nursing Home? Memory Care? Private Care Home? Additional Care at Home?

When it comes down to it, assisted living is what Peter has now. I assist. In any case, he would not qualify now — he is cognitively impaired, he wanders, and he’s close to late-stage Alzheimer’s.

Nursing homes conjure thoughts of elderly residents parked at the nurse’s station in wheelchairs. No thank you. He doesn’t need nursing care, he needs loving care.

Additional in-home care would likely expand quickly to ’round-the-clock. It may yet come to that, but that would be the last resort. My husband is uncomfortable, always has been, with too many people around, and I’m a loner too.

What about a “memory care” unit at a nursing home, I wondered? Six weeks ago, when I began to scribble thoughts for this post, I wrote, …no need yet for that level of care.

That was six weeks ago.

Since then, my emotions and any rational ideas I might have had have tossed in my head like wet blankets in a malfunctioning dryer — around and around, flip and flop, toss and turn.

After Peter’s accident four weeks ago (two previous posts) I understood what my friend Lourie meant — she has faced these questions too — when she said, “You’ll just know when it’s the right time…” to put him into care. Or when Karen, owner of a caregiving service, said, “Remember, you ‘have Alzheimer’s’ too. You have to choose what is best for Pete, and for yourself.” And I took comfort from something gerontology professor Dr. Elaine Eshbaugh wrote in a blog, “You are just a person — doing the best you can under circumstances that aren’t great. And you’re not alone.”  Others I begged answers from had similar thoughts — don’t feel guilty and don’t let anyone tell you what to do unless they’ve walked in your shoes.

So, after Peter fell on his face, literally, I was smacked in the face figuratively. I had not done my homework and I was not prepared  for the awful days that followed. Somehow, in the swirl of emotions, I thought of respite care, something I hadn’t even considered before. Leslie went with me to visit likely facilities. Respite seemed like the right answer for the short term. Rescue for both of us. Peter would get good care in a more pleasant setting than I would have imagined, and I could put my crumbled self back together again.

I started the process, I talked to family and friends and all agreed it was a good idea. They knew Peter’s state was precarious after his accident, and how exhausted I was. Then, then, Peter’s awful journey changed course. He morphed into the person he was several years ago, before his brain was ravaged by rampant plaques and neuro-tangles

Again my own brain tumbled with conflicting thoughts, but after further counsel from friends, I put respite care on hold. Our life is now paused in that blissful place where romance first bloomed.

A delay was the right thing to do.

“A woman is like a tea bag — you can’t tell how strong she is
until you put her 
in hot water.”  Eleanor Roosevelt

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‘I believe that tomorrow is another day & I believe in miracles.

Three weeks ago my husband’s already steep downward trajectory propelled him to a crash-landing in a muddy ditch — “The second worst day of  my life so far” The ten days following were worse, but then darned if a miracle didn’t happen.

Cruel disease that Alzheimer’s is, I know this upward swing won’t last, but I’ll enjoy it while it does. Peter can’t put his feelings into words,  but I see the twinkle in his eyes again.

Several things happened to precipitate the miracle…series of miracles really. First, ten days ago, his feet slipped out from under him while he was trying to get dressed in his closet. That doesn’t sound like a good thing, but it was.

Until that day, he’d been barricading himself in the closet. Not by locking the door, rather by pulling out a drawer in the built-in dresser, thus jamming the door. He did not want me to help him get dressed no matter how long it took him. “What if you had a heart attack or a stroke or something? I wouldn’t be able to help.” I said. He snarled. Later I removed the drawers and hid them.

But that day, with no barricade and him flat on the floor, I was able to shove my way in by using the door to push him out of the way. I couldn’t lift him though, and he couldn’t get up by himself. I grabbed a towel from the laundry basket, Peter shifted his bum onto it, and I pulled him across the floor to a chair. He managed by himself then.

When he fell, I think he jarred something in his brain back into place. After we both rested for a bit, I told him he smelled like road kill on a July day, and he needed to shower. Once clean — I did wait outside the door to help if need be — he came downstairs hungry for the first time in ten days. He ate his usual big lunch and was hungry again two hours later. He was actually quite chipper!

That evening, Carolynn and Bill arrived to help us for a week and, not incidentally, celebrate Peter’s eightieth birthday. He perked up when they arrived, though he grumbled that I hadn’t told him about their visit.

From that day to this, his “Parkinson’s shuffle” ceased and he began to walk almost normally. He goes up and down the stairs easily, still holding the bannister, but not with the two-handed white-knuckle grip like before. Once again, his steely determination prevailed, and his clenched-teeth warnings, Leave-me-alone. I-can-do-it-myself, were validated.

There were a lot of laughs at his new normal, but none more so than his telling Carolynn and Bill over and over about the times he hitchhiked in big trucks to get up and down I-81 or back to college in England. The story varied as often as he told it.

He was surprised by his birthday, didn’t realize he’d reached 80, nor that the pile of presents were for him. He kept us in stitches while he opened them. The family gave him thoughtful things he enjoys and cards he looks at every day. I, ever practical, told him the accessible toilet Bill and Martin installed was a present from me. He was pleased. In addition to a selection of tiny  French pastries in lieu of carrot cake which he no longer likes, I gave him a fake cactus similar to the type he raised years ago. He thinks it’s real and waters it several times a day. If it were real, it would have drowned by now. Makes me a laugh to see the puddle and gives him something to do. I don’t remind him it’s plastic.

Most miraculous of all, he calls me “Luv” again the way he used to do. He gives me hugs and kisses, about 23 so far, and murmurs, “What would I do without you?”

I’ve thought about that, but I don’t dwell on the possible answers. For now, I’ll hang onto an Audrey Hepburn quote for as long as I can: “I believe that tomorrow is another day & I believe in miracles.”

Header: The fake cactus looks as real as the real begonia nearby.

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The second worst day of my life so far.

A policeman stood at the door.”Afternoon, ma’m,” he said. “Does your husband walk a big white dog?” I nodded. “He’s had a fall. An ambulance is on the way.” I grabbed the door to hold myself up and he added quickly, “He’s all right, but they’ll take him to the hospital as a precaution.”

“Come in and lock the door behind you!” I yelled, while I ran to turn the stove off, grab my purse, and dash out the side door. “Your dog is OK, too,” he said as he followed me through the house. “He’s right beside your husband. Another policeman will bring him home.”

Peter had fallen — face-planted — into a shallow ditch less than a block from our house. It had rained all day, the ditch was running. I’d fastened his GPS watch around his wrist before he and Nobby left.  Minutes later, I saw that he’d taken the watch off, defying me as he does, and left it the kitchen. If a passer-by hadn’t seen him and called 911 I would have had no way to find him when he didn’t return. It could have been worse.

But “worse” was yet to come.

A second policeman — the same one, incidentally, who helped find Peter last summer when he got lost — took me to the ambulance. He was already on the gurney when I climbed in behind him. He turned his battered, muddy face toward me and said, “Uh oh, now I’m in trouble.” The EMTs laughed. He kept them entertained all the way to the hospital.

In the ER he kept up his joking to the amusement of the various people attending to him.  When two young female aides left the room, one said, “Oh, he’s so cute!”


His right hand suffered the worst physical damage — a wide, deep gash required stitches to hold his tissue-like skin together. Numerous other bumps and abrasions punctuated his upper body and knees, including a goose egg and black eye that bloomed later. As I gathered up his bloodied, muddied clothes he said, “S’OK, those will come clean.” Nuh unh, I thought. Not enough Oxy-Clean in the world to get that out.

Peter’s hands and face had been cleaned up by the time the ER doc returned to stitch his hand. “Oh, you’re quite handsome under all that dirt,” she said.

He grinned. “I’ll have to do it again then.”

Turns out, those few hours in the ER were the easiest of the next two weeks. He was understandably confused that Sunday evening, but the next day he awoke a different person. In the next few days he aged ten years.

From the start he remembered nothing about his fall, not that he would, and his few previous memories were erased too. He insisted all along that he didn’t hurt anywhere, though he must have, but his gait was stiff, and he shuffled as if he’d suddenly developed Parkinson’s. He struggled mightily to get out of his chair, even with a cane. He refused my help angrily, viciously, so unlike the man I married. He became argumentative and unreasonable in ways that he’s never been. He had no appetite, strange for him, and he slept soundly twelve or more hours a night. “I’ve nothing else to do,” he said. The Olympics’ coverage saved us.

Help dressing or undressing? “NO, I don’t need you.” Yet it took him twenty minutes to pull one sock off, and forty minutes, with my unwanted assistance, to get up the stairs to bed.

A physical therapist will assess him soon, there’ll be additional lab work to rule out other issues — the urine-analysis showed no UTI so the “hope” that spurred is gone. I may hire additional help, or may go to a nursing home solution. In the meantime, our sons-in-law have made the downstairs more accessible. Moving a bed down is a possibility.

Peter went from being a whisker shy of his eightieth birthday 18 days ago, to looking and acting as if he were ninety.

Still, not all news is bad news. Between the time of my previous post and now, he turned a corner. His dogged determination and bloody stubbornness, that usually makes me tear my hair, has instead helped him rally. He’s not back to where he was before, and never will be, but he’s so much better. But then, anything would be an improvement from the blood, rain and mud drenched man the ambulance crew hauled out of that ditch on February 11.

Header photo: In the ambulance, Peter regaled the EMTs with his patter . From the back, he looks unscathed.

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Oh! My funny Valentine!

Valentine’s Day! Chocolates and cupids, hugs and kisses, champagne and…more champagne. Right?

Not so much around here these past three days. Still, I believe firmly that no matter how very bad things get, there’s always a bright side, always a laugh hidden somewhere amidst the crumpled tissues.

Yesterday, after hours at the doctor’s office, a laugh presented itself that had me giggling all the way home.

[Sometime in the next week, I’ll write a post about the second worst day of my life so far, but for now, this is the laugh that made yesterday tolerable.]

I’d taken Peter to see Dr. T for a follow-up to, um, what happened Sunday. Suspecting a possible UTI (urinary tract infection), at the end of the consultation Peter was ushered to the restroom to provide a specimen…you know…pee in a bottle.

I sat in a chair at the side of the lab to wait. And wait. When the nurse walked around the corner I asked if he was still in there? I thought maybe he was out of my line of sight waiting for lab results or maybe they were drawing blood too.

She nodded a bit frantically. “Should I try to get him out?” she asked.

“Yes, or I will if you want,” I said. I got up and walked into the lab just after she knocked on the toilet door. Peter popped out holding a nearly overflowing cup. There was something in his other hand and he had a silly look on his face as he walked toward me.

“Are you OK?” I asked. “What’s in your hand?”

He showed me. Although he couldn’t explain — words fail him most of then time these days — apparently he’d been waiting for someone to tell him to come out, so he’d amused himself by folding paper towels into hats.

OMG, how I laughed! If ever there was a time for bathroom humor this was it.

Header photo: Peter’s paper hat or maybe it was his attempt to make me a Valentine?

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Be careful what you wish for.

Faithful readers will know that I’ve carried on for months about my husband’s constant abuse/misuse of his PAL Search & Locate GPS watch. Almost from the first day six months ago he figured out how to get it off.  He used brute strength to force the supposedly secure clasp to release.

“Ooo-o, you are strong,” I might’ve said, batting my eyes to make him laugh at my use of his old joke. But I didn’t say it, nor did I laugh.

I nagged endlessly, trying everything I could think of to get him to leave the darned thing on until I took it off. He wasn’t bothered by how much it cost nor that I’d had to order a new clasp. When I explained I just wanted to keep him safe, to have a way locate him if he got lost again, he tutted and argued that he was safe and he did not get lost.

By chance, the situation resolved itself. One evening, just after the holidays, I noticed that he had not only removed the GPS watch, he’d also removed the watch I’d given him for Christmas several years ago. Both were on the table beside his chair. I picked them up, put the high tech one in the charger on my desk, and lay the trusty Timex nearby.  Then I forgot about them.

The next morning when he was getting ready to take Nobby for his walk, I remembered. Without really thinking about it, I put the GPS one on his left wrist. He didn’t grumble at all, nor did he ask about his “real” watch. He wore his GPS “pal” all day, and in the evening he held his wrist up for me to remove the thing properly.

He’s done that ever since. He doesn’t remember his other watch, and doesn’t seem to mind wearing the chunky one.

A frustrating problem solved serendipitously.

You’d think I’d be happy or at least relieved, but I’m not. He’s forgotten what was such a  monumental grievance for both of us. Another step down the down staircase.

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Do you hear what I hear?

Peter and I were getting ready for bed. “I’ve lost me wallet and me keys,” he said. He patted his pockets to confirm his fears.

Peter sleeps.

“You had them earlier,” I said. He loses them so often that I’m immune to his panics. “Let’s go to bed. They’ll show up in the morning.”  Uncharacteristically, he gave up his search. He was as tired as I was, even thought he’d slept most of the four hour drive to Ohio.

We were there for grandson Miah’s graduation from Hocking College. The night before, eleven of us had celebrated with an excellent and jubilant dinner, followed by the ceremony Saturday morning. We ate lunch at place I’d frequented during my years at Ohio University, followed by a campus tour where I recognized only the oldest parts of campus and, later, pizza and a movie. Way more goings-on than Peter and I have in a week, much less a weekend.

Sunday morning, as we rushed to get ready to meet the family for breakfast, Peter patted his pockets again. “I’ve lost me wallet and me keys.”

“Coffee first, then we’ll look.” The strange locale, unfamiliar lodging, and hectic pace had muddled my already muddled husband even more.

At breakfast I mentioned the “losses” to Martin. He was positive Peter had them the previous evening.

“I’ll help you find them after we say goodbye to Miah,” he said. Suddenly, simultaneously, we  said, ‘trackers.’ Didn’t you put one on Peter’s keychain?” Martin asked.


“Do you remember the password?” Martin was doubtful.

“Ha! Yes.”


A TrackR™ is an inexpensive gadget I bought to supplement the very expensive GPS/watch, PAL, that Peter hates. PAL (protect and locate) helps me to find him if he decides to take another five-hour walk away from home or gets lost on a short walk. He refuses to wear it inside; so far though, he hasn’t taken it off outside. In fact, he shouldn’t be able to remove it at all. The locking mechanism — I have the “key” — is foolproof, supposedly. It is not, however, engineer proof. He can and does remove it when he gets back from walking Nobby, but often “loses” it in the house. Hence, two 50-cent-sized TrackRs, one attached to his keys, one to Nobby’s collar.

So, there we were after breakfast, Martin holding my phone, already paired with the TrackR app, as we listened for the shrill beep.

“I hear it!” Martin said.

“I hear it!” Peter said.

“Hear it, Judy?” Martin asked.

“No-o.” (The one drawback to TrackR is, I cannot hear the beep, although I can locate it with my phone.)

“Bathroom,” Martin yelled. We crowded into the tiny space, laughing because there was nothing there except tub, toilet, two wet towels…and us.

“No, out by the sink,” Martin said. Nope.

“The bed.” Peter pulled the covers up and shook them. Nothing.

“The sound is right here,” Martin said, “so close. Where is the darned thing?”

“Wait, what’re we looking for?” Peter asked.

Martin and I were dumbfounded. “Your keys. Your wallet.”

“These?” he said, holding his keys up.

We howled.

“Where’s your wallet then?” Martin asked.

“Here,” Peter said. He pulled it out of his pocket. We’d never thought to check his pockets again because…well…because. When and where he found them we don’t know. We do know why he didn’t remember he’d “lost” them: he simply can’t remember anything.

It felt good to laugh uncontrollably after two-months with nothing to laugh at. Side-splitting hilarity was the perfect end to a fun-filled, celebratory weekend.

Header: Family and friends,Samantha, Kenna, Lucas, Leslie, Miah, Caitlyn, Martin, me, Peter, Mason, and Tim.

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Found: missing ho, ho, ho’s.

As the days get shorter, so does my husband’s ability to remember anything — anything — for longer than a few seconds. My ability to laugh through tears has faded with the waning year. Peter’s downward skid is out-of-control, a luge slider run amok.

Even though my journalistic conscience has prodded me to write a post, I’ve been too tired, exhausted really, to come up with anything that would fit my charter: to search out laughs to ease the dementia-clouded days.

Last week, finally, some blog-worthy chuckles presented themselves. I’d combined a trip to Roanoke for our annual  Christmas lunch with having my car serviced at the dealership. Turned out to be a very long day. We did a little shopping, had a lovely lunch at Montano’s and even shared a slice of carrot cake for dessert. Afterwards, we headed to the dealer for a recommended oil change and a quick tweak to my car’s “Eyesight” feature.

“Quick” it was not. What I thought would be an hour’s wait turned into more than three. It was a comfortable enough, pleasant room with free snacks and a TV. I’d taken a book. Peter huffed and wiggled and made endless cups of coffee.  After some time, he asked, “What are you here for?”

“Just service,” I said.

“When will they call you in?”

“What do you mean?”

“When will you see the doctor?” he asked, waving his arms at the other people waiting.

“I’m not waiting for a doctor,” I laughed, “my car is getting checked!”

“Well I didn’t know,” he mumbled, adding, “then why are we waiting?”

“Because we need the car to get home,” I said. “Long walk from here.”

He went back to the old magazine he’d looked at several times. Before long, he asked, “What are you here for?”

I laughed again, explained again, and then again.

Shave and a haircut.

The next day I ginned up a “therapeutic fib” to get my reluctant husband to a barber for a much needed beard trim and shave, plus attention to anything else that needed doing from his neck up. (The day before, I’d tried to lure him into a barber near Montano’s, but he dug in his heels at the door like a five-year-old going for his first haircut. He would not budge.)

This day I made an appointment.

I faked a note from Leslie to encourage Peter to cooperate and asked his Thursday helper, Mark, to give the card to Peter and say Leslie wanted him to get spruced up — he’ll do whatever she tells him to do. Mark endured the barber shop trip in my stead and took photos for me.

Pete spiffed

Afterwards Peter looked quite spiffy with his beard trimmed neatly, neck shaved, eyebrows tamed. I praised him lavishly, but he was confused. “What are you on about?” he asked, irritated.

“Your hair! Your beard! You look terrific,” I said.

He had no clue why I was gushing — he hates gushing. For all his grumbling, he’d dozed right off in the chair and awakened well groomed, without even knowing anything had happened.



Header: Peter sleeps in barber’s chair.

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To bed, perchance to sleep.

The visiting nurse has always asked the same questions of Peter. I have to answer for him and I nearly always say the same things: Yes, his health is good, yes, his appetite is fine, no, no joint aches, no incontinence, and definitely no trouble sleeping. The man lays himself down and is asleep instantly.

In the past year though, I’ve modified my answer to that question because he started having nightmares. Sometimes he yells, sometimes he talks, but the worst times are when he swings his arms as if punching someone, or kicks with with bruising force.

Of course that disturbs his sleep, although it doesn’t seem to affect him the next morning and he certainly doesn’t remember his nighttime carrying on. He goes right back to sleep; me, not so much.

We’ve always been territorial about our pillows. In fact, Peter is so possessive of his that I put an old, colored case underneath the fresh ones each week, so our pillows don’t get mixed up accidentally. There’s not much chance I would do that anyway. His pillows could be bags of cement; mine could be flattened geese, they’re that lifeless.

About a year ago Peter decided he didn’t need two pillows any more. Each night he placed one pillow on the floor on his side of the bed. He did that for months until I decided to take one when I went to bed to use as a bolster against my back and, not incidentally, as a foil for the frequent nightly soccer goals he scores when he kicks viciously in my direction.

That worked for months.

Then one night I was awakened from a sound sleep when Peter came to bed. Usually he’s very quiet, but that time he yanked away  the pillow I’d pilfered months before. I grumbled but drifted off again. In the morning, his reclaimed pillow was on the floor, smoothed and neat, on his side of the bed.

Yesterday morning I slept late for me — 7:15 — but I lay dozing for a few minutes when, suddenly, Peter sat up, threw his arms in the air, yelled, and fell on the floor with a crash. Had he scored a goal for Fulham in his sleep? I ran to his side of the bed, sure he’d broken a bone or gashed his head. No such drama except for his colorful language.

He climbed into bed and went to sleep at once. Later, he didn’t remember falling nor if he’d been playing football in his dreams. I hadn’t noticed the cut above his elbow earlier, but when he complained of blood running down his arm, I showed him proof of his fall. He insisted I’d shoved him out of bed.

Laugh? Might as well.


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Knock, knock. Knock, knock. Knock, knock. Knock, knock.

Knock, knock. “Who’s there?” I yelled. Oh no, I thought. It was 10:30 and I was in the shower, rushing to get ready to run an errand before I met friends by 11:30 for lunch. 

“Where are the keys to my car?” Peter asked from outside the door. He hasn’t driven for years, but Bill had arrived to take him and Nobby for their weekly nursing home/ therapy dog visit.

“Black chair in the dining room,” I hollered. I didn’t think he’d remember that by the time he got downstairs and he didn’t. 

Knock, knock. “Where are the keys to the car?”

“Black chair. Dining room. Orange ribbon tied on the key.”

By the next knock knock I was toweling off. Peter cracked the door to ask, again, “Where are the keys to the car?”

“Peter-r! Black chair. Dining room. Orange ribbon…,” I said, “but wait!” I had a brilliant idea. I grabbed a pad of paper off the nightstand and wrote black chair, dining room, orange ribbon. “There you go,” I said.

Minutes later, he was back holding my keys in his outstretched hand. “These?” he asked.

Argh-h. “No! C’mon, I’ll go with you.” I wrapped my robe around me, ran downstairs to the black chair in the dining room and picked up the key with the orange ribbon. “Here,” I said as I handed them over.

“Oh-h, I didn’t look there,” he said.

By then, I didn’t have enough time to go order the new refrigerator I’d been researching for weeks and that we’d needed for months. Instead, I went directly to the restaurant and vented to my friends about my morning. Of course they laughed, but I could’t, not then. By the time lunch was over I’d convinced myself I could place the fridge order the next day. It would be fine.

Thursday I managed to get out of the house with just enough time to take care of the order before an appointment. But I was a day too late take delivery the next week. Now it’ll be the end of November. Santa Claus will be knocking on the door by then. 

These days the ho, ho, ho’s are harder to come by, but still I look…

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Doris who?
Doris locked, that’s why I’m knocking.

He was polite.
Too polite.
He knocked before he opened the fridge door.

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Amanda who?
Amanda fix the refrigerator.



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There were thirteen from our group of  twenty-seven at lunch last week. We usually cause quite a ruckus, chattering and laughing the way ladies who lunch do. Wednesday was no different.

At one end of the table, four of the six of us talked about dementia, more specifically the dreaded “A” word, Alzheimer’s Disease.  What I’m experiencing with my husband now is only one view of what others have experienced with their loved ones.

After I got home I tried to remember how many of the thirteen had been, or still are, on the same one-way road I’m on. Seven! Seven out of those thirteen women have cared for, suffered with, and lost or are losing mothers, sisters, aunts, brothers, husbands. Three more in our larger group are affected in one way or another, too.

There’s no laugh in this post today nor in any of the grim statistics that fall under the umbrella of dementia. But there are these thoughts about the importance of laughter from the Central California Chapter Alzheimer’s Association newsletter:

“There is nothing humorous about dementia. However, laughter can help dementia caregivers and improve the quality of life for those afflicted by the disease. Studies show that laughter boosts the immune system and triggers the release of pleasure-inducing neurochemicals in the brain. In terms of dementia-specific benefits, the greatest advantage of humor is that it provides sufferers with much needed mental stimulation. Humor challenges our loved ones to engage their minds as fully as possible [and] it’s also an effective tool for keeping social links active and reducing…paranoia and agitation that many […dementia patients struggle with.]

— Marcy Oswald, MFTI, Education & Care Specialist


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