Magic pills? Wonder drugs? Snake oil?

Posted on February 2, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Caregiver, Dementia, Experts say, Sickness & Health

She’s his advocate, his ears, his caregiver. She’s an attractive blonde, late forties perhaps, who takes care of her father in a new tv commercial. They look alike and maybe they’re really related. Perhaps it isn’t a made-for-tv reenactment.

The spot promotes Namenda (memantine hydrochloride) XR, a medication long prescribed for people with moderate to severe Alzheimer’s. The new extended release (XR) version, with seven additional milligrams of the active ingredients, offers once-a-day convenience. Used in combination with another commonly prescribed drug, Aricept (acetylcholinesterase inhibitor, AChEl), the two may keep symptoms from worsening, at least for a while.

This is one of those commercials that urges you to ask your doctor about this drug for your loved one. An announcer gives the laundry list of side effects: nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, constipation, loss of appetite, dizziness, tiredness, weight loss, swelling in hands or feet, fast heart rate, easy bruising or bleeding, unusual weakness, joint pain, anxiety, aggression, skin rash, redness or swelling around eyes, or urinating more than usual. Makes you wonder why you’d want something that might add to your loved one’s misery. Frankly, I think all those “ask your doctor” commercials should be banned, but that’s a post for another day.

Peter has taken both drugs for more than five years with no side effects. His neurologist asked recently if I thought the meds were helping. “How would I know?” I said. She shrugged.

The commercial oozes warm fuzzies. We see the concerned, loving daughter, her young children, and her sweet-faced father who is included in their activities, but who seems vacant, absent. “All my life he’s taken care of me,” she tells us, adding that it’s her turn to take care of him.

All well and good, and we love her for her dedication. But, jeez, am I alone in wondering why we never see the caregiver’s frustration? Neither medication is a cure. The best science can do is slow the disease for a while.

And what can science do for caregivers? Is there a magic pill for us?

If a camera were mounted in a corner at our house, it would record smiles, yes, and silly laughter, but it would also record heated talk, lip-biting, teeth-gnashing, hair-pulling, and tears behind slammed doors. The camera would see me trying to read, uninterrupted, for fifteen minutes. It would see someone else cooking, cleaning, making appointments, counting out pills, and making endless cups of tea to sooth upsets, his and mine.

Oh yes, I know there is help for some of those tasks, but I can’t—won’t, not yet—delegate most of them. Our wedding vows weren’t the traditional ones, but I did, “…promise to honor and tenderly care for you…through all the changes of our lives.”

A camera would also see the occasional enveloping hug, and Peter asking, as he always does, “What would you do without me?” At my eyebrow-raised, tilted-head glance, he would change his question to, “I mean, what would I do without you?”

And, as we always do, we’d laugh at his little joke. Truth is, I often don’t know what to do without him.

Header photo: Peter and I at river’s edge, 2014.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Memory loss associated with Alzheimer’s reversed for first time

Posted on January 29, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Experts say, Problems, Sickness & Health

I found this post on Mark Wheeler’s “Seven Spheres” blog. I’m forever reading about all the facets of this huge umbrella under which we live — dementia. I grasp at any straw. The fact is that Peter is nearly 77, set as solidly in his ways as if he were cast in cement, and stubborn to boot. I’d love to try the methods described in this article, but I don’t think he’d go along with it, nor would I have the strength or patience to keep prodding. But by reblogging Wheeler’s post here, I hope at least some of my caregiving followers can glean help from his words and the research behind them.

Guess who’s the top banana in our house?

Posted on January 23, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Laughter

At nearly 76, overripe and brown-spotted, I didn’t know that another symptom of advancing years, mine at least, is that I can no longer eat a big apple, for instance, or a large burger, and I certainly can’t eat a whole banana these days.

This morning I guillotined a banana right through its yellow-green jacket and sliced half onto a small bowl of granola. At lunch, I plopped the remaining banana half onto my husband’s plate along with his usual two-and-a-half pastrami sandwiches, carrot, pile of crisps, and hunk of Cheshire cheese.

My lunch was two pieces of cold pizza, just the toppings, no crust.

Peter ate everything except for the banana. It was still reclining across his plate, yellow peel draped elegantly across the cut end.

“Eat your banana,” I said.

“I did,” he replied.

“No, it’s still there. Look.”

He lifted the peel and peeked inside. “I hate half of it!” he protested.

“No, I ate half of it. I gave you the rest.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t eat a whole banana anymore.”

“There’s only half here.”

“Yes,” I said, “that’s the half I couldn’t eat. I put it there for you.”

“How am I supposed to remember that? That’s ancient history. I finished eating five minutes ago.”

I laughed.

“I’ll eat it later.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said. “You’ll forget.”

“Forget what?” he asked. And he wasn’t kidding.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Always something new to remind him.

Posted on January 18, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Helpful hints, Laughter, tears, Remember

A bubble flood in our kitchen several years ago started a sticky note tide in our house. That sudsy event showed me that I needed to be more vigilant. It was time, past time really, to attach little reminders around the house for Peter. First were the under-kitchen-sink soaps. Then came notes on certain light switches, followed by color-coding to match keys to doors — red for one set, purple for another.

Soon, tv remote, wastebaskets, dog food bag, garbage disposal switch, bottle of hand soap, toothbrushes all had instructions stuck on or near them.

A small dry erase board propped near the coffee maker each morning announces the day, date, and year with reminders about activities and appointments for that day. Several years ago I tried an extra large calendar for Peter to fill in, but he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do it. Calendars were useless, he complained. In truth, in years past when he wanted to keep track of things or plan a trip for instance, he did an engineering timeline. Fair enough, I never understood his timelines anymore than he understood calendar squares.

Now, once again, a large calendar resides on the kitchen counter. Difference is, I fill in the spaces and I outline significant dates in red — birthdays, Valentine’s day, Christmas, our anniversary. Waste of red ink, that idea.

Every few days Peter asks if I need something from Kroger’s. He’s always liked grocery shopping and he can walk there with purpose and, more importantly, he doesn’t get lost. I give him a little sticky note, even if there’s only one thing on it. Three items are his limit, but even so, most of the time he doesn’t remember he’s got a list and will come home with an odd assortment he thinks we might need — yogurt, a few bananas, a Hershey bar. He always insists the latter must have fallen into his bag because he certainly didn’t buy it. I laugh at the thought of all those Hershey bars jumping onto the check-out conveyor and sliding into his bag.

Now, I’ve started putting bright notes inside some of the kitchen cupboards to remind him where certain things go. The salad spinner for instance. I use it several times a week. It lives conveniently in the cabinet to the left of the sink. Peter always empties the dishwasher, but lately he’s started stashing the spinner wherever he sees an empty space — in the cupboard where seldom used things reside, or maybe in the laundry room pantry. When I’m fixing dinner I do not want to look all over to find this essential tool. One day I’ll break something with all the door- and drawer-banging that accompanies my searc

I do know that washing lettuces for a tossed salad is significantly less of a problem for me than trying to cope with his tossed mind is for Peter. I try to keep that thought in my mind when I get frustrated with him over something so silly as a salad spinner.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Is it over easy?

Posted on January 13, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Family, Laughter

Here’s a laugh without tears as per my New Year’s resolution. It’s a memory from a hot sunny day to counteract the miserable, icy January scene outside my window.

Vacations on North Carolina’s Outer Banks, or other spots along the Atlantic coast, have been family favorites for years. Well, favorites for all except my husband. Peter doesn’t really enjoy the beach, but he can be lured with a good breakfast first — part of our tradition. One diner we stopped at had a long, varied menu. Peter, as usual, didn’t have his glasses, though he insisted he could read the fine print. Nonetheless he kept asking the table at large, “What do I want?” as he so often does anymore.

“Order your usual,” I said. He nodded and continued squinting at the menu.

When the young waiter returned, the rest of us ordered quickly, but Peter looked at me and asked again, “What do I want?”

Leslie and I grinned at each other and, in unison, recited, “Two eggs over easy, sausage, home fries, whole wheat toast.”

The waiter was startled. After a pause he asked, “What, is this guy mute?”

It probably wasn’t all that funny, but even Peter laughed with the rest of us. The only tears were caused by laughter.

The young man got a nice tip.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Two quarts to the gallon.

Posted on January 6, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Problems, Task

Today’s post, the first of the new year, is a springtime story in January to honor my resolution: find more laughs to write about. Causing tears isn’t part of my plan.

Last spring we decided to tackle the wooly adelgid infestation that threatened our lush hemlock hedge. A few years ago it wouldn’t have been a problem for us to do ourselves. Either one of us would’ve been nimble enough to crawl under the hedge to administer the lethal dose of chemicals around the trees’ trunks. And Peter would’ve been able, without paper and pencil, to figure out how many ounces of the stuff to add to each gallon of water.

But heck, when we went to buy it, we couldn’t even get out of Lowe’s without an argument. It’s expensive, that potion, somewhere in the eighty bucks a gallon neighborhood. I, with my laughable math skills, noticed that buying by the quart was actually cheaper. “Look, it’s only twenty-seven dollars a quart. It would be better to buy two quarts than one gallon.”

“Four quarts to a gallon,” my engineer husband said.

“No-o, two,” I insisted.

“Four.”

We glared at each other right there in the front aisle at Lowe’s.

A young assistant came along and asked if he could help. I said yes and explained our math issues.

“Well, with four quarts to the gallon,” the whippersnapper said, “you’re better off buying by the gallon.” He helped calculate how many gallons we needed given the height, length, and depth of the hedge, then said, “Can I help you carry this to the cashier?” Humpf, we weren’t that feeble…yet!

Peter carried the two gallon jugs and I slunk along behind him apologizing. He rolled his eyes, as if to say, Leave the arithmetic to me, Luv.

Later I repeated the story to Leslie and explained that not only had I been totally convinced I was right, I also thought it was evidence that Peter’s mind was deteriorating further, faster

She laughed. “Never ever doubt him when it comes to math, Mom,” she said. “His mind will never be that far gone.”

One, two, three daffodils.

Photos: Spring flowers in spite of ourselves!

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Dementia: ‘Auld acquaintance be forgot, never brought to mind.’

Posted on December 31, 2014 by judithclarkewrites under Favorites, Statistics don't lie

Snapping, sparkling fireworks went off in my head when the WordPress 2014 annual report for this blog arrived. I just started “Dementia isn’t funny” five months ago, so mine isn’t really an annual report, but I’m thrilled to have statistics to be reported upon! Woo hooo.

My December 26 post, Times change… years go by , caused too many tears, so I’ve resolved to start 2015 off with words that underscore laughter — laughter helps Peter and I through our days, some good, some bad. There are lots of people who endure situations way worse than ours, so giggles should be my focus. Everything is better when dosed with laughs.

Laugh anytime.

The WordPress report begins with this excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds sixty people. This blog [mine!] was viewed about 1,600 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about twenty-seven trips to carry that many people.

C’mon, 1,600 times? Really?

“Laughter layered with despair,” my first post here, has had the most views and the most comments to date, though the title doesn’t seem to promise laughs, does it?

My daughters, Carolynn and Leslie, Carolynn’s husband Bill, her friend Robin, and my longtime friend CJ rate a big thank you for being my most active commenters. And thanks, too, to other family and friends who have urged me on.

Live. Laugh. Love.

Click here to see the complete WordPress report.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Times change… years go by…

Posted on December 26, 2014 by judithclarkewrites under Laughter, tears, Poetic thoughts, Sickness & Health

Thirty-three years ago today, Peter and I married with my daughters, Carolynn and Leslie as our witnesses, and a fellow Ohio University grad, Reverend Timothy Behrendt, as the officiant. Just us, on a snowy upstate New York day. Friends contributed to the raucous party that followed.

Our marriage was a long time in the making — seven years from the magic night we met. A lot of urging by family and friends, extreme measures by me, and a final ultimatum finally convinced Peter. For the past several years, he hasn’t remembered the day at all. When we agreed upon easy-for-an-Englishman-to- remember Boxing Day, we didn’t reckon on dementia moving in.

I wrote the ceremony, and borrowed from several poems, little knowing how prophetic they would be:

You are here, Carolynn and Leslie, to witness and to celebrate the coming together of two separate lives, to join Peter and Judy in marriage, to be with them and rejoice with them in making this important commitment. The essence … is the taking of another person in his or her entirety as lover, companion, and friend. It is therefore a decision which is not to be entered into lightly, but rather undertaken with great consideration and respect for both the other person and oneself.

So today we acknowledge the decision that Peter and Judy have made to share their lives with each other and with you.

Sharing, not at the expense of each other’s individuality, rather sharing by enhancing your own uniqueness through the strength of a common bond. Marriage represents a mutual arrangement in which each is the guardian of the other’s solitude. To affirm the distance between each other is to affirm the dignity of friendship in which each helps the other to grow continually, to be different, and to be alone at times.

Too often love is thought of as the answer to loneliness. Love is put in opposition to loneliness and is thought of as the antidote to the experience of being lonely. “Love, in fact, is a kind of loneliness. Really, to love is always to accept the otherness, the mystery of the other, and to refuse to violate that mystery…

It is a sign of great strength, rather than weakness, to let other people be and not interfere with the choices they wish to make.

Very likely then, the “Highest type of sophistication is love, namely the ability to let that which is different exist and be itself. True, that means an inevitable loneliness —but the loneliness of love is far to be preferred to the togetherness of blandness and characterless-ness.

To experience one’s aloneness is to experience who one is. Real love is the ability to say “no” to everything that seeks to dilute love into a kind of togetherness and to protect us from our solitude, while violating the solitude of another.”

This year, again with son-in-law Bill’s guidance, Peter picked out a perfect anniversary card for me that read, in part, “Times change, life goes on, years go by …”

Well, ain’t that the truth?

All our lives together, forty years total, my husband has never done schmaltzy cards except for Christmas, our anniversary, and occasionally, my birthday. Now he has to be reminded several times over that those dates are coming up.

I, knowing he doesn’t like “sappy” sentimentality foisted on him, always buy a silly, jokey card. This year the cashier and I hiccuped with giggles at my choice: “Sometimes when we’re lying in bed, I look over at you and think, ‘I am so lucky…’ then you start snoring in that snorty way, and I think, ‘Well, that’s annoying, but I’m still lucky.'”

And I am.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

The day after the shortest day.

Posted on December 22, 2014 by judithclarkewrites under Caregiver, Lifelong, Seasons

It’s that time of year when even the faintest skiff of snowflakes causes visions of sleds and snowmen to dance in my head. Haul out the snow shovels, check the windshield wiper fluid, find the mittens and mate them. Baby, it’s cold outside.

Christmas is just five days away, and the weatherman has hinted that there’s a slight chance we’ll have a white one. Is that Bing Crosby crooning? Do you hear what I hear?

As always, I can hear my dad saying, “Shortest day of the year. Won’t be long until time to cut the grass.” He said that for as long as I can remember. Maybe he was onto something. Now that I’m certified elderly, the days fly by so quickly that it really won’t be long to cut the grass. Heck, son-in-law Martin just mowed his for the last time this year a week ago!

In June, Dad always remarked on the summer solstice too. He was nothing if not set in his ways.

In my email this morning came a reminder of another sort — one close to my mind and heart — about solstices.

Today is the winter solstice — the shortest day of the year. But we’re already looking ahead to the summer solstice and The Longest Day®, an event on June 21, 2015, to raise funds and awareness for the Alzheimer’s Association.”

The message goes on to say, It will be “a day of sunrise-to-sunset activity to symbolize he challenging journey of those facing Alzheimer’s disease.”

This is brand new information to me, but I’m thinking ahead, just as my dad always did, to June 21 and what I might be able to do on The Longest Day®. Read more about it here.

A sunrise mimics the Alzheimer’s Association purples.

I published this post yesterday, December 21, 2014, on my other blog, “Wherever you go, there you are.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Bare necessities.

Posted on December 20, 2014 by judithclarkewrites under Childlike, Seasons

We were salmon swimming upstream into a pack of grizzly bears. Two Fridays before Christmas, and we were at the largest mall around. What was I thinking?

Grizzlies doing lunch.

I don’t like to shop anyway, especially not for something specific.

“Specific” was shoes for Peter. He complains he has no shoes every time we get ready to go out. The man has shoes, lots of shoes. He just doesn’t want to wear them.

Right away I found the perfect pair. Nevertheless, he had to try on every likely shoe in the store before he realized — or would admit — I was right. He liked them so much he put his old ones in the bag and walked off, though not before the salesclerk chased him down to scan the code off the sole.

The real reason for braving the holiday hubbub was to see the Leonard Bearstein Animatronic Orchestra that performs at Christmastime. Peter takes childish delight in them, plus it’s fun to watch him watch the children who are alternately thrilled and terrified by bears not much bigger than themselves.

Leonard Bearstein musicians.

We elbowed our way around both levels of the mall, dodged moms pushing strollers the size of SUVs, teenagers meandering with cell phones in hand (why weren’t they in school?), and old guys tottering towards benches to rest.

It wasn’t long before I’d had enough. “One more stop,” I said, as we headed back to Macy’s and our exit to the parking lot. “I need underwear,” I told Peter.

“Underwear?”

“Yes, underwear…panties…knickers!” I pointed towards the lingerie department. The displays were an avalanche waiting to happen. Brassieres as far as my eyes could see. Peter said he’d wait by the door.

I edged through the racks. There were robes and slippers and nightgowns aplenty, but I didn’t need nightwear either, damnit, I needed underwear and there was none in sight. I had no energy for an extensive search.

Totally disgruntled — and, dare I say, hungry as a bear? — I headed towards Peter and the out-of-doors. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“There weren’t any! No knickers! Only bras!”

“How can that be?” he asked. “Don’t they sell them in sets?” He gestured, his hands drawing two voluptuous shapes in the air, with buttocky shapes beneath. “Why don’t they sell them together?”

Only an engineer would come up with a practical solution to vital, yet flimsy, womanly merchandise. The thought of women buying bra/panty sets, as if a “set” size would fit the whole woman, made me envision marketing nightmares: 34A up top meets size 18 XXL at bottom, or 44DDDD meets size 6.

“And you don’t even have a fur coat,” he said. His eyes crinkled merrily.

I looked at him with question mark eyebrows.

“Fur coat and no knickers…” he said, using one of his favorite English expressions. Such a comedian.

“You’re unbearable,” I growled. He laughed.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Dementia isn't funny.

Caregiver Judith Clarke looks for laughs every day.

Author Archives: judithclarkewrites

Magic pills? Wonder drugs? Snake oil?

Memory loss associated with Alzheimer’s reversed for first time

Guess who’s the top banana in our house?

Always something new to remind him.

Is it over easy?

Two quarts to the gallon.

Dementia: ‘Auld acquaintance be forgot, never brought to mind.’

Times change… years go by…

The day after the shortest day.

Bare necessities.