Bubble troubles suck.

Posted on October 5, 2014 by judithclarkewrites under Helpful hints, Laughter

Ever since he retired, Peter has cleaned up the kitchen after dinner, no small job when I cook. He’s always been rigid about loading the dishwasher, as an engineer would be, but now he stacks and restacks, never sure he’s done it right.

These days he doesn’t actually wash the pots and pans, but he dries them meticulously. I grit my teeth and remind myself to wash them before I use them. Recently, I got a pan out and realized it had gone directly from stovetop to pot drawer — mashed potato bits were still inside.

It has become my job to put the detergent in the dishwasher and either turn the machine on right away or set the timer. My husband has a history of putting liquid Dawn in the dishwasher because he forgets it’s only for use in the sink. We’ve had bubble floods several times. If that happens, and I’m not close by, he panics and can’t remember how to turn the dishwasher off, nor that the wet/dry shop vac lives right at the bottom of the basement stairs.

At least, by the time the mess is mopped up the kitchen floor is cleaner that it has been in weeks! Both the liquid Dawn and Cascade powder are labeled so he’ll know which to use, but he doesn’t always read them.

Over one Christmas holiday, the guys — Peter, Martin and Bill — were to have day out. Before they left, I noticed suds oozing up in the sink. “I hope you didn’t put washing-up liquid in the dishwasher…” I said to Peter. He was positive he hadn’t and it was already cycling with no apparent problems.

But a few minutes after they left, I noticed a dribble of water on the floor in front of the dishwasher, then a frothy stream. I peeked inside. Betty Grable needed those bubbles for her bathtub scene in “My Heart Tells Me” (1943).

Carolynn was here helping fix dinner. She ran to get the shop vac, I grabbed old towels to soak up what I could, and together we attacked the bubbles and water, proud that we were coping so brilliantly!

“Mom, turn it off!” she yelped suddenly.

Water was shooting out the vac’s exhaust and spewing across the kitchen. The vac was more than half full of soapy water, so we dragged it outside — that much water is heavy — and managed to dump it down the carport steps.

Then she suggested that she hold a big leaf bag over the exhaust’s opening, a prophylactic of sorts, while I finished clearing the dishwasher. The bubbles were nearly all sucked up when she yelled again, this time while laughing hysterically. “Turn it off! MOM, TURN IT OFF!”

The bag, inflated from the powerful exhaust, was pulling the vacuum cleaner into the laundry room. My daughter was skidding along behind it, while I slid to the floor laughing.

We were Lucy and Ethel in a scene even they never imagined.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Cobwebs of a mind.

Posted on September 30, 2014 by judithclarkewrites under Laughter, tears, Poetic thoughts

On the spur-of-the-moment last week, I suggested we go to the DMV to get a photo ID for Peter.

“Why do I need one?” he asked.

“Because your driver’s license isn’t valid anymore,” I said.

“Why’s that?”

“It expired last year.”

“Why?”

“Because you decided you shouldn’t drive anymore. You kept getting lost.”

Inside, I was relieved there weren’t many people waiting. I completed the form for Peter to sign.

“Why are we here?”

“You need to have a current photo ID. You might need to prove who you are.”

He laughed. “Will I get a driver’s license?”

“No, this is only for identification.”

“Whew! That’s good. I get lost when I’m driving.”

“You get lost when you’re not driving,” I said.

“Good one,” he said, and laughed again.

After an hour’s wait, we were called. A nice young man took Peter’s information, then frowned. “Where were you born, Mr. Clarke?”

I waited to see if he would answer. He usually defers to me. A little smile tugged at his mouth and I knew he going to answer in a Cockney accent: “Bouhn in England, in’t oi, mate?” I cut him off quickly. “He was born in London…England. He’s been here on a permanent visa for almost fifty years.”

The fellow conferred with a co-worker. I knew what was coming. “Why didn’t you renew your license last year, Sir?”

“He can’t drive anymore, he has dementia,” I said. But that didn’t fully answer the question. They needed a current photo ID, even though he still looks like the photo on his license.

“Current U.S.passport?”

“He’s a British subject.”

“Current English passport or green card?” he asked.

“Not with us.” So much for spur-of-moment.

He looked at the clock. “If you can go home, get them, and be back before five, I can take care of this today.”

We made the round trip in record time. True to his word, he called us right away, and within minutes Peter had a temporary ID, with the promise that the permanent one would arrive within days.

And it did. When Peter looked at it he said, “Can I drive with this?”

“No, it’s just for identification.”

“Whew, that’s good! I don’t think I should drive anymore.”

For once I didn’t argue.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I stumbled across these haunting lyrics to “Cobweb” by The Coral, an English rock group. If my husband could sing, or if I could, we’d sing this:

There’s a place where the creatures play
I’m going there at the end of the day
Who knows what I’ll find
In the cobwebs of my mind

There’s a face in a photograph
In the attic, beside the map
Closer to the tide
In the cobwebs of my mind

From the watch-house to the marshes
Following the signs to Colwyn Bay
And ships from Eagle’s Way

We stick together through the thick and thin
Let’s go out, that’s where I begin
Now I’m lost inside
In the cobwebs of my mind

There’s a place where the music plays
I’ll meet her there at the end of the day
Who knows what she’ll find
In the cobwebs of my mind

When she moves her beauty falls
In the garden the masters call
She knows where I hide
In the cobwebs of my mind

She reads my eyes
She reads my eyes

Header photo: Cobwebs envelope our beriberi.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Short-term memory long gone.

Posted on September 24, 2014 by judithclarkewrites under Helpful hints, Laughter

Years ago, when I was a single mom, my tools for household repairs were glue gun, duct tape, and WD-40. If those didn’t do the job, whatever needed fixing remained broken.

Where’s the glue gun?

Then I met Peter. After our first date forty years ago, I brought him home to meet my young daughters. He made an impression on them, as he had on me, but when he looked beyond us, at our house, he shook his head and rolled his eyes. He brought his tool box to our second date.

From then until five or six years ago, he fixed all sorts of things with ease, built and refinished furniture, made games and toys, painted and wall-papered, took care of the cars, grocery-shopped, and occasionally cooked meals.

He can no longer do any of those things, nor does he notice they need doing. For a while he was mad at himself because even simple tasks were beyond him. Now he doesn’t seem to care.

I care.

I care that he doesn’t notice, that he can’t do little jobs, that he can’t care. It frustrates each of us in different ways, though there’s a common denominator — dementia.

Household repairs piled up undone, but I long since surrendered my glue gun. Then I realized that a member our writers’ group writes in his spare time, but is a handyman by day! Several members of the group have used him and all speak highly of his work.

John! He studies the problem, figures out what should be done, what parts he’ll need, and arrives on time — often with bounty from his garden — to do the work.

And Peter likes him, he really likes him. Usually, if someone he doesn’t know comes to the house he hides upstairs to work on his Cutty Sark model. But from the first, he laughed with John as if they were old buddies.

Last week, John asked Peter if he’d like to go to Lowe’s with him to get supplies for my most recent to-do list. Peter was out the door before the question mark arrived at the end of the sentence. He returned laughing and John was amazed he’d talked about such a variety of subjects — WWII, soccer, cars, “Generous” Electric— common topics for my husband who had a new audience in John. Peter’s short-term memory is long gone, but he remembers the good old days.

That evening I told him I was surprised he’d been willing to go to Lowe’s spur-of-moment. “I don’t get to go everyday like I used to,” he said, a nod to when he could still drive himself wherever he wanted to go.

My to-do list for John grows daily, and I’m thrilled he’s “on call.” I think I’ll pass these fixes on to him. Might come in handy sometime!

Great pumpkin drop.

Q. How do you fix a broken mallard?
A. Duct tape.

Q. How do you fix broken dentures?
A. Toothpaste.

Q. How do you fix a stolen rifle?
A. Hot glue gun.

Q. How do you fix a broken pumpkin?
A. Pumpkin patch.

“How do you fix…?” glue jokes. Trevor, the Games Man.

Header photo: Restful space, Montreal Botanical Gardens, 2010

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Gone bananas.

Posted on September 18, 2014 by judithclarkewrites under Helpful hints, Laughter

Recently, I’ve had to resort to writing our names on some foods in the pantry and fridge the way I did when Carolynn and Leslie were young.

Bananas, for instance.

Last week I bought seven green bananas at the grocery — we like them green-tinged rather than brown. The next morning I saw that five of them were gone. Oh, I knew what had happened: Peter had eaten them one-by-one, but each time he pulled off another one, he forgot he’d already eaten one, or two, or three, or four.

He caught me printing my name on the remaining two. “What did I do?” he asked, wary.

“You ate five bananas since I went to the store yesterday. They are good for you, but I like them too, y’know,” I said. As expected he denied eating them.

“I couldn’t eat five bananas!” he argued.

“OK, maybe you put them on your desk,” I said, “or hid them.”

“If I did, I forget,” he said.

And we laughed.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Thinking for two.

Posted on September 15, 2014 by judithclarkewrites under Advice, tears

He doesn’t worry about things; he just…seems to accept he can just do what he can do and can’t do everything. He’s always been the sort of person who doesn’t think too deeply about things.

I seem to be the one who’s finding it hard because everything as it was in our lives is finished. I’m 58 and I think if I was 70 I’d be more accepting of the situation, but I’m always thinking for two people and I’m exhausted most of the time.

The paragraphs above express my feelings, but I didn’t write them. The writer, Penny, is the caregiver for her husband Harold. They live in Lincolnshire, England, and her article, “Coping strategies,” was on the Alzheimer Society’s UK website several years ago.

I search the web often for ideas that could help us, so when I came across Penny’s piece I felt a certain kinship — Peter is English and I always wanted to be. Besides, Penny understands the therapeutic effects of a cup of tea.

Tea in a china cup and a McVitie's biscuit.

Tea and a McVitie’s chocolate biscuit.

It feels like there’s always a next step; something else to think about…going to the day centre, …getting used to the day centre, … going more often, and now…trying an overnight stay and…respite.

For us, it was getting used to the idea of Bill who started taking Peter and Nobby to nursing homes three years ago. Now Bill drives Peter to physical therapy too. Soon, I’ll add more in-home care so that I can have some respite.

There are things I miss, like having someone to discuss things with. We’re having some decorating done at the moment and I might ask Harold what he thinks, but it’s not the same.

Oh yes! In the past year a number of small house repairs needed attention, plus some major things to deal with. Even though I knew Peter couldn’t manage any of them, I wanted him to listen and lend an encouraging word at least. But if I were to say anything he’d be upset because he no longer understands the problems, nor can he help anymore.

So I whine to my daughters and to a few good friends.

I don’t look forward too far, as I would just be worried all the time.

Penny mentions missing the things they used to do together…caravaning and dancing…but she believes things could be worse.

One day at a time, is the motto I try to adhere to.

There has been more deterioration latterly and Harold relies on me more. But I have to learn to let go each time something is lost.

Harold was only 64 when he was diagnosed, Peter, 71. I think Peter is losing ground more slowly than Harold. What keeps Peter somewhat steady, I think, is that he is now, and always has been, so bloody single-minded, the effects of a separate issue. I never thought I’d be glad that was the case.

I have wondered about giving up work, although [it] gives me a bit of respite. But that would lead to another form of stress as it would affect us financially.

We’ve been retired a long time, and we’re OK financially, but stress related to finances plagues me almost daily. But that’s another post.

Penny and I have such similar concerns — I wish we were on the same side of the pond so we could share a cuppa.

©Nikki McWilliams digital print; original painted in tea.

Note: There will be more from Penny in another post.

Sources: Living with dementia magazine, The magazine of Alzheimer’s Society UK, and www.alzheimers.org.uk/magazine

Header photo: Flower star, London market, 2006

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Therapy goes both ways.

Posted on September 7, 2014 by judithclarkewrites under Helpful hints, Laughter, tears

Several years ago, in attempt to keep Peter out and doing things with people other than me, I came up with a plan for him to take Nobby to visit local nursing homes. Therapy for patients and dog owner alike. Win-win.

Bill, Peter’s companion, takes them and though Peter grumbles before he goes, he always comes home smiling. He loves showing off his dog. The residents he visits ask the same questions every time, so it doesn’t matter that he gives the same answers and tells the same stories week after week. He always comes back saying he’s picked his room, or that he likes one facility better than another one.

After one visit, a nurse followed them down the hall, gave Nobby an extra pat and wrapped her arm around Peter’s shoulders. “I just love y’all,” she gushed.

Peter, never one for hugs, looked sideways at Bill and whispered, “Is she talking to you or me?”

Later, Bill was still laughing when he told me the story.

Talking points.

Martin & Anna

A couple years ago, friends in England suggested we Skype with them every few weeks. I give Peter a list of things he can talk about in case he gets stuck, which he often does, but Martin and Anna do most of the talking anyway. After the four of us chat for a few minutes, Anna and I leave the two old pals to reminisce, and I use the time, usually about forty-five minutes, to read or work outside or just sit — my therapy!

After one Skype session, Peter was extremely downcast, and that time he wanted a hug! “I can’t even talk anymore,” he said. He shook his head and sighed. “What would I do without you?”

I struggled to think of something to make him laugh, or at least smile. “Well, you’ve never been a talker, and remember, ‘someone has to listen,’” I said, reminding him of my dad’s family-famous saying. I fixed him a cup of tea, an Englishman’s cure-all, then asked, “Well, ‘without me,’ if I weren’t around any more, which home would you choose to live in?”

He wondered what I meant.

“Which nursing home,” I said. “You often tell me you like one better than another.”

“Oh, this one!” he said. “I’d stay right here.” He chuckled.

Nobby and his favorite squeaky toy.

Header photo: Nobby ready for therapy dog duty.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Alzheimer’s: the elephant in the room.

Posted on September 3, 2014 by judithclarkewrites under Defined, Experts say

In 1906, Dr. Alois Alzheimer identified the disease that came to bear his name. In 1979, Alzheimer’s Disease (AD) caused 875 deaths in this country. That was the first year AD was identified as a separate cause of death. By 1993, more than 18 thousand people in the U.S. died from AD.

• Approximately 5.3 million Americans currently live with AD.
• Some 200 thousand of that number have early-onset AD — people in their forties and fifties.
• Every sixty-eight seconds another American is diagnosed.
• AD has been listed as the sixth leading cause of death after heart disease, cancer, chronic lower respiratory disease, and accidents. However, in March, 2014, the American Academy of Neurology reported AD is now the third leading cause of death.

Warning signs of AD:
• Profound memory loss
• Inappropriate behavior or behavior swings
• Apparent confusion and agitation
• Difficulty with spoken or written language
• Difficulty with routine tasks, such as bills
• Problems with vision and understanding spatial relationships
• Signs of impaired judgment and reasoning

Whenever I walk into a room, everyone ignores me. (Coldell cartoon)

Dementia is a symptom. AD is one cause of the symptom. Dementia is considered the general term for decline in mental ability severe enough to interfere with daily life, memory loss for example. Experts agree that AD is the most common and accounts for as many as 70 to 80 percent of all cases.

Among dementia’s many other causes are Lewy Body disease, Parkinson’s disease, Vascular or multi-infarct dementia, fronto-temporal, and thyroid disease. Most are not reversible, rather they are degenerative diseases of the brain that get worse over time.

Too often, a doctor will tell the patient that he or she has “a little dementia” or in my husband’s case, “mild dementia.” Patient and family leave the office feeling relieved that it’s only dementia and not Alzheimer’s. I know I did. When we got into the car to come home I started bawling. Peter wondered what was wrong with me. I almost never cry.

“I thought she was going to say you have Alzheimer’s,” I told him.

“You mean I don’t?”

“No! It’s just dementia.” We even went to our favorite place for coffee and pastries to celebrate.

“Dementia” isn’t funny, but laughter in large doses does help. I can no longer ignore the elephant.

Sipress cartoon.

[Facts and figures taken from on-line sources which show varying, but similar, statistics.]

Header photo: Rain on my sunroof.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Definition.

Posted on September 3, 2014 by judithclarkewrites under Defined

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Keep calm and (try) to carry on.

Posted on August 27, 2014 by judithclarkewrites under Helpful hints

My husband was diagnosed with dementia five years ago. He still knows the family, he remembers friends’ faces but not their names necessarily, he no longer knows what the garbage disposal is for, and although fiercely independent when we met forty years ago, he couldn’t live on his own now. As long as I can carry on caregiving, he won’t end up in a nursing home, in spite of his occasional jokes that he’s picked one he likes.

I’ve done a lot of research on-line to find helpful tips. Here are some:

1. Be complimentary. Especially in the early stages individuals may realize something is wrong. Compliments make them feel better. Peter can be helpful around the house, and one thing he’ll do willingly is run the vacuum cleaner for me. It’s hard for me to do the stairs, but he does that well. Just a few days ago I told him what a good job he’d done.

“What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing! You did a very good job,” I said.
“Oh, I thought you were going to make me do it over.”
“No-o, you did an excellent job. I’ve been letting my jobs slide,” I said.

2. Focus on abilities the person still has, rather than the ones he’s lost. This one has been so difficult for me. He used to do so many little tasks, fix big things, work on the cars, sort out my computer, unravel problems, logically think things through. I was lost without that support. Slowly I’ve built my own ways to cope, and have found people to help out.

3. Help the memory-challenged person communicate. He may have trouble finding the right words. Fill in the blanks. For the longest time, if Peter was stuck trying to say something I tried to will him to think of the word. I figured it would help him. But filling in the blanks is the way to go. If he’s lost the word, it’s gone, erased from his lexicon. But he, like most people with these kinds of memory issues, comes up with other words that work. I recently found a scrap of paper with his writing on it: Face shaver, it said. I figured he needed a new razor so I bought one my next trip out. If he wondered how I knew, he didn’t ask.

4. Establish a daily routine but be flexible, allow plenty of time to get ready, have something to do if you have extra time, never argue, enter their reality. This has been darn near impossible for me. Peter has always been late getting ready for anything, and I’m always ready way ahead of time. His reality has always been, I’ll get ready when I’m bloody well ready to get ready. Over the years, I’ve yelled, stomped, raged, even left without him. But now that he truly can’t manage — he often forgets why he went upstairs and ends up working on his model ship instead of getting showered and dressed — I’m trying extra hard to be patient. I grit my teeth ’til they hurt and seethe until my ears are inflamed.

5. Nip agitated behavior in the bud. Divert and redirect. His agitated behavior used to cause me to storm like a child, but now I make him a cup of tea — divert and redirect. Works nearly every the time. The English and their cuppas!

6. Use “therapeutic fiblets” as needed. I am not a fibber, and lying to my husband really upsets me. I always expect a big ugly wart to appear on the end of my nose. Still, sometimes, the only way around a problem is to pad it with fiblets.

7. Ask the person to smile. Smiles are contagious. Give a smile, get one. Simple.

8. Ditto laughs. Remember, “Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone.”

Header photo: Peter, on the beach, Tybee Island, Georgia.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Definition.

Posted on August 27, 2014 by judithclarkewrites under Defined

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Dementia isn't funny.

Caregiver Judith Clarke looks for laughs every day.

Author Archives: judithclarkewrites

Bubble troubles suck.

Cobwebs of a mind.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Short-term memory long gone.

Gone bananas.

Thinking for two.

Therapy goes both ways.

Talking points.

Alzheimer’s: the elephant in the room.

Definition.

Keep calm and (try) to carry on.

Definition.