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.

“Yes!”

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

“Ha! Yes.”

TrackR™

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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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.
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.
Amanda who?
Amanda fix the refrigerator.

Groan.

 

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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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Laughs every day are harder to find.

Maybe it’s the shorter days, the longer nights, the unseasonable cold eight weeks ago, the unseasonable heat this month, or maybe the light at the end of the tunnel burned out, but I’ve really had to search for laughs to drag me, us, along recently.

One evening.

Leslie, Martin, Peter and I had a Friday night dinner and movie date, but there was a line out the door of the restaurant we’d chosen. We had little time to spare, so we ended up at the one place I’d said no to: Red Robin. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but Peter had been there twice that week.

We’d no sooner ordered than another waitress came by and skidded to a stop beside our table. “You didn’t come say hello to me,” she said, grinning at Peter. “What’s up with that?”

Peter laughed. “I didn’t know I was coming here.”

“I’ll let you off,” she said, “I wasn’t supposed to be here tonight, but someone called in.” She looked at the rest of us. “He makes us laugh ordering ‘cish and fips’ when he comes for lunch.” Peter grinned. They make such a fuss over him at Red Robin. The bonhomie reminds him of an English pub.

Later that evening.

We were about one hour, thirty minutes into a one hour thirty-seven minute mildly entertaining movie. Peter fidgeted and twisted in his seat. Bored, I wondered? Hm, no. “Do you need the loo?” I whispered.

He was annoyed that I asked. But suddenly he got up, felt his way along the row, down the few steps, and he was gone. “He won’t know how to get back,” Leslie said, as if I didn’t know. I groped my way out and followed.

In the hallway Peter fumbled at a door marked with the international symbol for family restroom. “Can I go in here?” he asked. I nodded. He dashed inside.

Even though the movie was a bit of a ho-hummer, I wanted to see the ending. I paced outside the theater door, then noticed the sign above said “Blade Runner.” I looked around. None of the doors’ signs said “Home Again.” Ack! Was I lost? By the time Peter emerged, I’d realized our film only ran at 7:30. “Blade Runner” would be shown at 10:00 in the same theater.

Back inside, just before the closing credits, I told Leslie I’d gotten confused. Of course she laughed as she does, but I didn’t try to explain to Peter. He would’ve cracked up knowing I’d been lost…momentarily.

The next morning.

Peter was in the kitchen clattering around. I pictured dishes suffering new chips and silverware headed for the waste bin instead of the dishwasher. I went to check. Ah-h!

“Peter, those haven’t washed yet,” I yelped when I realized he’d taken dirty plates, glasses and silverware from the dishwasher and put them into cupboards and drawers. He growled and stomped away. I reclaimed the dirty unwashed.

That evening I took a couple salad bowls off the shelf. Both were encrusted with bits of tomato and lettuce. Ready made salad, right out of the cupboard! What a concept.

Peter had the last laugh, because his mistake was my fault. I hadn’t switched the color-coded sign I stick on the dishwasher from  yellow/clean  to pink/dirty. How was he supposed to know the things he’d removed were dirty?

 

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Love and loneliness sit together.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to write a post about Peter’s acceptance of his new wrist-hugging PALLess than two weeks after I introduced him, he rebelled:
He tries to take the “watch”off, by pulling, tugging, fiddling with the locked clasp. (I have the unlocking device.)
He purposely ignores and/or forgets — a bit of both, I think — the time I ask him to to return.
He gets mad when I pick him up after tracking him, way out of range, an hour later.
When I put a note on his watch to remind when to be home, he stuffs it in his pocket and forgets about it. As he would, of course.
He always insists he knows where he is when he’s out walking, but when I ask where, he says, “I don’t  know, but I know.” I actually understand what I think he’s trying to say.
When I pick him up after he and Nobby have been gone way too long, he doesn’t recognize me or my car. When I beckon to him, he waves politely, and keeps walking. Nobby knows and he’s tired. He drags Peter to the car.
Because my paper note didn’t work, I try to write on his hand. Angrily, belligerently, he jerks away. “The only option,” I say, “is that I walk with you.” I set the alarm on my phone for fifteen minutes and walk along. Though he’d insisted he would be back, when my alarm beeps, he says I didn’t tell him he was supposed to be home at a certain time.
“I will not be told when and where I can walk,” he says repeatedly. “You don’t tell me what I can and cannot do.” I try to make him understand that I want to make sure he’s safe. “We’ll see about that,” he mutters, stomping like a child.

Ah, I don’t blame him for any of it. He can’t help it, I know that. I’d hate it too. Everything, everything, about dementia — Alzheimer’s — sucks! I’d be way worse if I were in his shoes.

To anyone who has ever known my husband, these words don’t describe the lovable, affable Peter of their acquaintance, the man they worked with, laughed with, caroused with.

He isn’t the lovable, affable Peter any longer. He knows it. I know it. He hates it, I hate it. At least I still see brief glimpses, some sparkles and shy smiles of the man I fell in love with.

I created a piece that is a tribute to life and society. Love and loneliness are a part of society and The Lovers’ Bench combines them both. At one point or another in our lives, we all sit on this bench,” artist Lea Vivot says of the entranced couple and the lonely woman beside them.
Header: Lea Vivot’s “The Lover’s Bench,” Montreal’s Botannical Gardens, 2009.

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Lights out.

Over the years since his dementia diagnosis, my husband has invented ways to control anything he can in his increasingly hazy life. I’ve written about his stacks of coins, never-ending twig collecting, his sweeping, folding, smoothing, polishing, wiping.

I. Want. To. Scream! And sometimes I do. Having said that, I’m sure he wants to scream too.

His latest attempt at control is not only baffling, it’s downright dangerous. I discovered it several weeks ago when I went down to the basement, a dungeon I try to avoid. Dark at mid-day, the windows are grimy and any light coming in is grayed.

I flipped the two switches several times. Nothing. I scrabbled around and finally discovered Peter had removed the bulbs from the six overhead fixtures. I don’t know why and I didn’t ask because I’m sure he wouldn’t have known either.

I put new LED bulbs in all the sockets. He took them out. I talked to him about the danger of going down the steps and walking around in the dark.

I put the bulbs in again. He took them out again.

Our basement is not a finished space. Hazards lurk — bicycles, tools, piles of newspapers and magazines, chairs, tables, workbenches. I thought I’d solved the problem with my little chat about dangers in the dark.

Today I realized I hadn’t. The bulbs were gone again. Why did I think he’d remember?

Laughs, I’m looking for laughs, but it’s dark in here. A bigger bulb maybe?

 

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Find Peter!

Nearly two months have passed since Peter took a five-hour walk away from home. That’s eight weeks of frustration for both of us, him because I had to follow along when he walked Nobby, and me because I had to follow along when he walked Nobby. I’d learned the hard way that I couldn’t let him go by himself any longer.

It was mid-July before I decided on and ordered Peter’s PAL (Protect and Locate) device sold under the umbrella of International Project Lifesaver.  Then, several more weeks passed and multiple shipping hiccups occurred before it arrived, just hours before we left for a ten day visit to Carolynn and Bill. Not that I had any warped ideas that I could set it up myself!

Leslie and Martin applied all their considerable technological know-how and stick-to-itiveness to get it working while we were gone. Even for them it was not easy — “You really could not have done it, Mom” Leslie said — but now, at last, Peter is “free” again.

Happily, and completely unexpectedly, he didn’t object to the clunky-looking “watch.” Yes, it is a digital watch, but more importantly, it’s a tracker too.

“With this,” I told him, “you’ll be be able to walk Nobby by yourself. Without it, you’ll be stuck with me going along every time.” With no hesitation he chose his new PAL over me tagging along. No doubt about where I am on the totem pole!

He had a lot of questions, but then he would. Tucked inside his blurring brain there is still DNA with “engineer” written on it. “How far can I walk?” was his first question.

“Not as far as you walked the last time you walked alone,” I said, my left eyebrow on high alert. His slight nod told me he remembers, if foggily, that he walked a long way the wrong way in hot sun. Rightly or wrongly, I continue to force him to remember what he’d like to forget.

His second question was, “Will it tell me when I’ve gone too far?”

The short answer was, No. Later, it occurred to me that I should have said, If you’d ever agreed to using a cell phone, then I could call you when the tracker shows you’ve gone too far, or you could call me for help. But that would’ve been thirty-eight wasted words.

Each time he repeated his two questions, I reminded, “All you have to do is walk. I have to be ‘tuned in’ for a possible alert, check my phone for texts, the computer for a map, and be ready to  jump in the car to pick you up.”

He shook his head. “How does ‘it’ know?”

“Smoke and mirrors and a satellite in the sky,” I said.

He shook his head again. So many technological advances have taken place since the last time he was curious enough show interest.

It took all Leslie’s considerable teaching skills to pound the multiple steps into my head. She already knew I had little capacity to absorb any more high-tech stuff. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a lesson plan labeled, “Teaching Mom.”

Nobby is little miffed.

Header: Nobby anxiously watches for his master.

 

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