A man and his dog.

After several years together dog owners and their dogs begin to look alike, so they say. They begin to act alike too, in my opinion. Take Peter, 81, and Nobby, his golden doodle, nearly 12.  Both are mischievous and have the inherent ability to make people laugh at their antics. Both would fetch sticks for hours if their years hadn’t slowed them.

The final week of October was a week I’d like to forget and one Peter forgot as it was happening.

Monday, Nobby had surgery to remove a suspicious lump from his left front leg. While he was anesthetized, the vet cleaned his teeth, too. When I picked him up, he was wobbly, confused and so ashamed of the blue cone around his head. It interfered with his food and water consumption, his ability to walk through doors easily and, worst of all, he couldn’t find the right spot outside, um, to mark his spot.

Tuesday, just as I was leaving for my own teeth-cleaning appointment, the phone rang. Peter had had a bad turn at lunch. He was disoriented, more confused than usual, incontinent and his temperature was 101.2°.  Would I come? Of course I would. Hindsight tells me a trip to the dentist’s office would have been a piece of cake and Peter likely would have chosen a root canal over what followed.

His temperature had spiked by the time I got to his room. His face was so red it was almost incandescent. “Can someone take his temp please?” I called out. Whoa, it was 104°! I put cold washcloths on his forehead while waiting for the doctor to return my call. I requested Tylenol from a nurse. Nunh uh, without doctor’s orders not even Tylenol can be given to a resident.

As is always the case, Peter said he wasn’t sick. He tried to bluff his way past my concern. He was as dazed and unsteady as Nobby was on Monday. I urged him to drink water, then steered him toward the bathroom. Like Nobby the night before, Peter didn’t know why he was in there, but at least he didn’t have to go out into a dark, drizzly night.

We went to the emergency room where he was seen quickly enough, though it was a five-hour ordeal. He was hooked-up, jabbed, poked and questioned. He tugged at his IV, tangled the blood pressure tubing and tried his best to get the pulse oximeter off his finger. He bellowed and cursed during one particularly sensitive probing. Later he erupted like a child when a nurse gave him Tylenol tabs and a cup of water. “Tastes awful,” he yelled, even as I cautioned against chewing. This was not the behavior of the mild mannered man I married. This was dementia talking.

Like Peter, Nobby refuses to swallow pills, even wrapped in Pill Pockets. He spits them out with such force they fly across the room.

With a presumed diagnosis of prostatitis, Peter was finally admitted and in a room by 9:15. A steady procession of nurses, students and doctors paraded in and out. He couldn’t answer any of their questions, still insisted he wasn’t sick, still babbled as if drunk. When one asked his full name, he slurred his words. “Whydoyawannaknow?” he asked. Did he know the date or where he was? I cringed. Hadn’t she read his chart? Didn’t she see that he has dementia and lives in a memory care unit? Finally, gritting my teeth, I said that he hadn’t been able to answer those questions for years.

Meanwhile, Nobby had been home alone for hours. Leslie went to him after work. When I got home, the dog, way peppier than the day before, wanted to play. I went to bed.

Wednesday, the doctor definitely ruled out a UTI, flu, pneumonia and several other possibilities, but had ordered blood and urine cultures. Peter was to stay another night. Leslie and Martin brought dinner to me and afterwards, she went to the hospital. He was his goofy self, she texted. He walked her to the elevator so many times, she finally shut the door to his room and told him firmly to stay there.

Peter the ghost.

Always a trickster.

Thursday, Peter was back to his old tricks. He hid in doorways and yelled boo at passing nurses. He joked and teased and wouldn’t give anyone a straight answer. He’d pulled his IV out and was so energetic that they turned off the “fall alarm” on his bed. When yet another nurse arrived, Peter said he wouldn’t answer any more questions. Still she tried. “What hobbies have you enjoyed, Mr. Clarke?” she asked.

He had an devilish look on his face when he pointed to me and said, “Her.” She blushed, I laughed and Peter turned as red as he’d been two days earlier.

By the time I got home, Nobby had discovered he could lick his sutures through the cone, and later still he figured out how to bend the cone for unobstructed access to those pesky stitches.

Friday, Nobby’s doctor called with good news. “The lump was benign!” she said. “I’ve never heard of it, I can’t pronounce it, but it’s something particular to poodles.”  Good news indeed. That evening, Peter was seen eating popcorn while glued to “The Queen” with Helen Mirren. Such was the week that was.

Header photo: Nobby looks good in blue.

 

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

‘Will I see you tomorrow or the day before?’ he asked.

These days Peter often wears two shirts because he doesn’t remember he already has a shirt on. Sometimes he wears two socks on one foot, sometimes no socks at all. The other day he fished around in his pocket and finally pulled out a cracked white plastic spoon, a mechanical pencil and a tan sock with red, white and orange stripes. He studied the sock, shrugged, then used it as a handkerchief. I couldn’t help it, I laughed and laughed and he did too.

Sometimes laughter is all you’ve got.

I knew his hankies were well past their use-by date, so I bought new ones. When I took them to him he was as thrilled as if they were woven with gold threads. A day or so after that, he pulled out all eight of the new handkerchiefs, still neatly folded. Maybe now he’ll put the socks on his feet, rather than in his pocket, but I wouldn’t bet on it.

As days go by my husband loses more and more words and his voice is fading, not that he was ever very loud or even very vocal. He’s long since forgotten my name, as well as family and friends’ names. That makes me sad, but it wasn’t unexpected. Now though he doesn’t know his dog’s name—Nobby. That’s very sad. Even more surprising, he can’t remember the name of his favorite Disney character either—Mickey Mouse!

Laughter can make sad things better…sometimes.

When I walked in Sunday Peter was sitting in the lounge holding a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I’d brought his favorite McVitties Chocolate Digestive biscuits to have with tea. “Do you want to finish your beer and wait awhile before I make tea?” I asked.

“I don’t have a beer,” he huffed.

“What’s that in your hand then?”  He doubled over laughing. I suggested he set the dominoes up while I fixed tea.

“OK, but I don’t know where my room is, do you?” He was surprised when I said yes. We only played three hands. Generally he plays well enough with a little prompting, but he was struggling.  He seemed tired.

“Let’s finish this game next time,” I said, gathering my things. “But remember, you’re ahead by thirty points,” I told him.

“Will I see you tomorrow or the day before?” he asked.

“Today is the day before,” I said. He smacked his forehead and laughed again.

“Good thing you don’t make calendars,” I said. He shook his head and waved me off.

Sometimes laughter really is all you’ve got.

Header photo: Peter holds his beer.

 

 

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

I’ve run out of ‘fake.’

I’ve been called a “fake it ’til you make it” type and that’s probably accurate. I do try to look on the bright side, to laugh rather than cry. And I am able to get things done while projecting a measure of confidence—usually. Lately, however, I’ve run out of “fake.” After nearly 16 years grappling with my husband’s journey from a “mild dementia” diagnosis to “can’t rule out Alzheimer’s,” I’ve spun out.

My spin has shocked me because life has actually eased in recent months. Peter is more settled and, in fact, he’s turned into an 81-year-old version of a ten-year-old class clown. He flirts, he lays on his English accent, he entertains residents and staff alike with his antics. He’s in as good a place as he can be physically and mentally. He has his favorites amongst the ladies who he looks out for and helps when he can, although the other day I watched him guide a resident into the wrong room. She knew it wasn’t hers, but he insisted. I ended up directing her across the hall to her door.

So why have I fallen apart? I should be less stressed, but I’m not. Have I spread myself too thin?

For one thing, with Peter more comfortable I’ve turned my attention to other problems. Although he gets good care in the best facility around, I have some gripes. For one thing, his not taking his medications is at the top of my list. It is simply not acceptable that he gets away with his shenanigans to avoid taking them. Again, when I walked in Friday afternoon, his three morning pills were lying on the table in plain few!

I’ve complained about other issues and they’ve been acted upon. That’s good. So now I’m considering ways to get the large raised flower bed dug over so residents—particularly the men who crave more activity—could plant flowers and more vegetables than they are able to grow in the one small raised plot. Then too, the gazebo should be spruced up — Peter decided the other day that the ceiling should be painted a beautiful sky blue — and the outdoor furniture should be replaced. How nice it would be to have a table and chairs in the gazebo where residents could sit, have a snack, play a game. Where we could have a cup of tea without balancing it on our knees. Is that too much to ask for the amount we pay for monthly care?

I don’t think so, but at the moment I’m stalled, burned out, stuck. To aid the burn-out, I’ve been advised to stop visiting him so often, usually four to five days a week. It is wearing and since he never remembers I’ve been there, I should allow myself to take days off. That’s tough. I want to visit because sometimes, sometimes, there’s a glimmer of the man I married, and I always get a hug before I leave. I always hope that somehow—osmosis?—my visits will have made his day better.

How many times over these years have I been told that the caregiver needs to take care of herself? Well, I admit to being stuck between a rock and a hard place lately, but I’ve taken steps. I’m learning to compartmentalize, I’m exploring mindfulness, I’m breathing deeply to meditative music, I continue my every other week massages, and I continue to look for laughs every day. So far I haven’t stilled my spinning brain by much, but I’m a work in progress.

Tiny flowers thrive in crevices in long-abandoned Inishmurray, County Donegal, Ireland, 2009

Header photo: Guillemots cling to tiny ledge on Cliffs of Moher, County Clare, Ireland, 2009.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Sneaky Pete can be a real pill!

Oh he’s sneaky, my husband. I know it, our family knows it, his companions know it, the nurses know it. Sneaky Pete. Sometimes it’s funny, other times not so much. Sometimes his sneakiness has the potential to cause real problems.

A couple weeks ago an innocent mistake triggered his wrath. He was really, really angry. Combative. Luckily a nurse was able to intervene and calm him. My husband has so seldom been truly angry that I could count the times on one hand. This was so not him.

I heard about this after the fact.

At the same time I learned he’d been refusing to take his meds again. This had happened now and then for some time, but as far as I knew the problem had been solved long since. Oh, he appears to take the pills but he pockets them, or tucks them under his tongue or inside his cheek, or simply lays them down somewhere. It is likely that not taking his Wellbutrin for several previous days contributed to his rage.

Residents in memory care units often refuse their meds for fear of being “poisoned.” Or because they’re to hard swallow. One common practice is to put crushed pills in applesauce, or ice cream, Reese’s cups, drinks, pudding, peanut butter, Jello.  Those don’t work with Peter, but one nurse who never has a problem with him, puts his evening pills in his doctor-prescribed after dinner Guinness. Works a treat.

Thing is, he likes to tease and he loves the attention he gets when one of the staff realizes he’s tricked them. For all the time I was his caregiver at home, I dealt with his refusal to take pills by donning my “Mother Tough” persona, my left eyebrow on alert. I’d stand beside him and, to make sure he swallowed them, I’d tell him to hold both hands out palms up, then pull his pockets inside out, and finally open his mouth. I wasn’t bound by HIPAA rules that say a patient can’t be forced to take medications if he/she doesn’t want to. Medical personnel cannot force meds on a patient. If the patient says no, that’s it.

That’s just wrong. If refusing a medication were to cause the patient to become markedly worse—or perhaps cause their death—wouldn’t that be a lawsuit waiting to happen?

This morning I popped in for a quick visit between an appointment and several errands. Involved story, but when Peter searched his pockets  he “found” his morning pills. A helper and I noticed at the same time. “Peter,” we yelped in unison, “you’re supposed to take those pills, not carry them around!”

His silly “who me?” face said he’d achieved his goal. He’d been noticed. He protested all the way through the building to his room and, no, I didn’t drag him by the ear, but I wanted to. In no uncertain terms I told him to put the pills in his mouth and drink them down with the cup of water I handed him. He complained and said they tasted awful. “You’re not supposed to chew them!” I said. “Of course they taste awful. Take a big drink and swallow them.”

I know, I know, I should’ve handled it better. But, doggone it, he doesn’t remember why he’s in memory care nor why he must take various medications, but he does remember how to get a rise out of me and anyone else who tries to help him.

It really isn’t a laughing matter.

Header photo: Jersey Urology.com

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Bright spots in down days.

There have been upsets in the past few weeks that nearly brought me to my knees. I won’t dwell on the details here, now, because there were bright spots that made the period tolerable.

Weeding, usually a chore, gave Peter and me reason to smile. I looked out his window last week and noticed the flower beds had been invaded by tall, prickly weeds that were about to flower and overrun the space. “Let’s go out and tackle them,” I said. He was on his way before I finished my sentence. We worked for an hour and pulled a huge pile for someone else to pick up!

The next day I mentioned to Peter’s longtime helper Mark that Peter wanted to dig up the beds and plant something nice. That very afternoon, by the time I arrived, they’d shopped for flowers and planted them in a large red pot Mark brought from home. A mini-sunflower, blue balloon flowers, and fushia Million Bells now brighten Peter’s view.

Happy in a flower pot.

Another time one of the aides made me laugh when she said that my husband has “favorites” he pushes along the hall in their wheelchairs. The thought that my husband was pushing the “old dears” (a kindly English expression) absolutely astounded me!

Happy on wheels.

Another evening, as he walked me towards the exit, he stage-whispered, “Watch out for ‘im.” He nodded toward another resident who used a walker to toddle along. “‘E’s up to no good.” The other fellow watched Peter out of the corner of his eye, and when Peter drew abreast, they pointed their index fingers at each other and said, “Pow! Pow!”

Happy are six-year-olds playing cowboys.

Another of Peter’s carers was outside watering plants yesterday. “Look who’s out there,” Peter said. His smile was incandescent.

“I see,” I said, “do you want to go help her?”

“I’m going,” he said, and headed to the door. “Oops!” he said and stopped long enough to kiss me. “Bye, luv, see you next time.” He was gone.

Sometimes even “gone” can be happy.

Header photo: A neighbor’s sunny peonies make me smile.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

 

‘Can’t repeat the past? Why of course you can!’

My high school prom in 1957 — in June or was it May? — is a foggy memory. I don’t even remember who I went with. But April 10, 2019 is a prom date I’ll never forget. I was a bystander at a prom last Wednesday that was memorable for so many reasons. There was fantastic food, live music, corsages, boutonnieres, a big crowd. Kings and Queens were crowned. Many of the prom-goers were in wheelchairs, and most of them forgot the fun and laughter even before the music faded.

That evening, Sigma Kappa sorority and The German Club of Virginia Tech sponsored The Great Gatsby Prom for residents of the facility where Peter lives. When I heard about the event just a day earlier, I dug out the green velvet jacket Peter made for himself years before I knew him. I found his orange and purple bow tie too. Carolynn, here for the week, helped wrestle him into his finery. Typical theatrics ensued as we convinced him to participate: What is a prom? Why do I have to go? I’ll just stay here. We held hands as I coaxed him along the corridor.

Black, gold and white balloons and streamers festooned the dining room, the ladies wore their best attire fancied up with beads and glitter, and the men went along with everything, much like they probably did for their high school proms. The staff were all dressed in 1920’s attire to go along with the Great Gatsby theme.

Didn’t take long for Peter to get revved up and charm the ladies. In his element, he flirted, he danced, he caroused, he was his silly, wacky self. Old pals who remember the Peter of days gone by would have been shocked to see him drinking not one, but two Cokes. Yes!

Carolynn and I giggled hysterically as he entertained his admirers, many of them sorority girls younger than our granddaughter. He teased and made faces and beamed ear-to-ear. I’d figured we’d stay to escort him back to his room, but he was having such a good time we snuck out. The hours for this prom were 6:30-7:30, no all-night after-prom activities for this crowd. By the end, Peter was still cavorting. He didn’t need me nagging him to leave as I used to do. He didn’t even need me at all and I was glad to know that.

As I watched the evening unfold, I realized I’d made the right choice, heartrending as it was, when I moved him into memory care a year ago.

Title quote: The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

‘Orange juice for the ear.’

This observation about the late Oliver Sacks’ book Musicophillia (2007) struck just the right note when I read it:

… music can animate people with Parkinson’s disease who cannot otherwise move, give words to stroke patients who cannot otherwise speak, and calm and organize people whose memories are ravaged by Alzheimer’s or amnesia.”

Before Thanksgiving last year, I mentioned to our grandson Miah that I’d been searching for a very simple device that would enable his granddad to hear his favorite music. A few weeks later, he posted an article on Facebook that explained  the positive effect of music on the brains of people with dementia. Carolynn saw our Facebook exchange and within few minutes she forwarded a link to me. She was excited. “I think this would work for Poppy,” she wrote.

Fifteen minutes later I was in The Alzheimer’s Store and, yes, she’d found the perfect solution. The Simple Music Player is a reinforced, sturdy little thing with the retro charm of the radio that sat on my nightstand when I was a teenager. Lift the lid to start the music, push the big black button to change to another song, and shut the lid to turn it off. It comes loaded with familiar 1940s big band sounds and songs. Plus, a USB cable is included so that the caregiver can add favorite music. And, I should add, it’s Made in England.

Before I went to bed that night, I’d ordered the player. A few days later it was on my doorstep. Quite honestly, I wanted to keep it! The sound is outstanding, it is very easy to use and, best of all, neither I.D. nor password are required to use it. But I did put it under the Christmas tree for my husband.

Unfortunately, I have yet to download Peter’s favorite old albums, but I’ve got his extensive list at the ready: Jazz that the world forgot, 1920’s classics; The best of Jelly-Roll Morton; Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom; Louis Armstrong, The Hot Fives; Absolutely the Best of the Blues; Count Basie One O’Clock Jump; Bessie Smith; Cab Calloway Forever Gold; Armstrong and King Oliverto name just a fraction of the hundreds in his collection.

Christmas night, I managed to entice Peter to dance to one of the oh-so-danceable songs. It was the first time in years that we’d “tripped the light fantastic.” Our intent was good, but our feet were laughably clumsy.


Be sure to turn sound up.

Music can lift us out of depression or move us to tears—it is a remedy, a tonic, orange juice for the ear. But for many of my neurological patients, music is even more—it can provide access, even when no medication can, to movement, to speech, to life. For them, music is not a luxury, but a necessity.” Oliver Sacks (1933-2015)

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

 

 

 

 

‘To-mah-to!’ ‘To-may-to!’

Peter looked very guilty yesterday when I asked about the green tomatoes basking in the sun on his windowsill. My husband doesn’t like tomatoes, ripe or not, although he did eat some fried green ones accidentally one time.

“Tsk, you picked these from that raised garden outside, didn’t you?” I said. I pictured him skulking along next to the tomato plants that had languished all summer in a too-shady spot. Some resident—maybe several residents—had planted not only tomatoes, but cucumbers, squash, strawberries, and a petunia.

Peter looked like a naughty little boy. I could hardly keep a straight face. “Whoever planted them,” I added, “won’t get to eat them.” I threw in an extra “tsk” for good measure.

“Well! They can have them,” he said, shuddering, “I don’t even like to-mah-toes.”

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

‘Aha!’ she said.

Anyone who really knows my husband knows that he has a thing for Mickey Mouse. His obsession stemmed from an outburst nearly 50 years ago when he was a young engineer from England—the great European “brain drain” he said—hired to work for then almighty General Electric. He’d established his quirky personality early on, so he thought nothing of going to his first management meeting wearing an open shirt, no jacket, no tie. He was told in no uncertain terms that he would, hence forth, dress appropriately—necktie, jacket.

The legend is, he returned to his cubicle, slammed down his GE-issue leatherette binder and bellowed, “This is a bloody ‘Mickey Mouse’ outfit.” His colleagues, many of them young hires from Europe too, ran with that. Someone left a Mickey Mouse card on his desk the next morning before he arrived. Just. The. Beginning.

His collection grew to hoarder proportions, especially after we moved to this house which has a tiny room he claimed. At least I could shut the door to keep the big-eared rodents contained.

Last April, in order to make his new new residence more homey — “homelier” his English friends would say — I put  family photos and  English memorabilia around. Wrong. He hid most of the photos, tore some to bits and generally stripped his room of anything personal.

Lately he’s had a lot of way-down days. But during one visit two weeks ago I noticed several female residents had baby dolls to cuddle. Aha! Mickey Mouse could help. Yes!

A plush Mickey Mouse, about the size of a six-month-old infant, was in Peter’s collection. I snuck the little guy into his room when he wasn’t looking and tucked baby M under the bed covers. The following day I asked about the suspicious lump. Without a word, Peter adjusted the covers so I could see.

Every day since I’ve taken some small thing from the Mickey archives—a simple puzzle, a magnet, the new Life magazine’s celebration of Mr. M’s 90th birthday—and left them for Peter to find later.

During my Sunday visit I snuggled Mickey on my lap as if he were a “real” baby. Peter’s eyes twinkled. “He’ll be all grown up soon,” he said. shaking his head.

I played along. “Yes-s, he’ll go away to college, he’ll meet a girl….” What could we do but laugh at our own silliness?

Header: Mickey snug in Peter’s bed.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Ninety-eight days and counting…

Ninety-eight days have passed since my husband was admitted to memory care, first for a month’s respite then, sadly, as a permanent resident.

Ninety-eight days with ups and downs as stomach-twisting as a rickety rollercoaster ride.

Ninety-eight days of uncertainty, confusion, frustration, anxiety and sadness. And that’s just my list. For Peter, I’d add to those anger, fear, anguish and longing.

Since those first heart-breaking mid-April days — I remember them as very cold, though they were not — the succeeding weeks have glommed together like cheap paper towels. There’ve been bad days and good, more lows than highs, a few baby steps forward, but more giant steps back. Silly me, I thought when someone else took responsibility for my husband’s safety, feeding and care, I would be able to catch up with myself. Not so. But it’s not about me anyway.

Within hours of his admission Peter had a meltdown that prompted a call from the evening charge nurse. Would I talk to him on the phone to see if that would help? Yes, I would. When that didn’t work, would I come to try to calm him? Yes, I did. It took several hours, but he was laughing by the time I left. Oh, I’m no hero, but I generally know which buttons to push. The staff had yet to learn.

Within seventy-two hours he’d gotten out of the facility, even as his ankle bracelet screeched while he walked through the main door. A maintenance man found him behind the building near an area surrounded by woods.

By the third, maybe fourth, week he started to acclimate a tiny bit.

The food, though nutritious, does not appeal to my picky husband. And showering with a female aide hovering nearby is not gonna happen. Without me to nag him about changing his clothes, he doesn’t. Instead of putting his things in the laundry, he hides them in the waste baskets and they’re gone forever. His slippers, leather scuffs, have vanished several times. Once I found the left one in a wheelchair parked outside another resident’s door. A few days ago I found the right one under a table in the shower room. But the left one had disappeared again. Peter isn’t necessarily to blame. Residents in memory care units are notorious for “stealing” from other residents.

Houdini could be his middle name.

Peter advises the cat on how to escape.

No, I really can’t blame him for any of this. No one can know what it’s like to be so confused and disoriented all the time. During his first 12 days there, he’d had relative freedom. But he was quickly moved to the “lock-down” wing after he busted out a second time. He left for an outing with Mark in the morning, but returned to a different room that afternoon. He didn’t even realize he’d been moved. And a few weeks later when we were finally able to move our furniture in to replace the borrowed stuff, he never noticed the change.

So, he’s safe under lock and key…touchpad and code.

Except he isn’t. My husband is an escape artist. He snuck out in my care, and when he wants to get out, he continues to walk out right past the nurses. For years Peter took Nobby to visit the residents where he himself now lives. He knew the code to get into the locked areas and how to get out. Served him well when he was the one on the inside. Frankly, I laughed when I heard that he remembered the code. He can’t remember names or places or much of anything at all, but numbers? His engineer’s brain still computes with reasonable ease. Then, too, he can read. There’s a sign on each locked door that says: Press for 15 seconds and door will open—fire code requirement.

It’s all about control.

From the first days he looked for ways to maintain control. Leslie and I set up his first room and made it as homey as we could. It was a large attractive room with a pleasant outlook. He very quickly rearranged things to suit himself—he hid the family photos, stacked books and puzzles in a corner, and put his tooth and hairbrushes in the little refrigerator that was left behind by the previous occupant.

Less than two weeks after he was moved to the more secure area, he started conjuring more creative ways to dominate his surroundings. He folds his clothes and conceals them in pillow cases, then secures them with his belts or wrapped in his shirts. Lately he’s wrapped everything, gift-like, in towels or sheets. He stashes handkerchiefs in the travel toothbrush holder he requested, not for his toothbrush, but to conceal whatever he could stuff into that little green cylinder. He hid family photos underneath a framed picture of his dad.

In more recent weeks he started taking the screens out of his windows. Almost every evening he disconnects his television, but two days ago he hid it. From himself or from me? I found it and hooked it up again, even though I always say I won’t.

Days 94-98 have been more troublesome. No matter howfrustrated I get, I know Peter is a hundred times more frustrated—he isn’t to blame for his shenanigans. I tell myself that while I bang my head against a brick wall.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.