Tag Archives: Chuckles

Tail of a dog.

Posted on by under Laughter, tears, Nag, Remember

Almost every Wednesday for the past four years, Peter and Nobby have visited area nursing homes with Bill, Peter’s faithful companion.  Nobby is the star of the weekly events, of course, and he luxuriates in the cuddles.

Last week, Bill arrived on time, as he always does, and Peter was ready, though he usually is not. As they headed out the door, I yelled, “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

Peter turned. “I don’t think so…,” he said.

I pointed to Nobby. “What about him?”

“Oh, is he going?” he asked, as if this were something new.

Well, yes,” I said. “It’s Wednesday.” Peter shook his head, disgusted with his drifting memory. Bill and I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of Peter walking into the nursing home, red leash in hand and no dog attached.

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More and more often these days I have to remind Peter — make that nag — that it’s time for Nobby’s walk. This morning, Nobby waited patiently by the basement door. When I called to Peter, he said, “Yes, yes, I’m coming.” Nobby flip-flopped his tail hopefully.

Finally Peter came up from the basement. I heard him fiddling with the leash. After a spate of muttering from Peter and a few yelps from Nobby, I went to investigate. They were in the laundry room. Peter was laughing so hard tears were streaming down his face. “Helped when I put the leash on the right end,” he said, sputtering.

“What, you mean you put it on his back end?”

“Yes, and he didn’t like it.”

“Poor dog! I’m sure he didn’t!” I said. “How would you like a harness around your nether region?”

Peter grimaced. Nobby got two treats.DSC00224_2

Header photo: Nobby at Pandapas Pond.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Where the laughs come from.

Posted on by under Caregiver, Childlike, Experts say, Laughter

“Take off everything but your underwear,” the nurse said, handing Peter a gown. We were at the dermatologist’s office and she’d just finished asking him a list of questions. The only one he could answer was his birthdate. “Oh, I get it, you brought your wife so she could answer the questions for you, didn’t you?” she laughed. “Doctor J will be in shortly,” she said as she left the room.

Peter looked at me. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Take everything off except your underwear,” I told him.
He took his shirt off. “Is this enough?”
“No, everything but your underwear.”
As he stripped off his trousers he said, “Good thing I wore underwear today.”
I burst out laughing. I never know where the laughs will come from, only that they’ll come.

Next he took his shoes and socks off. As he bent down to put them under the chair where he’d draped his clothes he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the door. “What the heck?” he said, grabbing his shirt to hide behind. “Oh, I thought that was a window. I was going to cover myself up,” he sputtered, laughing at himself.
When I stood up to tie his gown in back, he said, “I guess that’s why you’re here, to tie this thing. What do people do if they’re by themselves?”
“They either bring me along or let it all hang out,” I told him.

Doctor J came in and examined Peter carefully. He has had several suspicious spots removed in the past several years, as well as a large squamous cell carcinoma. Peter always asks, “What causes them?”
“Sun damage mostly.”
“Pfft, I’m never in the sun,” my husband will scoff, blowing off the expert opinion.
After the doctor zapped a couple places, he pronounced Peter good to go for another six months.
“Six months? I have to come back in six months?” He couldn’t believe it. “Why?”
“Because you have precancerous spots,” the doctor explained. “We need to keep a check on them.”
“What causes them?”

After he dressed he looked down at his shoes and asked where his socks were. I looked at him and hoped for the light bulb moment. “They’re in you’re shoes,” I said finally.
“Wasn’t that clever of me to put them there?” He watched me to see if I’d laugh. I did.

Header photo: Peter walking, not in the sun.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Answer the phone already!

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Laughter, Remember

The home care manager with our health insurance company —  I’ll call her “K” — phones each month and asks for Peter. Since my husband will neither answer nor talk on the phone, I take her questions. Or if I’m busy, I’ll say the timing isn’t convenient. I hope she doesn’t get upset when I put her off. She sounds very sweet, and she is just doing her job.

Yesterday was different. When she called, I simply handed the phone to him. He glared at me. “Hello?” He was wary. “Oh, so far, so good,” he said, his stock answer these days when anyone asks how he is. When he answered “Six each morning,”  I knew she’d asked about his medications. “What do I take every day?” he stage-whispered to me. I was up to my elbows in sudsy water cleaning cupboards, so I yanked a drawer open and showed him the prescription bottles so he could read them off.

Next she asked about his exercise. “Yes, the dog still walks me every day, twice a day. Yes, nursing homes every week…no, oh no, not for me! Nobby visits the people who live there. No, they don’t want to see me,” he laughed.

She already knew all the particulars from talking to me, but I was glad I’d made him take the call because it forced him to talk. I constantly try to engage him, to draw him out. It’s exhausting.

“K” had a few more things up her sleeve. “Hm, let me ask the wife,” he said. I glared at him. He knows — he hasn’t forgotten this — that I HATE being called “the wife.”  “Do I have any doctor appointments?” he mouthed as if it was a secret. I told him the dates.

Screen Shot 2015-09-02 at 12.02.10 PMThen came the routine cognitive impairment questions: day of week, month, year? Peter thought she asked because she didn’t know, so he walked over to the dry erase board I update every morning. “No you don’t,” I yelped, quickly wiping the board clean with my finger. “She wants to know if you know!” He tried to get around the corner to the calendar, but I blocked that too. “You sneaky devil,” I said. Of course I laughed.

He chuckled and told her, “My wife [he didn’t say the wife this time] won’t let me look at the calendar, but I know it’s August…um, tenth? Year? I know it’s two-thousand-something…thirteen? Oh-h, twenty-fifteen! Already?”

I’m sure the conversation left her laughing. It did me.

 

Header photo: JodyWissing, Digital Fondue, (11/16/10)

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

Joy ride.

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Childlike, Chores

“It’s the little things,” was another of my husband’s “old granny” sayings. Peter repeated the phrase often as a way to dissect any quarrels we had. We’ve never argued over the big stuff, but his whiskers in the just-cleaned bathroom sink sets me off, and he hates the way I coil up the garden hose.

Nowadays it’s the little things we do that he enjoys, although he doesn’t want to do anything that will mess up his routine. Our horizons have become limited.

Yesterday I forced myself to do errands, really boring stuff — buy dog food, find special batteries, get wood to replace clothesline poles. I figured Peter would want to go with me and, yes, he was ready within minutes. He misses being able to run the errands himself, and I miss that he can’t do them anymore. Even though I would’ve liked to come home after the last stop, I took us to lunch at a restaurant where he’d never been. That threw him for a loop because the menu was unfamiliar, as were the beer choices. I encouraged him to order a burger. Good thing it was excellent, because the beer I suggested was only so-so.

After lunch, I realized we were just around the corner from a car wash, so I whipped in there. Peter’s eyes were like a kid’s at Christmas. I had to laugh. I pulled the moon roof back so we could watch the giant mops swish over us. After his initial, childish delight, his engineering persona took over and he marveled how the washing system was set up. “How’d they do that?” he asked, as he always does of anything that smacks of good engineering.

Screen Shot 2015-08-30 at 10.24.43 AMFor Peter, it was a perfect day out. For me, I’m glad such a little thing made him happy…I still hate to run errands though.

 

There are two types of people in this world, those who would take an Alzheimer’s patient on a joy ride and those who would say it was
a waste of gas.”

Header photo: My sun roof gets washed.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

Laughter, always the best medicine.

Posted on by under Advice, Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Chores, Dementia, Nag

This caregiving business is a series of lessons on the run. I have an “ah ha” moment almost every day.

Take today.

Every morning, I put our prescription meds into two shot glasses — Peter’s on the left of the coffeemaker, mine on the right. He takes an 81 mg aspirin, Losarten for blood pressure, Wellbutrin for mood, Livolo for cholesterol, and Vitamin D3 because dementia patients are thought to be lacking in the D vitamin. Oh, and Namenda, the well advertised medicScreen Shot 2015-08-09 at 5.49.32 PMation thought to slow the effects of dementia-related diseases. How could I forget that one?

After dinner, I dole out Glucophage, the supposed answer to leveling his blood sugar levels since he won’t leave sweets and carbs alone no matter how often the doctor explains nor how often I nag. Just before bed, he takes Donepezil (Aricept), to treat confusion, possibly improve memory, awareness and the ability to function.

How well do these meds, particularly Nameda and Donepezil, perform? I have no idea. I do know that his taking pills from the wrong shot glass was an important lesson-in-waiting for me this morning.

I discovered the mistake when I poured my second cup of coffee. Peter was already watching West Ham beat Arsenal. “You haven’t taken your pills yet, Peter. No, wait! Mine are gone and I never take them until after my coffee!”

He had no idea what I was talking about. So much for awareness.

“Did you take my pills?” I asked, showing him the little empty glass. “Yes, you took mine.” I answered my own question.

“I don’t know…probably,” he said. “What will happen to me?”

“Hm, well, my super prescription vitamin may give you a boost. Maybe you’ll have the energy to mow the grass…” I laughed at my own joke as he made a face that said, “Not bloody likely…I’m watching soccer.”

I didn’t expect that he’d cut the grass, and he didn’t. But, lesson learned, from now on I’ll keep my medications in a secure container in my pocket.

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Ah ha! A beer-on-a-stick might work.

Header photo: Morning glories keep their eyes on Peter.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

Is someone here?

Posted on by under Chores, Dementia, Laughter

My longtime friend Bonnie and her husband Paul visited us for a couple of days last week. They were on their way from Florida to his high school reunion in Ohio.

Bonnie had emailed several times the weeks before. She wanted to make sure it was OK for them to stay with us. “Will it upset Peter?” she wondered. “Please tell us. We understand completely. We could get a hotel room.”

I reassured her that Peter remembered they were coming, though he wasn’t sure he remembered them. They were here two years ago and he’d met them at several of our class reunions, but as he says, he can’t remember what he had for breakfast.

During the days leading up to their visit Peter was extra helpful. We’d had workmen here for a week fixing our sagging carport. Sawdust and grime had drifted into the house, crusting everything. I vacuumed and dusted while Peter scrubbed the bathtub and tidied the flower beds. He mowed the yard almost willingly.

They arrived on time, well, a minute late actually. She texted an hour earlier that their GPS said they’d arrive at 12:11. They rolled in at 12:12. But what’s a minute between old friends?

It was a pleasant, sunny day, so we ate lunch on the terrace. Then Bonnie and I chattered and reminisced the whole afternoon like two women of a certain age who have known each other for all but the first two years of their lives. Paul chimed in now and then because he knew some of the people we talked about, and Peter listened, smiling. We carried on through dinner and sat outside until the lightning bugs’ glow wasn’t bright enough for us to clear the table.

Back inside, Bonnie pulled out the eight millimeter movie film she’d brought along. She had never seen it, but she’d checked beforehand to make sure I still had my dad’s old projector. The film showed her learning to walk and on through Christmases and birthdays to the age of six or seven.

Peter laughed at us laughing with tears in our eyes.

The next morning I was having my second cup of coffee when Peter came downstairs. He looked puzzled. “What’s going on upstairs?” he asked. “Is someone in the bathroom?”

I chuckled. “Well, it’s either Bonnie or Paul,” I said.

He was still confused.

“Bonnie and Paul…they got here yesterday!” No matter how enjoyable the day and evening had been, he could not remember that we had overnight guests.

He slathered his usual two slices of toast with Keillor & Sons orange marmalade, poured coffee into his big green mug, and sat down to read the paper. He reads the paper again every afternoon because he forgets the news he’s read hours earlier. And he truly can’t remember what he has for breakfast, even though he has the same thing day after day after day.

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Gold Coreopsis brightens shady spots, while Black-Eyed Susan vine (at top) seems to glow in the dark.

Header photo: climbing Susans.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

Inside out or outside in?

Posted on by under Chores, Laughter

When he’s inside looking out, Nobby presses his nose IMG_0538against the family room window. When he’s outside and wants in, he presses his nose against the same window. The lower panes are always smudged with doggie nose prints.

Friday was brilliantly sunny for a change. I suggested to Peter that he might wash that big window. “What do I use, and how do I do it?” he asked.

I set him up with spray cleaner and cloths and suggested he start in the middle section. Next thing I knew he was washing the kitchen window on the side of the house where a step ladder is required. No doggie slobbers on that window. I nudged him to the back of the house.

A few minutes later I noticed he had the yucky old rag I use to wipe spills off the kitchen floor. Bad enough he was using the grungy cloth, but besides that, he was outside and the spray cleaner was inside.

About then a friend walked in and complimented Peter on the sparkly the window beside the table. I laughed. “He hasn’t done that one yet,” I said.

“I have no idea which ones I’ve done,” Peter said. “I’m just trying to do what I’m told.”

An hour later, the designated windows were shining! I don’t know how he did it, and it’s probably better not to ask. At least he does windows!

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Header photo: Window, cleaner than it was before!

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Two quarts to the gallon.

Posted on by 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.

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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.”

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One, two, three daffodils.

Photos: Spring flowers in spite of ourselves!

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

When the edge is gone.

Posted on by under Defined, Laughter, tears

Our son-in-law Martin launches into contemplative ruminations occasionally, usually about some subject so obscure that no one knows what he’s talking about. We all laugh and pay him no nevermind. Some eyes may glaze over as he rambles.

Not long ago, Leslie and Martin, Peter and I went out to dinner. Leslie and I chattered about this and that, Martin chimed in now and then, and Peter listened, silent as usual.

Into a gap in the conversation Martin said, “You know, Pete reminds me of a well-loved old kitchen knife. A very good knife, once sharp, but a bit dulled by time and use.” Leslie and I chuckled, and Peter smiled as if he got it, but I know he didn’t. Martin was pleased with his metaphor and, I admitted, it was a good one.

Old knives did all sorts of jobs in the right hands — they peeled apples and potatoes, chopped cabbage, loosened sealed jars, dismembered chickens, even acted as screwdrivers in a pinch. Even when they don’t hold their edges anymore, those knives still hold pride of place in kitchen drawers, for sentimental reasons, if for nothing else.

 

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My great-granddad Tommy’s whetstone and an old knife from my drawer.

Header photo:  Veg for stew or for the compost bin?

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

One good thing.

Posted on by under Laughter

In my husband’s case, his continuing sense of humor makes a horrible disease tolerable for both of us. Plus, I’ve discovered there are several things that are “good” about his dementia.

Peter doesn’t know how to describe pain, not even in the moment. Maybe he never did and I’m only now noticing. He can’t say if pain is sharp, dull, throbbing, piercing. He can’t say if it’s a three or a nine on a scale of ten.

Several months ago, he came to me nearly doubled over with pain. His shoulder was scrunched up towards his ear and he was gripping the back of his neck.  “I don’t know what this is, but I need to go to the doctor,” he said, grimacing.

My husband never thinks he needs to see a doctor, and he never complains that he hurts. I calmed both of us down with a cup of tea, and after questioning him, I decided he’d had muscle spasms, not a heart attack. That was a Friday evening.

I watched him over the weekend, and though he winced from time to time, he never said another word. But Monday morning he complained again so I made an appointment to see the doctor.

By the time we arrived, he had no pain and no memory of it. I knew he hadn’t been faking, but I couldn’t believe he didn’t remember. Further, he didn’t know why we were in the doctor’s waiting room! When I asked how he felt, he shook his head dismissively, and shrugged his shoulders. Then he stood and patted himself down — chest, back, arms, legs — and said, “Yep, I ‘feel’ just fine.” His eyes twinkled.

The doctor said arthritic spurs on his upper spine were making the nerves twang like  too-tight banjo strings. He prescribed ointment, pain pills, and physical therapy.

One good thing— check!Screen shot 2014-10-20 at 4.32.19 PM

Header photo: Sweet state in a North Carolina garden.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.