Tag Archives: Cures

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. 

 

Don’t dwell on the disease…

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Defined

No disease should be allowed to have as its victims both the patient and the caregiver. But that is exactly what is happening every minute of every day.”

—Meryl Comer, Slow Dancing with a Stranger:
Lost and Found in the age of Alzheimer’s (2014)

[Author Meryl Comer] argues persuasively that we can’t “age-proof our lives” and that this disease, “the dark side of longevity,” is a “looming health catastrophe” for us all. “My greatest fear,” she writes, “is that mine will be the family next door by midcentury.”

— Jane Gross, The New York Times, September 1, 2014

 

…Value the moments, the pearls of wisdom,
their smile and humor.”

— St. Elizabeth

 

Header drawing: Alzheimer, Krankheitsfälle d. spät. Alters.  Verlag von Julius Springer in Berlin. Plate 5, Fig.2, “accumulation of lipoid material in a plaque near a capillary. becker.wustl.edu

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Which end up?

Posted on by under Experts say, Sickness & Health

Former NBC “Today” anchor Katie Couric had a colonoscopy on live t.v. fifteen years ago, remember? Surely I could write about the subject, if delicately put.

It was my husband’s turn a few weeks ago, not on t.v. of course, though a situation comedy came to mind — Jackie Gleason’s, perhaps.

“Why do I have to have one?” Peter demanded as I handed him four little pills to start the cleansing process.

“Because you had polyps five years ago,” I said.

“Does everyone have colonoscopies?”

“They save lives,” I preached, “and they’re recommended for everyone 0ver fifty.”

He grumbled.

No one likes to prep for a colonoscopy, but a patient with dementia is “lucky.” He won’t remember from one minute to the next why he has to drink quarts of gritty stuff dissolved in an electrolyte-filled sports drink, why he can’t eat for twenty-four hours, nor why he shouldn’t take the dog for a long walk lest he get caught short!

Peter is not a morning person so his early appointment wasn’t to his liking either. We waited just minutes before the nurse called him. “I’ll come too,” I said.

“No, I’ll get you when he’s ready.”

I knew she’d be back quickly. “Mrs. Clarke, come with me, please.” She chuckled as we walked. “When I asked Mr. Clarke why he was here, he didn’t know.”

“He can’t remember,” I said.

“He thought endoscopy?”

I laughed. “Um, no, wrong end. Colonoscopy.”

After she’d taken his BP, asked more questions (which I answered), and started an IV, she left so he could undress and put on a hospital gown. He didn’t understand why he had to take all his clothes off — he’d keep his knickers on, he said. “Nope, those too,” I insisted, as I tied him into a gown obviously designed for someone three times larger than my skinny husband.

Soon, our jolly, effervescent gastroenterologist popped in, offered a few reassuring words, and away they went.

Peter was back within thirty minutes, accompanied by a giggling nurse and chortling anesthesiologist. “Your husband is a riot,” he said. “When Dr. R finished, I asked Peter to open his eyes, but he opened his mouth like he was at the dentist!” Yup, he still had the wrong end!

The doctor came in to deliver good news and bad. “You had four tiny polyps,” he explained, “and they looked ‘fine,’ but we will send them off for biopsy.” Peter’s blank look told me he didn’t understand a word. “But the good news is, it takes about seven years for any new polyps to become cancerous, if they’re going to, so no further colonoscopies will be required.“  In other words, age will probably claim him before an attacking polyp. “Sounds terrible, that option,” the doctor whispered to me.

I shook my head. “He’d rather that than another prep.” Peter waggled his eyebrows in agreement.

The doctor showed off the “beautiful pictures” of Peter’s colon as if they were photos of his grandchildren. I raised my left eyebrow to say that only a gastroenterologist would think they were pretty! That prompted him to trot out a joke from his vast repertoire, this one about Yankees. I reminded him, a Southern gentleman, that I’m a Yankee.

He was undeterred. “Yankees are like hemorrhoids. When they come south, they’re a pain in the ass, and the pain doesn’t go away until they head back up north.”

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

This is the way he makes our bed.

Posted on by under Autism, Control, Dementia, Laughter, Lifelong

Peter helps around the house…creatively. He can no long fix or build things like he used to, so he’s invented chores and ways to do them.

He scuffs at embryonic maple leaves and tiny pear blossom petals — they hitch rides inside attached to Nobby — off the family room rug with the edge of his shoe, then picks them up and carries them to the wastebasket. Using the hand vac would be quicker and do a better job, but he likes his shoe method.

After I’ve done my weekly run-through downstairs with the vacuum cleaner, Peter straightens the fringe on the rugs, sometimes with the dog’s wire brush, sometimes with a comb, once with my pastry fork!  I don’t care whether the fringe is untangled or not, but the pastry fork is off limits!

My husband has an ongoing obsession with picking up the tiny twigs that snap off the trees. He mounds them into piles in the woods or crams them into an empty birdseed bucket that I dump when he’s not looking. He polishes the kitchen countertops until they gleam, but he doesn’t move appliances out of the way to do it.  There’s no doubt where the coffeemaker, knife block, tea kettle, and mixer live because the unbuffed areas tell the story.

I’m usually up and out at least an hour before Peter is, but when I come back from my walk he’ll have “made the bed.” That is, his side of the bed is smoothed, pillows plumped, spread straightened. My side remains as it was when I crept out — strangled pillows, tossed quilt, crumpled sheets.

When I hang laundry out back, I often ask him to bring it in. He brings his jeans, his shirts, his socks. His excuse for not bringing my clothes, our sheets or our dishtowels is, “I didn’t know you wanted them!”

That excuse, and the novel bed-making, has ASD (Austism Spectrum Disorder, fka Asperger Syndrome) written all over it. It’s nothing to do with dementia.

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Peter charms this lass.

I’ve often said, my husband’s dementia is much easier for me to deal with than ASD. Neither can be “cured,” but ASD sometimes manifests as what I call “The Mt. Rushmore Effect” —stone-faced, remote, cold. And yet, the man I fell in love with all those years ago can be funnier, sweeter, and more charming than anyone I’ve ever met.

I’m sure Peter thinks his ASD is a non-issue since he’s lived with it successfully all his life; dementia, though, has foiled him and he does not go gently.

An excellent “Masterpiece Theater” series*, “Doc Martin”, makes both of us laugh no matter how many times we watch it. The Doc (Martin Clunes) is a highly intelligent surgeon who has a blood phobia and serious relationship issues with his patients, and with Louisa (Caroline Katz), the woman he tries to marry. Although sometimes cringe-inducing, the series is doubly funny to me, first, for its pure comedy, and second, because Doc Martin is my husband all over again. Peter doesn’t see himself, while I relate to Louisa’s devotion to and frustration with the man she adores.

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* “Doc Martin” is also available on Netflix.

Header photo: All pictures, Middleton Place Gardens, North Carolina, 2011.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Magic pills? Wonder drugs? Snake oil?

Posted on by under Caregiver, Dementia, Experts say, Sickness & Health

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

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

This is one of those commercials that urges you to ask your doctor about this drug for your loved one. An announcer gives the laundry list of side effects: nausea, Screen shot 2015-01-31 at 5.05.22 PM_2vomiting, diarrhea, constipation, loss of appetite, dizziness, tiredness, weight loss, swelling in hands or feet, fast heart rate, easy bruising or bleeding, unusual weakness, joint pain, anxiety, aggression, skin rash, redness or swelling around eyes, or urinating more than usual. Makes you wonder why you’d want something that might add to your loved one’s misery. Frankly, I think all those “ask your doctor” commercials should be banned, but that’s a post for another day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, as we always do, we’d laugh at his little joke. Truth is, I often don’t know what to do without him.Screen shot 2014-09-13 at 11.08.38 AM

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

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.