Tag Archives: Dates

‘…my brain was a jumbled mess and I couldn’t remember what number comes after potato!’

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Dementia, Numbers count, Problems

My husband is —was — a math whiz. Dementia overloaded his brain more than ten years ago, but every now and then, it reboots.

screen-shot-2017-02-06-at-11-47-05-amThis puzzle showed up on-line a few days ago.  If you can solve this, you are a genius, it read. I showed it to Peter. “I’ll bet you can do it,” I said, “and you know I can’t!” I added. He laughed. He knows how absolutely hopeless I am at math. I left him to it, pencil in hand.

Within minutes he was done. When he tried to explain how he’d arrived at the correct answer, he lost me, not only because numbers muddle my brain as if it’s being whirled in a blender, but also because he can barely put sentences together any more.

I’d copied the two possible ways to solve it, but I didn’t even understand how to apply either solution. Here’s what Peter did:

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You are a genius!

Interestingly, he keeps a scrap of paper by his chair that shows the way he figures out how old he is. I’m not smart enough to understand that either. First, he looks at the newspaper to see what year it is: next to 2017 he writes 17 and underneath, 62; to the left, 1938. Simple subtraction, 2017 minus 1938 should tell him he’ll be 79 this month. (Even I can manage that!) But then he adds 17 and 62 to get 79, too. See, I don’t get that at all, but he does and that’s all that matters.

There are probably several geniuses among my followers who can solve the “genius” problem. I am in awe of you. But I’m more in awe of my husband who did it so quickly, yet he can’t remember where the dog’s leash is kept, where the salt and pepper live, nor how old he is.

Headline quote: Tara Sivec, USA Today best-selling author, Seduction and Snacks.
Header photo: Performance  Brain Training

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

 

 

Morning walks clear the head.

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Childlike

For the past week a bad cold gripped my head, a cold I caught from my husband who still insists he didn’t have one. For once, I took my own advice and lay low, resting and drinking lots of tea, force-feeding Vitamin C in various forms. I was a real grump because I couldn’t go out and play in the first snow of the season. I even forfeited my daily walks, until this morning.

img_4730Mid-morning, I heard Peter tell Nobby it was time time for a walk. The dog has adopted his master’s ways, he is not a morning dog; he needs coaxing. “Will you wait for me to get dressed so I can go with you?” I yelled. I was still in snowflake pj’s and mommy robe.

Peter smiled. “Yes! Thank  you,” he said. As I dashed upstairs I heard him tell Nobby “she” is going with us so we don’t get lost. He sounded happy. I had to hurry or he’d forget and leave without me.

We walked for nearly an hour, not so far in distance, but slowed by the dog’s need to figure out who else had walked that way.

The fresh air — mild after last weekend’s snow and near zero temperatures — revived me. Ideas began to gel, solutions to problems began to surface. By the time we came in the door, I felt better than I had in more than a week.

While I poured coffee, Peter studied the dry erase board beside me. “Today is Sunday, isn’t it?” he asked.  I nodded, then noticed he was wiping “Saturday” and “14” off the board. I’d been so wrapped up in my thoughts earlier that I hadn’t updated the message first thing, something I always do.

“Yay, you know what day it is!” I said. He smiled proudly while I updated the day and date.

Leslie called a little later. Did we want to go to a matinee and then to eat after? Yes we did. I added that information and showed the message board to Peter. Slowly, he read the words out loud, then smiled. “Something to do on Sunday,” he said.

Smiles are hard to find some days, but they are always worth looking for.

Header photo: Nobby walks Peter every day.

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2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

Forever — is composed of nows —

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Be mine, Dementia, Laughter, Poetic thoughts

For my husband to give me a meaningful card for our anniversary was present enough. But coupled with heart-shaped earrings in a beautiful little box, WOW!  With Leslie’s help — she offered him three choices — he picked the earrings and the handcrafted box to put them in. He doesn’t remember our Boxing Day anniversary, nor how many years we’ve been married, but some glimmer helped him choose perfectly.

When I opened the Leslie-wrapped present, he hung over my shoulder to see what he’d given me and why. “Our anniversary? Did I forget?” I said he hadn’t, and that the box and earrings were what he’d given me.

“I did a good job, didn’t I?” he said. “Did you give me something?”

“I did. That card on the mantle…and shoes.”

“Shoes? You gave me shoes?”

I laughed. “Two pair yesterday,” I said.

“Why?”

“Why did I give you shoes, or why did I give you two pair?

“Yes.”

“”Well, shoes because you’ve been complaining you don’t have any, and one pair because it was Christmas and the other pair as an early anniversary present…”

“Anniversary? Did I miss it?”

“No, it’s today, it’s ‘now,'” I said. I held the box up to show him Emily Dickinson’s line.

He shook his head. “I don’t know what that means.”

Hm, Dickinson is sometimes hard to explain. “It means ‘now’ should be treasured and celebrated, our anniversary, for instance. ‘Now’ means the present…right now…’forever’ is made of all our ‘nows.'”

I don’t think my stumbling explanation made sense to him, but he was pleased that I was pleased with “the present” he chose.

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Birdseye maple box, Mike Mikutowski Wood-working. Lapis lazuli earrings header above, Cathy Guss

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

 

A last hurrah?

Posted on by under Caregiver, Dementia, Good news

“Where have you been?” Peter asked. It was the wee hours of Monday morning and he was just getting into bed.

“Los Angeles…I just got back,” I said. “The plane was late.”

“Why were you there?”

“Columnists’ conference, remember? I marked it on the big calendar downstairs.”

“Hm-m,” he muttered and, lights out, he was asleep. So much for a welcome home hurrah.

Leslie had been in charge my four days away. She (and Carolynn, too) can handle Peter, often more easily than I can. She’d been asleep on the couch and went home as soon as I came in.

When Peter came downstairs next morning, I said, “Gooood morning,” as I do every day.

He affected his fake startled look, as he always does, and said, “Oh, hello…I thought you were away.”

“I came back…two o’clock this morning,”

“Where were you?”

“L.A.” I said, pointing to the calendar on the kitchen counter.

“Mm-m, that was a long time ago. I don’t remember.” The previous Thursday was ancient history in Peter’s mind

I didn’t expect him to remember, but still it rankled. “It was one of the most exciting things I’ve ever done,” I said. I wanted to tell him about it, but showed him photos on my phone instead.

“I’m sorry, there’s just nothing in my head anymore.” He sighed and knocked on his forehead with his fist.

“But it doesn’t sound hollow,” I said and we laughed.

I didn’t even try to tell him that I’d won the number two spot in my category. Or that the award came with two hundred dollars or that I sat next to my idol Leonard Pitts at dinner.

IMG_3374When I showed him this photo of Los Angeles’ infamous rush hour traffic, he asked, “Who would want to face that every day?”

“Not me,” I said. “Coming downstairs is as far as I want to travel to go to work.”

 

 

Header photo: Mid-night rose.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Perfect do-nothing day.

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

“Do you want tea or coffee for ‘second breakfast’?” I asked my husband. “I’m fixing waffles.”

“What? Tea or coffee? What are you having? What are we having?”

“I’m having tea, we’re having waffles…and fruit, lots of fruit,” I told him.

“OK, tea then. What’s the occasion?” Peter asked.

“It’s Father’s Day.”

“You’re making me waffles?”

“Mmm-m,” I said, “it’s Father’s Day.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Nothing. It’s Father’s Day, do nothing until I tell you it’s ready.”

“I’m good at doing nothing,” he said.

“Yes, you are,” I said.

This day is perfect — a Crayola box of colors, balmy air, bright sun. I set the table outside, made a pot of tea, washed raspberries, blueberries and a peach, got out real butter and real maple syrup, and popped a whole package of frozen waffles into the toaster.

Peter ate as if he hadn’t had a meal in days. “I would like to have two birthdays every year…” he said, smacking his lips.

“This isn’t your birthday, it’s Father’s Day.”

“Not February? What is it then?

“June. It’s never warm like this in February,” I said.

“Well, I’d like two birthdays like this. This is good.”

“It’s still Father’s Day.”

“Are we doing anything special later?” He made a silly, little boy face.

“Yes, Leslie is taking you…and me…to a movie and dinner.”

“Wow, I’d like another birthday like this.”

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UnknownA card arrived from Carolynn yesterday. On the front, the unmistakeable silhouette of Mickey Mouse, Peter’s hero, and a “Hooray for Dad” message. He looked at it again and again, then put it next to his chair. When I looked at it this morning, I realized why he’s confused about today. The message says:

As far as dads go,
there’s not a more classic
character than you.
Hope your birthday’s
as special as you are.

Beneath that she wrote, I know you can’t remember all the cool things you did with Leslie and me…but we do! Happy Father’s Day!

Birthday? Father’s Day? Doesn’t matter. He’s loved by “his girls” and he’s happy.

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Mickey Mouse webgrab/Pinterest

Header photo: Crayola box colors in the garden.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

‘Consider yourself reminded.’

Posted on by under Chocolate, Holidays

He stood at the kitchen table and puzzled over the red envelope I’d tucked inside the morning paper. “Is it my birthday?” he asked as he opened the card. It showed two goldfish smiling at each other from their side-by-side bowls. When he jumps into her bowl they live happily ever after, presumably.

Right month, wrong date. “No, Valentine’s Day,” I said.

“Oh, I didn’t know. Why didn’t you remind me?”

happy-dancing-red-heart-cartoon-isolated-on-white-background-valentine-s-day-greeting-three-dimensional-character-render_123656113I pointed to his message board where I’d put frolicking red hearts every day this past week. He shook his head and shrugged his apology. In fairness, the card isn’t a Valentine, strictly speaking. It’s teal and gold, not red and pink, and it’s a general purpose card about happiness. It could be a birthday card.

I picked it because of the goldfish. They’re known to have exceptionally short attention spans. Peter is my goldfish.

Leslie, on the other hand, delivered a red and pink, glitter-encrusted card that said, “Happy Valentine’s Day…consider yourself reminded.” She often reminds me to be as direct as possible with my husband, no complicated explanations, no double meanings. He had no trouble remembering  she’d brought a shiny red, heart-shaped box of chocolates. We each had one with our breakfast porridge.

I said it was OK that he didn’t remember the day. “You gave me the best present Wednesday…”

“I did? What was it?” He looked pleased with himself.

“…extra-special hugs after our dinner at India Garden.”

“Why’d I do that?”

“We hadn’t been there in a while. You cleaned your plate and mine, it tasted that good to you.”

“I don’t remember.”

“We’ll go again before too long. Maybe I’ll get more hugs…?” I batted my eyes.

He took the hint and hugged me. “Don’t get used to this,” he said, as I knew he would.

Maybe there’s something to be said for predictability.

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Chocolates for breakfast. What a way to start the day.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

What lurks in the shadows of his mind, cont.

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Remember

Same evening. Further attempts to talk in the noisy restaurant. Same puzzled expression on my husband’s face.

“What do you think it’ll be like fifty years from now?” he asked. He spread his hands and flapped them around.

“Here? This restaurant?”

“No-o. The world. Here. How many people will there be? Will they all fit?”

“Fit? I don’t know.” I said. He poses this sort of  question a lot.

“This is a small island you know…” he said.

“Island? What island?”

“England. Scotland. Ireland. Wales.” He nodded, proud of himself.

“Peter, where do you think we…”

He slapped his head. “Oh, silly me. We’re not there, we’re here.”

“Where? Where do you think we are?” I asked.

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Virginia?” he said at last, then asked, “Did you know me before I got like this, before my mind went away?

“I did.” I said. “I remember. We met forty-two years ago. Your mind was fine back then.”

“Oh you, you remember everything,” he said.

“Someone has to.” I said. I knew what was coming.

He sighed. “What would you do without me? No, no, I mean…”

“What would you do without me?” I asked, as I always do.

He laughed. “That’s a good one, isn’t it?” He loves his own jokes.

Header photo: Lighthouse, England.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

What lurks in the shadows of his mind?

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Laughter, tears

He sat across from me. The restaurant was very crowded, very noisy. Talking wasn’t possible, not really. But Peter kept trying to converse. I reminded him we seldom talk across our own dinner table, so it doesn’t matter if we don’t talk when we’re out.

“But, it’s different,” he said, “when we’re somewhere else.”

“I can’t hear a word you’re saying anyway,” I reminded him.

He nodded and sat back. He studied a spot on the wall behind my head. I watched his face. The V-shaped creases between his brows deepened, his left eye twitched, he shook his head slightly. He was far away.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked.

He shook his head again. “I’m trying to remember what it was like when I first came here.”

“To America?”

“Yes. Things have changed, but I can’t remember…”

“But that was in 1968! Nearly fifty years ago.”

He nodded.

“I’m going to have to learn to read your mind,” I said.

His eyes brightened. He smiled. “Well, if you do, tell me what you find in there.”

His remark was so apt we broke into laughter. The people at the next table must have wondered what was so funny. If they only knew.

Header photo: Peter, tube station near V&A Museum, London, 2009

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

Random thoughts, not remembered.

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Dementia, Elephant, Remember

Peter has trouble expressing himself more and more frequently. The other evening he was trying to explain something, but his words were jumbled. I leaned closer hoping I could catch a few words and make sense of them. Instead, he smacked himself on the head and said, “My thoughts just won’t stay in one place long enough for me to remember what I’m trying to say.”

We both laughed, but that in itself was quite a mouthful for him these days.

APHASIA (uh–fey-zhuh) noun, Pathology.
The loss of a previously held ability to speak or understand
spoken or written language, due to disease or injury of the brain.

It’s so difficult for those of us whose thoughts do stay in one place to imagine what it would be like to have some form of dementia. Peter falls back on his sense of humor to get by, and I borrow on that a lot. At times, though, it’s exhausting, probably as much for him as it is for me.

Screen Shot 2015-09-22 at 2.56.34 PM

©Dan Murphy cartoon, 6/18/95

Later Peter asked, “Did you know me before my mind got like this,” he waggled his hands above his head, “before my bike accident?”

“Of course I did, silly,” I answered. “That was in 1980. We met in 1974. Besides, your mind didn’t get ‘like this’ until a few years ago. ‘”

“How do you remember all that?”

“‘Elephant brain’,” I joked. “Important stuff. How could I forget?”

“I did,” he said sadly.

Header photo: web grab

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.