Attention span of a goldfish.

Posted on August 22, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Advice, Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Chores, Dementia, Experts say

Ten symptoms of caregiver stress were listed in an Alzheimer’s Association newsletter with this caveat: Alzheimer’s caregivers frequently experience high levels of stress. It can be overwhelming to take care of a loved one with Alzheimer’s or other dementia, but too much stress can be harmful to both of you.

No kidding!

In any given day I deal with several of these, and I’m sure other caregivers do the same:

Denial – Early on, I was convinced that if I kept trying to force Peter to remember things, to eat right, to get out more he’d at least maintain his status quo.
Anger – Screams, like geysers ready to erupt, lurk just below the surface of my “looking for laughs” demeanor.
Social withdrawal – Sometimes it takes too much effort do anything at all, much less be sociable.
Anxiety – I’ve finally done what I should have done sooner: hired more help for Peter and for me. What a difference to have the house cleaned and tidied by a young lady who is energy personified, the garden maintained by a woman who knows first-hand what it’s like to be a caregiver, niggling tasks done by a handyman friend.
Depression – Big mistake to think that I didn’t need anti-depressants. Hindsight and a meltdown proved me wrong.
Exhaustion – I used to keep my house to a certain standard, not the same white-glove-test standard my mother used, but I kept the dust bunnies at bay, food in the fridge, cookie tin filled, laundry done. When I realized it had been weeks since I’d cleaned the bathroom or changed our sheets, I knew I needed more help. (see #4)
Sleeplessness – Guilt wakes me in the wee hours, especially when I’ve crabbed at him for things he can’t help. Peter’s attention span is worse than a goldfish’s and he’ll ask the silliest things over and over. Within a few seconds he forgets I yelled and when I apologize he doesn’t know why.
Irritability – No one has ever called me patient. Lately Peter has started reorganizing the pantry every few days, lining up jars and moving boxes so I can’t find anything. Most wives would be thrilled if their husbands undertook that task, but I’m an angry bumble bee.
Lack of concentration – I used to be so organized, so tidy, but no more. My personal spaces are in the same sorry state as my mind.
Health problems – Many times I wonder if his dementia has rubbed off on me. Am I losing control too? Is it stress, or am I destined to be a statistic as well?
I talked to my doctor. He did the basic tests and I passed. “Stress,” he said, “it’s stress. You’re doing fine, but take time for yourself, do what you can to alleviate stress.”

My mother always said, no matter how bad things may seem, there’s always someone who is worse off than you. I’m glad I’m not a goldfish.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

There’s always hope.

Posted on June 20, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Dementia, Statistics don't lie

The Longest Day™ is a team event to raise funds and awareness for the Alzheimer’s Association. Held annually on the summer solstice, [June 21, 2015] the duration of this sunrise-to-sunset event symbolizes the challenging journey of those living with the disease and their caregivers. Carolynn Lyman of the Cancer Program is leading the ‘Poppy’s Hope’ team.
— Announcement in Faxton-St.Lukes Hospital newsletter, Utica, NY

I’d planned to organize an event for The Longest Day ™ this year, which coincidentally, is Father’s Day…tomorrow. But a couple of nasty bugbears, Stress and Anxiety, got in my way and totally discombobulated me for a time. It’s been said that the caregiver’s days are 36-hours long, and I believe it, even though Peter and I are “lucky” because he’s not in as bad a shape as some are…yet.

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‘Poppy,’ Carolynn, me, May 2015.

Carolynn picked up on the thread I’d dropped and started “Poppy’s Hope.” As it turned out, she didn’t have time to organize the golf tournament she’d dreamed up, so she went for a simple Facebook announcement and got a write-up in the hospital newsletter where she’s the Radiation Oncology Charge Nurse. Though only up for a short time, her site has raised more than 535 dollars.

Purple streak.

Then, Leslie got in on the act too by posting a photo and a plea — “Wear purple for Peter” — to her Facebook page. I’m not an enthusiastic Facebooker, but I changed my profile and header photos to show the purple streak in my hair and my purple sage. Purple is the Alzheimer Association’s color.

Martin, left, Peter, me, Leslie, April 2014.

Every day is the longest day for Dementia sufferers. In the inaugeral year, 2012, The Longest Day™ events raised 236 thousand dollars and attracted more than 635 partcipants on 200 teams. Now in its third year, teams are as varied as the participants. Activities range widely, from playing contract bridge, quilting, and gardening, to golf, volleyball, walking, cycling, dancing, and fishing, to name a few.

Yesterday, I received a thank-you letter for the check I sent to the Alzheimer’s Association in lieu of organizing a team activity as I’d intended. A paragraph at the bottom reminded me of something I already knew: Alzheimer’s is the sixth leading cause of death in America and the only one among the top ten that can’t be prevented, cured or even slowed significantly. In Virginia alone, 130 thousand people, aged 65 and older have the disease. Worldwide, the number of Alzheimer’s and related dementia sufferers is a staggering 44 million!

The desire of sage is to render man immortal, according to a late medieval treatise. The sage plant has been praised highly throughout history for its power of longevity. Sage, L. salvia, means to be in good health, to cure, to save.

If I thought it would help, I’d roll Peter in sage, sprinkle it on his pillow, and rub it behind his ears!

11165067_1122051104475978_1668361203311054294_o

My sage is a huge plant that I moved to Virginia from our garden in upstate New York 17 years ago.

Header photo: Clematis climbs the light post.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Ten more years.

Posted on June 18, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Childlike, Helpful hints, Remember

We set off for Charleston, West Virginia just before 9:00 a.m. Our destination was the US Customs and Immigration Office (USCIS). My English husband had to be photographed and fingerprinted so he’d be a legal permanent resident for another ten years.

Our little corner of Virginia is tucked into an indent in West Virginia’s border. The drive is a beautiful one that hugs the New River as it flows north, continuing to carve away at the Allegheny Mountains as it has done for millennia.

As happens so often these days, a thought lodged in Peter’s mind. Over and over, like a needle stuck on one of his 78 rpm records, he said, “I can’t imagine how they moved all these rocks and trees to make this road, can you?” I always try to answer his questions until I realize he’s in repeat — in my mind it’s “rePete” — mode. After about the fifth rePete I murmer the noncommittal and very useful British “mmm.”

Even with a stop for coffee, we arrived in Charleston two hours early. “Arriving at your destination. Turn left. Turn left here!” the GPS nagged frantically. Silly thing failed acknowledge the median down the middle of the street. I had to drive another two blocks to make a U-turn in order to truly arrive.

The name on the building wasn’t the same as the information USCIS had furnished, so I parked and went inside to make sure we were in the right place. We wanted to have lunch before Peter’s two o’clock appointment.

Not only was it the right place, but the young man in charge offered to process Peter right then. He began to sign in and, as I often do, I tried to help. I was told politely that Peter was to do it himself. I whispered to the fellow that my husband has dementia and would need some prompting. He whispered back that he understood. “We’ll take care of him,” he said.

He handed Peter additional papers and a pencil. It was the very same form I’d completed on-line several weeks earlier to expedite the process! Peter worried about using a pencil instead of a pen, but I assured him that’s what they wanted.

“Hm, do you think his eyes are hazel,” the young man asked when Peter completed the paperwork. “I think they’re blue,” he said as he studied my husband’s eyes. Difficult for Peter to hold eye contact for so long, but he managed.

“Well, he’s always said ‘hazel.’ But he did start to write ‘gray’ for eyes and ‘hazel’ for hair color,” I said.

He laughed. “OK, hazel they are.”

Peter was processed quickly — no messy ink these days, nor film either — and we were on our way to lunch within minutes. At his scheduled appointment hour, we were almost halfway home.

The drive was punctuated with another question that had snagged in his brain. “How long before I have to do this again?”

“Ten years. They probably won’t even care by then,” I said. “And I certainly wouldn’t drive you to Charleston anyway!”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Can’t drive a wheelchair on the interstate,” I said, and we laughed.

National Park Service photo.

Header photo: New River, Virginia, Eric T.Gunther, Creative Commons Attribution.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

A life sentence.

Posted on June 3, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Caregiver, Dementia, Poetic thoughts

Periodically, our long term insurance company arranges for a nurse to come assess my husband — they want to make sure he still has dementia, I guess. Today was the day. We were lucky to have Caroline again. Peter clicked with her before and again today.

The questions she asks are almost exactly the same as those his neurologist asks, and we were at her office yesterday. They want to know if he has any physical limitations, dizzy spells, or loss of strength, and if he can do household chores or handle bill-paying.

No, no, no, no, and no.

The hardest questions for most dementia patients are: can you name the day of the week, the month, the year, the season?

No, no, no, and no.

“Now I’ll ask you to remember three words,” Caroline said. Peter groaned and she smiled, but went on. “You’ll get one point for repeating the words correctly right away, and then again after you’ve either counted backwards from one hundred by sevens, or spelled the word “world” backwards. OK?” Peter nodded. “Your words are table, book, tree.”

“Table. Book. Tree,” he said. One point.

“Now, would you rather count backwards by sevens or spell “world” backwards?” she asked.

No hestitation. “D-L-R-O-W.”

“Great!” Caroline said. “Now, the very last part.” She handed him her clipboard and asked him to copy the multi-sided figures shown. After that she asked him to write a simple sentence.

“Sentence about what?” Peter asked.

“Anything at all,” she said. “A short sentence, but it has to make sense.”

Peter quickly copied the three figures, and after thinking a few seconds he wrote a sentence.

She looked at the clipboard. “Oh-h, that’s so sweet,” she said. She showed me his sentence: “I still LOVE my wife.”

Even though he didn’t score as well as he did the last time she was here, my unsentimental, undemonstrative husband got an A+ from me.

Header photo: Swans at Middle Gardens, Charleston, SC, May, 2009.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Always read the fine print.

Posted on May 22, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Family, Laughter, tears, Remember

Early in May, for some reason, it occurred to me to check the expiry date on my English husband’s permanent resident visa, previously called “green card.” Good thing I looked — expiration, May 28, 2015.

Ten years ago, we had a nice day trip to Charlotte, NC to renew both his card and his British passport. This year, a trip anywhere is an ordeal, so I did a search to see if USCIS is doing on-line registrations. Yes-s!

There was a stumbling block on the very first page. Peter couldn’t remember the year he came to the U.S, but he knew he was 28, so he added that age to his birthyear, 1938, and came up with 1966. (I was pretty sure he “got off the boat” eight years before we met in 1974.) The month and date, port of entry, and other necessary details like his alien registration number were lost in his fog. Finally, I broke the code of alpha/numerics on his passport and deduced he arrived in New York City on Wednesday, November 9, 1966.

Over several days I filled in the six pages. When, I called Peter to read over the document, he stumbled over his mother’s first name, Mabel.

“Everyone called her Doll,” he argued.

“Yes, but that was her nickname,” I reminded him. “Her given name was Mabel.” After some discussion he agreed.

When he read through his own physical characteristics he said his eyes were not hazel. “What color are they then?” I asked, deleting hazel.

He went to the mirror and after studying his eyes for some time, he said, “I’d call them bluey/browny/green.”

I typed h-a-z-e-l into the blank again.

After he’d read the fine print and signed electronically, he asked, “Am I good forever now?”

I told him he’d have to renew in ten years. “But, you’ll be 87, so they probably won’t chase you down.”

“You mean without the card, I could’ve…”

Peter with his favorite pint, London Pride.

“Oh, darn,” I laughed, picking up on his thread, “yes, you might have been deported if I hadn’t realized your card was going to expire. You could have been shipped back across the pond to spend the rest of your life in the corner pub… singing your bawdy songs…and…”

“Playing ‘arrahs’,” he said wistfully. [Arrahs = arrows = darts to my Englishman.]

“Sorry, I already I clicked ‘send,'” I said. “But in 2025, if immigration still wants you, you can go back ‘ome.”

Header photo: Peter enjoys the gardens, Isles of Scilly, England, 2009.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

What watch?

Posted on February 26, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Family, Remember

Today is Peter’s seventy-seventh birthday. We don’t do “hoopla” anymore, primarily because he doesn’t like fuss, and also because he forgets not only his own day, but mine and every other family member’s too.

March 1, 2008, the day Peter picked his puppy, Nobby.

Seven years ago was the last time he agreed to a family dinner. I remember because I’d fumed and worried about the present I’d decided to give him: the option of going to the Humane Society to rescue a dog or to a kennel to pick out a GoldenDoodle puppy.

Was I crazy for even thinking of another puppy? Yep! Was I surprised when he picked that option? Nope.

It was a milestone birthday, his seventieth. Even though I favored a rescue, I knew he’d had his heart set on having a GoldenDoodle since we’d first seen one the year before.

April 20, 2008 Can I go under this thing??

Can I eat it?

Will “cute” open it?

This year I went downscale. I found an inexpensive — make that cheap — watch that lights up at the press of a button. Over the years I’d given him a Mickey Mouse watch to feed his big-eared rodent fixation, plus at least three expensive watches. Somehow he managed to break them all beyond repair.

Now, though, he is obsessed with knowing the time even though he can’t remember it for more than a few seconds. He is now, and has always been, late for everything. He can’t remember that the “new” cable box we’ve had for a year doesn’t have a digital clock on it like the old one did. When he looks at the little window showing the channel, he thinks it shows the time, even if it’s a bright, sunny high noon outside and the channel number reads 838.

This new watch was made in China. I scratched that off the box, as I did the $14.99 price sticker. I “wrapped” it in a bright green envelope, put a years out-of-date birthday stamp on it, and hid it under the newspaper. When he came downstairs I heard him say Oh! when he uncovered the present. He came to me here at my desk and said, “I didn’t even know it was my birthday.”

“Really?” I said, though I was already pretty sure he hadn’t remembered. He shook his head. “Not even with my message on your dry erase board and the reminder on your calendar that’s been there all month?” I said.

“What calendar?” he asked.

“The giant white one on the kitchen counter.”

“No, I’ve never seen it.”

“Well, Happy Birthday!” I said.

“Now I have no excuse to be late, do I?” he asked, looking at his wrist.

“Yes, you do,” I said, “because you’ll forget to look at your watch.”

Later Peter came to tell me he and Nobby were going for a walk. “Won’t be long,” he said.

“I hope not, you need to help shovel snow. Do you have your watch on?”

“What watch?” he said. When I sputtered he laughed and pulled up his sleeve to show me that he did have his new watch on and hadn’t forgotten about it…yet.

Peter didn’t want me to bake a cake for him, so I froze one in the fresh snow outside.

Header photo: Nobby protects his ball.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Always something new to remind him.

Posted on January 18, 2015 by judithclarkewrites under Helpful hints, Laughter, tears, Remember

A bubble flood in our kitchen several years ago started a sticky note tide in our house. That sudsy event showed me that I needed to be more vigilant. It was time, past time really, to attach little reminders around the house for Peter. First were the under-kitchen-sink soaps. Then came notes on certain light switches, followed by color-coding to match keys to doors — red for one set, purple for another.

Soon, tv remote, wastebaskets, dog food bag, garbage disposal switch, bottle of hand soap, toothbrushes all had instructions stuck on or near them.

A small dry erase board propped near the coffee maker each morning announces the day, date, and year with reminders about activities and appointments for that day. Several years ago I tried an extra large calendar for Peter to fill in, but he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do it. Calendars were useless, he complained. In truth, in years past when he wanted to keep track of things or plan a trip for instance, he did an engineering timeline. Fair enough, I never understood his timelines anymore than he understood calendar squares.

Now, once again, a large calendar resides on the kitchen counter. Difference is, I fill in the spaces and I outline significant dates in red — birthdays, Valentine’s day, Christmas, our anniversary. Waste of red ink, that idea.

Every few days Peter asks if I need something from Kroger’s. He’s always liked grocery shopping and he can walk there with purpose and, more importantly, he doesn’t get lost. I give him a little sticky note, even if there’s only one thing on it. Three items are his limit, but even so, most of the time he doesn’t remember he’s got a list and will come home with an odd assortment he thinks we might need — yogurt, a few bananas, a Hershey bar. He always insists the latter must have fallen into his bag because he certainly didn’t buy it. I laugh at the thought of all those Hershey bars jumping onto the check-out conveyor and sliding into his bag.

Now, I’ve started putting bright notes inside some of the kitchen cupboards to remind him where certain things go. The salad spinner for instance. I use it several times a week. It lives conveniently in the cabinet to the left of the sink. Peter always empties the dishwasher, but lately he’s started stashing the spinner wherever he sees an empty space — in the cupboard where seldom used things reside, or maybe in the laundry room pantry. When I’m fixing dinner I do not want to look all over to find this essential tool. One day I’ll break something with all the door- and drawer-banging that accompanies my searc

I do know that washing lettuces for a tossed salad is significantly less of a problem for me than trying to cope with his tossed mind is for Peter. I try to keep that thought in my mind when I get frustrated with him over something so silly as a salad spinner.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.

Dementia isn't funny.

Caregiver Judith Clarke looks for laughs every day.

Tag Archives: Dates

Attention span of a goldfish.

There’s always hope.

Ten more years.

A life sentence.

Always read the fine print.

What watch?

Always something new to remind him.