Just call me Lipton and pour the hot water.

Early in Peter’s the long journey, people warned me, Take care of yourself, take it easy, don’t wear yourself out. They were right, but I didn’t take their advice.

Several months ago, I added more hours to Peter’s two helpers’ schedules to give myself some time off. With those hours I run errands without worrying about getting home to Peter who can’t be on his own for more than a few minutes at a time. Really, he can’t be on his own for any time at all. And I’ve been able to schedule massages every other week, or go to the bookstore and sit with coffee and a new book for a whole hour.

I’ve wondered, how long can I continue doing this 24/7? What would happen to Peter if something catastropic happened to me?  He couldn’t live alone and he would make life miserable for himself and a caregiver without me as a buffer. Carolynn and Leslie have always said they’d take turns taking care of one or both of us. I know they mean it, and they would do it too, but at what cost to them? These are the kinds of questions that keep me awake nights.

I’ve known for months what I must do, but I played ostrich. I should have done my research, should have put my husband’s name on lists. The multiple choice answers to my question include Assisted Living? Nursing Home? Memory Care? Private Care Home? Additional Care at Home?

When it comes down to it, assisted living is what Peter has now. I assist. In any case, he would not qualify now — he is cognitively impaired, he wanders, and he’s close to late-stage Alzheimer’s.

Nursing homes conjure thoughts of elderly residents parked at the nurse’s station in wheelchairs. No thank you. He doesn’t need nursing care, he needs loving care.

Additional in-home care would likely expand quickly to ’round-the-clock. It may yet come to that, but that would be the last resort. My husband is uncomfortable, always has been, with too many people around, and I’m a loner too.

What about a “memory care” unit at a nursing home, I wondered? Six weeks ago, when I began to scribble thoughts for this post, I wrote, …no need yet for that level of care.

That was six weeks ago.

Since then, my emotions and any rational ideas I might have had have tossed in my head like wet blankets in a malfunctioning dryer — around and around, flip and flop, toss and turn.

After Peter’s accident four weeks ago (two previous posts) I understood what my friend Lourie meant — she has faced these questions too — when she said, “You’ll just know when it’s the right time…” to put him into care. Or when Karen, owner of a caregiving service, said, “Remember, you ‘have Alzheimer’s’ too. You have to choose what is best for Pete, and for yourself.” And I took comfort from something gerontology professor Dr. Elaine Eshbaugh wrote in a blog, “You are just a person — doing the best you can under circumstances that aren’t great. And you’re not alone.”  Others I begged answers from had similar thoughts — don’t feel guilty and don’t let anyone tell you what to do unless they’ve walked in your shoes.

So, after Peter fell on his face, literally, I was smacked in the face figuratively. I had not done my homework and I was not prepared  for the awful days that followed. Somehow, in the swirl of emotions, I thought of respite care, something I hadn’t even considered before. Leslie went with me to visit likely facilities. Respite seemed like the right answer for the short term. Rescue for both of us. Peter would get good care in a more pleasant setting than I would have imagined, and I could put my crumbled self back together again.

I started the process, I talked to family and friends and all agreed it was a good idea. They knew Peter’s state was precarious after his accident, and how exhausted I was. Then, then, Peter’s awful journey changed course. He morphed into the person he was several years ago, before his brain was ravaged by rampant plaques and neuro-tangles

Again my own brain tumbled with conflicting thoughts, but after further counsel from friends, I put respite care on hold. Our life is now paused in that blissful place where romance first bloomed.

A delay was the right thing to do.

“A woman is like a tea bag — you can’t tell how strong she is
until you put her 
in hot water.”  Eleanor Roosevelt

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Be careful what you wish for.

Faithful readers will know that I’ve carried on for months about my husband’s constant abuse/misuse of his PAL Search & Locate GPS watch. Almost from the first day six months ago he figured out how to get it off.  He used brute strength to force the supposedly secure clasp to release.

“Ooo-o, you are strong,” I might’ve said, batting my eyes to make him laugh at my use of his old joke. But I didn’t say it, nor did I laugh.

I nagged endlessly, trying everything I could think of to get him to leave the darned thing on until I took it off. He wasn’t bothered by how much it cost nor that I’d had to order a new clasp. When I explained I just wanted to keep him safe, to have a way locate him if he got lost again, he tutted and argued that he was safe and he did not get lost.

By chance, the situation resolved itself. One evening, just after the holidays, I noticed that he had not only removed the GPS watch, he’d also removed the watch I’d given him for Christmas several years ago. Both were on the table beside his chair. I picked them up, put the high tech one in the charger on my desk, and lay the trusty Timex nearby.  Then I forgot about them.

The next morning when he was getting ready to take Nobby for his walk, I remembered. Without really thinking about it, I put the GPS one on his left wrist. He didn’t grumble at all, nor did he ask about his “real” watch. He wore his GPS “pal” all day, and in the evening he held his wrist up for me to remove the thing properly.

He’s done that ever since. He doesn’t remember his other watch, and doesn’t seem to mind wearing the chunky one.

A frustrating problem solved serendipitously.

You’d think I’d be happy or at least relieved, but I’m not. He’s forgotten what was such a  monumental grievance for both of us. Another step down the down staircase.

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Knock, knock. Knock, knock. Knock, knock. Knock, knock.

Knock, knock. “Who’s there?” I yelled. Oh no, I thought. It was 10:30 and I was in the shower, rushing to get ready to run an errand before I met friends by 11:30 for lunch. 

“Where are the keys to my car?” Peter asked from outside the door. He hasn’t driven for years, but Bill had arrived to take him and Nobby for their weekly nursing home/ therapy dog visit.

“Black chair in the dining room,” I hollered. I didn’t think he’d remember that by the time he got downstairs and he didn’t. 

Knock, knock. “Where are the keys to the car?”

“Black chair. Dining room. Orange ribbon tied on the key.”

By the next knock knock I was toweling off. Peter cracked the door to ask, again, “Where are the keys to the car?”

“Peter-r! Black chair. Dining room. Orange ribbon…,” I said, “but wait!” I had a brilliant idea. I grabbed a pad of paper off the nightstand and wrote black chair, dining room, orange ribbon. “There you go,” I said.

Minutes later, he was back holding my keys in his outstretched hand. “These?” he asked.

Argh-h. “No! C’mon, I’ll go with you.” I wrapped my robe around me, ran downstairs to the black chair in the dining room and picked up the key with the orange ribbon. “Here,” I said as I handed them over.

“Oh-h, I didn’t look there,” he said.

By then, I didn’t have enough time to go order the new refrigerator I’d been researching for weeks and that we’d needed for months. Instead, I went directly to the restaurant and vented to my friends about my morning. Of course they laughed, but I could’t, not then. By the time lunch was over I’d convinced myself I could place the fridge order the next day. It would be fine.

Thursday I managed to get out of the house with just enough time to take care of the order before an appointment. But I was a day too late take delivery the next week. Now it’ll be the end of November. Santa Claus will be knocking on the door by then. 

These days the ho, ho, ho’s are harder to come by, but still I look…

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Doris.
Doris who?
Doris locked, that’s why I’m knocking.

He was polite.
Too polite.
He knocked before he opened the fridge door.

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Amanda.
Amanda who?
Amanda fix the refrigerator.

Groan.

 

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‘Who in the world am I?’ Alice asks.

“You’re not working a puzzle,” I said to Peter one day at lunch. “Have you finished already?” (He always does a Sudoku, Wordy Gurdy, or crossword; I always have my nose in a book.)

“A puzzle?” he asked. “Do you mean you?”

I laughed. “That’s good,” I said. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

Peter laughed too. “Neither have I.”

That little glimmer of the old Peter was a peak in an otherwise down day. Our laughs lately are a bit further between, but we milk the ones that come along.

This 500-piece “Alice in Wonderland” jigsaw puzzle was a family Christmas gift several years ago. Over the past weeks, Peter put it together again, with more than a little help from Samantha, Leslie and Martin. I’ve often thought Peter’s dementia…Alzheimer’s…must make his head feel jumbled like Alice’s: “I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is, ‘Who in the world am I?’ Ah, that’s the great puzzle!”

Indeed.

 

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Salt and pepper to taste.

“What do I eat here?” Peter asked over and over. I told him his usual Cuban pork wasn’t on the menu any longer, but he could have fish and chips. He was happy.

When our meals were served, Peter doused his three separate times with enough salt and pepper to fill all the shakers in our house. He has always used way too much of each, but lately, his habit seems even more excessive. Dementia, I’ve learned, can destroy the sense of taste, hence so much salt and pepper. In addition to over-salting, Peter has developed a sweet tooth that could make him a poster boy for the American Dentists’ Association dire warnings about sugar.

After watching salt avalanche off his mountain of fish, I pointed to the malt vinegar. “What is that?” Peter asked. I told him. “What’s it for?” he wanted to know. I raised my left eyebrow. “This is what you’ve always used, not all that salt and pepper,” I said. Malt vinegar on fish and chips is what one does, he told me early on when he introduced me to the English staple!

A sudden seismic change in my husband’s behavior has made the past few weeks troubling. I called it his “new normal” in a recent post. Not recognizing malt vinegar, nor knowing what it was for, was further sign of the change I’d noticed.

When the waiter asked if we were ready for the bill, I surprised both him and Peter. “No. I’d like coconut cake, please, and coffee. Two coffees.”

“Well, I’m having dessert then,” Peter said. The dessert menu was all photographs so it didn’t take him long to zero in on a chocolate cream puff.

Our coffees came first, each with tiny cups of half-and-half. “What are these?” Peter asked.

“Coffee creamer…you stopped using it years ago.”

He pulled a lid off. “Can I drink it?”

“No-o, you’re not five-years-old.”

He grinned and pretended he was going to drink it, then started to pour it into his beer. “Aren’t you going to finish your beer?” I squealed. I could not believe he’d leave a couple swallows of beer, much less pour cream into it. In the end, he put it in his coffee rather than waste it.

When his cream puff came we laughed. It was cantaloupe sized. Even he couldn’t eat it all. I ate every last bite of my coconut cake.

This hint for my husband to fill the S&P shakers didn’t work.

Header photo: Shakers waiting for me to fill them.

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Down the down staircase.

The downward path that any of the dementias take follows various routes, with stops and starts along the way. There are plateaus when it seems the diagnosis is a bad dream, when everything seems all right again. Normal.

Until the next minute or hour or day when the nightmare resumes.

Even though I often say — and truly believe — that my husband isn’t as bad off as most, that my caregiving tasks are easy compared to some, truth is, it’s a roller coaster ride that is not for sissies.

We’d been coasting along with mild ups and downs, a kiddie roller coaster, until one day three weeks ago. Peter and Nobby returned from a weekly nursing home outing with ever-faithful Bill. My husband came back so distressed and overwrought that it was as if had morphed into another person entirely. His mild-mannered self was gone, and in its place was a man I didn’t recognize. His face was different, his eyes were wild, his whole demeanor changed.

“That’s it. We’ll never go back there. Can’t go anymore,” he yelled as he paced. “They won’t let Nobby in any more.”

My worst fear came to mind. “Did Nobby knock someone down?” I asked. He’s a big dog, but as affable and lovable as a puppy. I envisioned him jumping on a frail old lady causing her to fall and break her hip.

“No, no, but they won’t want us anymore!” I continued questioning, but he couldn’t explain.

I contacted Bill to ask what had happened. He said Peter seemed “off,” very quiet, and he hadn’t wanted to go to their usual lunch. Nobby had been his usual friendly self,  no one was harmed, the visit had gone as well as it always does. Bill chuckled when I told him Peter thought he had gone to visit his mother. (Bill’s mother passed away twenty-some years ago.)

That day was a turning a point, a sharp turn in the steep, down staircase. I had hoped he’d magically snap back to the way he was, to the holding pattern he’d been in, but he hasn’t. This, then, is his new normal.

 

Nobby always watches Peter.

 

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The tip of the iceberg didn’t sink the Titanic.

Who would ever think that something as inconsequential as a manicure would be the tip of an iceberg? Somedays I look at my hands — never my best feature — in despair. Nails chipped and split, cuticles like the pithy strips inside an orange.

Lately, I haven’t had time to indulge myself, because during the hours I have help for Peter I have to squeeze in shopping, errands, or all-important time to get together with friends. Yet, I make time to attend to his fingernails. He can’t, or won’t, do it anymore. His nails are strong enough to, well, pull nails, and they’re very difficult to trim. I have him soak his hands in warm soapy water to make it easier on both of us, but he complains and wiggles, although I think he secretly likes it.

And I drag him to get his hair cut and beard trimmed. I’ve tried to do both, but failed. I schedule our appointments back-to-back for my convenience. It’s one less trip, but it does take away from that bit of time for myself. Such a small thing, an iceberg’s tip, but underneath…!

images-1As dementia — Alzheimer’s — continues its march, I know more and bigger icebergs lurk. I already have a list of potential problems that lie ahead. The only thing this caregiver can do is lookout for laughs — lifesavers — and go full speed ahead.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest, second place, blog category.

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Header: A “berger bit” iceberg in Alaska, September 2006.

‘A good time to laugh is any time there is.’

“Any news from upstate?” Peter asks. It’s dinnertime and that’s the question he repeats over and over during our meals.

“No,” I say.

We listen to the evening news while we eat, me grumbling at the goings-on in Washington, Peter listening carefully to the weather report.

“Any news from upstate?” he asks again.

I start to shake my head, but instead, decide to try a different response. “No,” I tell him, “but Leslie and Martin spent the weekend at the river.”

“Really? In this…?” he asks. He nods his head towards the fog outside, the rain-streaked window. “What did they do?”

I laugh. “We were there, too,” I say. I’d hoped he might remember the two days, the cozy fires, the good food, log-wrangling with Martin, Leslie and me laughing hysterically over nothing at all.

He shakes his head disgustedly, but recovers with his usual line, “Oh, well, that was a long time ago. I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast.”

I nod, laugh, frown.

Laughter in the face of reality is one of the finest sounds there is. In fact, a good time to laugh is any time there is.”  Linda Ellerbee


2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest, second place, blog category.

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Cure for common cold!

On New Year’s Eve, with no bubbly in sight, my husband started hiccuping, or hiccoughing as he would spell it. Uh oh, I thought, he’s getting a cold.

I dosed him with vitamin C in the form of Clementines, cups of sweet, hot tea, and homemade elderberry cough syrup. He grimaced and muttered at all my attempts, so I gave up and went to bed. Later, I was awakened from a sound sleep by a cacaphonus hiccup accompanied by an echoing, hacking cough. “Arrrrgh-h-h-h!” I groaned.

“Sorry,” he whispered. He always attempts to be very quiet so as not to wake me. He twisted and yanked at the covers and  finally settled onto his side. “HUH-HUHH-CK,” he said. “Sorry.”

He was asleep instantly, but the staccato sounds continued. I pulled my pillow over my head. “Try holding your breath.”

“Why?”

“To stop your hiccups,” I said, though from experience I knew it would not.

He didn’t even try. The bursts continued until I suggested that he might sleep better if he went into the other bedroom.

“Why would I sleep better there?”

“Because I won’t poke you all night!”

He clomped down the hall and I drifted to sleep. I knew I hadn’t handled that well, but, I rationalized, no one dies from hiccups.

Later still, Peter got up to use the bathroom, but forgot he was sleeping in the guest room. He returned to our bed, grabbed for the covers but instead got my arm which I’d flung across to his side. Both of us yelped. “What are you doing?” I said.

“Coming back to bed…I thought you were sleeping in the other room…”

“No, you were!” He plodded back down the hall.

Sunday morning, froggy-voiced, weepy-eyed, drippy-nosed, and still hiccuping, he croaked, “Good morning.” His voice was in the basement.

“How do you feel?” I asked. He patted himself all over and grinned. I rolled my eyes. That’s always his answer to my how-do-you-feel question.

His symptoms continue to this moment. He’s in the next room watching television, hacking and sniffling and still hiccuping endlessly. When I asked how his cold was this morning, he shook his head and said indignantly, “Cold? I don’t have a cold. Sneezing a bit, that’s all.” He coughed hard enough to untie his shoes and knock his socks off.

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And that, Readers, is how I discovered the cure for the common cold, at least at our house. Dementia, dementia,  that’s the cure. Peter insists he is not sick, does not have a cold or a cough or a hiccough. Since he doesn’t have a cold, there’s nothing for me to catch.

Knocks the achoo right out of the Kleenex™ factory, doesn’t it?

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest, second place, blog category.

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Say a lot in few words.

When our friends Jerry and Shelia visited, Shelia took me aside to  ask, “Does Pete worry about anything?”

“No,” I said.

She smiled. “He doesn’t have to, you take care of everything. He has no worries.”

I nodded and she gave me a hug. There was nothing more to say, and for effervescent, talkative Shelia, that in itself was saying a lot.

 

 2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest, second place, blog category.

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