Tag Archives: Questions

Another good thing.

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Dementia, Remember, Vote

Periodically, over several years writing this blog, I’ve posted about the occasional “good things” that are a part of our dementia journey, my husband’s and mine. Another became apparent two days ago.

In addition to being totally flattened by the outcome of the presidential election, I was steamrolled by an intestinal bug. As we sat at the dinner table Friday evening, Peter started making silly faces at me. Apparently I was lost, thinking dark thoughts while waiting for him to finish his pork barbecue and cole slaw. It hadn’t taken me long to eat half a baked potato.

When he finally got my attention he asked, “What’s wrong?”

I’m sure I sighed. “Just thinking about the election,” I said.

He nodded. “What will happen?” he asked.

“I dunno’.” Another sigh.

“Do you think he’ll win?”‘

screen-shot-2016-11-13-at-1-21-34-pmWhat? Wait! Really? Admittedly, my English husband never got his U.S. citizenship, has never voted here, but didn’t he understand the election was over?  He did not. All my ranting and carrying on in recent months, the enormous photo of the president-elect on the front page Wednesday morning, the endless news reports I’d watched, us watching Secretary Clinton’s concession speech together, none of that had soaked in?

But see, that’s a good thing. He doesn’t remember while I wish I couldn’t.

Header photo: Post election sun still shines.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

Apples and pears…stairs.

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

Peter looked at the lunch I was fixing for myself, my usual apple, chunk of Cheddar cheese, glass of milk. “Where did you get the apple?” he asked.

I pointed to the old wooden bowl that has always occupied our kitchen, that is always filled with fruit, and the occasional veg.

“Oh, I didn’t know that was there.” He picked out a piece of fruit, came back to the sink and turned on the water.

“That’s a pear,” I said as he washed it off.

Instantly, he collapsed laughing, his face as red as the apple’s cheeks, eyes twinkling. He hugged me. “I know it’s a pear, silly. I’m not that far gone.” I laughed with him and savored the hug.

That far gone, no, but he is more and more confused by the day, less and less able to find words or remember the simplest things. Still, I was grateful for the moment, the laugh, and the hug!

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Fruit with acorn squash.

Header photo: What a pair, pear.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Play the cards you’re dealt.

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Childlike, Control, Dementia, Laughter, Obsessive

My husband has taken to putting decks of cards in order, by suit, probably related to his need to control anything he can, however unimportant the activity seems to me. This latest obsession was especially noticeable when we visited Carolynn and Bill for a week.

Carolynn and I had put two decks of cards, a pad and pencil on the picnic table under a tree before lunch. The two of us were ready for an afternoon of canasta, part of our ritual weeklong championship.

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After we ate, Peter picked the cards up and began to lay them out, face up. He shook his head and frowned. “How do you know which deck to use?” he asked.

“We use both decks.”

“But they’re alike.”

“Doesn’t matter. Canasta is played with two decks, plus the four jokers.”

He continued sorting. When he finished, he knocked each deck sharply against the table and slid them neatly into their boxes. Even though Carolynn and I shuffled them over and over, the first hand we played after he’d organized them wasn’t well mixed. After she won that game too, we gave the cards back to Peter to organize all over again. He was happy.

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The joke is on me because later, when I Googled “organizing cards,” thinking I might learn another tidbit about dementia, I discovered instead that people around the world engage in contests to determine who can organize cards the fastest.  A young Canadian man set a record set a few years ago when he sorted a pack of cards in 00:22.60. There were no jokers in his deck though.

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Photos: Safari wallpaper

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

We soldier on.

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

One of my husband’s culinary successes has always been perfect fried eggs. And one of his favorite meals is egg and chips. Nowdays it’s my fall-back meal when I’m too tired to cook, even though I’ve never been able to fry an egg. Take last night.

I got out the eggs, skillet, oil, plates for him. I put the frozen chips in the oven and called Peter to fix the eggs when the chips were nearly done.

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Egg and soldier.

I sat down to read for a few minutes, but his grumbling got me up to see what was wrong. “These eggs are no good,” he growled. “I can’t get them out.” He had an egg in his left hand and was trying to peel it with his right, as if it had been soft-boiled for soldiers.

“Shall I do it?” I asked and cracked another against the skillet. In the meantime, he dumped the raw egg he’d scrambled in its shell into the skillet too. Except for that one, my eggs were done perfectly — first time ever! — and the chips were as good as frozen ones ever are.

Afterwards he thanked me and said he enjoyed our little snack. “What’s for afters?” he asked.

“Applesauce.” He was blank. “Stewed apple,” I translated.

Lately I’ve been helping him clear up after we eat. He just can’t seem to manage the task anymore. But this was a simple meal, with just plates and silverware for the dishwasher and cookie sheet and skillet for the sink. I went to watch the news.

“How am I going to get this stuff off?” he yelled. He was poking at the submerged cookie sheet which appeared to be floating on an oil slick.

“What did you put in the water?” I asked. He didn’t know, but I suspect he either dumped in the canola oil out of the skillet, or poured some straight from the bottle in lieu of dishwashing liquid. “Did you put the Dawn in?”

“Didn’t know I was supposed to,” he said.

Deep breath. “You go have your tea. I’ll take care of this.” I sopped up as much as I could and hoped all that oil wouldn’t glom up the drain.

It didn’t, but this morning when I came downstairs, the eggs in the refrigerator were soft boiled. The fridge had gone on the fritz in the night and warmed to 70°.  Not a laughing matter.

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Glossary of English vs American terms:
His chips are our French fries (Crisps, btw, are potato chips)
His stewed apple is our applesauce
Soldiers are strips of crustless buttered toast, dunked into soft-boiled eggs, (pointy ends removed neatly), that are placed in an egg cup. Why “soldiers?” Don’t ask me, I’m an American.

Header photo: Frambled eggs, photo courtesy Epicurious.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Do I know where I am?

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

Peter was unusually silent. “Something wrong?” I asked. I was driving along a narrow road so could only glance at him.

The silence lengthened. “Do I know where I am?” he said at last.

Whoa, what?  “Do you mean this instant, here, on this road?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we just left Carolynn and Bill…we’re heading home…we’ll soon be in Waterville…” I paused to see if my words rang his bell. “Remember last week, on the way here, we had to stop for a parade in Waterville?”

Nothing.

I thought back to that Saturday. The long drive north had been uneventful until we got to Waterville (pop. 1,548), where we were blocked by a parade longer than the main thoroughfare. Stuck, twenty minutes away from Carolynn’s front door. I fumed, but Peter said, “It’s a pretty day. We’ve got time.”

“But I want to be there, not sitting here.” 

Forty minutes later we were zooming along the downhill drive to — whoops — Road Closed and Detour signs. “OK, I know how to get there from here, I used to bike along this road.” Several miles later I turned left onto another favorite bicycling road. “Do you remember? We used to ride along here a lot.”

Peter sighed. “You seem to know your way around.”

“We lived here seventeen years!”

“You did. I didn’t.”

A right at the next stop sign, then a quick left and we were on their street. “You sure know your way around,” Peter said again.

“We lived here seventeen years!”

“I didn’t,” he insisted.

When I turned into their drive, he sat up straight and smiled. “I didn’t know we were coming here!” His eyes sparkled and when Carolynn and their two Westies ran toward us he chuckled. He knew where he was.

I laughed. “I’ve told you for weeks we were coming to see them…”

“I. Didn’t. Know.”

…

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Bill and Peter in front of a rock-hugging tree.

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Big Guy and/or It.

Throughout our visit, his usual confusion at being away from home eased a bit. After a couple of nights he was able to get from our bedroom to the bathroom and back without going into their room or Carolynn’s office. He didn’t even try to remember Duffy’s or Lily’s names, calling them instead “Big Guy” and/or “It.” He didn’t understand how to use the Wii remote to play golf or bowl with Bill, but he had fun trying. He could still keep track of the dominos played and plan moves accordingly. Bill took him fishing, golfing, and shopping; Carolynn and I took him to the farm stand; I took him to the Polish butcher and past our old house. He remembered the butcher, but had no memory of living in that house. It does look quite different — terrible — minus the two enormous maple trees in front.

…

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Bill, Lily and Duffy follow Peter around Moss Lake as if he knows the way.

But now, headed south again, Peter had asked if he knew where he was. I reminded him of all the things we’d done, his outings with Bill, our hike in the Adirondacks with the dogs. He shook his head. “Sorry, I just don’t remember.”

But I do. I remember a visit special for the girl-time with Carolynn and her friend Robin, a visit with friend Lisa, time off from caregiving thanks to Bill taking charge, and the laughs. Always the laughs.

I won’t forget.

Header photo: Walk in the Adirondack Park.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

‘So far, so good.’

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Dementia, Obsessive

The insurance company nurse comes twice a year to assess my husband. One of her questions is, Can he bathe himself, brush his teeth, toilet himself? She asks Peter, but looks to me for answers.

I know he scoffs silently at the mere mention of the topic.  My answer is always an enthusiastic yes. On that point I am — we are — way luckier than many who live with any form of dementia.

Peter has been taking multiple showers a day for the past year or so. This wasn’t always the case. I used to have to remind him he needed a shower, but now, if he sweats even a tiny bit, he reacts as if he’s been dipped in pond scum. “I’m all sweaty,” he’ll say as he races through the house and up the stairs.

He almost never puts on clean clothes afterwards. I don’t understand, but I don’t question, glad that I don’t have to help him bathe nor wash piles of clothes…yet. For some reason, wearing a shirt that is damp and stinky doesn’t bother him. It’s the sweat itself that is his bugaboo.

The rest of the personal hygiene issues aren’t issues yet. From the articles I’ve read, I know what’s coming.

Peter always says, if asked how he is, “So far, so good.”

“It could be worse,” is what I say if anyone asks me.

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2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

There’s always something worse.

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Favorites, Laughter, tears

Peter asked his usual question, “What do I order here?” I gave my usual answer, “Beef.” We were at Lefty’s, a favorite restaurant, and we were hungry. I wasted no time ordering steak au poivre for him, Asian chicken salad for me.

He gazed out the big windows. “Looks like afternoon,” he said. “The sky is so blue.” Cloudless skies delight him.

“Technically, it is afternoon,” I said. “It’s not even five-thirty.”

“I never know what time it is anymore.” He looked at his watch. “Looks like daytime,” he said.

“It is daytime,” I said.

He followed the script engraved on his brain. “Any news from ‘upstate,’ or have I already asked?”

“Well, yes, you have, and, no, no news.”

“Any good movies on?” He realized that was another routine question and he smiled when I shook my head.

He looked at me, eyes questioning, mouth downturned. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Oh, just thinking how I am now and how I used to be. I can’t even talk anymore.”

“You never talked,” I reminded him, “and besides, you’re doing OK, a lot better than some. There are worse things.”

“Worse for you maybe,” he said, with a teasing smile, “but not for me.” For some reason, that made us laugh and his downcast moment was erased. Forgotten.

When our meal arrived, he reached for the salt and pepper. As always, he salted and peppered liberally without first tasting his food. One of my pet peeves.

“You are peppering your steak au poivre,” I said.

He shrugged. “So?”

“It is pepper steak,” I said.

He laughed, I sneezed, we laughed together.


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Header photo: Willow glows at dawn.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

‘Forget about your worries and your strife…’

Posted on by under Childlike, Favorites

“Any good movies on?” is one of my husband’s litany of questions. Usually I shake my head. He no longer wants to see the kinds of movies I never liked — “Silence of the lambs,” “Godfather,” “Psycho,” “Rocky” — so I look for lighter choices. We’ve watched a lot of children’s movies lately — “Nanny McPhee,” “Babe,” “Charlotte’s Web” — light, laugh-inducing films.

Recently, I surprised him. “‘Jungle Book’ is getting good ratings,” I said. “We’ll go at 4:00, then eat out after.” His eyes lit up like a child’s.

We enjoyed the movie, even though Kaa, the snake, made me cringe. Throughout, Peter asked over and over how “they got the animals to do that?”

“They aren’t real,” I said again and again, “that’s special computer animation combined with real animals’ movements…””How do…?”

“I dunno’ how…it’s magic,” I said.

Afterwards, as promised, we went to our favorite restaurant. Peter ordered his usual, and me, mine. “That looks good,” he said of my suguk wrap, as I knew he would. “I’ll order that the next time,” he added as he tucked into his kebab.

“You say that every time,” I laughed. “You ordered this once and liked it.”

He nodded. “I remember,” he said. “But, I’m not going to say, ‘any good movies on’, because we just saw one, didn’t we?” His eyes twinkled. “See, I remembered.” He was quite pleased with himself.

“Wow, I’m amazed. And what was the movie?”

“HA! ‘Jungle Book’,” he said proudly. That moment, a tiny glimmer of clarity, made us chuckle. “But, how did they get the animals to do that?” he asked. Again.

Well, the briefest flash of light through fog is better than no light at all.

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Header photo: Mowgli and Bagheera in a scene from “Jungle Book” (2016)
Animation example: Screen Slam on YouTube (2016)

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

 

Who’s the granddad?

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

The doctor asked Peter if he had grandchildren. Peter shook his head slightly, but looked at me. “I don’t, do I?” he said. I raised my left eyebrow and nodded. “Sam and Miah?” he asked, obviously still puzzled.

Doctor T is our family’s doctor. He’s taken care of our grandson since he was born twenty-two years ago, and Leslie, Martin and Samantha even longer. “Who’s your grandchildren’s grandfather,” he asked next with a twinkle in his eyes.

Peter thought a long time. “It’s not me, is it?”

“You’re the only grandfather they’ve ever known,” I told him.

“But they’re your grandchildren,” he said, “they’re not really mine are they?” (Their paternal grandfather died before they were born, and they met my ex-husband just once when they were in their teens.)

“You’ve known them and loved them all their lives, haven’t you?” The doctor smiled.

“Yes, oh yes!” Peter, aka Dad-Dad, answered. When Sam was about two we tried to teach her to say “Granddad” but she could only manage “Dad-Dad.” That’s who he’s been for more than twenty-seven years now.

The questioning took place at our semi-annual prescription/follow-up check. I schedule them back-to-back to save time. When Dr. T asked Peter how he was doing, he said, “I’m fine, no problems. The dog walks me twice a day.” That’s one of his standard conversational phrases.

“How do you think he’s doing?” the doctor asked me.

I sighed, I’m sure. “He’s more forgetful…and he’s having nightmares, kicking a lot. He kicked himself out of bed two weeks ago…” I could tell my husband didn’t believe me even though I’d told him it had happened. “And he carries on coherent conversations in his sleep sometimes…”

“Pffft, that’s not me talking,” he said, “I’m not a talker!”

“Not when you’re awake, but you are when you’re asleep.”

Doctor T laughed at us. “Actually the kicking isn’t really caused by nightmares,” he said, telling us the unpronounceable name for the condition. “I can ‘up’ your Aricept prescription slightly and that should take care of it. We don’t want you hurting yourself or your wife with ‘soccer ball’ kicks!” Peter laughed at that.

During my separate follow-up session, the doctor asked if I was doing OK. I waggled my hand and gave my standard, can’t complain too much answer. “There are caregivers who have much worse to contend with,” I said.

“I wish I could prescribe a pill that would help your situation,” he said. And I knew he understood.

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This happy fellow on an Amsterdam windowsill made me laugh. (2007)

Header photo: Daffy-down-dillies in spring.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Well, well, well.

Posted on by under Laughter

“Hello,” I said to my husband when I came in the door.
“Hole in the ground,” he replied.
“What?” He often responds with something he thinks is funny.
“I thought you said, ‘Well.’”
“No, I said, ‘Hello.’”
“Oh well.” He grinned.
I laughed, but maybe you had to be there.

Peter explained this hole in the ground—the Grand Canyon—to a visitor who thought he was a guide who knew what he was talking about! (2011)

Peter explained this hole in the ground—the Grand Canyon—to a visitor who thought he was a guide who knew what he was talking about! (2011)

Header photo: At Yellowstone National Park.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.