Tag Archives: remember

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. 

 

 

Trouble with a capital T rhymes with me!

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Chocolate, Helpful hints, Lost

My friend Bette made it a point to tell me she’d seen Peter at the grocery store recently. She figured I must be in the store somewhere, although she didn’t see me. Bette introduced herself to him because she knew he wouldn’t remember her name. His response was quick and so typical of him. “Don’t tell ‘anyone’ I’m here. I’ll be in trouble.”

Anyone meant me, of course.

She didn’t remember what day it was, but I figured it was probably the Tuesday he snuck out without telling me he was leaving, nor where he was going. When I realized he wasn’t here and that he had probably been gone well over an hour, I went looking. By the time I got home, he was back. “Where’ve you been?” he asked, greeting me at the door as if he’d been out looking for me.

“You didn’t tell you were going out,” I said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I didn’t know where I was going,” he said. “I just went for a walk.”

“Where?”

DSC01592He shook his head. “Can’t remember.…that was a long time ago.” He uses the “long time ago” line a lot in attempt to joke his way out of Trouble. His only Trouble would’ve been if he had gotten lost for real!

That evening I found a Hershey bar wrapper and deduced that he’d gone to Kroger’s.

Several days later someone else told me she’d seen Peter at Kroger’s and he seemed confused. She saw him leave and decided to call me — it was that same Tuesday. I didn’t see her voice mail until after he’d “found himself,” but it is comforting to know we have friends to help me keep track.

Screen Shot 2016-06-15 at 11.56.06 AMI am researching personal tracking devices. There are several types on the market, but he wouldn’t use any of them willingly, and I know he would find ways to “lose” them. He’s crafty that way.  I wish someone would come up with a microchip like veterinarians implant in dogs. The idea would make Peter laugh…I think that will be my little secret.

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Breadcrumbs?

Header photo: The road not taken.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

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He doesn’t know what he doesn’t know.

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Numbers count

Did anyone hear me yelling a few days ago? I yelled out of frustration with myself as much as with my husband…because once again he managed to confuse our so-called “smart” tv by pushing the wrong buttons on the remote. I’m not smart enough to know what’s wrong, so I can’t fix it.”

After stewing about the problem for days, I finally got smart and photographed the television screen with its various error messages. Then I gathered up the remotes and my smart phone and went to the shop where we bought the tv. I explained how the remote got bungled and asked if there was such a thing as a remote with on/off and channel/volume choices only? I laughed, but I wasn’t kidding.

The owner wasn’t kidding either when he suggested he might be able to disable the two problem buttons so they wouldn’t function at all.

“Go for it,” I said. Five minutes later he was done. I giggled when he told me he’d taped over the tiny printed circuit boards. “My husband was an electrical engineer for forty years,” I said. “At one time, problem-solving, printed circuit boards and codes were his expertise.” I put my sunglasses on quickly to hide the tears that flooded my eyes at the irony.

That evening, even with television viewing possible again, I suggested we go to a movie. “‘The Man Who Knew Infinity’ is playing,” I said. “Remember, we saw the previews…about a math genius. You thought it looked interesting.”

Peter nodded. “I do remember. Yes. Let’s go.” He was as surprised as I was that he remembered, but he’s always been numbers man. He can still count backwards by sevens from one hundred easily, a skill that is rated on Alzheimer’s assessments.

The movie was absolutely engrossing. One review gave it two stars, but I gave it five on a four-star scale. I peeked at Peter throughout. He never once nodded off. Every so often I asked if he understood what they were talking about because I certainly didn’t. He did.

On the way home, I asked again if he really understood all the terms — partitions, proofs, integers, numbers theory — gobbledygook to me. He laughed. “Course I did,” he said, “but that was way before my time.”

The brilliant minds of Srinivasa Ramanujan and G.H. Hardy (Dev Patel and Jeremy Irons) are beyond my ken, but I appreciate their story. I cried at the end. I almost never cry at movies.

The five partitions of the number four
1+1+1+1  |   1+1+2   |   1+3   |   2+2  |  4

Header photo: Outsmart the smart tv.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Dementia moment.

Posted on by under Alzheimer's, Caregiver, Dementia

Everything that could go wrong did go wrong these past several weeks. From our backed-up sewer pipe that breached the basement, to new stove installation that was a disaster start to finish, to Peter’s emergency eye problem, an infuriating parking ticket, and a television on the blink for five days.

The latter was the worst of it, in a way. Television is my husband’s friend. He’ll watch almost anything and lots of it.

This morning, when the technician departed after sorting our t.v. problems and the plumber left after he attached, properly, the gas line to my new range, Peter’s unsolicited hug was a welcome surprise.

“Sorry I’m no use to you anymore,” he said. I hadn’t realized he understood my frustrations dealing with all our problems on my own.

I hugged him back. “I’m sorry too,” I said. “But look, you’re here. That’s good use of you!”

He smiled and gave me another squeeze. It was moment I’ll remember, even if he won’t.

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Photos: Not fade away by Rachel B. Hayes, 2015. Site-specific installation at The  Taubman Museum of Art, Roanoke, Virginia, through 11/6/16.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

The right eye had it.

Posted on by under Caregiver, Dementia, Remember

As weeks go, last week was awful. Monday our sewer line backed up into the basement. And we had guests. I’m sure they were glad to leave Tuesday.

Things continued downhill — thank me for not sharing details. By Friday, I was knackered. I took Nobby to the vet at three o’clock, and promised myself I would relax afterwards with a cup of tea and the book I’d been trying to finish. Never happened.

Leslie called to ask if we wanted to meet for dinner then go to “My name is Doris.” Yes! Just what I needed. A meal I didn’t have to cook and a few laughs.

I encouraged Peter to take Nobby for a quick walk, while I made myself presentable. But before the leash was fastened, Peter came upstairs covering his right eye with his hand and a handkerchief. “Something in my eye… hurts…geez!”  It was watering and red, but I couldn’t see anything. I suspected he’d scratched his cornea. From experience, I knew how it hurt. A warm water rinse didn’t help, nor did the drops I had on hand. I took him to “speedy” urgent care, and let Leslie know we wouldn’t join them.

Start to finish, we were there more than two hours, the final fifteen minutes of which my husband charmed both nurse and doctor. He was his chatty best, happy to have a new audience.

“Where are you from?” the doctor asked.

Oh, heavens, I begged silently, give her a straight answer. After mulling his usual responses he said, “Hammersmith.” Different from his usual, “Oi’m from London, int-eye?” He added, “‘Burrah’ [borough] of London,”

She laughed. “That’s what I thought.” She told him she’d been to England several times and loved it. “I probably like Scotland even more though,” she added.

“Ooo, caw, they tauk funny up there,” he said.

The nurse took over when the doctor left the room, then we were free to leave. “Cheerio,” the doctor called as we headed down the hall.

Peter embellished his “Cheerio” with a Dick VanDyke double-hop-skip out the door. What could we do but laugh?

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Saturday morning, he had just gotten up when I returned from my walk. His eye was puffy, weepy. “How does it feel this morning?” I asked.

Confusion spread across his face in italics. “How does what feel?”

“Your eye! Don’t you remember how it hurt last evening…we went to the clinic…didn’t have any dinner?” If anything, he’d remember not eating.

“I can’t remember anything, you know that,” he said.

Sometimes, I suppose, there are advantages to having dementia.

Header photo: Peter on our trip to Alaska, 2006

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.

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©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. 

‘Laughing all the way…’

Posted on by under Holidays, Laughter

“You’ve made my tea!” Peter had just come back from walking Nobby. He was surprised because I don’t usually make his multiple morning cups of tea.

“Yes, Leslie is coming by to pick you up in twenty minutes. She’s taking you shopping.”

“Why? Do I need to go shopping?”

“You don’t need to, but you always like to look,” I said. “You don’t have to buy anything.”

He grinned. “Oh, I get it. You put her up to this, didn’t you?”

“Nope. She just called and said she was taking you out. It’ll be fun.”

“Well, I love ya’ anyway, don’t I?” he said as he came towards me, arms outstretched for a hug.

I stalled him by pulling his jacket open to check if his shirt was clean. “Oh, you look good!” I said, surprised.

Without so much as a pause, he yanked my hoodie open, gave me his lecherous glance, and said, “You do too, Darlin’!”

I doubled over with laughter. He hasn’t forgotten how to lay it on. With his hug I handed him a generous supply of cash. Just in case he, you know, wanted to buy anything for anyone…for Christmas.


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Header photo: Collection of my mother’s christmas cards.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

It’s the little things.

Posted on by under Caregiver, Childlike, Control

It’s opening the silverware drawer this morning to get a knife and finding one that should be in the dishwasher. It’s crusty with toast crumbs and jam.

It’s finding the salt and pepper shakers in the fridge’s butter compartment.

It’s wondering what happened to the coffee mug I’d just been drinking from. Oh look, it’s in the cupboard with my coffee, still warm, inside.

It’s taking a pan out to cook broccoli and finding yesterday’s mashed potatoes remains.

It’s starting the Christmas baking and having my measuring cups and other utensils cleared away before I’ve used them, likewise the dishcloth I’ll need.

It’s him asking if the hiking boots he’s holding are mine. “Unh uh,” I say.

It’s yet another lost watch so that he’s started looking at the numbers on the cable box again as if it’s a digital clock.

It’s him standing outside the shower door yelling, “How do I stop that beeping?”

“What beeping?” I yell back.

“That…big thing.” I could see through the glass that he was drawing a box in the air.

“Smoke alarm?” He shook his head no. “I’ll be out in a minute.” The “big box” was the fridge, the beeping, the alarm that repeats annoyingly if the door has been open too long.

It’s him banging on the shower door again the next evening. “How do I turn off the squeaky thing in the basement?”

“Give me a minute,” I said. Invisible Fence control box, I figured. Peter spends most of his time downstairs, so the shrill squealing would pierce his ears. My hearing is so bad I can’t hear it unless I’m right beside it.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t reset it. Three days passed before someone could come. “When will it stop” he asked So. Many. Times.

It’s going out to eat, spur of the moment, and seeing his eyes light up when I steer him into our favorite hole-in-the-wall. “What do I have here?” he asks.

“Chicken kebabs,” I say, “but you decided you’d order my favorite next time.

“What do you have?”

“Suguk wrap.” I order for him.

It’s watching him eat something he’s never tried before. He loves it. “I could eat another,” he says, “but I won’t. Are we having dessert?”

“Two baklavas, please,” I say to the waitress. He remembers baklava as soon as he sees it.

“Balaclava,” he jokes, as I knew he would. “Yours is bigger than mine!”

I swap our plates.

It’s the little things that make him happy.

Header photo: Baclava, two please.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

 

Tail of a dog.

Posted on by under Laughter, tears, Nag, Remember

Almost every Wednesday for the past four years, Peter and Nobby have visited area nursing homes with Bill, Peter’s faithful companion.  Nobby is the star of the weekly events, of course, and he luxuriates in the cuddles.

Last week, Bill arrived on time, as he always does, and Peter was ready, though he usually is not. As they headed out the door, I yelled, “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

Peter turned. “I don’t think so…,” he said.

I pointed to Nobby. “What about him?”

“Oh, is he going?” he asked, as if this were something new.

Well, yes,” I said. “It’s Wednesday.” Peter shook his head, disgusted with his drifting memory. Bill and I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of Peter walking into the nursing home, red leash in hand and no dog attached.

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More and more often these days I have to remind Peter — make that nag — that it’s time for Nobby’s walk. This morning, Nobby waited patiently by the basement door. When I called to Peter, he said, “Yes, yes, I’m coming.” Nobby flip-flopped his tail hopefully.

Finally Peter came up from the basement. I heard him fiddling with the leash. After a spate of muttering from Peter and a few yelps from Nobby, I went to investigate. They were in the laundry room. Peter was laughing so hard tears were streaming down his face. “Helped when I put the leash on the right end,” he said, sputtering.

“What, you mean you put it on his back end?”

“Yes, and he didn’t like it.”

“Poor dog! I’m sure he didn’t!” I said. “How would you like a harness around your nether region?”

Peter grimaced. Nobby got two treats.DSC00224_2

Header photo: Nobby at Pandapas Pond.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Oh, IOU!

Posted on by under Childlike, Laughter, Nag

Funny, the things Peter can remember. He has always had a vast repertoire of quips and come-backs, but recently he’s even added one or two. Several  months ago I was mad at him about something, then later realized I was in the wrong. “I owe you an apology,” I said.

He came right back at me. “That’ll be ten cents, please,” he said.

I laughed because he was so quick and so funny, and he laughed because he was pleased with himself.

Happened again this week. Even though I should never blame him for anything because he can’t remember what’s gone before, I was furious that he’d pulled up a fulsome Black-Eyed Susan that had been flourishing in the corner of my herb garden. “You pulled those tendrils off after I asked you to leave them alone,” I fussed.

“What did I do?” He had no idea what I was talking about. I showed him the plant, withered, literally, on the vine.  “Sorry,” he said, and I knew he meant it, though he still didn’t understand.

Screen Shot 2015-10-01 at 3.02.08 PMYesterday, after days of pounding rain, I noticed that the plant had revived. Peter hadn’t destroyed it, Mother Nature had. She’d withheld rain for several weeks, then flooded us with it. My Black-Eyed Susan slurped at the puddles .

“I owe you an apology,” I said, pointing at the yellow flowers beaming by the fence.

“That’ll be ten cents,” he said, still clueless, but quick-quipped as always.

Header photo: Our garden fence at dusk.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist.