Well, now I have seen it all.
Dad just came out of his room after his nap, naked. Wearing a ball cap. He was blissfully unaware that he had on no clothing, and after I called his attention to it, he gave his stock answer. "The HELL you say!" Well, yes, actually. I do say. You seem to be naked.
He went with me placidly to get some clothes on. It's hard not to laugh. In fact, I don't know why I staunch it.
He was naked. With a hat. In the living room. And happier'n a newborn piglet in a mud pile.
Monday, June 8, 2009
The Move
No doubt about it. Dad's days of living in his own house were quite over. Even thought I spent six to eight hours a day over there, there were still too many hours left over for him to get into trouble. Evidence? Finding the microwave with 23:89 left on the clock and a melted styrofoam cup inside. My asking the question, “If there was fire coming out of that outlet right there, what would you do?” and him replying, “dogs...yeah...I need.” In fact, I think we waited too long to make a decision regarding his safety. It sneaked up on us.
Maybe my husband, son and I are a little daft. In fact, I think there is no question. Only crazy people would consider what we were considering. Nevertheless, we made the family decision to move dad into our house in lieu of a nursing facility. Why? Well, first of all, nursing homes are horribly expensive - $4000 a month in our area. Second of all, and most importantly, he is family, and family does for family. We prayed about it, and felt that it was the right thing to do. We talked some more. We prayed some more. And we knew. This was what we were supposed to do. Now. Implementation.
I explained to dad what we were going to do, and for that moment, he was pleased that he was going to be living with us. Get approval from dad? Check. Call landlord and give notice? Check. Storage unit? Check. Move dad, hospital bed, chest of drawers, recliner, clothing to our house? Check. Change of address? Check. All going like clockwork. But wait. There is a whole houseful of stuff...a lifetime of stuff...still occupying dad's soon-to-be-ex-house. Uh oh. I knew what that meant. A yard sale.
The “Estate Sale” was scheduled for three weeks hence, and the preparations began. Jodi came over on a Saturday, and we worked for five straight hours grouping, pricing, deciding. Didn't look too difficult, except for one small detail. His stuff was majoritively garbage. He had given away most of the “good stuff” before he moved here, and the rest of it was really not terribly attractive. So we stuck price tags on his stuff, ran an ad and made signs, and waited for the public throngs of people to arrive.
Two days later, I am whipped. I feel like I have been run through a meat grinder – backwards. Grand total? $312.75. And there is a ton of stuff to go to Goodwill. Then, I must clean and shampoo all carpets, turn over keys, and call it good.
I don't know how long I have been dealing with two houses on a seven-day-a-week basis. I just know it's been “years” as opposed to “days”. And I know that all I want is to only have one place to clean. One place to live in. One place to be. And the day is coming – soon.
I can't wait.
Maybe my husband, son and I are a little daft. In fact, I think there is no question. Only crazy people would consider what we were considering. Nevertheless, we made the family decision to move dad into our house in lieu of a nursing facility. Why? Well, first of all, nursing homes are horribly expensive - $4000 a month in our area. Second of all, and most importantly, he is family, and family does for family. We prayed about it, and felt that it was the right thing to do. We talked some more. We prayed some more. And we knew. This was what we were supposed to do. Now. Implementation.
I explained to dad what we were going to do, and for that moment, he was pleased that he was going to be living with us. Get approval from dad? Check. Call landlord and give notice? Check. Storage unit? Check. Move dad, hospital bed, chest of drawers, recliner, clothing to our house? Check. Change of address? Check. All going like clockwork. But wait. There is a whole houseful of stuff...a lifetime of stuff...still occupying dad's soon-to-be-ex-house. Uh oh. I knew what that meant. A yard sale.
The “Estate Sale” was scheduled for three weeks hence, and the preparations began. Jodi came over on a Saturday, and we worked for five straight hours grouping, pricing, deciding. Didn't look too difficult, except for one small detail. His stuff was majoritively garbage. He had given away most of the “good stuff” before he moved here, and the rest of it was really not terribly attractive. So we stuck price tags on his stuff, ran an ad and made signs, and waited for the public throngs of people to arrive.
Two days later, I am whipped. I feel like I have been run through a meat grinder – backwards. Grand total? $312.75. And there is a ton of stuff to go to Goodwill. Then, I must clean and shampoo all carpets, turn over keys, and call it good.
I don't know how long I have been dealing with two houses on a seven-day-a-week basis. I just know it's been “years” as opposed to “days”. And I know that all I want is to only have one place to clean. One place to live in. One place to be. And the day is coming – soon.
I can't wait.
Oh What a Beautiful Morning! Not.
There is nothing quite like being awakened at 6:00 a.m. By my father standing in the doorway of your bedroom, madder' n a wet hen. The first thing I heard was my darling husband, Rick, asking, “Is there something I can help you with?”. I opened my eyes, and there stands dad, and I could tell by his face that he was livid.
Clothed in yesterday's jeans and tshirt, sox an holding tightly to a pair of Hanes jockey shorts, he looked at Rick and said, “Does he know?” Oh great. The spinning has begun and it's barely light outside. I jumped out of bed, got dressed in a flash, told Rick to go back to sleep, and went to deal with dad.
No question about it, he was furious. Something in his head was cross-wired again, and he wanted MONEY, and he wanted the CAR, and he wanted to GO. I agreed that all that was indeed possible – but first, we needed coffee, don'cha think?
As I went to the kitchen to make coffee, he went to Rick's tool closet – hallowed ground in our home – and removed the small “Honey Buns” box that he recognized as his. It weighs about 7lb or so, and dad was trying to pick it up, so I helped and put it on the table, hoping to get him to sit down and let Rick and Patrick sleep. No such luck. He didn't want the tools. He wanted to assert himself and get the whole family involved.
As I put his coffee on the table, I sat down, and he followed, reluctantly. “I'm gonna kill him.”, he snarled. “Who?” “That GUY!” “No you're not,”, I said. The reference was to Rick, and the worst offense he had committed was trying to get dad to get the hell out of our room. He looked me dead in the face and said, “I know what you're doing!” He looked like the father I remember – the one that could smack you before you saw it coming, and I said, “Pardon me?” He repeated it. “I KNOW what you're doing!” I said, “And what am I doing?” He snarled, “You are screwing!” Ok. Now it's funny. Trying to hide the grin that was threatening to cover my face, I asked, “I am?” There was no avoiding it now. We were in the middle of a ridiculous conversation again, and there was no way out except through the middle. “Yes YOU ARE!” “Oh”. I was just about to lose the battle with the grin. “When two people are in....” ten second pause “same bed, screwing!” I didn't have the heart to tell him that since he moved in with us we are both too tired every single night to do more than shake hands.
Then, it happened. Not only did the grin escape, but a guffaw. Good grief. I informed him that I have been married for a zillion years, but there was no saving my now besmirched reputation with him. “Tramp”, he muttered. Well. Gee. Thank you so much.
I could see that this was a morning where I could do no right, and God help everyone else. While Rick and Patrick were still blissfully unaware of the drama around the dining room table, I knew I had to defuse this volatile situation.
I have a cardinal rule about toddlers. Well, now it's toddlers and 83 year old demented people. Say “yes” more than you say “no”, deflect and distract, and try to avoid tantrums if possible. So how to get dad calmed down? Same way I would a hot-headed two year old – take 'em outside! So we put on shoes, grabbed the cane, and we s l o w l y hobbled outside. I fed the garden plants, and he glared at the neighbor's house. “Where they?” he asked, still with his grumpy face on. “Probably asleep, dad.” “Bastards”. Wonderful. A commentary on the neighbors.
We were out there about three minutes when he wet himself and I encouraged him to return to the house for a clothing change and a wash-up. He followed my directions, and went to his room for a clothing change.
I think his medicine has kicked in. He still looks like the grumpy old guy on the Muppets – the one in the balcony – but he's no longer ready to paint a giant letter “A” on my forehead.
It's gonna be a rough day, kids.
Clothed in yesterday's jeans and tshirt, sox an holding tightly to a pair of Hanes jockey shorts, he looked at Rick and said, “Does he know?” Oh great. The spinning has begun and it's barely light outside. I jumped out of bed, got dressed in a flash, told Rick to go back to sleep, and went to deal with dad.
No question about it, he was furious. Something in his head was cross-wired again, and he wanted MONEY, and he wanted the CAR, and he wanted to GO. I agreed that all that was indeed possible – but first, we needed coffee, don'cha think?
As I went to the kitchen to make coffee, he went to Rick's tool closet – hallowed ground in our home – and removed the small “Honey Buns” box that he recognized as his. It weighs about 7lb or so, and dad was trying to pick it up, so I helped and put it on the table, hoping to get him to sit down and let Rick and Patrick sleep. No such luck. He didn't want the tools. He wanted to assert himself and get the whole family involved.
As I put his coffee on the table, I sat down, and he followed, reluctantly. “I'm gonna kill him.”, he snarled. “Who?” “That GUY!” “No you're not,”, I said. The reference was to Rick, and the worst offense he had committed was trying to get dad to get the hell out of our room. He looked me dead in the face and said, “I know what you're doing!” He looked like the father I remember – the one that could smack you before you saw it coming, and I said, “Pardon me?” He repeated it. “I KNOW what you're doing!” I said, “And what am I doing?” He snarled, “You are screwing!” Ok. Now it's funny. Trying to hide the grin that was threatening to cover my face, I asked, “I am?” There was no avoiding it now. We were in the middle of a ridiculous conversation again, and there was no way out except through the middle. “Yes YOU ARE!” “Oh”. I was just about to lose the battle with the grin. “When two people are in....” ten second pause “same bed, screwing!” I didn't have the heart to tell him that since he moved in with us we are both too tired every single night to do more than shake hands.
Then, it happened. Not only did the grin escape, but a guffaw. Good grief. I informed him that I have been married for a zillion years, but there was no saving my now besmirched reputation with him. “Tramp”, he muttered. Well. Gee. Thank you so much.
I could see that this was a morning where I could do no right, and God help everyone else. While Rick and Patrick were still blissfully unaware of the drama around the dining room table, I knew I had to defuse this volatile situation.
I have a cardinal rule about toddlers. Well, now it's toddlers and 83 year old demented people. Say “yes” more than you say “no”, deflect and distract, and try to avoid tantrums if possible. So how to get dad calmed down? Same way I would a hot-headed two year old – take 'em outside! So we put on shoes, grabbed the cane, and we s l o w l y hobbled outside. I fed the garden plants, and he glared at the neighbor's house. “Where they?” he asked, still with his grumpy face on. “Probably asleep, dad.” “Bastards”. Wonderful. A commentary on the neighbors.
We were out there about three minutes when he wet himself and I encouraged him to return to the house for a clothing change and a wash-up. He followed my directions, and went to his room for a clothing change.
I think his medicine has kicked in. He still looks like the grumpy old guy on the Muppets – the one in the balcony – but he's no longer ready to paint a giant letter “A” on my forehead.
It's gonna be a rough day, kids.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
CHAPTER ONE
I don't know when it all went bad. It was so slow, so insidious that there is no date that I can associate dad's decent into his own private hell.
For two and a half years, he was basically fine. Well, maybe not “fine” in the traditional sense, but he was still driving, writing his own checks and able to heat the food I cooked for him. Oh, sure – there were plenty of signs, lots of occassions where I would get that same gut-punched feeling that he was indeed, quite ill. But I am a champion “avoider”. And I would push all those frightening feelings down so far I would forget to even address them.
But one day in particular, it became crystal clear to me. He had a doctor's appointment. His first appointment with a new doctor. She is a beautiful woman, talented and kind, warm and understanding. She gave dad a physical, announced him the very picture of physical health, but said the words I was dreading: He was quite demented. There it was. There was an 800 lb gorilla in the room, and the fact was now unavoidable. She told me to take him home, keep an eye on him, and get used to the fact that my father was going to get a lot worse, never get better, and eventually die. He was approaching the end of his physical life span, but his mental life span was slipping away moment by moment.
We went out to lunch that day. He loves him some Applebee's, and I wanted to treat him to something he could enjoy. At the end of the meal, I asked for the check, and watched my father wash his fork in his iced tea. Odd. We went to the car, and he turned to me and said, “I need a kevner.” A what? He repeated himself. “I need a kevner.” I started the car, and second by second, his verbal skills dissolved. Within three minutes, he was speaking a language I had never before heard.
Straight to the hospital we went. I blew in the door like an ill wind, announcing that I believed my father was having a stroke, and was immediately surrounded by eight staff members that whisked my dad away. After a couple of hours, a diagnosis. He had had a TIA. A transischemic attack. A “little” stroke – one that resolves itself within hours. And that's just what happened. After a few hours, he was back to his old self. The doctor told me that a TIA is often a precursor to a major stroke, so take him home, keep an eye on him, and get used to the fact that he is going to get a lot worse. It seems as though I had heard those words earlier in the day. Maybe this was something I could not avoid any longer.
Clearly, I had to take his car keys. I also needed to take a look at that checkbook of his. I also had to see if the bills were paid. And one last thing – I needed to have a long, serious conversation with myself. I now knew that this was my baby to rock, and I had better get going.
The Temper
Today I did something I said I would never do. I called dad's doctor and asked for a prescription to be called into the pharmacy – some medication that I could use only as needed to calm this man down. He crossed the line today, and I need to have some chemical way to settle him, and maybe help him “sleep it off.”
Dad has always been a bit of a curmudgeon. It wouldn't take much to get his temper going, and now that he has dementia, it takes even less. In fact, it often takes exactly nothing.
He never did like kids. Didn't like me or my brother, especially, when we were kids. Therefore, he doesn't like them now. Actually, I think he hates kids. All kids. His kids. My kids. All kids.
That is an unfortunate state of affairs, as he lives with us now, and we still have a child at home.
Patrick is thirteen, but still qualifies as a “kid” in dad's book. The poor kid has been the recipient of many spewed epithets, thanks to dad. To make matters worse, Patrick actually has friends.
We are doing our best to make this situation with grandpa living with us as comfortable as possible for Patrick, so we still allow the neighborhood children to play in our driveway as we have the only basketball hoop in the area. Therefore, we are often inundated with as many as ten children playing in our yard and driveway, ranging in age from six to fourteen. Most of them, though, are around Patrick's age.
Last night, he could see a small group of boys shooting hoops right outside the dining room window. I could see dad buiding up a head of steam, and eventually, he managed a couple of words. “Little Bastards”. Jodi informed him that that was not nice at all. His reply? “Sons a bitches.” And with that, he held onto his cane and slowly shuffled his way to the back door. “Where you going, daddy?” “Out.” “What for?” Of course, I knew. He was going out to whoop some butt with that cane of his. I blocked the door, redirected him to the front room and a cup of hot coffee, but his temper did not abate. He was “loaded for bear” all evening.
Unfortunately, he awoke this morning in the same foul mood. Within twenty minutes, he informed Patrick, “You are a son of a bitch. That's what you are.” Well, first of all, I was impressed with the continuity of speech! Two complete sentences! Patrick told grandpa that he didn't appreciate that, and dad countered with “I want your head.”
Soon, dad went outside, much to Patrick's and my relief. But of course, there was no relief to be had. Dad felt it necessary to rearrange the lawn furniture, and Patrick made the mistake of asking grandpa if he could help him in any way. The floodgates opened, and dad took a fibile swing at my son. Of course, it was easy for Patrick to duck out of the way, but then dad picked up a plastic chair and took a couple of pokes at the boy. Patrick came in and informed me of the latest developments, and out the door I flew.
Again, all he needed was redirection, and coffee usually does the trick. He took his coffee, stomped - as best as he could- off to his room, slammed his door, and took off all his clothes and went to bed. He slept for four hours.
I took this opportunity to jump online and chat with a friend who is going through the same thing. She told me that this behavior is actually a chemical problem...it's physical, and all part of the deal. Wow. Now THAT was good to know.
But physical or not, I can't help but feel a little better with some medication available. Now. If only I could staunch the guilt. I said I would never medicate him. I said I would never “snow” him. I said I could deal with him.
So why am I speeding off to the pharmacy?
I don't know when it all went bad. It was so slow, so insidious that there is no date that I can associate dad's decent into his own private hell.
For two and a half years, he was basically fine. Well, maybe not “fine” in the traditional sense, but he was still driving, writing his own checks and able to heat the food I cooked for him. Oh, sure – there were plenty of signs, lots of occassions where I would get that same gut-punched feeling that he was indeed, quite ill. But I am a champion “avoider”. And I would push all those frightening feelings down so far I would forget to even address them.
But one day in particular, it became crystal clear to me. He had a doctor's appointment. His first appointment with a new doctor. She is a beautiful woman, talented and kind, warm and understanding. She gave dad a physical, announced him the very picture of physical health, but said the words I was dreading: He was quite demented. There it was. There was an 800 lb gorilla in the room, and the fact was now unavoidable. She told me to take him home, keep an eye on him, and get used to the fact that my father was going to get a lot worse, never get better, and eventually die. He was approaching the end of his physical life span, but his mental life span was slipping away moment by moment.
We went out to lunch that day. He loves him some Applebee's, and I wanted to treat him to something he could enjoy. At the end of the meal, I asked for the check, and watched my father wash his fork in his iced tea. Odd. We went to the car, and he turned to me and said, “I need a kevner.” A what? He repeated himself. “I need a kevner.” I started the car, and second by second, his verbal skills dissolved. Within three minutes, he was speaking a language I had never before heard.
Straight to the hospital we went. I blew in the door like an ill wind, announcing that I believed my father was having a stroke, and was immediately surrounded by eight staff members that whisked my dad away. After a couple of hours, a diagnosis. He had had a TIA. A transischemic attack. A “little” stroke – one that resolves itself within hours. And that's just what happened. After a few hours, he was back to his old self. The doctor told me that a TIA is often a precursor to a major stroke, so take him home, keep an eye on him, and get used to the fact that he is going to get a lot worse. It seems as though I had heard those words earlier in the day. Maybe this was something I could not avoid any longer.
Clearly, I had to take his car keys. I also needed to take a look at that checkbook of his. I also had to see if the bills were paid. And one last thing – I needed to have a long, serious conversation with myself. I now knew that this was my baby to rock, and I had better get going.
The Temper
Today I did something I said I would never do. I called dad's doctor and asked for a prescription to be called into the pharmacy – some medication that I could use only as needed to calm this man down. He crossed the line today, and I need to have some chemical way to settle him, and maybe help him “sleep it off.”
Dad has always been a bit of a curmudgeon. It wouldn't take much to get his temper going, and now that he has dementia, it takes even less. In fact, it often takes exactly nothing.
He never did like kids. Didn't like me or my brother, especially, when we were kids. Therefore, he doesn't like them now. Actually, I think he hates kids. All kids. His kids. My kids. All kids.
That is an unfortunate state of affairs, as he lives with us now, and we still have a child at home.
Patrick is thirteen, but still qualifies as a “kid” in dad's book. The poor kid has been the recipient of many spewed epithets, thanks to dad. To make matters worse, Patrick actually has friends.
We are doing our best to make this situation with grandpa living with us as comfortable as possible for Patrick, so we still allow the neighborhood children to play in our driveway as we have the only basketball hoop in the area. Therefore, we are often inundated with as many as ten children playing in our yard and driveway, ranging in age from six to fourteen. Most of them, though, are around Patrick's age.
Last night, he could see a small group of boys shooting hoops right outside the dining room window. I could see dad buiding up a head of steam, and eventually, he managed a couple of words. “Little Bastards”. Jodi informed him that that was not nice at all. His reply? “Sons a bitches.” And with that, he held onto his cane and slowly shuffled his way to the back door. “Where you going, daddy?” “Out.” “What for?” Of course, I knew. He was going out to whoop some butt with that cane of his. I blocked the door, redirected him to the front room and a cup of hot coffee, but his temper did not abate. He was “loaded for bear” all evening.
Unfortunately, he awoke this morning in the same foul mood. Within twenty minutes, he informed Patrick, “You are a son of a bitch. That's what you are.” Well, first of all, I was impressed with the continuity of speech! Two complete sentences! Patrick told grandpa that he didn't appreciate that, and dad countered with “I want your head.”
Soon, dad went outside, much to Patrick's and my relief. But of course, there was no relief to be had. Dad felt it necessary to rearrange the lawn furniture, and Patrick made the mistake of asking grandpa if he could help him in any way. The floodgates opened, and dad took a fibile swing at my son. Of course, it was easy for Patrick to duck out of the way, but then dad picked up a plastic chair and took a couple of pokes at the boy. Patrick came in and informed me of the latest developments, and out the door I flew.
Again, all he needed was redirection, and coffee usually does the trick. He took his coffee, stomped - as best as he could- off to his room, slammed his door, and took off all his clothes and went to bed. He slept for four hours.
I took this opportunity to jump online and chat with a friend who is going through the same thing. She told me that this behavior is actually a chemical problem...it's physical, and all part of the deal. Wow. Now THAT was good to know.
But physical or not, I can't help but feel a little better with some medication available. Now. If only I could staunch the guilt. I said I would never medicate him. I said I would never “snow” him. I said I could deal with him.
So why am I speeding off to the pharmacy?
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Forward
Lovely September mornings are a dime a dozen in Colorado. Perfect days, followed by perfect nights. And this was yet another one – a Wednesday. The switchboard was lit up like a Christmas tree, and I was completely “in the weeds”. Eighteen lines, all with clients on the other end with important insurance questions, issues, problems or concerns. One right after another, I answered, “Good Morning! Manor Insurance – how may I direct your call?” And then I heard the voice I never expected to hear. My father. “Debbie?” “Dad?” “We lost momma this morning.” He said it with no emotion; as though he were telling me that he'd just bought new tires. “What?” “Your mother has died.” The phone fell from my hand.
And with those words, lives were changed. Many lives. It had less to do with mom passing, and more to do with dad.
Dad and mom had been married 58 years. We all lived in Oregon for three decades, at least, until my husband and children and I moved to Denver, Colorado. Now, dad was alone in Oregon.
I called him daily after mom passed. All through September, October...and I kept getting that niggling feeling that something was horribly wrong with him. He couldn't keep a train of thought. He couldn't communicate well at all! I thought it was losing mom that was causing his change of personality. I thought it was loneliness, or grief. I tried so hard to excuse it away. But I think I knew. I also think I was being a coward.
Finally, the middle of October, he told me that he had walked to get the mail, and returned home, opened the door, sat down at the dining room table, only to realize that he was in someone else's home. It wasn't his house at all. Dad was showing outward signs of dementia.
A family council meeting was called. My husband, 18 yr old son, 9 yr old son and 26 yr old daughter all collectively decided that grandpa needed to be here in Denver. With us. Post haste. Of course, dad said “NO!”. Every day. The same answer. “NO!” Then, just like the call I received on September 10, 2004, another emotionless call. “I've called Bekins. They are arriving on Saturday to pack my stuff and hitch up my car. They will move me on Sunday.” What? That was five days away! We have nothing arranged! No apartment – no house – wow. Now what?
That situation notwithstanding, Jodi and I flew from Denver to Portland Oregon to bring grandpa to his new home. When we arrived at his home, I could not believe what I was walking into. The house was packed, and he was sitting amongst them, watching a football game on TV. He greeted me as if he had just seen me twenty minutes before, with little emotion. He seemed “flat”. Definitely not himself. His storage shed was untouched. Nothing packed. Jodi and I went out there to see if anything needed packed, and were stunned to hear dad say, “Nuthin' there I want.” Oh? We found boxes with his and mother's wedding license. My grandfather's things. Baby pictures. MY baby pictures! Clearly, it all needed boxed up, and Jodi and rolled up our sleeves and got to work. Meanwhile, we quietly discussed the changes we were seeing in my father.
Dad stood stoically by, silent. We took him to our hotel room that night, and flew out the next morning. The more time I spent with him, the more sure I was that this was the right move, and that he was clearly – absolutely – definitely not all right.
The plane landed on time in Denver, and as we navigated the airport, I became aware that he had no idea what to do next. He was physically exhausted, mentally terribly confused, and yet had a child-like curiosity about the airport.
We were “home” within the hour, and with that, the story begins. Or maybe, it begins to end. I still don't know. I'll let you decide that.
Join me – join US – as we share our stories about our loved ones. Our mothers, our fathers, our husbands and wives. We will look into the lives of those that we hold most dear, and into our own lives as they are forever altered and amended to include the words that we live with each and every day: “Alzheimer's” and “Dementia”.
You will read stories that are so tragically sad that you weep for people you have never met. You will meet us – the caregivers - the incredible men and women that give their time, their unending love, their money, their actual LIVES to care for those afflicted with a cruel, tragic condition.
And most importantly, you will gain a peek through a window usually curtained securely and acquire insight into the mind and the life of a dementia patient. Not the kind of view that most books will share – but a real life insight into how they think, what they feel, and how they live.
None of us are doctors, nurses or “professionals” in the field of Alzheimer's or Dementia. None of us can garner $250 for a 15 minute consultation. We are simply the caregivers that live, feel and see the slippery slope that our loved ones live on. The doctors see our loved ones for a few minutes a year. The rest is up to us.
To all the contributers of this book, I applaud each of you. You are amazing. No one will ever know just how incredible you are.
And with those words, lives were changed. Many lives. It had less to do with mom passing, and more to do with dad.
Dad and mom had been married 58 years. We all lived in Oregon for three decades, at least, until my husband and children and I moved to Denver, Colorado. Now, dad was alone in Oregon.
I called him daily after mom passed. All through September, October...and I kept getting that niggling feeling that something was horribly wrong with him. He couldn't keep a train of thought. He couldn't communicate well at all! I thought it was losing mom that was causing his change of personality. I thought it was loneliness, or grief. I tried so hard to excuse it away. But I think I knew. I also think I was being a coward.
Finally, the middle of October, he told me that he had walked to get the mail, and returned home, opened the door, sat down at the dining room table, only to realize that he was in someone else's home. It wasn't his house at all. Dad was showing outward signs of dementia.
A family council meeting was called. My husband, 18 yr old son, 9 yr old son and 26 yr old daughter all collectively decided that grandpa needed to be here in Denver. With us. Post haste. Of course, dad said “NO!”. Every day. The same answer. “NO!” Then, just like the call I received on September 10, 2004, another emotionless call. “I've called Bekins. They are arriving on Saturday to pack my stuff and hitch up my car. They will move me on Sunday.” What? That was five days away! We have nothing arranged! No apartment – no house – wow. Now what?
That situation notwithstanding, Jodi and I flew from Denver to Portland Oregon to bring grandpa to his new home. When we arrived at his home, I could not believe what I was walking into. The house was packed, and he was sitting amongst them, watching a football game on TV. He greeted me as if he had just seen me twenty minutes before, with little emotion. He seemed “flat”. Definitely not himself. His storage shed was untouched. Nothing packed. Jodi and I went out there to see if anything needed packed, and were stunned to hear dad say, “Nuthin' there I want.” Oh? We found boxes with his and mother's wedding license. My grandfather's things. Baby pictures. MY baby pictures! Clearly, it all needed boxed up, and Jodi and rolled up our sleeves and got to work. Meanwhile, we quietly discussed the changes we were seeing in my father.
Dad stood stoically by, silent. We took him to our hotel room that night, and flew out the next morning. The more time I spent with him, the more sure I was that this was the right move, and that he was clearly – absolutely – definitely not all right.
The plane landed on time in Denver, and as we navigated the airport, I became aware that he had no idea what to do next. He was physically exhausted, mentally terribly confused, and yet had a child-like curiosity about the airport.
We were “home” within the hour, and with that, the story begins. Or maybe, it begins to end. I still don't know. I'll let you decide that.
Join me – join US – as we share our stories about our loved ones. Our mothers, our fathers, our husbands and wives. We will look into the lives of those that we hold most dear, and into our own lives as they are forever altered and amended to include the words that we live with each and every day: “Alzheimer's” and “Dementia”.
You will read stories that are so tragically sad that you weep for people you have never met. You will meet us – the caregivers - the incredible men and women that give their time, their unending love, their money, their actual LIVES to care for those afflicted with a cruel, tragic condition.
And most importantly, you will gain a peek through a window usually curtained securely and acquire insight into the mind and the life of a dementia patient. Not the kind of view that most books will share – but a real life insight into how they think, what they feel, and how they live.
None of us are doctors, nurses or “professionals” in the field of Alzheimer's or Dementia. None of us can garner $250 for a 15 minute consultation. We are simply the caregivers that live, feel and see the slippery slope that our loved ones live on. The doctors see our loved ones for a few minutes a year. The rest is up to us.
To all the contributers of this book, I applaud each of you. You are amazing. No one will ever know just how incredible you are.
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