How to Discourage a Caregiver

This is not a post about my husband's illness, necessarily. Rather, it is a post about caregiving. More specifically, it is a post about what to do if you'd like to encourage me as his caregiver. Or, actually, what not to do.

There are some pretty terrific films out there about people with Alzheimer's Disease, people who've known people with Alzheimer's Disease, people who are living with people with Alzheimer's Disease, people who visit institutionalized people with Alzheimer's Disease, and so on. The Notebook, Away from Her, and Still Alice come to mind. Please don't suggest that I see the films. In one way or another, I am living them. They are bound to rip my heart out, and I'm sure that's not your intent. Your intent is to show you care, to let me know you were touched by the films, to tell me you want to understand. But unless you are living or have lived my life, you cannot possibly understand. And that is okay. You do not have to understand in order to support me and encourage me.

Along the same vein, I know you are trying to let me know you feel my pain when you tell me devastating stories about your aunt's or uncle's or father's or mother's struggles with something my husband and I aren't dealing with yet. And possibly (because hope springs eternal) will never deal with. Please know that while I appreciate your efforts to empathize, those stories are not helpful unless they pertain to a valuable resource I haven't discovered. You will generally know you are being helpful when my countenance brightens and I ask you for more information.

And speaking of resources, again, I really do appreciate your desire to be caring when you send me articles about medical studies, discoveries, vitamins, oils, diets, cleanses, and all sorts of miracle treatments. Someday, one of them just might be "it." In the meantime, it's a bit demoralizing. It makes me feel as though I'm not doing enough and have possibly missed an opportunity, even though I've read the studies, use the vitamins and oils, and am careful about our nutrition. My husband's neurologist is part of the research team at UC Davis. She specializes in Alzheimer's and dementia. She is fantastic and fabulously knowledgeable. She has told me that if there's anything at all even vaguely promising coming down the pike, we will be the very first to know.

But if you personally know someone who's been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's and has recovered using one of the miracle treatments, by all means, put me in touch with that person. My countenance will brighten, and I'll ask you for more information!

What Time Is It?

This morning, we had to stop at the store on our way to a meeting. I was keeping a close eye on the clock, as being on time was important. We left the house at ten after or so and headed to the store. It's five minutes from the house.

"What time is it?" I asked as I parked the car.

He checked his watch. "9:41," he answered.

"9:41?!" I couldn't imagine how I could have been so wrong about the time when we left the house. Now, I was in a big hurry!

"9:41. Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said, showing me his watch to emphasize the point. "The little hand is on the 9, see? And the big hand is just past the 4. It's 9:41."

Okay. I was relieved that it was only 9:21, and I thought maybe he was just teasing me, as he is wont to do. But I wasn't sure.

So, as we were leaving the store after finishing our shopping, I asked him again what time it was. He glanced at his watch.

"It's 9:82. See?" And he turned his wrist to show me the time. Yep. 9:42.

I think it might be time for a digital watch.

Unloading the Groceries

We went to Costco today, and included in our purchase was a set of three plastic bins for storage, nested together. I filled the top one with towels and other light items before placing it in the back seat of the car. Other items were placed in the trunk, loose, because they hadn't been boxed. When we got home, I removed the bins from the vehicle first. Here's our conversation:

Me:  "I'm going to take this inside, unload it, and bring it back out so we can load up the other stuff."

Him:  "What other stuff?"

Me:  "The stuff that's in the trunk."

Him:  "Oh."

Me:  "I'll be right back."

Him:  "Why?"

Me:  "So we can unload the rest of the stuff."

I take the containers inside, unload them, and go right back outside. He is struggling up the drive with a couple of boxed items.

Him:  "I think I dropped a box."

He sees that I am carrying the plastic bins.

Him:  "What are you doing with those?"

Me:  "I'm going to fill them back up."

Him:  "I dropped a box."

He takes his armload into the house. I see the box with the milk cartons on the ground. The box is split open, but nothing is spilling out. I go ahead and fill up the plastic bin with the other purchases. He comes back outside. This is both surprising and pleasing, as he normally would have forgotten that we're in the middle of doing something.

Him:  "Is that all?"

Me:  "Yes, except for the box you dropped." (I say it this way, thinking he will immediately know where to look.)

Him:  "What box? I didn't drop anything." (He is not being defensive. He really doesn't remember dropping it, even though it just happened, and he just told me about it.)

Me:  "It's okay. Nothing is spilling. It's right over there."

He starts to lift the box with one hand. I remind him that it's broken and needs to be picked up with both hands so the cartons don't slip out. He is insulted that I would think he needs to be reminded of this. Sigh.