This is a thank-you note to you, dear readers, because I know you have been praying for us. How do I know this? As bleak and hopeless as my last post seemed, the sun came up yesterday morning. It was a spectacular day. Bright sunshine was accompanied by cool breezes. And I got some sleep. It's amazing how sleep and an encouraging Sunday message can rejuvenate a person.
It was a good day for my husband, too. He laughed at all the pastor's jokes and even participated in the singing. He said he was happy, and he acted like it. He liked the food I cooked. He was pleased to know I wasn't just here for a visit. He held my hand as we talked. He thought I was 15 years younger than I am. (I didn't see any reason to correct that notion.) And he gave me lovesick looks between kisses all day, like a newlywed.
That's the weird thing about this disease. You never know what tomorrow will bring. Or today, either, for that matter. One minute, you want to throw in the towel. The next minute, there's no reason to. And vice versa.
I am grateful to have had this respite, a reminder that things can still be good, even when they're not so good. And I thank you again for your prayer support. Prayer changes things. Don't stop.
Monday, August 31, 2015
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Praying for the End of Time
Meat Loaf's song "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" has been keeping me awake at night lately. Tom Cruise did such a great lip synch job of it on Jimmy Fallon's show, and now it just seems to run on and on in my mind like a broken record at 3 a.m. (Here it is, in case you missed it...about minute 5.)
But that isn't actually the subject of this post. Some time ago, one of my "dear readers" posted some terribly discouraging words to me. I won't repeat them here, but you can read all about it in the comments section of this post, His True Self. Those words have also been playing in my mind over and over, ominously. I'm sure the person was simply writing out of personal pain, and I was just going to delete the comment. But then I saw my daughter's reply. It was stellar and so true.
I am writing these posts partly as a diary for me, but also as an encouragement (or at least as information) for others. I am selective about what I share, and I don't post every negative thing that happens. I'm trying to find something positive to say in each situation, so I usually wait until I'm able to see that before posting. That's why you don't always hear from me regularly. I'm waiting.
Lately, my husband obsesses about "his" things even more than he used to, especially when he's frustrated and confused. Naturally, that's happening more and more. When he gets in one of these "moods," this is "his" house. Not the home we've both lived in for almost 33 years, but his house that he's lived in since long before I came into the picture. He angrily asks me what I think I'm doing here. When I explain that it's my house, too, and that I've lived here with him the whole time, he is no longer calmed by the information. This conversation happens every day, multiple times a day.
Today, for the first time, he told me to leave, get out, and "Get the f***" out of his house. I don't care who you are or what you're going through, those are some hard words to hear. I didn't react well. I haven't yet reached the point where I'm teflon and words don't stick or hurt. I'm just doing the best I can, and sometimes that just doesn't seem to be good enough.
If there's anything I'm learning as we walk this rocky path called Alzheimer's, it's that giving up sometimes looks pretty good. An "escape plan" is enticing. If you're walking this road too, I want you to know you're not alone. Don't give up.
And so, "dear reader" from months ago, if you are still reading my blog and not just a troll, I pray that your pain is less and your grief is eased. I hope you will also pray for me as I travel this lonely and heartbreaking road. The rude awakening you mentioned happened long before you wrote to me. In fact, it's been happening every day for a very long time.
For the rest of you, I'm sorry that this hasn't been the usual half-laughing, half-crying stuff you're used to reading from me. But sometimes, I'm just "praying for the end of time to hurry up and arrive."
But that isn't actually the subject of this post. Some time ago, one of my "dear readers" posted some terribly discouraging words to me. I won't repeat them here, but you can read all about it in the comments section of this post, His True Self. Those words have also been playing in my mind over and over, ominously. I'm sure the person was simply writing out of personal pain, and I was just going to delete the comment. But then I saw my daughter's reply. It was stellar and so true.
I am writing these posts partly as a diary for me, but also as an encouragement (or at least as information) for others. I am selective about what I share, and I don't post every negative thing that happens. I'm trying to find something positive to say in each situation, so I usually wait until I'm able to see that before posting. That's why you don't always hear from me regularly. I'm waiting.
Lately, my husband obsesses about "his" things even more than he used to, especially when he's frustrated and confused. Naturally, that's happening more and more. When he gets in one of these "moods," this is "his" house. Not the home we've both lived in for almost 33 years, but his house that he's lived in since long before I came into the picture. He angrily asks me what I think I'm doing here. When I explain that it's my house, too, and that I've lived here with him the whole time, he is no longer calmed by the information. This conversation happens every day, multiple times a day.
Today, for the first time, he told me to leave, get out, and "Get the f***" out of his house. I don't care who you are or what you're going through, those are some hard words to hear. I didn't react well. I haven't yet reached the point where I'm teflon and words don't stick or hurt. I'm just doing the best I can, and sometimes that just doesn't seem to be good enough.
If there's anything I'm learning as we walk this rocky path called Alzheimer's, it's that giving up sometimes looks pretty good. An "escape plan" is enticing. If you're walking this road too, I want you to know you're not alone. Don't give up.
For the rest of you, I'm sorry that this hasn't been the usual half-laughing, half-crying stuff you're used to reading from me. But sometimes, I'm just "praying for the end of time to hurry up and arrive."
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
I Can't Believe My Good Luck!
My husband has been very disoriented since we returned from vacation several weeks ago. I don't know if this is because we changed venues so many times on our trip or if it is just because.
For instance, so far this week, he's claimed to have owned our car (the one I drive) longer than he's known me. He says it is "his" car. This is fascinating, as I bought the car myself. And he was with me. He said at the time that he wanted me to have the experience of doing the selecting and haggling, so I'd know what to do.
He's asked me if I've ever been to what most people would consider to be our home town. The place where we went to high school. The place where we met. The place where we were married. The place where we lived after he left the service. The place where our oldest son was born.
He became indignant and combative when I reminded him that we co-own our house ("I've lived here a lot longer than I've known you!") and have lived in it for 32 years ("Well, oh, yeah? If that's so, then where have you been?!"). We've had this conversation off and on for the past few days, and it generally culminates with, "Well, I guess I'll have to take your word for it." Is this painful? You bet.
Today, he didn't remember (for a brief moment, I am assuring myself) that I'm the mother of his children. Or that he had children. Or that the darlings whose mugs are on the coffee mug are our grandchildren (his grandchildren, yes).
A few minutes after eating a large (and tasty, if I say so myself) dinner this evening, he rather demanding asked, "No food?!" "We just ate." "Oh, yeah."
But the good news is that he thinks he won our house as a prize for something. He said so the other day. He couldn't believe his great good luck. I couldn't believe my ears. And he also can't believe his great good luck that I'm staying over again tonight. Silver linings. Always look for the silver linings.
For instance, so far this week, he's claimed to have owned our car (the one I drive) longer than he's known me. He says it is "his" car. This is fascinating, as I bought the car myself. And he was with me. He said at the time that he wanted me to have the experience of doing the selecting and haggling, so I'd know what to do.
He's asked me if I've ever been to what most people would consider to be our home town. The place where we went to high school. The place where we met. The place where we were married. The place where we lived after he left the service. The place where our oldest son was born.
He became indignant and combative when I reminded him that we co-own our house ("I've lived here a lot longer than I've known you!") and have lived in it for 32 years ("Well, oh, yeah? If that's so, then where have you been?!"). We've had this conversation off and on for the past few days, and it generally culminates with, "Well, I guess I'll have to take your word for it." Is this painful? You bet.
Today, he didn't remember (for a brief moment, I am assuring myself) that I'm the mother of his children. Or that he had children. Or that the darlings whose mugs are on the coffee mug are our grandchildren (his grandchildren, yes).
A few minutes after eating a large (and tasty, if I say so myself) dinner this evening, he rather demanding asked, "No food?!" "We just ate." "Oh, yeah."
But the good news is that he thinks he won our house as a prize for something. He said so the other day. He couldn't believe his great good luck. I couldn't believe my ears. And he also can't believe his great good luck that I'm staying over again tonight. Silver linings. Always look for the silver linings.
Monday, June 22, 2015
Where Is Everyone?
For several months now, mostly in the evening but increasingly during the day as well, my husband becomes confused about whether or not others are in the house with us. I don't know if that's because he is seeing things (I hope not) or because time warps for him. Maybe there have been people at the house that day, but they have gone home.
Unfortunately, almost every evening, he is also confused about why I'm in the house.
"How did you come to be here?" he asks.
"I live here," I explain. I then explain that no, I am not his sister. I explain that this is our home, that I am his wife, that we've been married for 45 years, that we've been living here for 32 years. Together. The whole time. He takes my hand and says he is glad, then he mentions that he's been having trouble with his brain and that he does remember me. He was just having a momentary lapse.
The other evening, we were sitting in the family room. It's downstairs. It was almost time for bed, so he checked the doors to make sure they were locked. Then, for some reason, he went upstairs for a few minutes and came right back down.
"Where is everyone?"
I wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that, since nobody had been at the house. It occurred to me that maybe he was wondering if the kids had gone out for the evening and hadn't returned home yet. I took a stab at it.
"The kids are all grown up and off on their own, honey."
"Oh," he said softly, looking a little lost and more than a little sad.
It's ironic, isn't it? We are so busy when the kids are home, raising them and earning a sufficient income to take care of them and providing for their needs, we hardly realize they're growing up until they leave for college. The time passes so quickly, and then they are gone.
And we're alone in our big house, just us and the dog, wondering how it could have all happened. Just the way everyone said it would.
Happy Father's Day.
Unfortunately, almost every evening, he is also confused about why I'm in the house.
"How did you come to be here?" he asks.
"I live here," I explain. I then explain that no, I am not his sister. I explain that this is our home, that I am his wife, that we've been married for 45 years, that we've been living here for 32 years. Together. The whole time. He takes my hand and says he is glad, then he mentions that he's been having trouble with his brain and that he does remember me. He was just having a momentary lapse.
The other evening, we were sitting in the family room. It's downstairs. It was almost time for bed, so he checked the doors to make sure they were locked. Then, for some reason, he went upstairs for a few minutes and came right back down.
"Where is everyone?"
I wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that, since nobody had been at the house. It occurred to me that maybe he was wondering if the kids had gone out for the evening and hadn't returned home yet. I took a stab at it.
"The kids are all grown up and off on their own, honey."
"Oh," he said softly, looking a little lost and more than a little sad.
It's ironic, isn't it? We are so busy when the kids are home, raising them and earning a sufficient income to take care of them and providing for their needs, we hardly realize they're growing up until they leave for college. The time passes so quickly, and then they are gone.
And we're alone in our big house, just us and the dog, wondering how it could have all happened. Just the way everyone said it would.
Happy Father's Day.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
There She Is
"There she is," he exclaims as he comes around the corner from the family room to the laundry room with the dog, "Gail...Joanne...Caity...I mean, Heather!"
He looks at me earnestly. He knows none of those names is correct, but he isn't sure why. I am folding laundry, and he looks confused but relieved to have found me. I just told him a minute ago that I was going to check on the laundry.
"Who am I?" I ask him, gazing at him intently from across the room.
"Gail," he says. Gail is one of his sisters. It has happened before that he has called me by his sister's name and maybe even confused me with her.
"Do I look like Gail?" I ask.
"Yes. No. I don't know." Clearly, there is something about me that reminds him of her, which is both creepily weird and oddly logical. I take a breath.
"I'm Chris. I'm your wife. We live here together. This is our house. Gail is your sister." I say these things as calmly and normally as possible while freaking out internally.
"Yes, I know that. You're Chris. That's what I said." Alrighty, then. He says he is going to call me Gail from now on, because he can't remember Chris. I'm not sure what to say about that. It is odd, though, don't you think?
He looks at me earnestly. He knows none of those names is correct, but he isn't sure why. I am folding laundry, and he looks confused but relieved to have found me. I just told him a minute ago that I was going to check on the laundry.
"Who am I?" I ask him, gazing at him intently from across the room.
"Gail," he says. Gail is one of his sisters. It has happened before that he has called me by his sister's name and maybe even confused me with her.
"Do I look like Gail?" I ask.
"Yes. No. I don't know." Clearly, there is something about me that reminds him of her, which is both creepily weird and oddly logical. I take a breath.
"I'm Chris. I'm your wife. We live here together. This is our house. Gail is your sister." I say these things as calmly and normally as possible while freaking out internally.
"Yes, I know that. You're Chris. That's what I said." Alrighty, then. He says he is going to call me Gail from now on, because he can't remember Chris. I'm not sure what to say about that. It is odd, though, don't you think?
Monday, May 11, 2015
Opening the Mail
My husband likes to look through the mail, open the envelopes, read the contents out loud to me (even if I've already read them), place the contents back in the envelope, arrange the envelopes in a pleasing (to him) manner on the kitchen table and...repeat the process.
This evening, there were two pieces of mail that were of particular interest. One was a very kind invitation to an event we will unfortunately not be able to attend. The other was a bill.
"Who's that?" he asked in reference to the invitation, having taken out each piece that was in the envelope, examined it carefully, and returned it to the envelope. I tried to explain to him that it was an invitation to a friend's graduation and party, but I wasn't able to help him remember who the person was. Several times. At any rate, I placed the invitation on my bulletin board (okay, the refrigerator door) to serve as a reminder to send a card. He promptly accused me of taking the mail away before he'd even had a chance to see it. I gave the envelope back to him, and he reviewed it again, and asked me the same question again, and accused me of taking the mail away before he could see it again when I placed it back on the refrigerator door. This process was repeated several times, and then attention shifted to the invoice. Take it out. Read it. Explain it. Put it back. Take it out. Read it. Explain it. Put it back.
I was in danger of becoming impatient, so I decided to remove myself from the situation for a moment or two. I reminded myself that he really couldn't remember what he had just seen or what he had just asked or what I had just said. I took a few calming breaths.
"I wonder what this is," he said as I returned to his side. He was holding the invoice.
"It's an invoice from the insurance company for your medication," I replied.
"Oh, okay," he said as he folded the invoice and placed it carefully back in its envelope.
"Oh! What does the insurance company want, I wonder?" he asked upon seeing the envelope he was holding in his hand. Alrighty, then.
Now, I know you have a helpful suggestion for me as to how I can handle the situation differently in the future; however, what I'm trying to do is help you understand why I'm frustrated sometimes. So, stifle it. Thank you.
Why do I bother, when I know he isn't going to remember, anyway? Because I want to treat him with the same respect and kindness and decency that most of us would appreciate receiving from others. Even if he doesn't remember that, either.
This evening, there were two pieces of mail that were of particular interest. One was a very kind invitation to an event we will unfortunately not be able to attend. The other was a bill.
"Who's that?" he asked in reference to the invitation, having taken out each piece that was in the envelope, examined it carefully, and returned it to the envelope. I tried to explain to him that it was an invitation to a friend's graduation and party, but I wasn't able to help him remember who the person was. Several times. At any rate, I placed the invitation on my bulletin board (okay, the refrigerator door) to serve as a reminder to send a card. He promptly accused me of taking the mail away before he'd even had a chance to see it. I gave the envelope back to him, and he reviewed it again, and asked me the same question again, and accused me of taking the mail away before he could see it again when I placed it back on the refrigerator door. This process was repeated several times, and then attention shifted to the invoice. Take it out. Read it. Explain it. Put it back. Take it out. Read it. Explain it. Put it back.
I was in danger of becoming impatient, so I decided to remove myself from the situation for a moment or two. I reminded myself that he really couldn't remember what he had just seen or what he had just asked or what I had just said. I took a few calming breaths.
"I wonder what this is," he said as I returned to his side. He was holding the invoice.
"It's an invoice from the insurance company for your medication," I replied.
"Oh, okay," he said as he folded the invoice and placed it carefully back in its envelope.
"Oh! What does the insurance company want, I wonder?" he asked upon seeing the envelope he was holding in his hand. Alrighty, then.
Now, I know you have a helpful suggestion for me as to how I can handle the situation differently in the future; however, what I'm trying to do is help you understand why I'm frustrated sometimes. So, stifle it. Thank you.
Why do I bother, when I know he isn't going to remember, anyway? Because I want to treat him with the same respect and kindness and decency that most of us would appreciate receiving from others. Even if he doesn't remember that, either.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
I Like Your Boobs
Caution to the kids: This could get graphic. You might not want to read it.
Lately, during our late-night discussion of how long we've been married, how many kids we have, what they're all up to, etc., my husband has been giving me "the look." The amorous one. He might not be too sure who I am all the time, but he thinks I'm hot. And he wants to be with me in the biblical sense. (Kids, if you're still reading, it's on you.)
As his filters are coming down, he's becoming much more direct about his feelings for me. He tells me he loves me, and he makes no bones about admiring my anatomy. He's the hormone-driven guy with the fast car your mother warned you about. (How am I doing, kids? Are you embarrassed yet?)
Well, okay, that might have been a mild exaggeration. It would be more accurate to say that this new openness in communication has been a long time coming and is kind of a pleasant surprise, even if he might not remember that it happened.
"Later" (euphemism for the sake of the kids), the other night, I put my head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around me and asked me if I was happy. I told him I wish it had always been like this. He looked at me with puppy dog eyes, smiled gently, and said sweetly, in his very best "I'm trying not to appear weird" voice:
"And you are...?"
Okie dokie.
Lately, during our late-night discussion of how long we've been married, how many kids we have, what they're all up to, etc., my husband has been giving me "the look." The amorous one. He might not be too sure who I am all the time, but he thinks I'm hot. And he wants to be with me in the biblical sense. (Kids, if you're still reading, it's on you.)
As his filters are coming down, he's becoming much more direct about his feelings for me. He tells me he loves me, and he makes no bones about admiring my anatomy. He's the hormone-driven guy with the fast car your mother warned you about. (How am I doing, kids? Are you embarrassed yet?)
Well, okay, that might have been a mild exaggeration. It would be more accurate to say that this new openness in communication has been a long time coming and is kind of a pleasant surprise, even if he might not remember that it happened.
"Later" (euphemism for the sake of the kids), the other night, I put my head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around me and asked me if I was happy. I told him I wish it had always been like this. He looked at me with puppy dog eyes, smiled gently, and said sweetly, in his very best "I'm trying not to appear weird" voice:
"And you are...?"
Okie dokie.
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