Dear Friends,
It shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone that I don't, in fact, publish everything that happens. If I did, I would be posting all day long. And oftentimes during the night, too.
There are occasions when the emotion is yet too raw, or the event doesn't add anything to the conversation, or it simply isn't the right time to share. Or I'm too worn down and disheartened. Sometimes writing about an incident brings it into proper perspective, but other times it just makes it seem worse. And so there are a lot of posts on my blog that haven't been published yet. Almost half, actually.
To those of you who have encouraged me to write more often, please know that sometimes I just can't bring myself to do it. Or maybe I'm concerned that you'll lose interest or, even worse, become overly apprehensive. Sometimes it's high drama around here, but other times it's just a sitcom. Maybe it just depends on how you look at it.
I like to hear from you, and I appreciate your kind words and comments. I especially appreciate your prayers as my husband and I walk this road that's sometimes smooth as silk (the sitcom) and other times, without warning, a raging torrent (the high drama).
Thank you for your support, and thank you for reading my blog and recommending it to others. Let's raise awareness together.
Blessings,
Chris
Friday, July 22, 2016
The Screwdriver
I look up from my work to see my husband rummaging through the kitchen drawers, obviously agitated and impatient.
"What are you looking for, sweetie?" I ask.
"A screwdriver," he replies, "It needs to be tightened."
"What needs to be tightened?"
"The screw," he says sarcastically as if to imply that perhaps I have a screw loose for not knowing this simple fact.
"Okay," I venture, "What screw?"
"A SCREWDRIVER! You know what a SCREWDRIVER is?!"
"Yes, honey, I know what a screwdriver is. I'm just wondering what you're working on is all," I respond cautiously, fully aware that there's no telling what in the world he is "repairing" and what kind of mess I might have to clean up in a little while. But not mentioning that concern.
"SEE?" He shows he a handful of screwdrivers he has brought from the garage and has found in my tool drawer. "A long thing? With an end on it? To do things with?!"
"Yes, I see," I respond, trying one more time, "I was just asking for more information about your project."
"It's a SCREWDRIVER! You're making me crazy!"
Oh, my darling. The feeling is sometimes so very mutual.
"What are you looking for, sweetie?" I ask.
"A screwdriver," he replies, "It needs to be tightened."
"What needs to be tightened?"
"The screw," he says sarcastically as if to imply that perhaps I have a screw loose for not knowing this simple fact.
"Okay," I venture, "What screw?"
"A SCREWDRIVER! You know what a SCREWDRIVER is?!"
"Yes, honey, I know what a screwdriver is. I'm just wondering what you're working on is all," I respond cautiously, fully aware that there's no telling what in the world he is "repairing" and what kind of mess I might have to clean up in a little while. But not mentioning that concern.
"SEE?" He shows he a handful of screwdrivers he has brought from the garage and has found in my tool drawer. "A long thing? With an end on it? To do things with?!"
"Yes, I see," I respond, trying one more time, "I was just asking for more information about your project."
"It's a SCREWDRIVER! You're making me crazy!"
Oh, my darling. The feeling is sometimes so very mutual.
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Hearing Voices
"Nothing," I replied, perplexed. I turned to look at him so as to gauge the situation. We have lots of situations these days.
"Why are you saying curses?" He was upset, and rightly so!
What?! My heart skipped a beat. I hadn't been talking or singing or otherwise uttering a single sound. Even the thoughts going through my head were those of happy anticipation and eagerness to sink my teeth into one of those tostones! Why would he think he heard me cursing?
All disease is evil. This one is especially so. It robs you of your memories, your thought processes, your skills and abilities. And apparently you also hear things in the spirit realm that are disconcerting, disorienting, and distressing.
You might not agree with my assessment (or the whole spirit realm thing), but is it okay if I admit to being just a tiny bit weirded out by this experience?
Sunday, March 6, 2016
An Alzheimer's Moment - The Laundry
We just got back from a trip. I unpacked and separated the clothing into piles on the bedroom floor, ready for load after load of laundry. While the first load was in the washing machine, I started dinner.
A few minutes later, my husband came to the kitchen, huffing and puffing and complaining of an aching back. He had folded the piles of laundry and put the dirty clothes away in the drawers and the closet.
It hurt my heart that he had done all that work for nothing, but it was so sweet that he tried to help. If only the clothing had been clean...
I resorted everything, left the room, started writing this, and heard some noise coming from our closet. He is hanging up the clothes again. And so it goes. Sigh.
A few minutes later, my husband came to the kitchen, huffing and puffing and complaining of an aching back. He had folded the piles of laundry and put the dirty clothes away in the drawers and the closet.
It hurt my heart that he had done all that work for nothing, but it was so sweet that he tried to help. If only the clothing had been clean...
I resorted everything, left the room, started writing this, and heard some noise coming from our closet. He is hanging up the clothes again. And so it goes. Sigh.
Sunday, January 3, 2016
A Real Conversation
Yesterday, we decided to take a small road trip to visit my husband's brother and sister-in-law, just for the day. It's only 85 miles away, so it wasn't a major expedition with luggage and all that. Blessedly, there was very little traffic, and there weren't any crazy drivers. That includes the one in our car, me. My husband gets edgy in traffic (who doesn't?), and it can be a challenge to manage edgy and traffic at the same time. So, it was a pleasant drive in mild weather with no fog.
We enjoyed a really nice visit, went out for a delicious dinner, and went back to their place to watch a little television, all with no issues, no outbursts, and no confusion to speak of. It was absolutely fabulous.
In the late evening, we left to return home. It was dark, of course. Traffic was minimal, again with no crazies. We were both relaxed, and there was no music playing. It was just the two of us with no distractions. And suddenly I noticed something.
We were talking. We were having an actual conversation. You know, one person says something, then the other person responds to that and maybe adds another thought, then the first person responds, and so on. I started to cry when I realized what was happening. I don't know how long it's been since we've been able to talk without going off in weird directions that have nothing to do with the subject at hand and make no sense. We chatted relatively lucidly like this all the way home. All 85 miles. Really, it felt like a supernatural, miraculous blessing. And it gave me hope.
In this season of hope and renewal, I wish you many supernatural, miraculous blessings. Happy New Year. Keep your hope on.
We enjoyed a really nice visit, went out for a delicious dinner, and went back to their place to watch a little television, all with no issues, no outbursts, and no confusion to speak of. It was absolutely fabulous.
In the late evening, we left to return home. It was dark, of course. Traffic was minimal, again with no crazies. We were both relaxed, and there was no music playing. It was just the two of us with no distractions. And suddenly I noticed something.
We were talking. We were having an actual conversation. You know, one person says something, then the other person responds to that and maybe adds another thought, then the first person responds, and so on. I started to cry when I realized what was happening. I don't know how long it's been since we've been able to talk without going off in weird directions that have nothing to do with the subject at hand and make no sense. We chatted relatively lucidly like this all the way home. All 85 miles. Really, it felt like a supernatural, miraculous blessing. And it gave me hope.
In this season of hope and renewal, I wish you many supernatural, miraculous blessings. Happy New Year. Keep your hope on.
Saturday, December 12, 2015
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!
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!
Friday, October 16, 2015
The Organizer
For some time, my husband has been fixated on "sorting," "reorganizing," and putting things "away." For instance, he removes the contents of his wallet, showing me his gift cards and identification, shifting things around and counting the money (several times) before putting everything back. It isn't necessarily where it had been, but it's all back in the wallet. He's doing that right now, as a matter of fact, as I write this blog. Twice so far since I sat down, but the wallet is still in his hand, so anything can happen. Aha! Everything is coming out and being sorted yet again.
He also looks through the things that are in his dresser drawers, taking things from here and putting them there. No big deal, right? Except when he puts something away, I can't find it for him, because I don't know where he's moved it And he can't find it, either, because he doesn't remember seeing it in the first place, much less moving it to wherever it is right now.
Lately, he's started reorganizing other areas of the house and other people's things (mine, for instance), and it's a bit harder to be sanguine about the whole thing.
Last week, I was looking for a particular cookbook I'd promised to lend to a friend. It was on one of the chairs in the kitchen, waiting to leave the house with me. And then it wasn't. Where could it possibly be? I checked the bookcases. Nope. I checked the living room, the dining room, the guest room, the storage room, the family room. Nothing. He was helping me look for it, but he didn't remember what it was we were looking for. He asked me again and again, and I explained it to him again and again. Was it worse to be unable to find it, or was it worse to have to explain what it was over and over? I don't know. He hadn't seen it. He hadn't moved it.
I decided not to worry about the cookbook for now, figuring I could always buy a new one for my friend, and everything would be fine. The next day, I was moving a pile of t-shirts he had placed on the hope chest that's next to the bed in our room when, lo and behold! There it was! He didn't know how the cookbook got there. He hadn't seen it. He hadn't moved it. I concluded that I must be losing my mind (you would be, too).
Just a few minutes ago, I was putting some clean clothes in his dresser. I set about straightening the contents of a drawer to make room for what I was putting away. And that's where I discovered my latest travel diary notebook (that blog is adventures-inparadise.blogspot.com). I can't imagine what it was doing in his dresser, hidden under his clothing. I suppose he was organizing things, found it where I left it (on my nightstand), and put it away.
I've heard that Alzheimer's patients in nursing homes often are accused of stealing things. I wonder if this is how it happens. You see Mrs. Smith's pink sweater on the back of a chair. You also have a pink sweater (or you had one when you were young, or whatever), so you take it and put it away where it belongs. In your closet.
So, if you see my husband with something that doesn't belong to him, he's probably "found" it and is looking for a good spot for it. And he probably doesn't realize that it isn't his. After all, it's in his hand.
He also looks through the things that are in his dresser drawers, taking things from here and putting them there. No big deal, right? Except when he puts something away, I can't find it for him, because I don't know where he's moved it And he can't find it, either, because he doesn't remember seeing it in the first place, much less moving it to wherever it is right now.
Lately, he's started reorganizing other areas of the house and other people's things (mine, for instance), and it's a bit harder to be sanguine about the whole thing.
Last week, I was looking for a particular cookbook I'd promised to lend to a friend. It was on one of the chairs in the kitchen, waiting to leave the house with me. And then it wasn't. Where could it possibly be? I checked the bookcases. Nope. I checked the living room, the dining room, the guest room, the storage room, the family room. Nothing. He was helping me look for it, but he didn't remember what it was we were looking for. He asked me again and again, and I explained it to him again and again. Was it worse to be unable to find it, or was it worse to have to explain what it was over and over? I don't know. He hadn't seen it. He hadn't moved it.
I decided not to worry about the cookbook for now, figuring I could always buy a new one for my friend, and everything would be fine. The next day, I was moving a pile of t-shirts he had placed on the hope chest that's next to the bed in our room when, lo and behold! There it was! He didn't know how the cookbook got there. He hadn't seen it. He hadn't moved it. I concluded that I must be losing my mind (you would be, too).
Just a few minutes ago, I was putting some clean clothes in his dresser. I set about straightening the contents of a drawer to make room for what I was putting away. And that's where I discovered my latest travel diary notebook (that blog is adventures-inparadise.blogspot.com). I can't imagine what it was doing in his dresser, hidden under his clothing. I suppose he was organizing things, found it where I left it (on my nightstand), and put it away.
I've heard that Alzheimer's patients in nursing homes often are accused of stealing things. I wonder if this is how it happens. You see Mrs. Smith's pink sweater on the back of a chair. You also have a pink sweater (or you had one when you were young, or whatever), so you take it and put it away where it belongs. In your closet.
So, if you see my husband with something that doesn't belong to him, he's probably "found" it and is looking for a good spot for it. And he probably doesn't realize that it isn't his. After all, it's in his hand.
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