Car People

It's a gloriously sunny day in our little town today, so we took advantage of the break in the weather to enjoy a morning stroll along the cliffs by the waterfront on the west side. I thought I would scope out some good sketching places. I've decided the time is right for me to "retire" at the end of the month, for a variety of reasons, and art therapy is supposed to be good. Perhaps both of us will benefit!

But I'm going off on a tangent, as I often do. Back to my main point, which is that you just never know what you're going to see or whom you're going to meet when you go on a walkabout in our small city.

My husband and I were standing on the sidewalk, admiring a house we've (well, to be fair, that should be "I've") always loved. It's a cream and green Tudorish place on a well-situated corner, just a block or so from the water. When we first moved here some 35 years ago, it was for sale but needed some work we weren't prepared to undertake, given that the price of the house was at the very tippy-top of our budget, it only had a one-car garage, and the yard was too small for even the tiniest garden. We bought elsewhere, but every time I walk by this place, I think of what could have been.

At any rate, the next-door neighbor happened by, and we got to talking about the house and how the garage would have been too small for my husband's collector cars (at the time, a '36 Cadillac and a '36 Buick). The gentleman brightened and insisted that we meet his son, who was in their shop working on his pride and joy, a '63 Chevy pickup. It turns out they're part of a car club we'd joined but then were really unable to participate in due to my husband's illness. Who knew? They want to come by to see my husband's projects. Thank you, Julian and Sean, for reminding me that just one small thing in common can bring out such good will in people. I hope you do drop by.

The sad thing, of course, is that my husband can no longer work on his projects. But car people are car people, and they love to kick tires. Even if they don't exactly remember why.

Are You Coming Downstairs?

I'm starting to cook dinner. He has finished his puzzle and looks up at me.

"So, do you want to go downstairs and watch television?" he asks.

"Sure, but I have to cook dinner first," I reply.

"Oh, okay. I'll go ahead and go down there."

He leaves the room but is only gone a few seconds before re-entering.

"So, do you want to go downstairs and watch television?" he asks.

"Yes, of course. But I'm cooking dinner first."

"Oh, okay. I'll go ahead and go down there."

He leaves the room again and almost immediately returns.

"So, do you want to go downstairs and watch television?' he asks.

You're rolling your eyeballs. You think I'm joking or exaggerating. I am not. I can't even tell you how many times this exchange was repeated in a period of five minutes or less. I have pasted a smile on my face, because any second now, it will be repeated again. I haven't finished cooking yet. And I don't hear the television.

Ah, there he is! "What are you doing? Are you coming downstairs?"

You Aren't Gail...

Last year, we were driving down I-5 around sunset, which can be a confusing time of day for Alzheimer's patients. Here's what transpired, as written a year ago:

We were chatting pleasantly about the weekend we had just spent with my mom, who was ailing at the time. We all thought she would bounce back from this one, too (but she didn't).

He suddenly became very quiet and pensive. He looked at me strangely, shyly. "You aren't Gail," he ventured. "You aren't Joanne..."

"No, I'm not," I replied, "Those are your sisters, honey. I'm your wife. We've been married for 45 years." I figured this juicy tidbit of information would serve two purposes:  One, to help him recognize this old lady as the sweet young thing he used to know; and, two, to help him realize how much time has passed.

"Oh, that's right. I was confused there for a second."

"What's my name?" I asked calmly.

"Christiane," he replied.

"That's correct," I smiled.

"Something's going on with my brain. Is that why you won't let me drive?" I was taken aback by this question.

"It isn't that I won't let you drive," I explained, "It's that I think it isn't a very good idea. Just now, you weren't too sure who I was."

"True."

"So do you think it's a good idea for you to drive?" I asked.

"No," he said sadly. And it is sad. Very sad. And he won't remember having had this discussion, and we'll have it again tomorrow. And the next day. And again. And again...

And here we are, a year and a half later. The driving doesn't come up as often, thankfully. But his pickup truck sits in the driveway, collecting dust. We should probably sell it, since it hasn't gone anywhere in such a long time. But that just seems so final. I don't have the heart for it.

I Want to Go Home

Back in July, I wrote about how my husband frequently wonders where his mom is. In case you missed that one, here's the link:  Where's Mom?

The question has increased in frequency and has been coupled with, "What happened to Dad?" I usually just say that he's gone, too. That he's with my husband's mom, and my mom, and my dad. Knowing that he'll be emotional at the news anyway, I try to spare him the details of his father's murder. Wouldn't you?

When my mom died last year, I admit that I was a little hurt by his lack of empathy for me. I'd be crying, he'd ask me what was wrong, I'd tell him, and he'd say, "Well, MY mom is gone, too!" At the time, I thought it was a bit unkind of him to dismiss my grief so readily in favor of his own, especially since his mom passed so long ago. But now I think I was wrong in my assessment and that my grief perhaps brought his grief forward.

At any rate, the past few days, he's been asking to go home.

"You are home, honey," I respond, "This is our home. We've lived here for 34 years." Bla, bla, bla, etc., etc.

"No, it isn't! I don't know what you're trying to pull! I want to go home to Redding and see Mom and Dad!" He's pacing, clearly upset, wringing his hands, confused, agitated.

"But your parents are both gone, and so are my parents." I explain as calmly as possible. And besides, we were just in Redding last month. But he doesn't remember that, of course.

"Well, I want to see my friends!" he insists. But the problem is that most of his friends don't live there anymore, either. They've spread out over the country. And the sad truth is that most of his best friends from his growing-up days -- his first girlfriend, his pals from Cub Scouts that he went through school with -- are, well, with our parents.

It's a sad situation. Try as I might, I can't make it better for him or for me. What a helpless feeling. I almost said hopeless. And sometimes it does seem that way, too.

Charging the Battery

Trying to explain something to someone who can't remember what you just said can be an extremely frustrating proposition. It's sad, too, especially when it's your loved one who loses a thought immediately and who seemingly isn't able to manage the simplest executive task. How can he remember what to do next when he's confused about what to do now?

For instance, the battery on my husband's truck is dead. It's a new battery, but the truck has been parked in the driveway for months without being started. Batteries, even new ones, lose their charge when not in use.

"Is something wrong with the truck?" he asks.

"The battery is dead," I explain. This is actually fine with me.

"It needs a new battery," he says.

"It is a new battery," I explain, "May you can charge it up?"

"How do you know?" His tone is defensive and aggressive and sarcastic at the same time.

"We just bought the battery a little while ago. Maybe it can be charged."

I help him to locate the battery charger and remind him how to hook it up. He takes offense at my help, but he clearly isn't able to complete the task on his own.

"You think you know everything!" he snarls, but the charger is hooked up and the battery is charging. It's only been a few minutes. He unplugs the charger and is upset that the truck won't start. He has forgotten that it takes a long time to charge a dead battery, or maybe he thinks it's been a long time.

The process is repeated several times. I don't know how many times, but I am starting to lose my patience a little bit.

"It needs a new battery," he mutters.

"It IS a new battery! You have to leave the charger on longer than five minutes for it to charge!"

"You think you know everything!" he snarls.

Jason Bourne

Yesterday afternoon, we went to see the new film, Jason Bourne. We love Jason Bourne movies and own all the ones that have been released. Like all Jason Bourne movies, it was full of excitement and action and good-looking people with lots of muscles. And car chases. Lots of chases of all kinds. We both enjoyed the film, and he didn't even fall asleep.

When we got home, he sat down in the kitchen as I went to our room briefly. He came to find me almost immediately, because that's what he does now. He needs to know where I am. Perhaps being alone makes him anxious.

"So, are we going somewhere today?" he asked somewhat impatiently.

"We just got home from the movies," I replied.

"Okay, but I didn't see any movies!"

"The new Jason Bourne movie," I explained, hoping this information would help him retrieve the memory. Apparently, I still don't "get it" that his memories can dissipate like vapor.

"Jason who?!"

We went down to the Man Cave to watch some television, as is our habit in the evening. I sat next to him, as I always do.

He looked at me thoughtfully and said, "Where have you been lately?"

Quite often when he asks me a question, I'm not sure exactly what it is he wants to know, so I ventured, "With you..."

"Really?" he smiled, "With me?"

For a moment, all was well with the world. I smiled back and suggested, "Let's watch Bourne Identity!"

"OK!" he answered, "I love those movies!"

Where's Mom?

Just about every day, sometime in the early afternoon, my husband looks up from the 100-piece puzzle he's working on laboriously (he can still do those with 'a little help') and asks, "Where's Mom?" It's a different question than the "Mom's gone, isn't she?" he used to ask.

This is a relatively recent development. He used to ask about his mom during sundowning time in the evening, not earlier in the day. He also asks about his siblings as though they've gone out without him and are expected home any moment. Or maybe he's expecting me to say they are playing in the back yard. I think he thinks I am one of his siblings sometimes. Or some other random adult.

His mom passed away in 1973 at the age of 49. My husband was 24. Usually, I remind him that his mom is in Heaven with mine and with our dads. Sometimes, he receives this information matter of factly; other times, it makes him very sad and tears well up in his eyes. Which is interesting, because I don't recall that he allowed himself to cry at the time. And it breaks my heart to see him cry. But I digress.

Today, instead of reminding him once again that his mom is deceased, I asked him, "Where do you think she might be?"

"In Redding?" he ventured. This is the area where he grew up, but he hasn't lived there for decades.

"Oh?" I replied, "And how old are you?"

He seemed to be mulling the question over for a moment or two, and I asked again to make sure we were on the same track. He has a tendency to forget what I've said rather quickly these days; but, then, he has a tendency to forget everything rather quickly these days.

"45?" he offered tentatively.

It reminded me of a time when my dad started laughing as I mentioned my age. He said it was impossible for me to be that old, since he was younger than that himself. In fact, 45 is the number he used. He was in his early 90's. He had dementia, you see. A lot of the experiences I am now having with my husband remind me of things my dad said or did. Double your trauma, double your fun (new words to an old jingle. Hum along if you remember it).

I find it so interesting how my husband's brain hops and skips around. I thought memory would be affected chronologically, in reverse. But that doesn't seem to be how it works, necessarily. Sometimes he remembers things, most times he doesn't (even right after they happen), and lots of times the "memory" is an exercise in creative writing.

The human brain is a thing of wonder, isn't it?