I'm standing at the stove, cooking dinner. It's been a fun afternoon, followed by some really spectacular sundowning by him and an outstanding meltdown by me. Dealing with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde can really take it out of a person, especially the day after daylight savings time starts. Everybody's body clock is off kilter, and it's a full moon. Just being "real."
"Where's your husband?" he asks while spreading his puzzle pieces in random fashion all over the kitchen table.
"He's here," I respond.
"Really? Where?"
"You're my husband," I explain, perhaps a little bit more flatly than I intended.
"Oh. Okay," he says with as little enthusiasm as I've heard in a long time.
Golly. Thanks...
Monday, March 13, 2017
Time for a Shower
Just over a year ago, I noticed that his hair didn't seem very clean after he had taken his shower. I started reminding him to use shampoo. A while after that, I noticed he wasn't using soap, either. So I started reminding him to use soap and shampoo. And I stood on the other side of the glass shower door to make sure he was doing that.
But soon I noticed that I was having to remind him to take a shower. And that he was just standing under the water, wetting down one side and then the other and then the first again, until I handed him the soap and placed shampoo in his hand. The shampoo sometimes was used to wash places you don't usually clean with shampoo, if you know what I mean.
So I decided it would be more efficient to kill two birds with one stone, especially since I was starting to have trouble convincing him to take a shower at all, much less regularly. I started showering with him.
Sometimes he stands with his arms out so I can make quick work of it with the soft shower puff and a nice body wash. Sometimes he doesn't know what I mean when I ask him to lift them. Most times I have to explain several different ways that he needs to get his hair wet so I can shampoo it. Then I must remind him to rinse the shampoo out. I reach around the shower door to get his towel so I can hand it to him. He sometimes leaves the shower area before I can grab mine.
If I'm not quick about getting out and drying off, he will have donned the underwear I've placed at the ready for him before I can remind him to use deodorant. I've decided not to worry about it too much. He's clean; that's what matters. Right?
But soon I noticed that I was having to remind him to take a shower. And that he was just standing under the water, wetting down one side and then the other and then the first again, until I handed him the soap and placed shampoo in his hand. The shampoo sometimes was used to wash places you don't usually clean with shampoo, if you know what I mean.
So I decided it would be more efficient to kill two birds with one stone, especially since I was starting to have trouble convincing him to take a shower at all, much less regularly. I started showering with him.
Sometimes he stands with his arms out so I can make quick work of it with the soft shower puff and a nice body wash. Sometimes he doesn't know what I mean when I ask him to lift them. Most times I have to explain several different ways that he needs to get his hair wet so I can shampoo it. Then I must remind him to rinse the shampoo out. I reach around the shower door to get his towel so I can hand it to him. He sometimes leaves the shower area before I can grab mine.
If I'm not quick about getting out and drying off, he will have donned the underwear I've placed at the ready for him before I can remind him to use deodorant. I've decided not to worry about it too much. He's clean; that's what matters. Right?
Saturday, February 11, 2017
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
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?"
"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?"
Thursday, December 1, 2016
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.
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.
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.
Monday, August 1, 2016
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.
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.
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