I’m headed home again, this time with the finality of driving my car and all my belongings back across the 2000 miles I first traveled in early March. This signifies that my own home will once again be my home base and that trips to see Dad will be of the shorter variety via airplane and rental car. I’m finally over my tears and I’m enjoying the drive and audio book.
Yesterday, I made the short trip from Atlanta to Birmingham to visit a cousin I hadn’t seen for nearly 20 years. We had much to catch up on, but we felt the comfortable familiarity of those who had seen each other only yesterday. I left vowing to stay in touch.
With a bountiful sack of lunch, I left her house around 8:30 and today made it through the rest of Alabama, a corner of Mississippi and Tennessee, and all the way across Arkansas and into Oklahoma – more than 500 miles. I was so tired when I finally stopped that I took the first promising hotel without thoroughly searching its features for “free wireless internet.” Therefore, when you read this, it will be at least a day later.
I walked to the nearest restaurant – a Chinese buffet – again too tired to be picky about what they had (or didn’t have) to offer. It was unremarkable. Tomorrow, with renewed energy, I will search out more interesting road food options.
Although comfortably full from too much lunch and enough dinner, I’m now tempted to visit the ice cream store across the street. Then, I’ll retire early to get an early start tomorrow.
Sue
Friday, August 31, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
End of the chapter
Saying good-bye to my father, as I closed up his former apartment and prepared to head back home to my former life, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. After loading my car and signing the papers releasing the apartment, I sat in the car and cried. No, no, I thought, I can’t be in tears when I say good-bye to Dad. Recovering somewhat, I went into Dad’s building and found him eating dinner in the dining room.
“Dad, you know I have to leave tomorrow and drive back to Utah,” I said. He didn’t look too surprised. Good, I thought, he understands what’s going on. “Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?” I asked.
He looked thoughtful, started to say something, but couldn’t find the words. In little bits and pieces, I finally understood that he was frustrated with his meals – not what he ordered. Well, one of the nursing staff, who doesn’t yet know his likes and dislikes, had filled out his meal order form for the week, and, although I had made corrections after it was submitted, my corrections obviously were not followed. When one of the dining staff showed up, I reminded her of Dad’s likes and dislikes. This seemed to placate Dad, but I’ll follow up with an email just in case.
When he had finished eating, I walked him back to his room, got him into his recliner and asked if there was anything else I could do for him. He seemed to want to say something but nothing coherent was coming out. Finally, I asked, “Do you want to see what’s on TCM tonight?”
“Sure,” he said.
I turned on the TV. Good, a western! Then, I said, “Well, Dad, I have to hit the road.” I kissed him and said, “You take care of yourself, and remember, I’ll be back in six weeks!”
He said, “Well, you say hello to the folks.” I guess he meant my husband and sons, none of whom are home, but I said I would.
Then, hurrying to leave, I said, “Say prayers for me the next few days.”
He seemed to want to say something else, but by then the tears were coming back and I had to get out of there. “Bye Dad,” I called and hurried from the room, closing the door behind me.
I’m no good at long good-byes, and with Dad’s communication difficulties, there’s no such thing as a short good-bye. I could hear him calling after me, “Hey, wait…” but I was gone, tears splashing down my cheeks as I ran down the hall.
I boo-hoo’d to Buford, a one-hour drive, looking in the mirror at stoplights to see what damage I was doing to my eyes. My already-congested head was impossibly stuffed up, and I kept telling myself to stop, but I guess I needed a good cry, a catharsis. It was as though I was grieving for both my parents, the one lost forever to cancer, the other lost to dementia, though his physical self is still alive.
Tomorrow I will begin a 4-5-day drive to Utah, the end of my creative caregiving adventure. The next chapter will involve caring from a distance, managing remotely, quarterly consultations…at least until the needs change.
Heaven protect me from my negative thoughts, but I have found myself wondering what I will do when I get the call that Dad is in the hospital, or has been diagnosed with cancer, or…. Will I once again pack my car and head for Atlanta for an indefinite period of intense caregiving? I don’t know the answer, but I am thankful for the blessings, in the midst of trauma and sadness, during the past six months.
Sue
“Dad, you know I have to leave tomorrow and drive back to Utah,” I said. He didn’t look too surprised. Good, I thought, he understands what’s going on. “Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?” I asked.
He looked thoughtful, started to say something, but couldn’t find the words. In little bits and pieces, I finally understood that he was frustrated with his meals – not what he ordered. Well, one of the nursing staff, who doesn’t yet know his likes and dislikes, had filled out his meal order form for the week, and, although I had made corrections after it was submitted, my corrections obviously were not followed. When one of the dining staff showed up, I reminded her of Dad’s likes and dislikes. This seemed to placate Dad, but I’ll follow up with an email just in case.
When he had finished eating, I walked him back to his room, got him into his recliner and asked if there was anything else I could do for him. He seemed to want to say something but nothing coherent was coming out. Finally, I asked, “Do you want to see what’s on TCM tonight?”
“Sure,” he said.
I turned on the TV. Good, a western! Then, I said, “Well, Dad, I have to hit the road.” I kissed him and said, “You take care of yourself, and remember, I’ll be back in six weeks!”
He said, “Well, you say hello to the folks.” I guess he meant my husband and sons, none of whom are home, but I said I would.
Then, hurrying to leave, I said, “Say prayers for me the next few days.”
He seemed to want to say something else, but by then the tears were coming back and I had to get out of there. “Bye Dad,” I called and hurried from the room, closing the door behind me.
I’m no good at long good-byes, and with Dad’s communication difficulties, there’s no such thing as a short good-bye. I could hear him calling after me, “Hey, wait…” but I was gone, tears splashing down my cheeks as I ran down the hall.
I boo-hoo’d to Buford, a one-hour drive, looking in the mirror at stoplights to see what damage I was doing to my eyes. My already-congested head was impossibly stuffed up, and I kept telling myself to stop, but I guess I needed a good cry, a catharsis. It was as though I was grieving for both my parents, the one lost forever to cancer, the other lost to dementia, though his physical self is still alive.
Tomorrow I will begin a 4-5-day drive to Utah, the end of my creative caregiving adventure. The next chapter will involve caring from a distance, managing remotely, quarterly consultations…at least until the needs change.
Heaven protect me from my negative thoughts, but I have found myself wondering what I will do when I get the call that Dad is in the hospital, or has been diagnosed with cancer, or…. Will I once again pack my car and head for Atlanta for an indefinite period of intense caregiving? I don’t know the answer, but I am thankful for the blessings, in the midst of trauma and sadness, during the past six months.
Sue
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Ancient whiskey
As we’re cleaning out Mom and Dad’s apartment, it’s not only Mom’s stuff that must be sorted and disposed of one way or another. There’s also Dad’s stuff that he can’t – or shouldn’t – have in his new memory care quarters.
Among our finds were two bottles of whiskey that Dad had collected and saved for who knows how long. One is Sam Thompson Old Monongahela Pure Rye Whiskey, circa 1917, in a pint bottle labeled “for medicinal purposes only.” I’ve been told that 100 proof rye whiskey of that era caused hallucinations. I wonder what it was supposed to cure.
The second bottle is Old Crow Whiskey, made in 1908 and bottled in 1925. Both bottles have been opened, who knows when or for what special occasion. But I can imagine my father in his younger days taking great pleasure in pulling out these collectables and offering a sip to a special guest.
Back then, Dad usually had a bottle of moonshine, too; corn liquor so potent that it would make your head smoke. I can remember when my husband was courting me we’d spend an occasional evening playing poker with Mom and Dad. After many rounds of poker and many drinks (but who’s counting?), Dad would pull out the moonshine. My boyfriend/husband-to-be was impressed and still loves to tell our friends about his father-in-law’s stash of ‘shine.
I’m not sure I want to know how much that influenced his decision to marry me!
Sue
Among our finds were two bottles of whiskey that Dad had collected and saved for who knows how long. One is Sam Thompson Old Monongahela Pure Rye Whiskey, circa 1917, in a pint bottle labeled “for medicinal purposes only.” I’ve been told that 100 proof rye whiskey of that era caused hallucinations. I wonder what it was supposed to cure.
The second bottle is Old Crow Whiskey, made in 1908 and bottled in 1925. Both bottles have been opened, who knows when or for what special occasion. But I can imagine my father in his younger days taking great pleasure in pulling out these collectables and offering a sip to a special guest.
Back then, Dad usually had a bottle of moonshine, too; corn liquor so potent that it would make your head smoke. I can remember when my husband was courting me we’d spend an occasional evening playing poker with Mom and Dad. After many rounds of poker and many drinks (but who’s counting?), Dad would pull out the moonshine. My boyfriend/husband-to-be was impressed and still loves to tell our friends about his father-in-law’s stash of ‘shine.
I’m not sure I want to know how much that influenced his decision to marry me!
Sue
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Momma's mirror
Among the treasures I’ve saved to remind me of Momma is her little mirror. It’s about 2x3 inches in a leather frame. It’s the mirror she kept in her purse and the one she took to the hospital when she had her surgery in March.
After surgery, in which the doctor removed part of her jaw, lymph nodes and the inside of her cheek, I dreaded the first time Mom would look into a mirror. This once ravishingly beautiful woman, still vain in a quiet, understated way, would be horrified and depressed, I feared, when she saw her disfigured face in the mirror.
Yet, I couldn’t stop her from looking, or protect her from her own reality. Nor could I control her feelings. All I could do was pray for courage and acceptance. Prayers were answered. A day or two into her recovery, she asked for the mirror. She studied herself, moving the mirror this way and that to get a full perspective. She didn’t cry or express any of those emotions I feared, emotions I was feeling myself. She accepted and fought for her precious life – in the ICU, in the rehab hospital, and in the nursing facility – up until the very end.
I told Sis I would be the keeper of the mirror, our symbol of courage. I told her that if either of us ever faces disfigurement – or just ugly old age – the mirror will be there for us, to remind us of Momma’s example
Now all of this presumes that as I age and grow ugly, for whatever reason, my mind will still be intact. Will I remember the mirror? Will I know where to find it? Will I be too confused to care?
You may not be around for that late episode of this story, so you’ll just have to remain in suspense.
Sue
After surgery, in which the doctor removed part of her jaw, lymph nodes and the inside of her cheek, I dreaded the first time Mom would look into a mirror. This once ravishingly beautiful woman, still vain in a quiet, understated way, would be horrified and depressed, I feared, when she saw her disfigured face in the mirror.
Yet, I couldn’t stop her from looking, or protect her from her own reality. Nor could I control her feelings. All I could do was pray for courage and acceptance. Prayers were answered. A day or two into her recovery, she asked for the mirror. She studied herself, moving the mirror this way and that to get a full perspective. She didn’t cry or express any of those emotions I feared, emotions I was feeling myself. She accepted and fought for her precious life – in the ICU, in the rehab hospital, and in the nursing facility – up until the very end.
I told Sis I would be the keeper of the mirror, our symbol of courage. I told her that if either of us ever faces disfigurement – or just ugly old age – the mirror will be there for us, to remind us of Momma’s example
Now all of this presumes that as I age and grow ugly, for whatever reason, my mind will still be intact. Will I remember the mirror? Will I know where to find it? Will I be too confused to care?
You may not be around for that late episode of this story, so you’ll just have to remain in suspense.
Sue
Fuzzy photos
My parents’ packrat tendencies must have been passed down to Sis and me for we simply cannot toss the detritus of their lives without carefully examining it for practical or sentimental value. That includes boxes and boxes of photographs.
The most intriguing photos are fuzzy with age (or is it our eyes?) – photos of Dad and his family at the beach, circa 1932, our none-too-svelte grandmother draped glamour-girl style on the hood of an old Ford, with approximately 10-year-old Dad standing solemnly to the side; photos of Mom’s mother and classmates from college, circa 1917; and photos of grandparents and unrecognizable aunts, uncles and cousins. What’s the fascination with pictures of people we never knew? I suppose I have some hope that as I piece together the family history, I’ll have faces to go with the names. Yet, most of the photographs are not labeled and, unless we connect with some long-lost cousin who can identify them, we may never know who they are.
There are also boxes and boxes of photos of Maggy, the miniature Schnauzer that dominated Mom and Dad’s life after we kids had left home. When I confessed that I had been jealous of Maggy, Sis said she felt the same way. When we’d invite Mom and Dad to come and visit us, Maggy was often their excuse for not traveling. As we looked at hundreds of Maggy photos – at the groomer, at the vet, posed on a fur rug, wearing a sweater, or fetching the newspaper – Sis or I would exclaim, “They never took pictures of us at the pediatrician or the hairdresser! They never posed us on a fur rug!”
But we don’t really begrudge the love Mom and Dad focused on their dear Maggy. It’s the same love and nurture that characterized their whole lives, including love for us kids and their many friends.
Sue
The most intriguing photos are fuzzy with age (or is it our eyes?) – photos of Dad and his family at the beach, circa 1932, our none-too-svelte grandmother draped glamour-girl style on the hood of an old Ford, with approximately 10-year-old Dad standing solemnly to the side; photos of Mom’s mother and classmates from college, circa 1917; and photos of grandparents and unrecognizable aunts, uncles and cousins. What’s the fascination with pictures of people we never knew? I suppose I have some hope that as I piece together the family history, I’ll have faces to go with the names. Yet, most of the photographs are not labeled and, unless we connect with some long-lost cousin who can identify them, we may never know who they are.
There are also boxes and boxes of photos of Maggy, the miniature Schnauzer that dominated Mom and Dad’s life after we kids had left home. When I confessed that I had been jealous of Maggy, Sis said she felt the same way. When we’d invite Mom and Dad to come and visit us, Maggy was often their excuse for not traveling. As we looked at hundreds of Maggy photos – at the groomer, at the vet, posed on a fur rug, wearing a sweater, or fetching the newspaper – Sis or I would exclaim, “They never took pictures of us at the pediatrician or the hairdresser! They never posed us on a fur rug!”
But we don’t really begrudge the love Mom and Dad focused on their dear Maggy. It’s the same love and nurture that characterized their whole lives, including love for us kids and their many friends.
Sue
Thursday, August 23, 2007
150 years old
Today I attended the ice cream social for residents of assisted living and memory care facilities where Dad lives. With early rock music playing in the background, Dad slurped his root beer float.
Meanwhile, the affable doctor who lives down the hall from Dad stopped to talk to me. He said he thought Dad looks pretty good and asked how old he is.
“He’s 84 years young,” I told him. “How old are you?”
“I’m 150,” he said, “but people tell me I don’t look that old.”
“That’s remarkable,” I said. “You’re in great shape for someone that age.”
“Well, I still box,” he told me, “even younger guys. I’m still pretty strong,” he said flexing his muscles.
All through this conversation, he was moving in time to the music. It was all I could do to control myself, to keep from getting up and dancing with him.
“What kind of doctor were you?” I asked.
“A pediatrician,” he told me. “And I still practice. The kids love me and some call me by my first name.” Looking at Dad, he pronounced, “I think he’s having trouble with his eyes. But he seems to be in good shape. He gets around, but I’m faster.”
Sue
Meanwhile, the affable doctor who lives down the hall from Dad stopped to talk to me. He said he thought Dad looks pretty good and asked how old he is.
“He’s 84 years young,” I told him. “How old are you?”
“I’m 150,” he said, “but people tell me I don’t look that old.”
“That’s remarkable,” I said. “You’re in great shape for someone that age.”
“Well, I still box,” he told me, “even younger guys. I’m still pretty strong,” he said flexing his muscles.
All through this conversation, he was moving in time to the music. It was all I could do to control myself, to keep from getting up and dancing with him.
“What kind of doctor were you?” I asked.
“A pediatrician,” he told me. “And I still practice. The kids love me and some call me by my first name.” Looking at Dad, he pronounced, “I think he’s having trouble with his eyes. But he seems to be in good shape. He gets around, but I’m faster.”
Sue
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Community
I am part of many communities, but none has been more precious to me in the last six months than my faith community. Though separated by 2000 miles, I have felt them beside me as I drove solo across the country, as I sat with my mother in hospital rooms and nursing centers, as I cared for my Parkinsons-impaired father, and as I celebrated the release of my mother from pain and suffering to the peace of God’s kingdom.
My bothers and sisters in Christ prayed for my family, sent me encouraging (or funny) emails, pulled weeds in my yard, picked me up from the airport, called to cheer me, sent cards, delivered food to my door, and asked with true concern how I was holding up. These were acts of love and a demonstration of community as I believe God wants us to live it.
We are all connected by shared life experiences. Those who have lost a parent or other loved one know how it feels and know what I needed. Now that I have been blessed with their kindness, I must return it. Not that I haven’t prayed for others and tried to serve those in need, but I’ve also missed a lot of opportunities. How often have I been just too busy or preoccupied with my own little challenges to even send a card? And how often has my prayer list stretched into the night and put me to sleep?
I promise to do better. Now I have a story to tell that may help others as I have been helped. I will never underestimate the power of prayer and tiniest gesture of love.
This weekend I am with my faith community as we celebrate the church’s 50th anniversary. Current and former members, some traveling long distances, shared a meal and some fun. But I believe it’s those shared life experiences and expressions of love over the past 50 years that are cause for celebration.
Sue
My bothers and sisters in Christ prayed for my family, sent me encouraging (or funny) emails, pulled weeds in my yard, picked me up from the airport, called to cheer me, sent cards, delivered food to my door, and asked with true concern how I was holding up. These were acts of love and a demonstration of community as I believe God wants us to live it.
We are all connected by shared life experiences. Those who have lost a parent or other loved one know how it feels and know what I needed. Now that I have been blessed with their kindness, I must return it. Not that I haven’t prayed for others and tried to serve those in need, but I’ve also missed a lot of opportunities. How often have I been just too busy or preoccupied with my own little challenges to even send a card? And how often has my prayer list stretched into the night and put me to sleep?
I promise to do better. Now I have a story to tell that may help others as I have been helped. I will never underestimate the power of prayer and tiniest gesture of love.
This weekend I am with my faith community as we celebrate the church’s 50th anniversary. Current and former members, some traveling long distances, shared a meal and some fun. But I believe it’s those shared life experiences and expressions of love over the past 50 years that are cause for celebration.
Sue
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Separation anxiety
During this respite from eldercare, I’m supposed to be resting, relaxing, and refreshing my reserves of patience and compassion. God knows I’m trying. But I’m also feeling a bit anxious – Is Dad getting the assistance he needs at bedtime? Is someone taking him to the dining room for dinner and how is that working out? Is he feeling alone and sad?
I knew the nursing staff would call me if there were an emergency. Nevertheless, I worried and wondered. Finally, after being away for four days, I called. “How’s Dad doing?” I asked the nurse.
“He’s fine,” she replied. “He’s sitting right here having lunch. Would you like to speak to him?”
“Sure…Hi Dad,” I said. “Are they treating you well?” (slight pause) “Yes,” he replied.
It was a brief conversation because Dad can’t easily find the words for a real conversation. But he did ask, “When are you coming home?”
“Next week,” I replied, not having the heart to remind him that my “home” is here, not there, and that next week will be my last time with him, at least for a couple of months.
I felt a little better the next day after Sis reported on her visit with him. He seemed well adjusted and content. There was just one thing bothering him – money. “For what,” Sis asked.
“For a haircut,” Dad replied.
“When will you get a haircut?” Sis asked.
“When I have the money.”
If that’s his only concern, I guess I can rest easier now.
Sue
I knew the nursing staff would call me if there were an emergency. Nevertheless, I worried and wondered. Finally, after being away for four days, I called. “How’s Dad doing?” I asked the nurse.
“He’s fine,” she replied. “He’s sitting right here having lunch. Would you like to speak to him?”
“Sure…Hi Dad,” I said. “Are they treating you well?” (slight pause) “Yes,” he replied.
It was a brief conversation because Dad can’t easily find the words for a real conversation. But he did ask, “When are you coming home?”
“Next week,” I replied, not having the heart to remind him that my “home” is here, not there, and that next week will be my last time with him, at least for a couple of months.
I felt a little better the next day after Sis reported on her visit with him. He seemed well adjusted and content. There was just one thing bothering him – money. “For what,” Sis asked.
“For a haircut,” Dad replied.
“When will you get a haircut?” Sis asked.
“When I have the money.”
If that’s his only concern, I guess I can rest easier now.
Sue
Sunday, August 12, 2007
The strangeness of home
It’s easy for me to write about my father’s confusion and paranoia. He’s 84 years old and has Parkinsons Disease with dementia. It’s not so easy for me to admit my own cognitive dysfunction.
It’s hard to talk about because it’s so scary. Am I in the early stages of dementia myself? Is it simply the mild but increasing forgetfulness that most people experience as they get older? Or is it a strictly temporary condition brought on by the stress of my mother’s death and caring for my father? Whatever its cause, it’s quite unsettling.
I flew home this weekend to spend a week before returning to close down my parents’ old apartment. It’s been about ten weeks since I was home for my last respite visit. A student has been housesitting and taking care of the cats, so it didn’t surprise me to find a few things out of place – knives in a different drawer, cups and glasses arranged differently, a trash basket missing from my office. That sort of strangeness was easy to explain.
But then, I pulled a fork from the drawer to eat my dinner, and, as I held it in my hand, it seemed wrong. I looked at all the other flatware; it was the same. However, a few of the serving spoons were of a different, more familiar pattern. Which was the more current set? Had the housesitter found the old set stored who-knows-where and decided to switch it out? Why couldn’t I remember this flatware?
I carried the fork to the next room where my husband was working, and asked, “Is this our most recent flatware pattern?”
“Sure,” he said without hesitation. Now, how could he be so certain when he’s been away from him for seven months?
Where do minds go when you lose them? What must I do to find mine?
Sue
It’s hard to talk about because it’s so scary. Am I in the early stages of dementia myself? Is it simply the mild but increasing forgetfulness that most people experience as they get older? Or is it a strictly temporary condition brought on by the stress of my mother’s death and caring for my father? Whatever its cause, it’s quite unsettling.
I flew home this weekend to spend a week before returning to close down my parents’ old apartment. It’s been about ten weeks since I was home for my last respite visit. A student has been housesitting and taking care of the cats, so it didn’t surprise me to find a few things out of place – knives in a different drawer, cups and glasses arranged differently, a trash basket missing from my office. That sort of strangeness was easy to explain.
But then, I pulled a fork from the drawer to eat my dinner, and, as I held it in my hand, it seemed wrong. I looked at all the other flatware; it was the same. However, a few of the serving spoons were of a different, more familiar pattern. Which was the more current set? Had the housesitter found the old set stored who-knows-where and decided to switch it out? Why couldn’t I remember this flatware?
I carried the fork to the next room where my husband was working, and asked, “Is this our most recent flatware pattern?”
“Sure,” he said without hesitation. Now, how could he be so certain when he’s been away from him for seven months?
Where do minds go when you lose them? What must I do to find mine?
Sue
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Enduring habits
As I was eating dinner with Dad last week in the Memory Care dining room, I observed his fellow residents, all of whom manifest various levels of cognitive dysfunction. But despite their disabilities, most of them retain remnants of their former personalities and habits.
For example, there's the affable doctor who can still carry on a good conversation - with himself or others. Then there's the busy little woman who can't seem to sit still for very long; she seems driven to serve, moving from table to table as though to offer assistance but never quite articulating the offer or interacting in a meaningful way. And then there's my father who cannot leave the table without first pushing in his chair, even though he nearly loses his balance in doing so.
I've also observed residents in the skilled nursing wing whose Alzheimers or Parkinsons disease has progressed to the point that they are nearly comatose. This makes me thankful for every small way Dad is able to function in the activities of daily living for it may not last much longer.
Sue
For example, there's the affable doctor who can still carry on a good conversation - with himself or others. Then there's the busy little woman who can't seem to sit still for very long; she seems driven to serve, moving from table to table as though to offer assistance but never quite articulating the offer or interacting in a meaningful way. And then there's my father who cannot leave the table without first pushing in his chair, even though he nearly loses his balance in doing so.
I've also observed residents in the skilled nursing wing whose Alzheimers or Parkinsons disease has progressed to the point that they are nearly comatose. This makes me thankful for every small way Dad is able to function in the activities of daily living for it may not last much longer.
Sue
Monday, August 6, 2007
A smooth move, indeed
Dad slept little last night, and who could blame him? Unable to reason through the changes that were about to engulf him, he was overwhelmed with anxiety. I was anxious, too, and still on a guilt trip of epic proportions, worrying against all reason that I was doing my father a major disservice to move him to “memory care.”
I had told Dad I would wake him up a little earlier than usual. Maybe that’s what prompted him to get up at 2:00, 4:00, and 5:00 (approximately). Each time, I told him to “go back to bed – it’s not time to get up yet.” Finally, at 6:30, I got up showered.
About 10:00 a.m., the Smooth Moves truck arrived with a couple of guys to carry Dad’s heavy furniture from one building to the next. It took less than the two-hour minimum charge. Dad, sis-in-law, and I followed the last load, with Dad asking, “Where are we going?”
We walked into the new apartment – a living room, hallway, bedroom, and bath – and, even without pictures and other homey touches, it looked wonderful. We had mapped out where the furniture would go and everything was in its place. The only things Dad seemed to miss were the refrigerator and the telephone.
Then, leaving Dad to eat lunch with his new neighbors, we began hauling the small stuff, clothing, and decorative items and making the place feel like home. By the time we were through hanging the last picture, it was after 5:00 p.m., and I had logged more than 11,000 steps (5+ miles) on my pedometer.
We took Dad to a Chinese restaurant for dinner and to celebrate Sis’s birthday. Dad was so tired he was barely able to stay in his chair. I could have crawled under the table for a nap, too. But on the way home, he asked, “Do you like ice cream?” It doesn’t take an expert linguist to translate that to “Let’s go get ice cream.” So, I drove around until I found a Brewster’s ice cream store. I found enough change in my purse for two cones.
Soon I began feeling like I’d make a major mistake. Eating ice cream before it melts, when it’s 96 degrees outside, is not easy for an average person. But take someone like Dad, with Parkinsons, who does everything in slow mo, and you’ve got a mess that would rival a two-year-old’s. But Poppa was in slurpin’, sloppin’ heaven, so I just sat there grinning and trying not to worry about my upholstery.
It didn’t take long to get Dad ready for bed. This is the first night in more than two months that I’ve spent away from him. I pray he sleeps soundly. I know I will.
Sue
I had told Dad I would wake him up a little earlier than usual. Maybe that’s what prompted him to get up at 2:00, 4:00, and 5:00 (approximately). Each time, I told him to “go back to bed – it’s not time to get up yet.” Finally, at 6:30, I got up showered.
About 10:00 a.m., the Smooth Moves truck arrived with a couple of guys to carry Dad’s heavy furniture from one building to the next. It took less than the two-hour minimum charge. Dad, sis-in-law, and I followed the last load, with Dad asking, “Where are we going?”
We walked into the new apartment – a living room, hallway, bedroom, and bath – and, even without pictures and other homey touches, it looked wonderful. We had mapped out where the furniture would go and everything was in its place. The only things Dad seemed to miss were the refrigerator and the telephone.
Then, leaving Dad to eat lunch with his new neighbors, we began hauling the small stuff, clothing, and decorative items and making the place feel like home. By the time we were through hanging the last picture, it was after 5:00 p.m., and I had logged more than 11,000 steps (5+ miles) on my pedometer.
We took Dad to a Chinese restaurant for dinner and to celebrate Sis’s birthday. Dad was so tired he was barely able to stay in his chair. I could have crawled under the table for a nap, too. But on the way home, he asked, “Do you like ice cream?” It doesn’t take an expert linguist to translate that to “Let’s go get ice cream.” So, I drove around until I found a Brewster’s ice cream store. I found enough change in my purse for two cones.
Soon I began feeling like I’d make a major mistake. Eating ice cream before it melts, when it’s 96 degrees outside, is not easy for an average person. But take someone like Dad, with Parkinsons, who does everything in slow mo, and you’ve got a mess that would rival a two-year-old’s. But Poppa was in slurpin’, sloppin’ heaven, so I just sat there grinning and trying not to worry about my upholstery.
It didn’t take long to get Dad ready for bed. This is the first night in more than two months that I’ve spent away from him. I pray he sleeps soundly. I know I will.
Sue
Sunday, August 5, 2007
'Twas the night before move-in...
There are a zillion things I could be doing to prepare for my father’s move to his new apartment tomorrow. But I’m afraid that all the commotion will make Dad uneasy. Then, he might not sleep well, which would mean I wouldn’t sleep well either. It is as much self-preservation as empathy for Dad that makes me want to have a laid-back kind of day.
On the other hand, I think, I might try engaging Dad in a bit of the work. Cleaning out his bedside drawers, where several years worth of old receipts are stashed, would be a good project for today. No, I decide; decisions about scraps of paper would likely end in an argument, and I want to be calm to help him stay calm.
Instead, I aim for a normal day – a nap late morning, lunch, sitting on the sun porch, watching a little TV, and then dinner – Sis-in-law’s fabulous ravioli with a side of lemon-herb broccoli.
It was after dinner that reality set in and Dad finally found a voice and words to ask questions: Where is this new place? What’s the layout? Who will live there with me? Will I have to share a bathroom? What…no kitchen? No refrigerator? What if I want something to eat or drink? Will there be nurses meddling in my things? Will there be a lock on the door? Will I have a telephone? Who decided I wouldn’t have a phone? How much will this place cost?
Most of these were pretty reasonable questions and I answered each one truthfully but as simply as possible. I also explained that a CNA will stay with him tomorrow while the movers and “his decorators” – me and the sisters – get his suite ready for him. Then we’ll take him down there.
I hope and pray he’ll be pleasantly surprised and that all of us will be blessed with patience and grace as we go through this transition.
Sue
On the other hand, I think, I might try engaging Dad in a bit of the work. Cleaning out his bedside drawers, where several years worth of old receipts are stashed, would be a good project for today. No, I decide; decisions about scraps of paper would likely end in an argument, and I want to be calm to help him stay calm.
Instead, I aim for a normal day – a nap late morning, lunch, sitting on the sun porch, watching a little TV, and then dinner – Sis-in-law’s fabulous ravioli with a side of lemon-herb broccoli.
It was after dinner that reality set in and Dad finally found a voice and words to ask questions: Where is this new place? What’s the layout? Who will live there with me? Will I have to share a bathroom? What…no kitchen? No refrigerator? What if I want something to eat or drink? Will there be nurses meddling in my things? Will there be a lock on the door? Will I have a telephone? Who decided I wouldn’t have a phone? How much will this place cost?
Most of these were pretty reasonable questions and I answered each one truthfully but as simply as possible. I also explained that a CNA will stay with him tomorrow while the movers and “his decorators” – me and the sisters – get his suite ready for him. Then we’ll take him down there.
I hope and pray he’ll be pleasantly surprised and that all of us will be blessed with patience and grace as we go through this transition.
Sue
Sorting
I’m glad my parents have moved three times in the past 10 years. At least Sis and I don’t have 40 or 60 years worth of stuff to sift through as we move Dad to his small Memory Care suite. On the other hand, my parents are packrats; enough has been saved from all those moves to make the current task daunting.
Last week we tackled Mom’s drawers and closets, filling several bags for charity and an entire suitcase of clothes for me. Thankfully, Mom had great taste in clothes and her jackets and sweaters sometimes fit me. We also filled a bag of clothing that is quintessential Momma. These items will be cut and diced to make “Momma pillows,” memorials to the fun, creative, charming woman she was. Sis, her partner, and I will reserve a special day before I leave town to create and remember.
Tucked among the undies, the Poise pads, and plastic baggies filled with scarves, we also found receipts verifying the purchase price of jewelry, old family photos, and other small items obviously valued and carefully saved. It made me wonder why, if we value such things, we tend to stick them in a drawer and never look at them again.
We also cleared out a few of Dad’s drawers where he had stashed old mail and receipts that he thought might be valuable but couldn’t figure out what to do with. The stash included his father’s social security card and other personal papers and photographs, as well as plastic baggies filled with old dentures.
When we had nearly finished our work for the day, Dad came into the room, looked uneasily at our piles of stuff, and headed into the closet. “What are you looking for, Dad?” we asked.
“I hope you haven’t gotten into it,” he replied with a wild look in his eye.
“What is it, Dad?” we asked, fearing that we had, indeed, gotten into it and either hidden or disposed of whatever he was looking for.
“Treasures,” he replied mysteriously.
He soon emerged from the closet with a small, old briefcase. He put it on the bed and carefully opened it to reveal a collection of coins. We persuaded him that these things should go to the bank to the safe deposit box and he reluctantly agreed after we assured him that he could go, too.
Among the coins was a business envelope that he held in his hand. “What’s in the envelope?” I asked.
“A thousand dollars,” he said. My heart sank. Was it another check too old to cash? But when I gently took the envelope from him and opened it, I found a four-year-old statement from the rental office at the apartment complex where Mom and Dad had lived.
“This is just a statement, Dad,” I explained. It’s meaningless now. You haven’t lived in that apartment for four years. It’s not necessary to keep it. Since it has your name on it, I’ll just go shred it,” I offered.
“You’re just so eager to shred things,” he grumbled.
He ain’t seen nothin’ yet!
Sue
Last week we tackled Mom’s drawers and closets, filling several bags for charity and an entire suitcase of clothes for me. Thankfully, Mom had great taste in clothes and her jackets and sweaters sometimes fit me. We also filled a bag of clothing that is quintessential Momma. These items will be cut and diced to make “Momma pillows,” memorials to the fun, creative, charming woman she was. Sis, her partner, and I will reserve a special day before I leave town to create and remember.
Tucked among the undies, the Poise pads, and plastic baggies filled with scarves, we also found receipts verifying the purchase price of jewelry, old family photos, and other small items obviously valued and carefully saved. It made me wonder why, if we value such things, we tend to stick them in a drawer and never look at them again.
We also cleared out a few of Dad’s drawers where he had stashed old mail and receipts that he thought might be valuable but couldn’t figure out what to do with. The stash included his father’s social security card and other personal papers and photographs, as well as plastic baggies filled with old dentures.
When we had nearly finished our work for the day, Dad came into the room, looked uneasily at our piles of stuff, and headed into the closet. “What are you looking for, Dad?” we asked.
“I hope you haven’t gotten into it,” he replied with a wild look in his eye.
“What is it, Dad?” we asked, fearing that we had, indeed, gotten into it and either hidden or disposed of whatever he was looking for.
“Treasures,” he replied mysteriously.
He soon emerged from the closet with a small, old briefcase. He put it on the bed and carefully opened it to reveal a collection of coins. We persuaded him that these things should go to the bank to the safe deposit box and he reluctantly agreed after we assured him that he could go, too.
Among the coins was a business envelope that he held in his hand. “What’s in the envelope?” I asked.
“A thousand dollars,” he said. My heart sank. Was it another check too old to cash? But when I gently took the envelope from him and opened it, I found a four-year-old statement from the rental office at the apartment complex where Mom and Dad had lived.
“This is just a statement, Dad,” I explained. It’s meaningless now. You haven’t lived in that apartment for four years. It’s not necessary to keep it. Since it has your name on it, I’ll just go shred it,” I offered.
“You’re just so eager to shred things,” he grumbled.
He ain’t seen nothin’ yet!
Sue
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Change
Change is hard for just about anyone. But imagine you’re 84 years old; you have Parkinsons with dementia and paranoia; your wife of 61 years has just died; and your daughters are taking over your finances and putting you in a “memory care” facility. Such is the major life change my father is experiencing.
Sis and I are trying to be as gentle as possible. We give Dad enough information to feel confident we’re taking care of him, but not so much that he becomes overwhelmed. It’s a delicate balance. Last night he asked me to “tell me everything you know about what’s going to happen…this place I’m going…”
I drew him a diagram representing the continuous care community where he and Mom have lived for the past three years. I demonstrated with arrows on the diagram how the facility is designed to meet changing needs from independent living to assisted living (and memory care) to skilled nursing. I reminded him that Mom was able to take advantage of the skilled nursing services, and that all those levels of service are here for him, too. As gently as I could, I reminded him that he cannot live alone, and that Sis and I must make sure he gets the help he needs. He studied the diagram for about an hour, then asked me to explain it to him again.
Moving day is Monday. I’ve arranged for a home health aid to stay with Dad while Sis, her partner, and I work with the movers and get the new place looking as much like home as possible. Then, we’ll all go out to dinner – an early birthday celebration for Sis. After dinner, I’ll help the staff in his new place get him settled for bed.
All this change isn’t much easier on me. I’m a nervous wreck thinking about Dad’s potential reactions to his first night in his new place. Will he notice right away that it’s a “lock-down” unit to keep residents from wandering? Will he look at the other residents – most with Alzheimers – and think he’s been misdiagnosed? Will he be frightened to stay there “alone” that first night? Will he be terribly angry with me the next day?
In rational moments, I know I’m doing the right thing for the right reasons. I just have to keep reminding myself.
Sue
Sis and I are trying to be as gentle as possible. We give Dad enough information to feel confident we’re taking care of him, but not so much that he becomes overwhelmed. It’s a delicate balance. Last night he asked me to “tell me everything you know about what’s going to happen…this place I’m going…”
I drew him a diagram representing the continuous care community where he and Mom have lived for the past three years. I demonstrated with arrows on the diagram how the facility is designed to meet changing needs from independent living to assisted living (and memory care) to skilled nursing. I reminded him that Mom was able to take advantage of the skilled nursing services, and that all those levels of service are here for him, too. As gently as I could, I reminded him that he cannot live alone, and that Sis and I must make sure he gets the help he needs. He studied the diagram for about an hour, then asked me to explain it to him again.
Moving day is Monday. I’ve arranged for a home health aid to stay with Dad while Sis, her partner, and I work with the movers and get the new place looking as much like home as possible. Then, we’ll all go out to dinner – an early birthday celebration for Sis. After dinner, I’ll help the staff in his new place get him settled for bed.
All this change isn’t much easier on me. I’m a nervous wreck thinking about Dad’s potential reactions to his first night in his new place. Will he notice right away that it’s a “lock-down” unit to keep residents from wandering? Will he look at the other residents – most with Alzheimers – and think he’s been misdiagnosed? Will he be frightened to stay there “alone” that first night? Will he be terribly angry with me the next day?
In rational moments, I know I’m doing the right thing for the right reasons. I just have to keep reminding myself.
Sue
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