My search for grace and meaning after a former care partnering life with a wife who suffered from Parkinson's disease and dementia giving her a confused and disorienting world.
This morning she says to me, “Are we ever going home?” … in an angry tone.
It is kind of an odd conversation but more common conversation to have in the morning. Because she seems to be in a different place in her head, even though she can see all of her possessions and her earrings and her clothes et cetera nearby.
It’s just really, really interesting and disturbing. I am unsure of how to react sometimes and what to do about it. This morning I did pretty much nothing and told her that we were in fact home. This is where we slept last night.
Then I asked her if she needed my help find a shirt or anything like that to put on and that seemed to deflect her mind. AHA – so maybe in the future. What I will do is look for those opportunities to answer her question and then move on to a new topic because she doesn’t seem to get lost when I change direction. She doesn’t insist on talking about where we live and why we are there and etc. Poof! She looks for a shirt.
In the past few weeks we have had conversations about dreams, Jan and furniture. She has a different reality – which is probably the wrong way to say it – sometimes in the evening, sometimes in the morning. It is difficult for me to ignore the fact that she perceives something different than I do. My natural tendency is to correct her perception. (What can I say – I am male. It is built into my jeans. Yep – purposeful use of the homonym.)
I guess we are creeping toward the non-benign form of Parkinson’s disease. Sadly.
I have told her many times that I will stay close by to help guide. She seems to understand for now.
Some days it is hard to find any humor. We use to tease each other. Now she does not understand and thinks I am being mean.
We had dinner with friends last night. There was much alcohol. There is little to be said about that except that alcohol lowers inhibitions. Does it enable conversation? Maybe not but it does seem to promote confrontation.
Her candidate did not win. That became apparent early, right after the second bourbon. And as a retired junior college educator she was irritated with the state of education in a Covid-19 world. Life sucks but then there is bourbon so its not all bad.
But eventually after the acceptable amount of self-medication, it came out that she is worried about socialism for her grandchildren. I thought about asking what the term socialism meant to her but I quickly decided that would be needlessly confrontational or might seem so to her. With that in mind, I kept my mouth shut.
Socialism is scary thing for a capitalist. Because, from the dictionary – socialism is a political philosophy and economic system based on the collective ownership and control of the means of production; as well as the political and economic theories, ideologies and movements that aim to establish a socialist system. It seems a hard system to make work with out a lot of true egalitarian democratic decision making. My wife and I often do not agree on which restaurant to go to in a spur-of -the-moment decision to eat out. I find it hard to believe that the 10,000 people or so that it takes to run an oil production company for example could put their heads together to decide how much one should pay for a gallon of 87 octane gasoline that came out of their production line. It seems not impossible but certainly impractical. It also seems unlikely to me that we could ever get socialism ala China or Russia to work in this country of ours. Too many gun-toting NIMBY folks out there to allow that to happen.
There appear to be many a broad brush with which to paint the political landscape and in a brain storming session (committee meetings and hearings) various factions shout at one another without conclusion. The color of Socialism does not seem to stick to us.
What is the purpose of government? Any government’s job is to provide for the common good. If the populous is good and kind and empathetic to one another there is little need of a government.
A home owners association (HOA) is a microcosm of government. It is a truly democratic organization for managing the money and facilities for the common good of all. Hard stands appear when groups of people talk about money. HOA expense items are the same each year. Those service items increase in cost. The basic items are: utilities, waste removal, alarm system, administration, insurance, landscape and building maintenance. Unknowns are saving for a rainy day and disaster relief. It is prudent to budget for all of these. Home owners associations are socialist in most respects. Everyone pools their resources for the common good. Everyone in the HOA has access to all common elements, such as, parking areas, lawns and if such items exist, pools and recreational facilities. Nevertheless, few participants readily volunteer to pay more from year to year for the same. A small HOA can meet in person to transact business but even then not all want to participate.
Village and city governments quickly be come too large to transact business in a democratic fashion. We are used to selecting representatives by vote to exercise and express our interests for us. We accept their decisions as our own. If the populous gets dissatisfied they can vote them out.
Some confrontation is good for discussion. It breaks folks out of their own biases and ideas to understand the side of the discussion they did not before. There are at least two sides to every issue. Many times there are three or more.
Twelve sides
Looking at all sides of an issue or least as many sides as practical before making a decision takes patience and understanding. Passionate debate is useful.
So what does any of that have to with socialism? Nothing. But it points out a flaw in execution. Is there such a thing as representative socialism? There is representative democracy. The U.S. is one. Is there such a thing as representative capitalism?
Perhaps there is a middle ground. What is the purpose of government? In all of our dissension, is it possible to find a common ground? Something that allows capitalism to flourish but protects the rights of the little guy? Something that allows the business community to flourish but provides a safety net for those who cannot compete in an unfettered market?
Unintended consequences compete for partisan attention. The swamp is real. It is populated by asses and elephants. There is not room for socialist asses or elephants.
What people mean when they say things. I have never been good at interpreting other meaning from written words. In verbal conversation there are extra sources of information. Facial expressions, body, vocalizations and tone add subtle differences in how the message is delivered. Words are words.
Twitter and Facebook are confusing because people write as though they are in the same room talking to you about something. Talking about something they are passionate about, they are able to recognize they are not in the same room talking and write in ALL CAPS to indicate emphasis. Most do not recognize that old teletype machines printed in all capitalisation. Sometimes the emphasis is lost.
Many years ago I was teaching math as an adjunct for a for profit community college style school operating in the city center in an old bank office building. The CIO who was located in New Jersey sent out an old policy memo about corporate computer usage, the student records database and other topics. The memo itself was full of misspelled words, grammatical errors and IT WAS PRINTED IN ALL CAPS. It was a plain text file (.txt) not associated with any word processor. I accepted the fact that it was corporate policy and therefore worthy of close scrutiny. But it was attached to an email to ALL in the company. I also understood based on my background that this policy paper had probably been written long ago – pre-Word or Wordperfect – and as such had not been proof read since. Many in management positions have a hard time with others, translate underlings, correcting their work product.
Many in the faculty room between classes checking email were giggling. The English teachers in our little school, especially so and some of us math teachers were amused. Language that is to say written language in policy statements should be precise otherwise ambiguity results and the policy for good or bad is ignored.
In a previous job with a boss who was also a friend, I would correct his errors and return his memos to him privately. It was something between us and over time he would give me his stuff to proof read. Sometimes I commented on the policy itself but usually I merely corrected misspelled words, grammar and adjusted sentence structure to enhance readability. This experience made me comfortable enough to suggest to the CIO in New Jersey that he should consider importing old policy memos into Word and enabling the spell and grammar check features before sending them to ALL. I also highlighted many of the grammatical and spelling errors and saved that to a second – AdobePDF – file and replied to his email but not to ALL.
He replied to me with, I do not like your attitude. I did not and still do not have any attitude about his mistake. People make mistakes even highly educated people. In my reply I pointed out that it is very hard to derive attitude from an email and if he needed any further assistance I would be happy to help. He did not reply to my offer.
more
I suppose I gained this propensity to read language in a precise fashion from my father. Early in my working career I worked with my dad at the same company. Once early one morning we were to have a meeting about a project we were both involved in. I arrived early for the meeting coffee in hand. On the green chalk board at the end of the conference room was my father’s handwriting. Printing actually, Dad rarely wrote anything in script, it said – Gary Dean is two four letter words. This sentence was so “my father” that it made me laugh out loud. Dad dearly loved puns and double meanings. Mr. Dean was Dad’s immediate supervisor and I suppose unfamiliar with Dad’s humor. He displayed displeasure with anyone scribbling on his board before the meeting began. The rest of us giggled.
I read for enjoyment. The best authors are able to make me see what they imagine in their mind as they write. The funny ones are a treasure.
It is an odd conversation. Made more odd because it was quarter after six and I was in the middle emptying my old bladder for the second time that morning. Standing over the commode about halfway there, the door pops open and Cheryl looks at me for a moment then backs away and closes the door most of the way. I finished up and flushed the toilet.
As I came out of the bathroom, she asked me – you will have to show me how that works sometime. I replied – do you mean the toilet? No, she said. That elevator thing that you came out of. You will have to show me how to work it. Where does it go?
It just comes up from the pill area, I replied. Good! Can you get my pills for me? I’ll take them but I have to go first. She passed me and closed the door to the bathroom.
I got the morning meds from the kitchen. It was not too early. This was the day after the “fall back” idiosy that we have perpetrated on ourselves to get more golf daylight after work. Parkies have a problem with the shift. It is easier in the Autumn but it is still there.
The next day
It had been our usual (for these days) night. She headed to bed at 10PM after taking her night time meds. She laid for a while with an icepack on her head and eventually gave me the icepack to return to the freezer after several trips to the bathroom.
Over night she got up to go once or twice but returned to bed with out any confusing conversation until about 5AM. — some of this is fuzzy to me — She went into the bathroom for a bit and seemed to be having a conversation with someone. (Not unusual – she talks to the spiders before executing them.) She came back out and told me there was a woman in a pink bathrobe that needed to use the bathroom first. I got up and went into the bathroom and removed her pink bathrobe from the door where it was hanging into the closet and closed the door to the closet. I returned to the bathroom and said – she is done now. It is all yours.
She used the toilet, brushed her teeth and returned to bed. I asked about the teeth brushing and she said her mouth did not taste very good. Now her breath was minty fresh. I told her so and she replied with – I love you.
About two hours later at 7AM the incredibly loud and annoying alarm clock brightened itself and loudly pronounced – Time For Medicine! I got up to fetch her morning meds. She got up and went to the bathroom after I set her medicine on the bathroom counter and helped her out of bed which is another normal routine these days.
Afterward she did not come back to bed. Often we lay in bed until she starts to gently snore and I get up quietly as possible and let her nap for a bit or she gets up after about thirty minutes to return to the bathroom. This time she stayed up. I asked – are you coming back to bed? She replied – no, I think I will put some clothes on. I did not probe any further but should have done so.
I got up and fetched the paper, made coffee and settled into the chair I cannot decide about keeping. I turned on the TV to catch up with the boring political news of the day. This is election day. The TV news is like the pre-game show from hell. … it is a nice day outside but the lines are long at the polling places… reports the guy standing outside a poll in New York City down the street from a boarded up Macy’s. Cheryl came out of the bedroom dressed up to go to church or some other gathering requiring an upgraded look.
Do you know who is picking me up?, she asked. I replied – no one yet. You should have some cereal for breakfast. (I was hoping that she would wake up.) She ate a bowl of cereal.
Afterward she went back to the bathroom, I thought, for a second time. As she came back out she said again, I don’t know when they are picking me up. I replied that no one was picking her up to go anywhere. This, of course, did not register as she was convinced that someone was picking her up to go somewhere. When I asked for that detail – where she was going – she replied, I don’t know but they will when they pick me up. She remained agitated and got her keys and went out into the front hall. (I thought she was checking for mail at 8AM.)
She returned and said, there’s no one out there. Do you know when they are coming? I coaxed her over to her chair (The Chair) and got her to sit down. I moved the rocker over so I could sit and look straight at her. And then I explained again that she was probably dreaming when she heard someone tell her that she would get picked up soon to go (wherever). I repeated this message and the one that we where going to her exercise class at noon today and, oh by the way, this is pizza Tuesday. Some of that sunk in through the fog of confusion because she asked again. I’m not going anywhere? No, not yet I replied. To your fitness class around noon, I continued. I look pretty good don’t I, she said. Yes you do. You look very nice, I replied.
I brought her some tea. We watched some more of the pre-game election news madness. She remarked that her watch agreed with the clock on the mantle but the news person had reported a different time. I told her that we were watching a recorded program – a benefit of cable – and we were watching it on a delay of about forty minutes. Oh, she replied and I could tell she understood. She was slowly becoming present.
At 9:30 AM she announced she was going to put on jeans and rest for a bit. I took her the ten o’clock meds at ten. She went to the bathroom and returned to bed and slept for about thirty minutes.
… 11:09 AM — she is back! But tired. She ate some yogurt and drank a little 7-Up.
Changing time zones is one of the more moronic ideas of the twentieth century carried into the twenty-first. China has only one time zone. Think about it and look on a map.
Cyptoquips and Word Jumbles and Sudoku
Her favorite games in the newspaper are these. Even though she may have episodes of confusion, she still works these. They require both logical and expanded thinking – references to puns, etc.
My sister died in 2008. I have written about her before. She was our baby sister. I will always think of her as my baby sister.
She died of complications to pneumonia. It is hard to breathe with pneumonia. Not breathing well contributes to low blood oxygenation. Effectively one drowns from pneumonia. Laura had myelodysplastic syndrome. It did not kill her. I was her blood stem cell donor.
During Laura’s treatment it was discovered that she was allergic to virtually all the antibiotics they gave her as a prophylaxis. The treatment for pneumonia is antibiotics. The solution for MDS is kill off the bone marrow and as a result the patient’s immune system. The antibiotics given during this process put her in a coma for six weeks. The doctors supposed that she had veno occlusive disease, a liver problem with a low survival rate. She did not have that.
At the beginning of her treatment before I donated my luekoblasts to her, a nurse and social worker and I discussed the possibility that my blood cells which came with my immune response could actually attack her and kill her. The discussion centered around, how did I feel about THAT. I was certainly not excited about the fact that I could kill her. Presented as my call. A moral dilemma- Laura will die if I do nothing; Laura may die (sooner) if I do something. Looking back from the distance of thirteen years my reaction is the same – tears come to my eyes. [I had to stop.]
I remember thinking that I should ask Laura if it was okay if I killed her. I did not. This procedure is presented as do this then that then this and … you are healed. I suppose that they discussed with Laura the survival rate. She did not survive. I will always be somewhat skeptical of doctors and cancer cures. The fact that she died specifically of pneumonia is a distinction of no import. I was there when she took her last breath. I will never forget the silence.
My brother died this year in May. He was my big brother. I have written about him too. He was six years older than I less nine days.
He followed his dream job to Florida many years ago and from that job he went to others always in Florida. His last job was a coder/programmer for a subcontractor to Microsoft. He was a smart guy or at least that is my perception from little brotherhood. Every time I turn on my computer I think of Bill.
Families are complicated. One wants to believe that there is a close personal connection between siblings in the family but that does not always occur in life. Gaps in age, education, life choices, geography and beliefs tug at simple family ties. Our family is no different. We held no animosities but we did not live in each other’s lives.
Our parents Virginia and Robert died about eight years apart. Dad passed away in 2007 about a month before Laura. Mom passed away in 2016. Every time I throw away a box from Amazon or Boxed Up, I think of Mom. I hear her voice, “Paul, don’t throw away that box! That’s a good box.” Mom kept a lot of crap in boxes.
I think of Dad in various situations. He was what we would call today a hacker. When I was a kid our basement was full of old electronics. When he retired he became enamored with computer equipment. He spent a lot of time futzing with computers and programming them. Visual Basic and he were friends. He was always working on something called his Bingo Program. He occasionally journaled too but although I inherited all his computer stuff I have not found any of his writings. I think of him when I write random comments in this blog/journal of mine.
Now it is only Joyce and me. We talked yesterday for about an hour. We did not talk about anything special. I called her merely to hear her voice. It has been thirteen years since our original family group started dying off. For some reason it is important that I hear her voice more often.
She mentioned in our conversation that she is not very excited about turning 70 this year. (Wow has it been that long?) She sent me the picture below many years ago in a birthday card. Laura is in the middle. In her note she wrote – I’m so glad you are my brother. I am so glad you are my sister, Joyce.
Remembrance of occasions and enjoyment of those fade with time. I have often pondered why I remember some things and have absolutely no memory of others. What we were excited about on this occasion is lost in my memory. Joyce found the picture and sent it to me. Obviously it is Christmas time. I am swallowed up in abject joy and laughter. No memory at all about it. I am grateful for the picture of us.
Life and death? — Dad was not afraid of dying. He said as much to the doctor when he was given the news that an X-ray photograph of his abdominal area revealed a mass on his colon. I do not fear dying. I worry that Cheryl will be provided for after I am gone. I wonder if Laura would have lived longer if she and I had not exchanged blood cells. I wonder if she would be alive today if her doctors had simply been smarter about what was going on in her body. Maybe she would not have spent six weeks in a coma. … could have, would have, should have.
Laura told me about a month before her death that my stem cells had taken up residence in her bones. Our life experiment was working. I speculated – how do they know? Her response was – I think because they can look in there and see little X’s and Y’s. Yes, I imagine they could detect those somehow.
In the background of the conversation between Joyce and me was a thought like, I should have asked him (her) that when Dad was still alive, when Mom was still alive, when Laura was still alive, when Bill was still alive. As I talked to Joyce I thought about how short our time on Earth is. Seventy years seems like a long time but it is not. I thought about how fragile our existence here is. At this time in our life a virus threatens lives. Ask those questions. There may be little time to get an answer.
Other morose thoughts — In his late years, Dad would not hesitate to tell you that he was older than his father. Dad’s father died when he was 82. In Dad’s mind he felt that he would live to be 82. As he got closer to that age, he resigned himself to the fact that his life was almost over. He was not worried about dying. His only concern was, would it hurt? I think that was his only fear.
Pain is the only thing that makes me uncomfortable about death I believe that I do not feel pain as others do. I understand Dad’s point of view about pain. I wonder if it hurts to drown. I wonder if it hurts to die of pneumonia. Does a sudden massive heart attack hurt?
Death causes a gap in the family. I have become very aware of that gap in our family. Joyce and I are closer. I believe we are. It is just us now.
It is the Fall of the year. The time to transition to walking from bike riding. Yesterday I started to do just that. It is cloudy and damp and hot for October but I enjoy walking through several neighborhoods near our home. I will still ride. I bought some kit to hopefully extend my riding into late fall and winter months but today I walked.
In the picture above, someone who lives here enjoys decorating for Halloween. I think I will return in December to see if they have the same enthusiasm for Christmas.
Wildlife abounds
Older folks walk looking down for trip hazards. At least I do. This little guy was getting ready to cross the walk I was on when I happened upon it. As you can see this tortoise has decorated itself for Autumn and blends easily with the oak leaves nearby. I almost missed it but it was startled by my passing and turned to go the other way.
And more Halloween decorations.
Bush Jack-o-lantern
Neighborhood walking is entertaining. It appears that I walk about a third of the distance that I ride. Hmm.
The path and stats
Keep moving all you caregivers! Find something that appeals to you and keep it up. Your health and the health of the one you care for depends upon your own good health.
Someone posted this quote from Sir Hopkins on Facebook and it passed through my news feed today. There is a Beatles song — Eleanor Rigby — that popped into my head. … ?? …
I have lots of things to ponder. I told Alexa to play the Beatles. Music from a time when Cheryl and I were young. Their music is soothing today. Alexa selected “Let it be” for the first one to play.
Black Bird … calling in the night.
This past week or so we have added two new drug therapies to Cheryl’s meds. They are working and they are not working. In a previous post, I described quetiapine for sleep. It seems to help. Melatonin helps with falling asleep. Seraquel seems to help with remaining so. Although we have had some odd episodes in the bathroom at night, it seems that she is actually asleep during these. At least, she has no memory of these in the morning.
Good Day, Sunshine!
Morning conversation often starts with her inquiring how I slept. We talk a bit about anyone that we may know or a family name that shows in the obits. And the past few mornings she has gotten up before me and had her bowl of cereal for breakfast. Sometimes she asks about overnight. Sometimes I tell her gently in my effort to determine if she has memories of anything overnight. I think the quetiapine is working. She will get up for bathroom trips but she comes back to bed. I know. I get up and go to the other bathroom. I think we are on the same schedule. (smiley face emoji here)
Yellow Submarine — similar shape to Ondansetron
Ondansetron was prescribed for Cheryl’s repeated feeling of nausea after she takes her medicine. She has been taking it for a long time and apparently her stomach has become intolerant of the meds. Zofran was originally developed for those dealing with chemotherapy. It seems to be working well. Although she still lays down in the evening after taking meds at seven, she does not complain of nausea, she complains of fatigue. And that only for a short(er) period of time.
As a caregiver, I often find myself focused on observing Cheryl’s behavior and asking her questions about how she is feeling in that very moment. From her point of view, I am probably exhausting. From my point of view, I cannot help it. I love her so much and it tears at my heart to see how this crazy despicable disease has changed her life, mind, cognition and even her personality. Nevertheless I have to keep reminding myself to take time for myself whether that is exercise – walking or riding – or reading or journaling (now). The quote from Anthony Hopkins struck a cord with me. Another way to say it is, “Stop and smell the roses.” One cannot put too much emphasis on taking time for oneself. Balance between giving care and taking care is a delicate thing to achieve.
Alexa just played “Help” by the Beatles
Ask for help before Parkinson’s sucks all the air out of the room and the day is lost. … Oh bla dee oh bla dah … life goes on! [and Eleanor Rigby is playing again]
I have a bad memory for names. Authors that I like to read, songwriters I like to listen to rock bands I loved in my younger years, I have a hard time knowing who wrote what or who sings what.
Recently when Eddie Van Haylen died, I told Alexa to play a mix of his music. It played “What is love?” first. I had not heard this song in awhile. I was very touched by the words of this song. I do not know why, but it means more to me now.
Van Haylen
Everybody’s lookin’ for somethin’ Somethin’ to fill in the holes We think a lot but don’t talk much about it ‘Til things get out of control Oh, how do I know when it’s love I can’t tell you but it lasts forever How does it feel when it’s love It’s just something you feel together When it’s love You look at every face in a crowd Some shine and some keep you guessin’ Waiting for someone to come into focus Teach you your final love lesson How do I know when it’s love I can’t tell you but it lasts forever How does it feel when it’s love It’s just something you feel together Oh oh oh oh Oh when it’s love Oh oh oh oh You can feel it yeah Oh oh oh oh Nothing’s missing, yeah Oh oh oh oh Yeah, you can feel it Oh oh oh oh Oh when it’s love Oh oh oh oh Nothing’s missing How do I know when it’s love I can’t tell you but it lasts forever Uh, how does it feel when it’s love It’s just something you feel together Hey, how do I know when it’s love I can’t tell you but it lasts forever When it’s love Uh, When it’s love Hey it lasts forever (Na, na, na, na, na) when it’s love (Na, na, na, na, na) (Na, na, na, na, na) (Na, na, na, na, na) give it up We’re gonna feel this thing together (na, na, na, na, na) When it’s love, oh (na, na, na, na, na) When it’s love, baby (na, na, na, na, na) (Na, na, na, na, na) You can feel it, yeah (Na, na, na, na, na) (Na, na, na, na, na)We’ll make it last forever (Na, na, na, na, na) (Na, na, na, na, na)
When you tell Alexa “Play Van Haylen” — you get a lot of rock songs with a love theme. Somehow that means more to me these days as I spend more time addressing Cheryl’s needs.
Parkinson’s disease sucks. (I have not written that for awhile.)
The day that we had these conversations, generally speaking, Cheryl was having a pretty good day. When she is in this “pretty good day” mode she remembers many of the funny little conversations we have had in the middle of the night if I ask about them. It is as though she can step away and talk about what she was seeing or thought she was seeing . Her cognizant brain is able to view her in-cognizant brain’s thoughts and interpret them as not quite right or even odd.
We were walking on our 1-ish mile loop
We were walking on our favorite one mile (not quite but close) loop near Mill Creek. She tells me – you know when I get up at night and some times I go into that closet by the bathroom where my pads are and get a new one because it seems like I leaked a little? I have pads in there. Do you know where I mean? Me – yes. The closet by the bath tub you mean? (I am not sure where this is going.) Her – yes. That’s the one. Well, I saw a lot of clothes in there that looked like mine. How did those get there? I don’t remember putting those in there but I’m pretty sure they are mine. At least they look like clothes that I have. (Insert a puzzled loving face here. Most emojis do not work.)
… Patience, wisdom or empathy — which one of those is necessary now? I just go with the flow most times because I am unsure if she is standing outside her thoughts or reliving them. I said to her that we put our clothes in that closet when we moved into our condo. And when I do the laundry I hang your shirts and pants in there if they need hanging so maybe I put them in there when you were not looking.
a foggy day
She responded with – I have no memory of moving. (Oh, poop.) She goes on to tell me – I remember looking at the condo but I really don’t have much memory of the day we moved. She phrased that in a fashion that indicated to me that she knew we had moved to a smaller place about 4 years ago but was simply fuzzy about the details. Four years ago she did not seem to be struggling mentally. I could have not noticed at that time because her mother was still alive and she was making a daily trip to Bridgeway Pointe where her mom was staying. Our life was busier then. Her main complaint was her knees which in my mind was the main reason we moved. Our condo is a flat one floor two bed-roomed affair with a small den that I have taken over for my man-space. There are no steps in or out.
She continued with – If you are looking for my clothes there’s some in there. At least they look like my clothes. Me – yes, I think they are. There are some in a tub too. Those are your winter things that are saved away for the season. Her – yes there are. Now at this point I am thinking she is coming to believe that her clothes are hanging in the closet. But then she says – I am not sure where your clothes are. Me – that’s okay I will look for them when we get home. They might be in my armoire. I will look. She seemed satisfied with that and we walked on talking about other things that were sky and weather related.
Which clock?
our bedroom clock
Early one morning the clock in our bedroom which is electronic and looks like the image above did not alarm at 7AM as it usually does. I woke up anyway at about a quarter after 7 and went to get Cheryl’s meds for 7 that day. I helped her up to the bathroom and after she took her meds and was heading back to bed for a bit she said – I don’t understand how do you know what clock to use. Me – I use that one to get up for your seven o’clock meds. It’s a little off. (I was thinking of the wind-up in the living area which bongs out the hour all day long.) Her – is it eastern time? Me – yes it is.
It was my mistake thinking she was comparing the clock’s displayed time to the gongs from the living room clock. No such thing. What she was really telling me is that this clock is confusing to her. About now it displayed 7:22AM or so because the alarm did not sound at 7AM. She did not recognize that the first dose of meds were a little late but she did recognize that the time was wrong. She could not make that connection.
Admittedly when I bought the clock I thought it would help her understand the time of day. In the picture above it displays “Morning”. it also says things like early morning, evening, afternoon, late afternoon and so on. I turned these messages off because at first she would say – what does that mean? Early morning? It is dark out. It seemed to be too much information so I turned it off. I said to her – yes it is eastern time. The whole daylight savings thing is confusing to her and an unimportant imposition by the deep state agency called NOAA. (smiley face.) It occurs to me that I could “spring ahead” or “fall back” at 2AM. I am often up about then for a potty break about then. I do not think the time police get up until about 6AM.
For the rest of this morning she was tired. And the same throughout the day. It is as though the whole discussion about time wore her out somehow.
Everyday comments
Who is eating with us? Sometimes phrased as – Is (name) here too to eat? Or similar. Is everyone eating? — she will ask when I get her out of her office to eat the dinner I have prepared.
While she is working on her birthday card list or Christmas card list the people that she is thinking about become real to her. Occasionally she will talk to them. She will ask questions and talk about what she is doing.
With the pandemic pandemonium we have had many Zoom meetings – She will ask; Where will they all sit? Do we need more chairs?
Carpe diem – I attempted sourdough bread today … a bust on the first experiment. I guess I was hoping the starter would react like real yeast in a jar. Nope!
Maybe in a week after I can find a better name for the starter other than “Larry the Loser”. Maybe “Jack it Up” or “Spring Forward.” (another smiley face)
Adjunct_Wizard 