LifePundit

Valentine's Day in the Alzheimer's Unit

I've got one project to finish this morning then I'm going to visit my parents since I'll be at a meeting downtown later this morning and it won't be too far to go. I got my father to agree to stay home today so that I can see him. I think it was a big sacrifice for him to stay in assisted living rather than go to the garden, but also possibly a relief because he doesn't have to push himself beyond what it takes to make himself sit still, which is probably a big push.

One day he called Non-Saintly Brother and said, "Send somebody up here to get me. Nothing up here but a bunch of old people dying."

So as I get ready to go visit him and Mama, I've been thinking about what I should take them. Valentine's ought to make that easy, but my father can't taste so nothing tastes right (great -- I'm taking him out to lunch) and my mother's eating has gotten so iffy that I'm afraid she'll choke on candy. I guess I'll get flowers, though every time I take them to my father he oohs and aaahs and says nobody likes flowers more than him, then a day later he'll feel guilty for having all that goodness to himself and will put them on the receptionist's desk. Which is okay, too. Sometimes Mama notices flowers. Sometimes not.

Last year at Valentine's my mother was in the Alzheimer's unit and I took her candy in a heart-shaped box, which she didn't care for at the time. When you go visit the Alzheimer's unit, the most important thing you need to bring is your sense of humor. There was an extremely active resident, whom I'll called the Escapist Lady, who was always dressed up and looked like she was just a visitor. She even carried her pocketbook. She frequently slipped out, so they had to put a bracelet on her that would sound whenever she got near the door. Part of the reason she escaped was that she would persuade other visitors that she was just visiting somebody and needed to get outside for her son to pick her up. So they'd let her out.

I had to be careful when I visited Mama that I didn't give the Escapist Lady too much attention and upset Mama. The Escapist was very friendly once intercepted me before I could get to Mama. She gave me a big hug and friendly greeting, and Mama was jealous that I hugged the Escapist before hugging Mama and things went downhill from there.

Anyway. Back to last year's Valentine's candy. Mama didn't have a taste for chocolates that day, so I took the unopened heart-shaped box and put it in drawer in Mama's room. I saw the Escapist, who has a ferocious sweet tooth, watching me. (We usually share what we've brought Mama -- with the permission of the attendants so we don't accidentally give a diabetic something they shouldn't have -- in fact, my father used to bring diabetic treats from time to time, so I know who has sweet tooths and Escapist Lady is insatiable -- and absolutely skinny from constantly pacing.) I noticed the Escapist going into Mama's room and I wondered about it. After Mama and I had finished our visit (she wasn't doing great that day), I took a look in her room. Yes, the Escapist Lady had been there. She'd removed the plastic wrap from the heart-shaped candy box and thrown it in the trashcan. And inside, there was nothing but brown candy wrappers -- she'd eaten every one. Then she put the box back in the drawer.

Oh well. At least somebody enjoyed them.

I just hope I can get my father to and from the restaurant today without him falling over. He won't let me help him and sways in all directions. He's supposed to be in a wheelchair but at least uses a walker. The oxygen tank is another challenge. I hover, and that makes him mad because he says I'm not strong enough to catch him, I get in his way and that he'll squash me if he falls. Better that than him hitting the floor. He no longer weighs enough to do much squashing, though he's certainly capable of making a big fuss.

Ike Fired, Replaced, Replacement Fired, Ike Rehired

Ike's been fired several times since the last time I posted about it, such as here. Ike's my father's driver and much more than that.

Ike got fired and replaced! My father was very, very happy with David, the replacement, who though he couldn't/wouldn't do many of the things Ike did for my father, had the major benefit of not being Ike.

"David's a great fellow with a good family," my father said. "Of course he doesn't help in the garden and that dern Ike wasn't around to do it."

I kept my mouth shut.

I just got off of the phone with my father. He was complaining about Ike at length. Ike took him somewhere today and they got lost because neither knew where they were going and Ike wouldn't make illegal U-turns. This didn't suit and I got to hear a lot of cussing about Ike. Again.

"What happened to David?" I asked.

"Who's David?" he said.

"The driver you hired?"

"I had to fire him. He was so fat there wasn't room in the car for me."

"More Boys Are Born During Wartime"

My father has a lot of wisdom, though you might just call it an odd way of looking at the world.

Here's some of the advice he's given me:

• Don't mess with anybody smarter than you. (Translation: Don't do business with anybody smarter than me.)
• Don't worry about anything you get on yourself that can be washed off. (Translation: When your mother throws up on you because she's recovering from anesthesia, pretend like it didn't happen, even if you are a kid and about to throw up yourself.)
• Anything worth having takes a lot of trouble.
• When the economy goes bad, those lawn service people will be the first to go under.
• Never put all your money in one bank. Nobody needs to know what all you've got or they can control you.
• Buy a car and drive it until the wheels fall off.
• Don't ever quit.
• Always check your oil.
• Don't let the dog sleep in your bed after he's been in poison ivy. (Actually, don't let the dog sleep in your bed was the rule.)

Yesterday he said something to me that is one of the strangest things I've ever heard. All of Saintly Brothers' grandchildren are boys, and we just found out that there's another boy on the way. One of Paul's brothers has a platoon of boys himself.

"More boys are born during wartime," my father said. "At least that's what they used to say."

I've never heard this. I think it's unlikely that it's true, but I wouldn't be completely surprised. Our bodies pick up on all kinds of cues, such as when I was in college living in a dorm our bodies would start to cycle together. Who knows. Maybe when tribes would be at war for generations, more baby boys would grow up in time to be useful. But then it seems like we would always be having more boys.

I enjoy folk wisdom and thought you might, too.

Life-Changing Discovery (If I Can Only Remember It)

I have been chasing my tail for several years now. And this week, I finally caught it.

The catalyst is that writer's course I'm taking (online) on Defeating Your Self-Defeating Behaviors. You have to understand that I am the very definition of Self-Defeating Behaviors. I can read a diet book and eat a brownie at the same time. Buy expensive software and office supplies to track finances in order to save money. Call somebody to tell them I can't do whatever thing they have asked me only to hear myself not only say yes, but offer to be in charge.

And I have never finished a "to do" list in my life. If I hadn't lost it in the mess, I'd probably be working on the "to do" list I started in eighth grade.

Guess what? I can't get it all done because nobody could. My list is too long.

I thought I was smarter, faster, stronger, smellier or whatever and that meant that I really could Do It All. And, to make matters worse, Sometimes I did, validating my self-defeating behavior.

Today I was a failure. I made a list and exchanged it with my new friend and accountability partner who I know very little about (but she's a great accountability partner), and when I send in tomorrow's list and an accounting of today, I'll have to confess: I failed.

Oh, there are a couple of ticky marks on the list where I can cross out things like "Ate three meals," "Killed no one, even if they deserved it," and "Got dressed," but that's about the extent of it. I did not cure cancer, write my novel, finish two projects or the rest of the things on the list.

Today I had a meeting with the my father and the social worker at my mother's nursing home. I got to hear things I wish weren't true. Nothing much has changed. Mama's actually in excellent health, just bedridden and in the late stages of Alzheimer's. The nursing home people are wonderful. And while this has all become routine, deep down, there is nothing routine about it. My parents are running out of time.

The meeting, the visit, the errands for my father, took up a chunk of the morning and kept me busy until it was time to pick Lily up from school. She found me asleep in the car in the school parking lot. And when I got home, I couldn't do anything that requires much more than a brain powered by a 40-watt bulb.

After feeling just awful about this and being certain I would never be rid of my self-defeating behaviors, I had a reckoning: Maybe I shouldn't plan quite so much on days when I get to hear, see and experience the dying of my parents' lights.

I forgive me. I did all that today needed.

Slapping Matthew and Single-Gender Schools

Lily has been in her single-gender magnet public school (actually, there's also a program for boys so it's really a double-gender, single-gender approach but who would know what that means?) for slightly over a year now. It's the best decision we've ever made.

Here's a recent conversation:

Lily: I'm going to be really sad when I get out of eighth grade next year.

Me: Why?

Lily: Everybody is so nice here. Even the mean people.

At her fancy private school (the one we pulled her out of last year mid-year) the mean people were actually mean. Go figure.

In fact, there was a mean boy who was just rude to all the girls. He must have had a terrible crush on them all and didn't have a clue what to do about it, though try to explain that to any of the girls. "He's just mean and rude," they'd say.

He would stand in front of Lily's locker and intentionally block her access. When she'd ask him to move, he'd say things like, "Loser" as he slowly stepped out of the way. That's not why we pulled her out of school, left half-a-year's fully paid tuition on the table, bought property in the other school district so we could apply for admission, paid tuition for the public school in the other district and had to get her admitted to the magnet program. (And if you think any of this means we have lots of money, you're wrong.) Here's why we pulled her out of an excellent school and chose a single-gender school.

But, before she left the private school, she had a fantasy. She was going to slap Matthew on her last day at school when he blocked her from getting to her locker. All the girls were thrilled. They talked about it for weeks. "Lily's going to slap Matthew!" Vigilante justice. There were phone calls. Much scheming. "Lily's going to slap Matthew!"

At the time, my father was in the hospital looking like death and not far from it. We went to visit him. Lily told him, "I'm going to slap Matthew on my last day of school." My father, of course, was all for this.

"Do you know how to slap somebody?" he asked.

She demonstrated her technique. My father gave her some pointers, and there in his hospital bed with tubes and monitors tying him down like Gulliver in Lilliput, he showed her how she needed to bring her arm back as far as she could before letting go as hard as she can. He showed her how to hold her hand to inflict maximum pain.

Then he said, "Okay. You've slapped him. Now what are you going to do?"

Lily thought about this for a minute. "Run?"

"Yes. Run. And run fast. 'Cause if you slap somebody, you'd better be sure you're ready in case they slap you back."

Lily decided that Matthew would be too shocked to slap her back since she had tolerated his insults graciously for years. Plus, her friends were all going to be there.

I was probably not a very good mother in all this, as I didn't forbid it. Sometimes, people just need slapping. Especially uppity Southern aristocratic boys who have forgotten (or never knew) their manners. (See "Gone with the Wind.") Still, I should have said something, though I probably still wouldn't.

There was great anticipation among the girls on Lily's last day of school. Matthew was going to get slapped.

Only, since it was her last day, the cafeteria gave her a cake and everybody sang a song about how they would miss her. All the teachers made a big deal of her departure and how much she'd be missed. And even Matthew was nice.

"I was all set to slap him, but he was all nice."

Oh well. At least she's got the technique down.

There's Always a Way Around the Rules

This is a paid post that I'm not supposed to tell is a paid post. It's for a great web site in the U.K. that tells you How to Beat the U.K. Driving Rules. You still might want to keep reading, because I've made it a story about my father. Here's another way to visit their web site: http://www.uk-driving-secrets.com/. Now onto the story about my father.

My father started driving before you had to have a driver's license. I think that made him believe the rules didn't apply to him because, you know, there weren't any rules when he started. The rules were for other people.

He helped my mother learn to drive, and being the rule-following sort she is/was, she promptly got one of those new driver's licenses the state was offering. She had a two-digit driver's license number. I promise. It gave her problems all of her life writing checks because nobody could believe she had a two-digit number. Or maybe it was three digits. Either way, it was tiresome for her to have the clerks stop everything to show everybody. I remember when it was a brass metal tag that hung on her key ring with stamped numbers, like a dog tag. (I must be old!)

My father's number was much higher, in the normal driver's license number range, because he was probably the last person to get a license once they were required. And he probably got it three months after the cut-off date.

You see, the rules didn't apply to him. Still don't.

He went to The Citadel, S.C.'s military college made famous in Pat Conroy's The Lords of Discipline and other books. My father loved it. It was all very structured and strict, which he said was great training for life because it taught him how to get around all the rules.

Both Saintly and Non-Saintly brothers went there, too. Saintly Brother loved it because it taught him how to live within the rules. Not sure what it did for Non-Saintly.

My father's disregard for the rules played out many times in his driving, for which he was often caught. Once he and Non-Saintly Brother were waiting for a table at a restaurant when a Highway Patrolman came in and stood near them. Non-Saintly Brother said to our father, "That's the closest you've ever been to a patrolman and not gotten a ticket."

My father was always losing his license and getting it back -- or not. He did not confide in me about it, but I remember once he got it back and I realized that at no point had he ever stopped driving.

He did the usual things -- usually speeding speed, but also driving the wrong way down a road (it was a shorter route and no one was coming, he said), using highways that were under construction and not open to the public (he once worked for the highway department so he understood how to drive on unfinished roads), etc. I have many childhood memories of getting stopped by the law in several states. Well, any state we were in, frankly. And he always argued with them. Always.

My mother never got a ticket. Guess they balanced out.

Not long before his doctor persuaded him to quit driving I saw my father stopped on the side of the road by yet another highway patrolman. I'm not sure what my father did to attract his attention, but the patrolman was arguing with my father over whether or not my father's S&W .357 magnum revolver was legally stored when it was in the driver's door storage bin. I made the mistake of stopping. The patrolman said, "Your father needs to have his gun in the glove compartment and have it locked."

My father said, "It is in a locked compartment when I shut the car door and lock the car."

My father would still be arguing with him if the patrolman hadn't decided that my father was a cute and charming 92-year-old and let him off with a warning.

The rules did apply to my father, like they do to all of us, but he never let them interfere.

He was a U.S. driver, but if he lived in the U.K., perhaps he could have made use of the U.K. Driving Secrets Guide. I don't think he ever had a problem with a speed camera. The web site philosophy and his seems the same. They say things like, "Why are the police targeting ordinary drivers when they should be catching criminals?" I think I heard my father tell a policeman that once, and the sentence included the words "lazy" and "get off your rusty butt."

I'm not sure that speed was always a problem, but for the average person, that and running lights are the usual issues. The web site linked above says that U.K. drivers risk losing their licenses, their jobs and their social life if they are ticketed unjustly. For all I know the laws in the U.K. are unjust. We have plenty of unjust laws here. The question is, do you beat them, or work to change them? Or ignore them?

The web site also says that the U.K. police are using tickets to gain funding (like many small towns in S.C. with their speed traps) and that highway safety is not improving. This could all be true.

I'm just glad my father's not driving anymore.

Christmas Tradition

I should have seen it coming. It's a Christmas tradition. My father just called (it's 3:00 p.m. my time) to ask me to go Christmas shopping for him to get something for my mother.

Now, this is his 95th Christmas. Surely he could see it coming. And his driver came today and took him places. Surely they could have picked up something in their 80-mile trip. Mama is 45 minutes from here. I'm cooking Christmas dinner. We're trying to go to an early evening church service. No, I can't go Christmas shopping for you.

If Mama knew it was Christmas, I would do anything to make it better for her. I will visit her tomorrow and I do have a little, useless gift that I hope she will enjoy. But whether or not she gets a gift from him tomorrow won't really make that much difference. She doesn't know it's Christmas or, usually, even who I am. (Alzheimer's.)

Jacob Marley must have visited my father, too, because he gave his driver and his driver's friend Christmas bonuses.

When I was little I always found it very exciting to go Christmas shopping with my father on Christmas Eve, getting things as the stores were locking up. Usually because he waited until the last minute he had to spend more, buying nice jewelry for her. That was great fun.

I guess I helped him do this every Christmas Eve until I was married and went North for the Potato Torture with my mother-in-law. That year my parents would have been 74. Lacking my supervision, my father bought my mother a CAMP STOVE. Yes, one of those things you cook with when you are camping. I chastised him, but the stores were closed when I heard about it.

This breaks all the rules. It's worse than a gift you plug in. It's something you cook with without electricity. She didn't leave him. I don't even think she complained. She probably acted excited.

She even used it when they went "camping" in their aged RV, which they used until they were almost 90.

Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays or whatever you celebrate. But please don't give anyone a camp stove.

I Wish My Father Would Quit Firing His Driver

I've invited my father for Christmas dinner, but he wants to go to Non-Saintly Brother's house because Non-Saintly Brother's grown children and their betrotheds are to be there, and that sounded like more fun to him than coming to my house where my mother-in-law will be here possibly demanding demands. I really am absolutely okay with that. When you're 95, you ought to spend Christmas where you want to. Non-Saintly Brother is a good cook, too.

So, I won't be seeing him on Christmas. But, in thinking through the days ahead, it seems to me that he would enjoy going to his own church at least once before Christmas instead of the usual service they hold in the dining room in assisted living, so I told him if he could get Ike (his driver) to take him to church on Sunday, I'll pick him up from there, bring him to our house for Sunday dinner, then take him back to assisted living. He said yes.

Then yesterday he fired his driver, Ike, yet again. I haven't talked to him about it because I have other walls to beat my head against.

Saintly Brother re-hired Ike this morning and Ike has agreed to pick my father up from assisted living on Sunday morning and deliver him to church. (I'm a little disappointed that members of that church as well as family members who are members of that church never offer or arrange to pick him up and take him there. One non-saintly family member always thanks me profusely for bringing him there and tells me how much she enjoys seeing him when he makes it to church, which to my astonishment, no one else ever thinks to bring him, though they go every Sunday. It's all I can say -- or not say -- to keep in check the words, "What's the matter? Your car can't drive up the Interstate?" Yet another reason why I'm not a member of that church.)

Anyway. There's a lot going on at Christmas time, and if Ike can pick up my father on Sunday morning, that will save me over an hour's drive. If my father, who is not senile -- just ornery -- refuses to ride with Ike, well, he's made his choice.

I hope he comes. I've bought food he likes and it would be a great pleasure to be with him. Then I'll take him back and visit with Mama.

We'll also give him his Christmas present, which is an absolutely brilliant idea if I do say so myself. Saintly Brother and I have pitched in on a digital photo frame. Saintly Brother picked it up and is loading it with photos. He'd rather do that than wrap it (what a deal!). If it can withstand being knocked on the floor with my father's weekly fall, it's the perfect gift for his small, crowded room in assisted living.

Will he ride with Ike? Stay tuned. Why does Ike put up with this? He's just a really nice man.

New Word for Dying: Transition

The good news: the hospice people said that Mama is in no pain and will be in no pain. They see her on-coming death as a natural process, which it is. But they have a new word for it: she's transitioning.

For people who are otherwise straightforward and truthful, I was having a little trouble following their conversation when they would mention Mama's "transition," until they used it in the context of her transition from this world to the next. That's a good way to look at it and it does make it easier on the family to think about Mama not dying but transitioning to the next, better world. Heaven.

I thought I'd heard all the euphemisms for death. This is a new one.

There was even some ambiguity. Maybe the transition was from the real world to the one in her head. They said she sleeps so much in part to block out what's going on around here. That sounds like depression to me, but I'm sure whatever she can do to escape the reality of Alzheimer's, such as sleeping so much, has to be a good place to go, whether it's a transition or a nap.

She's lost five pounds this month. She is still able to eat and swallow and engage in the sorry world around her. She needs to get out of bed once a day and sit up in order to keep her lungs clear and reduce the risk of blood clots.

After the meeting my father wanted to go to a hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant he loves, so that's what we did. Then Saintly Brother took him out to the garden. My father has recently had 100 cabbage plants planted and other stuff I've lost count of. He's not transitioning nowhere.

No Time for Meetings

Lily's having exams, I'm trying to finish up two projects, and we're meeting again with hospice today to discuss Mama's descent into the later stages of Alzheimer's.

My father called this morning at 6:30. (When the phone rings early or late, you know it's him. He's always up.) "We've got that meeting to go to today," he said. "Always a meeting."

"I want to go to hear about how Mama is doing," I said.

"I know how Mama is doing. I don't need to go to a meeting," he said. "I don't have time for all these meetings." He has blueberry bushes to plant.

"Then don't go."

"Of course I'm going," he said. He also told me that he's sending out some men to get my manure. It's an awfully cold morning to be shoveling manure.

He sees Mama every day. He does know how she's doing. He may not know what's next and probably doesn't want to hear about it this morning. Neither do I, because we're not going to be told she's getting better. She's had shingles, she's got a catheter and they had to put mittens on her to keep her from pulling it out, and she quits eating from time to time. She stays in bed most of the time, but can make conversation that almost makes sense if you can get her to wake up.

It's all too real. But hospice is good at providing comfort to all of us, and I'm grateful for that.