Worth a read...


http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2014-11-03/dementia-crisis-roils-japan-as-10-000-seniors-go-missing.html

An exciting new voice is being heard in the community.


http://thecaregiversvoice.com/the-caregivers-voice-video-channel/the-caregivers-voice-video-channel-debut/

I Am Officially an Ambassador

I know it's been a while, but I have some exciting news! I am honored to have been chosen to be an Ostrich Purple Angel Ambassador. There are only 50 of us WORLDWIDE! We are a group committed to raising Dementia awareness. This movement was started by a friend I made through a Facebook Dementia support group. Norman MacNamara was diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia at the age of 50. You can find more information on this disease at http://www.lbda.org/node/7

He is fighting back in the most admirable way possible. He is changing the way the world thinks about Dementia/Alzheimer's. The programs he has implemented in his community will save lives. Together, we hope to take these projects worldwide! Just as we are hoping that people will one day see the Purple Angel symbol and know what it means instantly!

This opportunity opens a whole new chapter in dealing with Dementia for me. I hope you will all stay with me on my continued journey because, "Together WE can make a difference!"

Grief: Adrift on a Sea That Has No Direction

Grief must be the most insular of all emotions. Adrift on a sea that has no direction. Each time we grieve, for each person we lose in our lives, it is entirely different. It depends on the relationship we had one with another. Losing a parent, a grandparent, a sibling, a lover, a spouse, a child, a pet, etc. each creates vastly different emotions. I expected to feel the pain born of losing a parent even though I was only Dad’s daughter-in-law. I got it full force.

I knew it was coming long before anyone else did. He and I talked long and often about his desire to go to Heaven. We read the Bible and prayed over it together. He reaffirmed his faith in the Father, the son and the Holy Ghost. In our own ways, we prepared one another for what was coming… that Dad was going… soon. Over the last couple of weeks of his life, I silently grieved as I watched him slipping further away.

I never could have imagined that I would feel two entirely different types of grief. It was impossible for me to prepare myself for the overwhelming sense that I have lost a child. No one ever mentioned that I might feel this way. When you are the caregiver of someone who suffers from the latter stages of Alzheimer’s, you are caring for a child in so many ways. This child is entirely dependent on you for everything. You are solely responsible for cleaning, changing, dressing, feeding, teaching, protecting and loving them.

When you suddenly lose that child that’s inside the parent, there is a void that is staggering. How different your life becomes. How different my life became. For the first time in 3 years, I can leave the house without making sitting arrangements. I can go to the grocery store and not buy the staples that were such a part of his daily diet. (I can’t bring myself to go down the ice cream aisle for fear of dissolving into tears at the sight of his favorite tubs of vanilla.) I no longer have to go to the pharmacy here (seriously, I use to go at least 4 times a week).

I can’t begin to tell you how much I miss hearing him say, “I want my mommy.” I even miss the times he acted out because at least he was here to do it. On the morning of him being gone a week, I awoke in tears. I was saddened by the thought that it was the longest I had been apart from him in 3 years. I was blown away by the thought that each day would irrevocably take us further apart.

Before I had time to adjust to these changes, God moved me hastily forward. Dad died on Tuesday. The following Thursday, Mama passed out and fell. She busted her knees (both knees with chronic problems) because she went straight down on both knees as she lost consciousness. The impact was hard enough to cause compression fractures in 3 vertebrae and she broke 3 toes. I was there that night. I couldn’t have dreamed I would stay a week and a half. I couldn’t have guessed at the number of questions that would be answered while I was home.

Life is already changing at lightning pace. Mama needs more help than she would ever admit. We have a lot of loose ends with our home, jobs, school, etc. We have finally come to the conclusion that we are going to approach life from a rather unorthodox angle. I am going to be home in Florida from Saturday night until Tuesday morning. It will allow me to work my regular Sunday and Monday nights at Peggy’s and take care of the many things that are requiring attention at home. It will enable me to have time with Richard, Jeremy, Jordyn, Melissa, the kids, etc. Then I will be in Gulfport from Tuesday afternoon until Saturday afternoon with Mama. It will give me a chance to have the best of both worlds.

I am home now. For the first time in 3 years, I am in our own home. As much as I miss Dad, I do NOT miss the daily reminders that this was his home and we were just guests here! It’s odd to realize I don’t know if I’ll ever be a fulltime resident here again or not.

For a long time, people have asked me what I was going to do when Dad died. I never had an answer because I didn’t know what life would have to offer me. Now I do know. At least for now, I will be dealing with cancer as well as the aftermath of dealing with dementia.

Because I Love You

This was written yesterday...

IF YOU ARE FAINT OF HEART PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS POST

I want to remind anyone reading this that it is a diary… my diary. I write from my perspective about my experiences. This post may be more graphic, more brutal, more intense, than what I usually write but death is graphic, brutal and intense. If you decide to continue I will point out that I have left out many events and details between the last post and this one. Because, sometimes, it is more than enough to simply live it.

It is 2:00 in the morning here. Today is Tuesday Oct. 23, 2012. Dad's blood pressure (BP) has fallen to 90/61 (at last reading) with a heart rate of 130 (It's been above 120 since 7:00 am yesterday morning). His oxygen saturation is down in the lower 50% range. His temperature is 97 degrees even and he is currently breathing approximately 30-32 breaths per minute (bpm). I have increased the oxygen to 3 liters. He is in a coma now, as his body is slowly shutting down. I was blown away to discover that his kidneys are still functioning. It's only surprising because he only had about 40% function to start with. I totally thought they would be among the first organs to fail.

Dad appears to be gently snoring as I sit here writing this. But sounds can be deceiving. The soft sound is actually the beginnings of the death rattle and he is beginning to experience small bouts of apnea (pronounced pauses in breathing). His lungs are beginning to show signs of having fluids in them (the lower lobe of the right being worse than the left). His hands are held in the same position he has been holding them since I wakened on Friday morning. His circulation is slowing down. His feet are like ice though his hands are still very warm. Cyanosis (something that causes discoloration to appear in certain places on the human body as life slips away) has begun to appear, shades of purple and blue are appearing on his knees, across the bridge of his nose and on his upper lip. Under his fingernails the color seems to deepen more each time I look at them. His head is held almost rigidly in place but his jaw is slack, the correct term is that it has "dropped". He has breathed only through his open mouth since last Friday. His tongue is a purplish hue pushed toward the back of his mouth which causes the snore.


I know he is not suffering, but I am, as I watch him... as I listen to him... as I wait with him.


That reminds me of a time when he was hospitalized (there were so many of those). Because he was being discharged (he had been admitted through the ER in his pajamas a couple of nights previously), I had run home to get him clothes. As I walked in the house, the phone began to ring. It was Dad and he had no memory that I had just left him ten minutes before. He thought he was at a movie theater and he wanted a ride home. He was impatient because he thought he had been there waiting for me all afternoon. When I assured him I would be there in just a minute, he began to cry. Again he insisted that he was tired of waiting and he just wanted to go home and eat. He then shouted at me, "I am sitting here waiting, waiting, waiting, BECAUSE I love you!" The entire situation was founded in the delusions of a demented mind, but those words have replayed themselves a number of times since they were originally hurled at me. They have been an odd litany for me over the past few weeks, but never more so than throughout this seemingly endless night. My mind screams, “Dad, I am sitting here waiting, waiting, waiting, BECAUSE I love you!”

It's 4:00 am. That means time for vitals, assessments, and all the medical stuff again. Well, no significant change in any of the numbers, only his BP has dropped a bit. However, the physical changes are pronounced. His fingers are now turning shades of purple in addition to his bluish fingernails. His eyes and cheeks are suddenly sunken and hollow. His breathing is erratic and the bouts of apnea are worsening. I take great consolation in the fact that he is in absolutely NO pain, he is in his own home instead of a cold institution, and that there isn't a nurse alive who could love him as much as I do or care for him as gently.

6:00 am and the sun is finally rising. We have made it through another night. Morning brings with it more rigidity to his worn out body. The blood in his feet is gathering at the back of his heels (called pooling) and he is developing flat spots where they rest against the mattress. The signs are slowly coming together. His BP is the highest it has been since midnight (which is still abnormally low for him). His feet are cold now as his body temperature begins to drop.

At 8:00 am his blood pressure has dropped significantly again. His breathing pattern has changed drastically. His breaths per minute have slowed down slightly. The bouts of apnea have lessened for now. There are no fluid sounds in his throat and he is back to a slight snore.

9:00 am if you didn’t know what the shadow of death looked like you would probably think he is simply sleeping.

10:00 am and everything is changing now. His breaths per minute are down to about 20. His oxygen saturation is down to 46%. His pupils are fixed and have begun to dilate. I have bumped the oxygen up to 4 liters. I know we are nearing the end of his life. I repeatedly assure him that Mom is waiting for him and it is okay to go join her. I tell him frequently that I love him and it is finally time to go. There is nothing more I can do.

Noon brings major changes. His blood pressure has fallen to 79/43. His pulse is at 46 beats a minute. His body temperature continues to fall. I know in my heart that I will not be checking his vital signs at 2:00 pm. I whisper my goodbye in his ear and leave him alone with his daughter. I know how much she needs this time with him. It is her time to say goodbye, to read him psalms and to pray with him.

At 1:30 pm I am on the phone with one of my nephews when Richard rushes up and says I need to check on Dad. ”Get your stethoscope,” he shouts as I toss him my phone mid sentence and rush to Dad. As I approach the bed, I see that he is still breathing… barely. I listen to his heart beating very faintly. I put my left hand on his now cold forehead. He took three breaths and his heartbeat faded away. At 1:35 pm Dad’s soul left his body and he is finally at peace. He is finally reunited with those who have gone before him. Most importantly, he has left behind the Alzheimer’s that robbed his mind. Now he is once again whole.

In These Final Hours

I have felt a presence these last few hours so strongly I have glanced around rooms…
A mere whisper of movement, a tiny breeze that touches my skin to leave a shiver in its wake…
So strongly I have felt it, I called out your name softly so as not to disturb… either of you.

I watch him sleeping and marvel at the sense of peace I feel wash over me…
At the peace I see erasing the lines time and life have chiseled into his face…
I feel comforted to know that you await him with open arms… anxious to be by his side once again.

Like you, I have loved him… and cared for him… I have devoted this part of my life to him…
My arms feel empty at the thought of him preparing to take wing and fly away from me…
My heart overflows as I feel you hovering nearby, eager to begin your next chapter… with him.

I bow my head and pray knowing that the time to depart his life here on earth draws ever nearer…
I am honored to be here with him, with them, privileged to have had them call me daughter…
I am humbled by the love they still share and blessed to have borne witness to its enduring power…

There will be dancing on the clouds of Heaven soon, while a host of angels sing and rejoice…
Before long this precious father-in-law of mine and his beloved bride will finally be reunited…
Never again to be separated by… time… space… life… or death… together for all eternity…
together they will forever soar free.

It's Sunday and Time Is Marching On...

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Around 3:45 this morning, I called hospice. Dad could no longer swallow and was choking. I knew it was time, but I needed them to tell me it was. The nurse assured me it was time to start administering atropine drops to reduce secretions and a combination of Roxanol and Xanax to keep him pain-free. Because he was in distress, I gave him the prescribed dosage. He settled into a deep and peaceful sleep. For now, he seems to only need the meds every 4-6 hours.

The grandchildren and great-grandchildren that live locally were here most of the day. The children don’t hesitate to run in and out of his bedroom. Little Tyler is only 4 years old and he goes and “checks on” his Pop every 10 minutes or so. I cannot help the smile that crosses my face every time I hear that little voice shout, “Hi, Pop!” when he enters the room. The dog periodically jumps up on the bed and slinks forward to lick Dad’s face. His only living daughter spent a great deal of the afternoon by his side. As these things occur, I am reminded that we are a family and this is life.

It reminds me of all the reasons I had my youngest daughter at home, rather than a hospital. There I was at peace, surrounded by those closest to me. Here he is at peace, surrounded by those closest to him. There a life was welcomed in a virtually pain-free environment. Here a life is waiting to enter the Kingdom of Heaven in a completely pain-free environment.

This is a celebration of life tinged with a hint of great sadness. To lose one you love is always heart-wrenchingly sad. But, there is great joy at the thought of him finally freed from the Alzheimer’s that was slowly destroying him. There is great joy at the thought of him finally being reunited with his beloved bride of nearly 70 years.

Without a shadow of a doubt, it’s going to be another very long night and I’m betting it’s going to end up being just me and him. Together, waiting, as time marches on…

It's Just the Two of Us Here

Yep, it’s official. Dad has a Urinary Tract Infection (UTI). It took until Tuesday to get a viable sample. Because it was almost closing time at the lab, it was Wednesday before we got the results. I am not a patient person by nature but this has been a ridiculously long drawn out process. A normal person would go to the ER and they would diagnose it quickly, hand you a prescription for an antibiotic then send you on your merry way. Dad is on hospice so things are no longer normal. I cannot take Dad to the hospital this time because they would admit him. I promised him that he would die at home. I will honor that promise.

By Tuesday night, he was aggressive and combative, obviously not in his right mind. Every time I got within arms-reach, he would grab my arms in a grip stronger than I could have ever dream he was capable of. He would squeeze them tighter and tighter until I could break free. He laughed and told me he wanted to break them. He would claw and pinch. When I fed him, he spit the food at me and was convinced I was trying to poison him. He tried to bite me multiple times.

On Wednesday the tests results came back that he had a raging UTI. For a variety of reasons, they had to grow a culture to determine which antibiotic to put him on, which meant waiting another 24 hours. While the nurse was here she got to see him trying to break my arm. She said it even scared her. He was getting worse and we both knew it. They started him on pain medication believing his combativeness was caused by pain he couldn’t communicate to us. Apparently they were right because the behaviors stopped as soon as he started taking it.

By noon on Thursday Dad had become less responsive, sleeping constantly. Barely rousing to eat, drink and take meds. Steadfastly, he refused to open his eyes. That afternoon, the culture results came back…contaminated. Once again, we needed a urine sample. It was getting harder and harder to get one.

Friday dawned and I was shocked to see the further rate of deterioration. He is beginning to look gaunt. He doesn’t respond to anything but pain (ie. If I move him to change his diaper he moans). His oxygen saturation level has dropped to a consistent 89. I started him on 2 liters of oxygen and called hospice. We quickly agreed it would be best to get a nurse out here to get a sample using a catheter since it was obvious there was no other way to get one. It was also obvious we were running out of time.

A new nurse came out and she seemed to understand my frustration at the whole situation. Once we had the sample, she got the doctor on the phone. She requested that she be allowed to call in a prescription for a standard antibiotic, Cipro to buy us time to get the lab results. He started it as soon as I could pick it up, but I have to wonder if it’s already too late. This is the point where I have to have faith in medical science and BELIEVE that it might work.

This morning Dad was aware of me when I gave him his meds, crushed up and swimming in water. My heart swelled to nearly bursting when he croaked out a labored, “I love you”. I still can’t get him to open his eyes. But he did squeeze my hand weakly in response to my squeezing his, which is more than I’ve gotten since Wednesday. The threat of aspiration hangs over us as I continue to try to get water, Ensure and medications down his throat. I know I am fighting a losing battle. Still, I must continue to try.

Dad is 90 years old. He’ll reach 91 if he sees Nov. 11th. His medical history is unbelievable. His list of current diseases and conditions is quite lengthy. The number of pills he takes daily is staggering, even now. He lost his bride two and a half years ago. All of his old friends are gone now. He has buried two of his daughters. He has zero quality of life and has had for quite a while now. He has given up and is ready to go.

His body is slowly shutting down as I sit here listening to him breathe, the sound separate from the steady rise and fall of the oxygen machine. This afternoon, Richard helped me get him cleaned up and get his bedding changed. He roused as we finally got him resettled and actually opened his eyes. Dad focused his eyes briefly on his son and whispered, “I love you”. He tried to talk more but the effort was simply too much. He managed to keep his eyes open through almost half an Ensure and a bit of water. His eyes trying to focus as he followed my movements. Eventually, his eyelids softly closed, his eyelashes fanning out against his sunken skin.

He has been sleeping ever since. It is just the two of us here. I hold his wrinkled hand tightly. My voice rings loudly in my ears as I talk to him while coaxing him to swallow “one more dropperful of water”. Each time I succeed my heart rejoices. Each time he chokes, my heart plummets. Every once in a while, he tries to clear his throat then all settles back to the rhythms of man and machine. And time marches on…

"Why Won't You Let Me Go?"

Escalating Agitation Born of Confusion

“Who are you?”
“What are you doing?”
“Why are you touching me?”
“Get away,” (slap, slap, slap)
“Stop!” (slap, slap, slap) “Stop!”
(struggle, slap, struggle) “Help! Call the police!”
“Get me a phone they are holding me hostage…”


(Sob) “I want my Mommy. Please.”
(shaky hand grips my wrist)
“Why won’t you let me see her?”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
(shaky hand wipes wet eyes)
“I just want to go home.” (body shudders once)
“Why won’t you let me go?”


Momentary Leap Into the World of Lucidity

“What time is it?”
(struggling attempt to rise)
“What can I do to help you today?”
(eyes focus on me, clear and comprehending)
“I miss my wife.”
“Do you think I will ever get to see her again?”
“How did everything get so fucked up?”


(shaky hand reaches for me)
“I know you didn’t sign up for this.” (sigh)
“I don’t understand why you have stayed.”
“I want you to know I’d be dead without you.”
(squeeze tightly) “Please don’t leave me, okay?”
(eyes search mine) “Can I ask you a question?”
“Why won’t you let me go?”

3 Days of Decline

As far back as 2001, we knew there was something wrong with Dad. By 2005 he was on anti-psychotic and anti-Schizophrenia medications but his primary physician avoided an official diagnosis. In 2007, he began prescribing Alzheimer’s medications, sent him to a psychiatrist and a neurologist… but still no diagnosis. I have read his medical charts, so has his most recent primary physician. There was never a point when he was actually diagnosed but the introduction of various medications tell a tale all their own.

This insidious disease spread slowly through his brain. His rate of decline amazingly having its own pace. But things have taken a surprising (to me) turn. His physical and mental decline are accelerating faster and faster. They have reached a point far beyond my control. Far beyond anyone's control.

Day before yesterday he decided to give up. He no longer wishes to live. More than anything on earth, he wants to “go home”. He spent the morning waiting alternately for his “Mommy” or the school bus. His speech was starting to slur. When asked where he was, he repeatedly responded, “England”. He constantly fretted saying that he doesn’t understand why we are keeping him here against his will. He was still able to help with his transfers from bed to potty chair and back. But, I could easily see he was growing weaker.

Yesterday his speech not only slurred but his words rarely made sense. He slept almost constantly and it was a tremendous struggle to get him to wake up long enough to force food and drink into him. At one point, trying to get him onto the potty, we ended up falling on the floor together. On the bright side, when we went down I was able to completely break his fall…with my body. It took almost 20 minutes to get him off me and rolled into a position that allowed me to drag him backward to rest his back against the side of the bed so I could go get Richard (he was downstairs asleep) to come help me get him up and back into bed.

Today has been different. He has slept much of the day. Sometimes he is a little bit clear, other times he is a lot hazy. He is in diapers now and he he seems to have no control over his body. Richard has gotten his first clear picture of how serious things have become. He has been a big help today and for that I am grateful. I know how difficult it is for him (after all, this is his father) but I am glad he finally sees clearly what our lives, Dad’s and mine, are like now. I spoke to hospice about my growing concerns. I also requested that we check him for a urinary tract infection. If he has one, some of what is going on may be explained by that. I guess we will know more tomorrow. Richard cooked dinner tonight and we (even Jordyn) ate it in Dad’s room with him. He ate it all, sometimes lucid, sometimes not. His imaginary world is now his constant companion. I watch him slipping farther away, a little more each day. My heart hurts and I am just plain tired.

Squamous Cell Carcinoma is One of the Dirtiest Things I Know

Well, here we are. Dad’s mental state is deteriorating noticeably. He has this annoying new habit of laughing to himself when he disagrees with anything that is said to him. I never knew a laugh could sound so painful… so hateful. He is becoming more paranoid and delusional daily. He frequently has no idea where he is and asks why we “brought him here to visit”. He is transported back in time to Louisiana and believes he still lives there. It isn’t uncommon for him to ask me to “take him back to his bride”.

Physically he is doing amazingly well. Ask anybody that knows him and they will tell you he looks better than he has in years. If you were to ask his doctors, they would tell you that he is in remarkable shape for someone with his list of physical conditions, diseases and age. He is frequently referred to as a medical miracle. It’s as if his physical state is improving as his mental state declines.
Tomorrow, we will go in for yet another surgery. Dad has squamous cell carcinoma on his right ear, again. They will do Moh’s surgery and it will be gone… until the next time.

This past week we found out my mother has squamous cell carcinoma. It’s not on her, it is inside her. She has lung cancer. It wasn’t there in April when she had a CT scan because of pneumonia but it is there now in August. I wish to God there was a treatment like Moh’s that could fix her as easily. Hers is inoperable. We are so in need of a medical miracle here. What a difference it makes to have something like this inside your body rather than outside it! I hate that I am here and not there. I hate that I constantly end up feeling like I am letting down someone in my life, someone that I love. It is all part of the curse/blessing of being a caregiver.

For those who may not know it, my mother spent the last seven years of my grandmother’s life as her caregiver. She devoted herself to her mother. She gave up her home, her time, her everything to be there and care for her mother. We lost Grandmama 5 months ago. Needless to say, Mama has been killing herself trying to settle her estate, deal with all the little things that have to be done, all while dealing with her grief. As she has physically deteriorated, we all assumed it was just a part of the insane stress she has been under. We never guessed there was a time bomb ticking inside her.

Caregiver stress weakens the immune system. A weakened immune system allows things like cancer to grow. I can’t help wondering if there isn’t a direct correlation between the amount of stress and the rapidity of the growth of her disease. I am so frustrated and angry at something so far beyond our control. But I do know that those feelings, too, will eventually pass. Isn't it odd how much of everything in our lives depends on the passage of time?

My mother is one of my heroines. She is one of my best and dearest friends. She raised me and my little sister as a single mom in an era where we were the minority. Very few of my friends growing up lived in a one parent household. If they did, it was usually because a parent had died, not divorced. Mama worked for a pittance and struggled to provide for the three of us. She held her head high and did the best she could (with much help from her beloved parents). She taught me that I can do anything I put my mind to as long as I believe in MYSELF. Most importantly, she loved us.

Over the last five months, I have thought to myself countless times that Mama finally has an opportunity to LIVE. She can finally live her life for herself… she can do the things she has never been free to do… she can live a life where she doesn’t have to answer to another living soul. I’m a bit pissed off that a stupid disease is invading her and trying to knock her down. It is a strong reminder that life is too short. It’s a shame it takes reality biting us in the butt to remind us that life is ALWAYS too short!

I have often said that I come from a long line of Steel Magnolias. It is strong, female, southern stock that always seems to rise like a phoenix amidst the ashes of circumstance. Yes, I know I am somehow mixing metaphors but I also know that the people who read this will completely get my meaning. I also know that there is always a chance my mom will beat this thing simply because she is who she is and she is a Steel Magnolia.

If you know my mother, you know what a great person she is. If you don’t know her, I sincerely wish you did because your life would be enriched by the acquaintance. But whether you know her or not, I ask that you lift her up in prayer, kind thought and wishes. Every little bit helps. And we all need a little help sometimes.

Damned Spark Plugs

With this disease, time can be your friend if you choose to see it as such. On Friday, I was at my wit’s end. The ups and downs were just too fast and furious to keep up with. Dad was so far out of control, and at times, so far out of touch with reality that I was having a hard time keeping up.

The highlight of my Saturday was receiving a phone call from him late last night (he was upstairs and I was down). He had found my cell phone number on a piece of paper in his bathrobe pocket and thought I was a girl he had met in a nightclub a few days ago. LOL! He called to invite me to come over and spend the night with him! I went upstairs and assured him he must have been dreaming and he drifted off to sleep again.

Today, he woke up and came toward the kitchen. When he saw me, he stopped in his tracks and said, “I know this is going to sound stupid but where the hell are we?!?” A quick look at his face, and the cloud covering it, told me he clearly didn’t know.

I replied, “Four Mile Village in Santa Rosa Beach, Fl. We are in your house… the house you have lived in for 32 years.” Slowly I made my way to him and gently took his arm, leading him to his chair.

He put his elbows on his arms and buried his face in his hands. “Goddamn! Why am I so stupid?” He began to cry as I reassured him that he isn’t stupid, it’s simply his disease causing him to get confused. When he got hold of himself, he asked me what the name of the disease was. I told him Alzheimer’s. “That’s right. I knew that.”
Then he asked, “What is it? What does it do? Please try to help me make sense of all this.” As he stared into my eyes with the most heart wrenching of appeals, I searched frantically to find a way to explain it that he would be able to understand.

Taking a deep breath, I said, “Dad, it’s kind of like the spark plugs in a car. If one or more of them are misfiring, the engine doesn’t communicate properly. The neurons in your brain misfire sometimes. Sometimes they short out. It doesn’t make you stupid, it just makes you forget things and it makes you confused when it happens.”

He gave me a watery smile and asked, “Can’t we get some new spark plugs?”

“I wish it were that simple but it’s not.” I put my arm around him. “There is no cure for Alzheimer’s. There is no way to fix it but the medications you take are slowing it down.”

He turned to me. “This morning when I woke up, I went to the bathroom. While I was standing there, my mind started spinning, thinking about all sorts of things. It began spinning and spinning and spinning till everything ran together. When it finally slowed down, I didn’t know where I was so I came in here. When I saw you, I knew you would know the answers. I knew you would take care of me. You always take really good care of me.” He smiled, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure Dad. You can ask me anything.”

“Who are you married to?”

I softly replied, “Richard.” Dad shook his head and muttered, “Damned spark plugs”. In a flash I knew that we had each made a connection with the others world. It was an illuminating yet frightening insight. But one I am so thankful to have experienced.

Battered & Bruised, Dazed & Confused

Today has been a nightmare, dealing with Dad. He is aggressive, defiant, belligerent and completely confused. This morning he lined up wastebaskets on the kitchen floor and refused to let me move them. He had no reason for his action other than he wanted them right where they were. It was over 2 hours before I could finally get them back in their rightful places.

This afternoon, he took pictures off the wall in the living room and laid them out on the floor for no apparent reason. As I was rehanging them, he asked me why I had taken them down. When I told him I hadn’t, he said the kids must have done it. I didn’t even bother to explain we were the only 2 people at home. Then he slipped out the front door and proceeded to go down the steps (which he is NOT allowed to do). I found him sitting on the steps calmly cleaning his fingernails. Bear in mind, he NEVER goes outside unless we have a doctor’s appointment or someone stops by. When I tried to patiently explain that he is not supposed to go up or down stairs, he got angry and began cussing and yelling at me. Nothing like a scene on the front steps to get your blood boiling. I simply threw my hands in the air and followed behind him as closely as I could.

During dinner, he was insistent he needed to call Richard. It rapidly became a fixation so I told him we would call as soon as he was finished eating. I dialed the number for him and handed him the phone. I was shocked to hear him cheerfully tell Richard how nice it was to meet his wife after all these years. Suddenly, I realized he didn’t recognize me at all. I’m not sure who he must have thought I was prior to that. The next couple of hours were spent trying to explain to him that he had met me for the first time today, that he has known me for 31 years and that I have lived here with him for the last 3. His comprehension of it was completely absent. This went on until suddenly, like a veil being lifted from his eyes, the recognition returned and with it came mortification at his actions.

He doesn’t want to use his walker all of the sudden and he gets angry when he is reminded of it. Yesterday, he pushed it into me on purpose. Today he actually lifted it and swung it into the back of my knees, while yelling, “If I want to use the f*cking thing I will!” It almost knocked me off my feet. If I roll it toward him, he either pushes it back at me forcefully or he snatches it away and bangs it on the floor. He is a petulant child about it. It has never been an issue before. He uses it because he knows he needs it. Surprisingly, he has been pretty steady without it. But it is a necessity to help prevent falls and he DOES have to use it.

This disease batters and bruises the heart, mind and soul (and occasionally the body). It sucks the breath right out of you. It takes you by surprise at every turn until you are exhausted and drained. It frequently leaves you dazed and confused. Now, all of this is from the caregiver’s perspective. Imagine for a moment what it must be like to be the person with the disease. Go ahead, just try. Never mind, you can’t and neither can I.

Dark Clouds Over My Head

I have seriously debated whether or not I should write about the following subject. It seems too, well, personal somehow. But I committed myself to being forthright and honest here. As much as I wish it didn’t, it bugs the heck out of me. And I can’t help wondering if anyone else has experienced such a thing…


As children we all have crushes, at some point or another, on an adult who in some way takes care of us or is kind to us. Teachers, preachers, doctors, nurses, neighbors, family friends, etc… they are all targets for admiration, affection, idolization, etc.


Dad is like a child in so many ways. Some are cute. Some aren’t. This crush he has is some of both, but mostly it’s just plain embarrassing. He will profess his undying love for me multiple times a day. He proposes at least once a day (and he is serious). When I gently remind him that I am married to his son, he usually asks me why I would marry Johnny (Johnny is his brother who died at least a decade before I married into the family). I point out I’m married to Richard (his youngest son) and he tells me I should get a divorce and marry him.

When he talks about me to others, he makes me sound like I am perfect. Perfect is something I am clearly NOT. In his eyes, I can do no wrong but that becomes a weighty responsibility in its own right. I make mistakes all the time. I make poor decisions. I am stubborn to a fault. I can be a downright bitch. But Dad never sees any of that because Alzheimer’s has given him the gift of “rose-colored glasses”. He sees what he wants to see about everything and everybody. If the situation is more than the glasses can handle, he simply forgets all about it. I find it very embarrassing for anyone to suggest perfection in another human being.

He is grateful for all I do and communicates it profusely. Now please, don’t get me wrong. It is wonderful to know that someone… anyone… really, truly, honestly appreciates the things you do for them and for others. But being told dozens of times a day is an embarrassment in itself.

I could go on and on here about specific incidents that have made me feel VERY uncomfortable. But, I won’t. Instead I want to focus on the way I handle the whole crush thing. I am gentle and slow my speech and movements down so that he can more easily follow. I thank him (for compliments and proposals alike) and point out that I am his daughter-in-law. He invariably gets sad and says, “I know but I love you and I can’t live without you.” And that, Folks, is why they call it a CRUSH.


I know there is no real solution for the situation. I know he can’t understand just how embarrassing it is for me (and would be for him, if he were cognizant). I know I can’t stop him from any of it. I often wonder if it’s wrong of me to wish I could. I remind myself I should be grateful for these sweet, loving, docile moments (and I’m sure I will be one day). But, right now, they are shadowed too heavily with the clouds of his infatuation.

Turns Out I'm Only Human After All

I read an article this morning that really made me stop and evaluate a few things, “Compassion Fatigue Strikes Family, Even Animal Caregivers” by SUSAN DONALDSON JAMES | Good Morning America. The article states that thousands of Americans are suffering from compassion fatigue, a term used to describe the symptoms of secondary post-traumatic stress caused by caregiving.

Caring for others too much can hurt, according to the Compassion Fatigue Awareness Project, no matter how old you are or in what capacity you're providing care. "You take on the pain of others and suffer, bottled up, angry and suppressing feelings," said project founder Patricia Smith. "Your impulse is to rescue. You don't have any personal boundaries, but you become isolated and lose your self-care in the process."

Without paying attention to their own needs, caregivers can turn to destructive behaviors. "It's a natural consequence of stress," said Smith. "In healthy caregiving you are 100 percent present in their care with empathy and compassion. But it's unhealthy when things in your own life are not resolved and you take on their suffering as your own."

More than 65 million Americans, about 29 percent of the population, is providing care for someone who is chronically ill or disabled and spend an average of 20 hours a week looking after a loved one, according to the National Alliance for Caregiving in collaboration with AARP.


Just last night, I melted down emotionally and could not stop the flood of tears that washed down my face. I was on the phone with a friend and I admitted that I find the pain of others quite overwhelming sometimes. I said I wished I could just stop caring so much. I was informed I couldn’t do that because it is WHO I am.
When I got off the phone, I felt a serious need to apologize for breaking down. I mentally kicked myself for allowing the day to “get the best of me”, for temporarily losing control in the face of severe adversity.

I looked back over recent text messages from friends and I realized that when I’m asked “How are you doing?” my replies usually revolve around Dad, Peggy (the 89 yr old lady I work for as an overnight caregiver), the kids, etc. I guess they are my barometer. But I also noticed the number of times certain friends have responded, “But, how are YOU doing?” I know they are genuinely concerned but I don’t want to burden others with my feelings.

I usually reply, “I’m fine, just tired.” There you go, I admit it. I am suffering from Caregiver Fatigue (CF). I also admit to suffering from Superman (or in my case Superwoman) Complex. I find it nearly impossible to admit that life overwhelms me sometimes. I would much rather convince the world and myself that I can handle anything, anytime. I can’t stand to let, what I perceive to be, my weaknesses show except to a VERY select few. This, of course, becomes a factor in the never ending cycle of CF.

I have spent my whole life caring for others. I have always put the needs and wishes of others before my own. I honestly wouldn’t have a clue how to behave any differently. It IS who I am. There comes a point where even I have to realize that it can wreck your emotional health (and in some cases, your physical health as well).

Yesterday, I started my day, after an almost sleepless night with Peggy, to find that she is growing weaker instead of better. (A couple of weeks ago her Home Health nurse recommended that it was time to bring hospice in. Her daughter, who is also her power of attorney, is vehemently against the idea, stating that her “girls”, meaning we caregivers, can handle it). Here, I will go on the record and say that the additional help would be most welcome for all of us.

Add to that… getting potentially bad news and seriously bad news from two different people closest to me.

Then, I spent several hours listening to Dad tell me he thinks “it would just be best to go ahead and die”. If that weren’t enough, he seemed to take great satisfaction in coming up with various ways he could “end it himself”. As much as I know it is his Alzheimer’s talking, I couldn’t help getting upset by it. Not to mention being completely frazzled by trying to keep 4 children out of the room so they would hear as little as possible of what he was saying.

Ok, so reading back through my day yesterday gives me pause. I have every right to fall apart occasionally. I have every right to feel sadness and pain. Maybe, if I claim those rights and get off my own back, I will be able to deal with the stress and fatigue a bit better. I am doing the best I can with all I deal with and I need to give myself a break from judging myself so harshly. I need to stop being my own worst enemy and get off my back a bit. Because in the end, I have to remind myself that I am only human.

Balls in the Air

When we are born they take care of us. They feed us and change us and see to our constant needs. They keep us safe and teach us right from wrong. They hold us when we are frightened and comfort us when we are hurt. They don’t ask for anything in return, they do it all because they love us.

Being a family caregiver to someone with any form of Dementia is the most difficult job you will ever have. You have to step into the role of parenting a parent or grandparent. We do for them, as they did for us, because we love them.
Like a baby, they often cannot express themselves well enough to tell where it hurts or why they are frightened. They rely on us to make it better. They are no longer capable of knowing right from wrong so we must gently guide them in the right direction. They have no concept of what is safe and what is not so we must do all in our power to keep them from injury. It can drain every bit of energy from you, leaving you exhausted almost constantly, in a much more wearing kind of way than being a new parent.

There are always times when you will be exasperated. For example, when Dad brings me a handful of light bulbs (removed from every lamp in his bedroom) and says he doesn’t understand why they all burn out at the same time. A couple of times a week, at least, he accidentally turns off the wall switch and suddenly, they no longer work. We have been over this more times than I can count but he just doesn’t understand. So, I smile and put them all back. With the flip of a switch, his world is momentarily right again. And I am an undeserved heroine.

The examples of exasperation are so great in number I could easily write an entire book on that subject alone. So can any caregiver. It is a common bond we all share along with exhaustion, worry, prayer, at times anger, and frustration… the list is never-ending.

Then there is the other side of the coin, the rewards we get from what we are doing. The love we give and receive in return, the joy at the tiniest of accomplishments. The satisfaction of doing something right, something that prolongs the life of someone we love. Here too, the list is never-ending.

We caregivers are jugglers. And we sometimes drop the ball. We wouldn’t be human if we didn’t but the trick is learning to not beat ourselves up for it. The people in each of our lives who never pick up the ball to begin with are the ones who are losing. They will never know how much they have missed. Odds are, they will never care. Some people care too much. Some people don’t care enough. That’s just the way it is.

As for me, I’m just trying to keep my head held high and my balls in the air. And if I shed a tear or two along the way, I know it is alright. I will wipe my eyes and keep going for as long as I am needed.

Hold Onto It

April 28, 2011

I’ve said it before and I am going to say it again, “You can not reason with a demented mind. It is absolutely, positively impossible.” I promise you that any attempts to do so will result in a battle fueled by frustration for all parties concerned. No one will walk away victorious. The key is, knowing when it’s time to walk away.
Whenever possible, I try to change the subject but the level of his current fixation determines whether that will work or not. At other times, a distraction will work to sidetrack his thoughts. But if all else fails, there is simply no other choice…it’s time to walk away.
Sometimes when I retreat, I feel as if I am running away but I’ve come to understand that in reality, it can become simply a matter of my survival. When you are caring for someone you love, you have to remember to first take care of yourself. Nobody is going to do it for you, anymore than they will volunteer to take the weight off your shoulders. That’s just the way it is.
There is nothing easy when you are trying to function 24/7 with someone who has Alzheimer’s. It isn’t easy for the person living it and it isn’t easy for the person taking care of them. Hell, the bottom line is, it isn’t easy for anyone who comes in contact with it!



Dad has been more confused, more disoriented, more depressed, more uncommunicative, more apt to fall into favorite repetitive stories, and even less steady on his feet for the past few weeks. His lab work is good and he isn’t on any new meds that would be causing any more side effects than usual. His weight, Pulse Oxygen and Blood Pressure have been running consistently in very good range for him. He eats well and sleeps well. He is mentally deteriorating much faster now while he seems to have, in many ways stopped his physical deterioration.
He has been much more antagonistic than usual. He acts as if he is spoiling for an argument sometimes. I don’t know if it’s the Alzheimer’s or if he is somehow aware that Easter Sunday 2011 made it exactly 1 year since Mom died. It could easily be a combination of both or something all together different.

I can’t believe it’s been a whole year. I can picture the last 24 hrs of her life so clearly, down to the minutest details. I have often wished over this past year that I could erase parts of it. At the same time, I have prayed that I will never forget others.
Dad doesn’t have that luxury. The Alzheimer’s that plagues him is in control. It takes away as many good memories as it does the bad. Over time it changes details, people, names, dates, times, places, and events. It spins deluded, convoluted, and quite often nonsensical memories that trail in its wake.

Dad is starting to have a lot more episodes where he doesn’t recognize the family that lives locally or even in his home. Often, he becomes agitated for no apparent reason. Until recently, it was fairly easy to isolate things that disturbed him and once they were corrected to his satisfaction, he would settle down. Lately, his reasoning makes no sense so it’s virtually impossible to figure it out or to correct it.
The hardest of all is watching him becoming more delusional. Tonight at dinner, he told me an elaborate story about how he was once a weatherman. It started out that he had to learn all about weather as a pilot, “Not during the war of course because the military told you all you needed to know about the weather. It was their job to worry about it. All you had to worry about over there was doing your job and keeping your ass from getting shot down so you could go home.” I was floored when his story turned from the usual wartime memories to end up with him explaining that he was a weatherman on T.V. “for quite some time until they brought in that bald headed guy I can’t stand (Jim Cantore)”. If I had been a stranger listening to the tale he was telling, I would probably have believed him because he sounded so sure of the details. He even went so far as to say that he hasn’t liked Jim Cantore since the day he met him and knew he was going to be his replacement. “Of course, that was long before your time.” He assured me. I nodded and asked questions when it seemed he wanted me to but mostly, I just let him spin his fantasy until it played out. Sometimes, the greatest gift we can give as a caregiver is to simply listen.

At another point today, Dad wanted to know where everybody was. I explained that Melissa had taken all four of the kids home to her house. He quietly said, “I never would have thought you were that kind of woman.” Startled, I asked what he meant. He replied, “I never would have thought you were the type of woman who would give your children to somebody else to raise. I would think you would want to do it yourself.”
“Dad, three of those children are Melissa’s. Jordyn is mine. We take care of hers when she’s at work and she takes care of them and Jordyn when she isn’t. We help each other out.”
“I know that!” He interjected sharply before he shook his head sadly, “Who helps her with them? She shouldn’t have to take care of all those children by herself! That’s too much for her to do.”
“We do.” I said softly. “We help her a lot, Dad. And she helps me a lot by taking Jordyn and giving us a break from taking care of kids. I think we both need a break sometimes.”
“I love those children and I think most of them are the cutest kids I have ever seen. I want them here. They belong at home with you. Besides, she doesn’t have any help over wherever she is with them.” His agitation steadily grew, “Children should be with their mother!”
“Dad,” I quietly tried to reach him, “They are. Cameryn, Ayla and TyTy are Melissa’s children. Jordyn is mine. I am helping her raise her children and she is helping me raise mine. We are a blended family. I thank God every day that we have most of my children and grandchildren living near us but sometimes we all need a break. Melissa’s children need to be with her at their home.”
He rose from his chair and glared at me as he excused himself to go to the bathroom. On his way out of the room, he said quite clearly, “She shouldn’t have to do it alone. And if you were a good mother, you wouldn’t let her. You would be raising your own damn children.”

With tears in my eyes, I made my way downstairs. It was lost. Not a battle… not a war… but a piece of my heart. There are things about Alzheimer’s you cannot escape. There are things you cannot ignore. There are things you will never be able to forget. There are things that break your heart and attempt to shatter your very self. If you don’t have strength to draw on from the very depths of your soul, my advice to you is to get out. Put your loved ones in the hands of someone who can be detached to some degree because this a job that will breathe joy into you at times and suck it right out of you at others. I promise you this, it can be very hard to pick up the shattered pieces and go on sometimes. But if this is what you are meant to do, you will do it because it’s the only thing you can do. And if you are doing this all because you love someone then the strength you seek is already inside you. Find it… use it… hold onto it!

Life on the Inside Looking Out While Living on the Outside Looking In

I am frequently told things like, “I don’t know how you do it,” or “I couldn’t do what you do,” or “I would go crazy in your shoes.” Then there are the questions like, “Don’t you ever get tired of it?” and “Doesn’t it get to you, doing all you do?” and “What are you going to do when he passes away?”
This is from someone who is living their entire life on the inside looking out while living on the outside looking in. This one is about just me…

“I Don’t Know How You Do It”
There are several answers to this. I get lots of help from above. I pray for wisdom, strength and patience constantly. I have faith that I’ll be shown the answers. I BELIEVE I can make it all work. And it honestly usually does.
My youngest daughter, Melissa, and I have created a blended family that is mutually beneficial to everyone. I have sole custody of my 12 yr old grandson. She is a single mother of three children ages 10, 4, and 2. We have found a way that works very well for us. She works 3 days a week (full time) so I have all the kids and Dad on those days. The other 2 days of the school week, the boys either stay with us or stay with Melissa depending on a number of factors. Weekends she keeps all of the kids at her house. This gives Dad (and me) a much need break from the chaos of children. I KNOW I couldn’t manage without her help. I KNOW she couldn’t manage without mine. That’s an amazing gift! And on the rare occasions when I leave town to recharge my batteries, I know that she can manage things in my absence (and has).
I have found a kind of peace within myself that I didn’t even know existed before we moved here. It’s a place where I can go and draw strength. It’s a place I can believe in myself. I can believe in what I’m doing because I KNOW it’s the right thing to do.

“I Couldn’t Do What You Do”
Trust me when I say you can’t possibly know how you would react until the situation is at hand. I wasn’t sure I could do what I do. When the situation first presented itself, I was terrified. I hated myself for stopping to ask myself if I was willing to give up my entire life as I knew it to move here and take care of, not one but both, of my elderly in-laws. I will never forget how I cried uncontrollably as I questioned why it was falling on my shoulders. And then I realized it was because it was something I only I could do in our situation.
My husband was gone less than a week after his father called to ask for our help. He moved in with them while I stayed behind to pack up our lives and get ready to move our son and grandson yet another time (we thought we were going to settle where we were after a lifetime of many moves). Six weeks later, practically everything we owned was placed into 2 storage units, I had handed our family cat (of 8 years) over to my daughter, kissed her and 3 of my grandchildren good-bye, hugged various friends that I haven’t seen since and we drove off to a whole new life.
That’s when I knew I HAD to do what I do. The funny thing is, looking back now, I know there never really was a choice for me at all. They called. They needed us. We came. And I don’t regret it for a second. I love my life and I love what I’m doing because I love the people involved unconditionally. I don’t know how to love any other way. When you love somebody, you will do anything and everything you can for them. So yes, I bet you could do what I do.

“I Would Go Crazy In Your Shoes”
If you honestly think I don’t have days where I go crazy, stick with that and quit reading this post right now (illusion is a magical thing). Trust me, there are plenty of days when I go crazy. I just try hard not to let most of them show.
For example, take today. In addition to a normal day with Dad and the kids, my son and his fiancée got stuck for a babysitter. Now, I will never pass up a chance to keep my future grandson (he’s 19 months old and adorable!) so of course I said yes. While dinner was cooking, I took the two youngest (still in diapers) downstairs for a diaper change. We then hustled upstairs to get dinner for 7 on the table.
After dinner, I was cleaning the kitchen when my 4 yr old granddaughter announced that the baby had peed in Pop’s chair. About that time he ran into the kitchen so I snagged him up. He was dry as could be but there was a definite odor about him. I shouted back, “Baby Kam didn’t do it.”
No sooner had the words left my mouth than I saw 2 yr old Ty streak past minus his shoes, socks, and pants. Snagging him up I instantly knew he was the culprit. Laughing, I asked, “Can’t you guys just stay clean and dry for a little while?” and headed for the stairs.
As I passed Dad finishing his desert at the dining room table I heard him say, “Oops,” Instantly a rumble came from the vicinity of his chair and he grinned at the babies in my arms. “I guess not.” He rose from the table and said with a twinkle in his eyes, “You change them and I’ll change mine.” I barely made it down the stairs before I burst out laughing.

Then you have the kind of crazy where you’ve been asked the same question 40 times in a day or heard the same story a dozen times in a span of a few hours (only its told slightly different each time because details are so easily forgotten), it’s the kind of crazy where you want to scream to make it stop. There are a lot of different kinds of crazy and you get to see brief glimpses of them occasionally. But that’s when I stop and pray for wisdom, strength, and patience.

“Don’t You Ever Get Tired of It?”
Honestly? The answer is sometimes, for a brief moment in time, maybe. But it doesn’t last long. I get tired of fighting against an insidious disease. I get tired of watching Dad struggle mentally and physically. I get tired of not being able to go where I want to, when I want to. Because Dad requires 24 hour a day constant care, I get tired of not being able to leave the house at all most days. I think more than anything, I get tired of just plain being tired.

“Doesn’t It Ever Get to You, Doing All You Do?”
You can bet your ass it does. It would get to anybody. But you simply do what you have to do.

“What Are You Going to Do When He Passes Away?”
Obviously, this is my least favorite question of all, first and foremost because I am sitting here trying to extend his life. Look, let’s face it. We all die. In fact, from the moment each of us is born, we are all dying. But I don’t think anyone actually wants to dwell on that fact too much. We are here to live.
I can’t answer this question. I have no clue where we will go from here. I thought we were settled just before the series of events took place that brought us here. I know we will have to sell the house and find a new place to live. I know that I won’t go too far from Melissa and her children, or Jeremy, Amanda & Baby Kam. I know I will have to find a job and figure out how to work it around my family. I know we will cross each bridge as we come to them because there is a time and place for everything under the sun. Right now my time and place is here and now and that’s all I can handle at the moment.
I had a career in Retail Mgmt., Restaurant Mgmt., was a district manager and then owned two businesses of my own (simultaneously while keeping first 3, and then 4, of my grandchildren full time at work with me). I am thinking of a career move toward caring for the elderly. There are not enough honest, dependable caregivers in the world. I enjoy the medical aspects of it all and I enjoy spending time with the elderly. I think I would be happiest if I could find a way to help protect them.
Who knows, maybe we will stay in this area. Maybe we won’t. I guess I’ll have to get back to you on it all sometime. I am living my entire life on the inside looking out while living on the outside looking in. For now, I just need to focus on the living. So that’s what I am doing.

Sometimes It's All About Timing

Dad was supposed to have gone for “fasting” lab work yesterday. He made it to the kitchen and a bowl of cereal before I could stop him so we had to wait until this morning to go. As soon as I knew he was up, I ran to the kitchen. He had parked his walker outside the kitchen so I wouldn’t hear him. Already, he had bread in the toaster and cereal in the bowl. I explained that he couldn’t eat yet because we had to go to the hospital to get lab work done. He instantly turned around and announced he would go get ready.

You have to understand, when he has a doctor’s appointment, I have to start getting him ready about 3 hours ahead of time. We are almost always late because he isn’t ready on time. Going to the doctor is a chore. But going to the hospital is a joy. He has been going there regularly since the day they opened the doors. He knows people there. Doctors, nurses, technicians, security guards, volunteers, administrators, maintenance men, you name it, they all know him by name and stop to talk to him. He is appreciative and touched that they take a moment out of their hectic schedules to speak to him. Most of the time he can’t think of anyone’s name but the faces spark a memory and he recognizes them. On a really good day, with someone he has seen repeatedly over the years, he occasionally remembers something specific about them.

As we were driving to the hospital, Dad asked (for the 8th or 9th time) why we were going. So, for the 8th or 9th time I explained that his Cardiologist had ordered these labs back in Jan. That we have to do this every 3 months for this doctor, it’s a way of keeping tabs on his heart. He thanked me 8 or 9 times for bringing him to the hospital and for taking care of him.
On entering the hospital emergency room (it’s where you register), we were greeted by a security guard that knows us well. Dad just had to stop and speak to him for a bit. Meanwhile, Ms. Jeanetta, an old and dear friend of his and Mom’s from church, spies us and runs over to give me a hug. She is amazingly proficient at giving a hug and asking half a dozen questions about how everyone is doing all at the same time in a tone that keeps Dad from hearing her. Her genuine concern for Dad is one of the reasons I have always liked her so much. By then, Dad has left the security guard and joined us so we have to visit for several minutes until someone comes in needing assistance. The instant we start to move away, the woman working in the admissions dept calls out to us, “Mr. Felker come on in here and I’ll get everything set up.” She chitchats with us and we are done and in the waiting area in a matter of less than 5 minutes.

There is a baby in the waiting room. He was barely past the learning to walk stage and Dad kept himself busy watching him and trying to talk to him. He kept telling everyone how cute the “little guy” was. Everyone in the waiting room was watching them. After a fairly short wait, Dad was called to the back. He leaned over to pat the baby on the head, announcing loudly, “You sure are cute!”
A guy (who’d been in a car wreck and was battered, bruised & there for extensive x-rays) that had been watching them all this time piped up from across the room, “So are you, Sir!” As the door closed behind Dad, I looked over at the guy. Tears welled up in his eyes and his voice was choked, “The old guy kind of reminds me of my dad. I really miss him. He had Alzheimer’s, too.” And in that moment as our eyes met and held, as the tears welled up in my own eyes, I felt his pain and I felt my own. “That’s my Dad,” I said softly.
And for a brief instant of time, I was connected to another human being on a level that can’t be understood unless you’ve actually walked a mile in the shoes of someone who dearly loves someone with Alzheimer’s. And I have to admit it felt good. He nodded his head and slowly stood up. With a smile of naked recognition and understanding, he limped away and somehow my day got a bit brighter.