NORMAL PRESSURE HYDROCEPHALUS

Shouldn't we be ruling this out as a matter of course?


http://www.foxnews.com/health/2014/11/12/is-it-really-alzheimers-treatable-condition-mimics-symptoms-dementia/

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!"

"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?”

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.

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.

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.

Back With Things to Say

April 2, 2011

I am the first to admit it's been a while. I apologize to my readers and I apologize to myself. So much has happened since last August. I realized today that I haven't been able to write because I have been too bogged down in the day-to-day chaos of just living here. I am going to give a quick overview and tell you that Dad has been hospitalized 3 times since Aug. Once for Crohn's Disease, once for dehydration and once for his heart. Last Oct. his oldest living daughter (and one of my dearest friends EVER) died very unexpectedly and our lives again were shattered. Ironically, Dad's Alzheimer's provided him protection from the realities of it all.

Living with someone who suffers from Dementia/Alzheimer's is similar to living in a war ravaged third world country. Unpredictability and instability become the norm. At any given moment, (with no rhyme or reason) anyone can be seen as the enemy and suddenly clarity ceases to exist. It happens in the blink of an eye. Being the caregiver of someone who is completely irrational at times and requires 24/7 care is without a doubt the most frustrating, exasperating and exhausting role I have ever taken on. But the times when it is satisfying, fulfilling and rewarding makes it all worth it. Unfortunately, there is absolutely no way to find such a thing as balance when dealing with Dementia.

In essence, I am dealing with an 89 year old child most days. Frequently, he is aware that he is misbehaving but is unable to control the behavior. And if he misbehaves, his illness enables him to forget it the moment anything happens. I am firmly convinced that most of the negative behavior he exhibits is born of his overwhelming sense of frustration. The limitations that have been imposed on him by his many physical ailments, his age, and his mental instability are taking a friendly, out-going, active, humorous, hard working, life loving man and making him a shell of his former self. (Though, I have to admit, he still has an awesome sense of humor at times!) He is so seldom animated anymore that I have to be grudgingly grateful for even the bad behaviors.

Here, I'll give you an example. When we left our last doctor's appointment the other day, Dad insisted on collapsing his walker and putting it in the back seat of the car unaided. I stood by helplessly watching his struggle. After several minutes, I stepped forward to help. Out of nowhere, I received a forearm across my chest that sent me reeling backward. Dad turned to me shaking with rage and yelled, "I can f-ing do it myself!" His frustration mounted as he continued to fight with walker and I stood terrified he was going to give himself a heart attack with the strain. A couple of minutes later, he finally got it shoved in (in a position that put a wheel directly into the back of my head).
For so many reasons, I wanted to rest my head on the steering wheel and cry. My frustration at it all enabled me to see his frustration so much more clearly than I already do. Those are the moments when I can hear my heart crack a bit more in the surrounding silence. As I started the car, I glanced over at him. On his face I could clearly see his pride, his sense of accomplishment in having successfully accomplished a task he had set for himself. And I could feel the crack slowly beginning to heal.

"Jack & Maurine"

May 7, 2010


The extreme down of having to go to the hospital for lab work is not being able to eat or drink after midnight. This can be excessively difficult with Dementia patients because they forget they aren’t allowed anything, they forget they have an appointment, and they forget to tell you if they slip up and eat or drink something.
The extreme up is there is a really good chance that Dad will run into at least a few people he knows and will have an unexpected opportunity to visit. It is a very social experience for him.
As we walked into the hospital this morning, Dad quickened his step. “There’s Jack,” he announced cheerfully. “I haven’t seen him in ages!”
I moved further into the room while he made a beeline for his friend. As I reached a seat, Dad loudly called out to me, “I’m gonna sit here and visit with Jack for a bit.” I nodded and smiled in response.
A woman joined them and lavished Dad with hugs and regrets… first for Mom’s passing and then for not having attended the memorial service. I could clearly see that Dad recognized her but couldn’t remember her name. The three of them took seats and proceeded to talk in loud voices as people in there 80’s often do.
A good portion of the people in the waiting room looked up when Dad told them his “drill sergeant over there was making him use the walker so he wouldn’t fall flat on his face”. Several people chuckled as he pointed to me and announced, “That’s my daughter-in-law she drives me everywhere and takes care of me.”
It only took me a moment to figure out that the couple he was speaking to were the “Jack & Maurine” that had sent a lovely sympathy card with no last name, only a return address. Only yesterday, I had done a neighbor search online with their address to determine what their last name was so I could address their thank you card. I wondered what the odds of that happening were.

I listened to the conversation (along with the majority of the people who sat waiting). Dad proceeded to tell them the story of how his dear friend (and doctor) had taken away his driving privileges and then told him they had to have someone live with them and care for them all the time. Then his doctor had abandoned them and moved to Montana to ride his motorcycle. He told them how he had hired caregivers until they had been robbed “half-blind” and had spent most of their life savings trying to pay these girls. He told them he had called his son Richard, who had come running immediately to help care for them and had moved his family here. He said Richard and I had saved his and Mom’s lives (slightly ironic to me).
He jumped forward to tell them how terrible it had been to watch Mom die a couple of weeks ago. Then he announced that Pastor Pete (he is their pastor, too) and I had saved his life because we said he didn’t have to bury Mom. He chuckled as he said, “She’s at home sitting on the dresser. I wonder what she would say about that?” The reactions to that comment around the room were many and varied. Maurine assured him she thought it was wonderful that he could keep her right there where he wanted her to be. Dad seemed appeased that it was ok with his friends that he intended to keep Mom at home with him.
Shortly after that, Dad was called to the back. Maurine immediately made her way to where I was sitting. She introduced herself and explained that she had known my in-laws since the early days of moving here. They had all arrived within a year or so of each other and had attended the same church and beach club for many, many years. We chatted for several minutes before she told me how sweet she thought it was that Dad was keeping Mom on the dresser. I smilingly pointed out that she was actually sitting on top of her jewelry box.
The elderly lady laughed heartily and shook her head, “That is so perfect. I wish the girls were still alive so I could tell them. I can’t think of a more appropriate place for Del than sitting on top of the family jewels! That is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard”
The chair I was sitting in began to shake as the lady sitting one seat over from me, on my left, tried to contain her mirth. I looked over at her and started to shake myself. She had tears running down her cheeks as she tried desperately not to laugh out loud. It was all I could do to turn my attention back to Maurine as I thanked her so much for stopping by. “Such a pleasure to meet you and thank you again for the lovely card you sent. Please come by the house to see us sometime. Dad would love to have visitors. He gets rather lonely these days,” I pointed out. Maurine shuffled her way back to check on her husband, Jack.
I looked at my laughing seatmate and finally couldn’t help it. I began to laugh softly too as Maurine announced loudly, “I went to visit with Shari, Dear. She’s Bill’s daughter-in-law, the one that’s letting him keep Del at home. Don’t you think it’s romantic to want to keep your dead wife with you? She seems like such a nice girl.”
The lady next to me said laughingly, “I bet things are never boring for you.” I had to agree. We chatted for a bit.

After a few minutes, Dad returned. He made his way back to where I was waiting. Halfway there, he shouted, “They just wanted me to sign paperwork.” He then remarked to no one in particular, gesturing to his walker, “I don’t really use one of these things but my boss over there says I have to because I passed out the other day. I don’t remember passing out but if I was unconscious it makes sense that I wouldn’t be able to remember it. I learned a long time ago that it’s a man’s job to make the women in his life happy. What else are you gonna do, piss her off?” Shaking his head, he sat down beside me with a snort.
He caught the glance the lady and I shared as well as our silly grins. He looked immediately suspicious. “Are you two talking about me?”
“No, Dad. Should we be?” I replied.
“Of course, you should,” he grinned. “Why wouldn’t you be? I’ve had that problem all my life. Everywhere I go women just want to talk about me.”
I looked away with a big grin of my own.
He was called to the back at that moment and he promptly rose and headed toward the door. I called after him, "Dad?" He stopped and looked at back me.
"Don't you think you should use this?" I indicated the walker he had abandoned.
"Nope," he smiled. "If I pass out here, I'm pretty sure they can figure out what to do." He winked at me as he went through the door.
I had been frantically writing down quotes the entire time all of this was going on. The lady next to me leaned over and said, “He’s so cute. I bet you have such a great time. He’s very lucky to have you.”
I rolled my eyes (which I do a lot) and replied, “He’s very cute sometimes. But I’m the one who is lucky to have him.” (I say that a lot too, just about every time someone tells me my in-laws are lucky to have me, in fact). To be honest, our lives are a two way street, Dad’s and mine… we give and we take, we lean on each other and we love each other. We are a family… and we are muddling through whatever life has to hand us. And we are making it one day at a time with God's help...

The Toughest Ladybug Ever

It was a very long night with just the 2 of us there (and an occasional nurse). I sang to her, read Psalms to her and talked to her. Every once in a while, her eyes would fly open and try to bring me into focus. I would smooth her hair away from her face and talk softly as I encouraged her to relax. The struggle to breath was terrifying to watch. For a period of over 3 hours, she was only breathing at 8 breaths per minute. Each breath she took shook the entire bed.
There is a point where the carbon dioxide that cannot be exhaled from the lungs begins to build up and causes an erratic fluctuation in pulse, respiration, heart rate, blood pressure, etc. This is a sign that the end is approaching. About 11:30 Mom had the first episode. It was frightening and the nurse quietly explained that there was no turning back, that there was no way she could recover. Her brain was now being too deprived of oxygen. After the episode, all of her stats leveled off and actually rose back up to normal range. She was fighting to live for all she was worth!
About 4:30, I had my head resting on the bed while I prayed and I fell asleep. When I woke up just before 6:00, I felt a weight on my face. I carefully turned my head to see Mom’s hand resting on my cheek. What an incredible gift I was given in that touch! I closed my eyes and cried. A short while later, the nurse explained that she had been slowly moving her fingers toward me (it was a space of a few inches) until they rested on me. I was also informed that she had had another carbon dioxide episode while I slept.
I asked the nurse to keep an eye on her and went outside to get some air and admire the incredible thunderstorm that had been raging all night. I stepped out into the rain and sobbed until my stomach hurt as I let the rain pelt me. It washed away the tears as they fell. I walked to the car and composed myself (and dried off somewhat) before going back upstairs. The family pastor came by and visited briefly.

Finally about 9:30 or so, Dad and Richard arrived. We gave Dad a few minutes alone with Mom and went outside for some air. When we returned, it was obvious that she was taking a down turn. Her stats had begun to drop and her breathing was more erratic.
Dad excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he returned he told me he had had an accident, he needed to go home and change clothes. I asked Richard to please take him home to change. I implored him to hurry.
A few minutes after they left, Mom’s stats began to once again rise and her breathing leveled out somewhat. I asked the nurse why that kept happening. She asked me if there was anyone who should be here that wasn’t. I suggested possibly her daughters. The nurse told me to call them and tell them to come NOW! I explained that it wasn’t at all possible.
She asked me if I had told Mom it was ok to leave us. I assured her I had. I had made many promises to Mom during the night. I told her it was ok to go to heaven because I would take care of Dad until he joined her.
She then asked me if Dad had told Mom it was ok for her to go. “In exactly those words,” she asked. I said not that I had heard.
“Shari, I need you to do something. You have to tell him when he gets back to tell her it’s alright to go. He has to let her know it is ok to die. That may be what she’s waiting for.”

It was quite some time before Richard and Dad got back. Dad had to shower and find something to wear. I pulled him into the hall and explained what the nurse had told me. I told him I knew how hard it would be but that he had to tell Mom it was ok to go to heaven without him. That it was ok for her to die because he was going to keep going until God called him Home, too.
He went to her side and did exactly that. He held her close and told her that he loved her so, so much. He said he didn’t understand why God was doing this but that it was all in His plan. He told her it was time for her to go. And he warned her not to pay any attention to all those good-looking fellows in heaven because he would be there as soon as God let him. He cried as he held her. He gently smoothed back her hair and leaned his face to hers. He kissed her numerous times.
And as we watched, the stats began their descent once more. Dad begged the nurse to help her as her breathing became unimaginably worse. Quietly the nurse stepped forward and injected a syringe of morphine into the IV of morphine. Within minutes, her breathing slowed, and the numbers began to drop rapidly.
And suddenly it seemed, she simply didn’t take another breath. We watched and waited but it never came again. On April 24, 2010 at 12:27 pm, my Ladybug flew away Home. And while I know she is in a far better place, my heart aches with missing her. I can’t begin to imagine the ache in Dad’s heart at losing his “bride” of almost 70 years…

No Regrets Here

April 14, 2010

I was recently asked if I regret the decision to move in and care for my in-laws full time. I can honestly say NO. What I would have regretted is not being here for them when they so desperately needed me.

Are there things I miss? Sure, I miss having my own home. I miss the life I had before I moved here. I miss my cat. I miss my possessions. But the one thing I am not missing is the chance to love them and be with them as they slowly slip away.

I heard a term today that I was unfamiliar with, “The Sandwich Generation”. It is used to describe people who are taking care of their elderly parents while raising their children. That comes pretty close to describing our situation except that my children are grown and I am raising my oldest grandchild… and taking care of my in-laws.

Life with dementia gets very difficult at times. And sometimes, no matter how hard you try you will always feel like you didn’t do enough or say the right things. But when I want to complain about the things I am missing out on, I think about all they are missing out on. They can no longer drive… I can. They have lost almost all of their friends… I have lost so few. They have to have someone buy their clothes and wash their clothes… I can go buy my own and wash them myself. They have to have someone live with them and care for them… I am still healthy and strong. They get confused and have little or no short-term memory… I am not confused and I am able to remember.

I cannot change the way things are but I hope I can make things a little bit better for them. And if someday, I am in their shoes, I hope that someone will care enough to be there for me…