Tag Archives: Alzheimer’s

January 21, 2012 · 10:07 am

Dad doped up at the nursing home

I saw this article the other day about Johnson & Johnson paying out a $158M settlement over Risperdal. I took notice because unbeknownst to us, dad had been prescribed the generic version of this drug (Risperidone) at the assisted living facility he resided at for ten months. The drug is to be used in treating adolescents with schizophrenia and other mental illnesses. The FDA has not approved this drug for use in the elderly with dementia, but it is commonly used anyways, and is legal to do so. In these cases, studies have shown an increase in stroke risk and an overall increased risk of death. The list of common medications Risperidone can interact with is disturbing as well.

Dad and I at the assisted living facility, March 2011.

I’m sure nursing home staff would defend their use of such medications as a way to keep patients calm and safe, especially when aggression and violent outbursts can be a symptom of Alzheimer’s and related dementias. My mom never liked the fact that they could wander in and out of each other’s rooms, but what was the other option, lock them up like animals in a cage?

I clearly remember my first visit to the facility where my dad was living. It had a separate, secure wing that was just for dementia patients called the “memory care” unit. I’m not sure what I expected to see, I guess something closer to an asylum than a daycare. But what I saw was eerily comforting, a bunch of seniors just sitting around calmly, while workers scurried about, cleaning up bladder and bowel accidents and doling out the meds that no doubt kept these patients in some twilight state somewhere between being stoned and being in a coma. I’ll venture a guess that dad wasn’t the only one being given Risperidone on a regular basis.

When I first saw my father, I couldn’t help but think of a zombie. He was shuffling down the hallway, wearing a gray t-shirt which had a noticeable wet spot on it (later I learned it was from his constant drooling) and Scooby Doo pajama bottoms and canvas slip-on sneakers. At first, I could not believe it was Dad because Dad had never owned a pair of sneakers, and he certainly did not lounge around in boy’s pajamas festooned with cartoon characters in his former life as a normal person. But the bony frame, the steel-tinted shock of hair and the eyes, still emerald green but no longer gleaming, that mouth set in a tense slash of determination, those all belonged to my father. I walked slowly to him, wanting to run, afraid he would vanish into thin air, then chiding myself for wishing that he would, to be put out of this benign yet suffocating version of hell. Instead, I said, “Hi Dad,” as naturally as I could and as his eyes searched mine in some feeble attempt at recognition, I wrapped my arms carefully around his fragile and stiff frame, while whispering raggedly into his ear, “I love you.”

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January 18, 2012 · 1:28 pm

My dad’s near-death experience

Decades before my father passed away, he almost died after eating an apple. From what I gather after hearing the story being told repeatedly is that my dad suffered an intestinal obstruction. He had to have emergency surgery performed on him, and while he pulled through the procedure just fine, he ended up contracting an infection while recuperating in the hospital and it’s the infection that almost killed him.

The priest came to perform last rites, as the hospital staff thought he could die at any moment. But somehow, someway, he survived this close call and stayed in relatively good health until his mental and physical decline brought on by Alzheimer’s over the last few years of his life. I say relatively because he ended up with adhesions, a common post-surgery complication. The doctor told him that if he ever contracted food poisoning or the stomach flu, it would be much worse for him than for the average person.

I don’t know how much scientific evidence there was to support the doctor’s claim, but my dad did make multiple trips to the ER during my childhood, suffering from profuse vomiting and severe stomach pain. It would usually come on suddenly, and my mom and I would grow quiet as we heard and saw my dad suffering. My mom didn’t drive so my dad would have to drive himself to the ER, while doubled over in pain. There, they would give him the usual anti-nausea and painkiller cocktail, and send him on his way. He would return home, pale and weak, and we would always breathe a sigh of relief when he was finally able to fall asleep. He would usually recover pretty quickly, and then the incident would be forgotten until the next episode, which could be weeks or months away.

I often did not think of my dad as a particularly strong man, but remembering how he would drive himself to the ER, or insist on going to his manual labor job, while grimacing with stomach cramps, I see now that he had much more inner strength than I ever gave him credit for.

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January 16, 2012 · 10:12 am

Remembering dad’s descent into dementia

For those that have watched a loved one’s memory falter as dementia engulfs them, it’s usually difficult to pick an exact moment when you realized that there was something wrong. While certain forms of dementia may manifest more suddenly, it seems that with many Alzheimer’s patients, it’s a gradual decline that can sometimes take years until it’s to the point where that person needs help.

For my dad, there was one incident in particular that stands out in my mind as being a huge warning flag. I call it the burrito incident.

My mom would send my dad out on errands, which included things like getting money orders and mailing out bills, picking up a few groceries at the convenience store and buying lottery tickets. Mom always wrote everything out in detail on a sticky note. This one time, as we saw signs of dementia become more apparent, everything went wrong.

He was still driving at the time, so he pulled into the convenience store parking lot. He picked up a couple of burritos for dinner as was on the note and picked out the lottery tickets that my mom wanted. Then he walked out without paying for anything. The clerk made a big scene and yelled for my dad to return and pay for everything. He thought he had and an argument ensued. At this point, dad was in denial that there was anything wrong with him so it must have been a humiliating experience, as he was always a very honest person.

My mom was called and the order was paid for properly. Dad came home with the burritos, not that either one of them was hungry anymore. And the lottery tickets? That night, dad couldn’t remember where he put them. The next day, he found the tickets … in the trunk of the car.

It’s small incidents like these that illustrate how dementia steadily chips away at the mind until you hardly recognize the person left behind.

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January 13, 2012 · 8:45 am

Remembering dad’s voice impressions

As a child, I can remember my dad keeping me entertained by doing spot-on impressions of Woody Woodpecker and Donald Duck. I remember having giggling fits over his quacking ability. It was these moments that made me close to my dad when I was a small girl, but at some point we drifted apart. For the life of me, I can’t remember around what point that began. I think it was gradual, perhaps a girl bonding more with her mother as she approaches adolescence. At least I can still remember these warm moments with my father from my childhood before my dad drifted away in another sense as Alzheimer’s consumed his mind.

As his dementia progressed, there was one more impression he did that sticks in my mind in a bittersweet way. He was at the point where he could still communicate, if not always coherently. But he was trying desperately to hold on to his sense of humor, that core of his personality that made him human. So he mentioned something about Johnny Carson, and how much he had loved him. (That part was true. He always worked the swing shift and would get home in time to enjoy a late dinner, a beer and some late-night television.) He then began doing an impression of Ed McMahon’s famous introduction: “Heeere’s Johnny!” As repetition is common with Alzheimer’s patients, he continued to repeat this refrain throughout the evening, in inappropriate moments while we were out in public. My mom would try to hush him but I could see a look of delight light up his face that both pained and warmed my heart.

About two months later, my dad had a medical emergency that sent him to the hospital for two weeks. During that time, his life was saved, but his sense of humor, along with the rest of his personality, was extinguished. He never returned home after that, and was on a series of medications at the nursing home that sapped any remaining vitality out of him.

So I hold on to these precious memories of my dad. Alzheimer’s can claim so much of a person, but it can’t take their past, because that was also experienced by their loved ones.

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