Tag Archives: dementia

April 18, 2012 · 6:33 am

Dad losing the meaning of ‘home’

One thing that my mom still talks about almost every time I have a conversation with her is that in the last year of his life, when Dad was far from home, he never asked to leave the care center or hospital he was in and return home.

It’s not uncommon for Alzheimer’s patients to forget what and where home is, and to accept, at least outwardly, their current location. There are some with Alzheimer’s that do beg and plead their families to return home, and I think this puts an even heavier burden on the family. It was almost a relief to me that Dad accepted the care center that he was in without a fight, but it also made me realize how far the disease had progressed.

Dad was a homebody. Oh, he had his “hitting the bar after work” days when I was youung, but for the most part, he worked, came home and enjoyed the comforts of domestic life. He mainly read books and newspapers, watched TV news or documentaries or could be found on our patio taking a cigarette break. Simple pleasures but he was always easy to please.

I’m much the same way. I feel like I would be devastated if I had to give up my creature comforts from home and go live with a bunch of strangers. But Alzheimer’s tricks the mind into believing you are a stranger in your own home, an imposter in your own skin.

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April 12, 2012 · 6:07 am

My 100th memory of Dad

I can’t believe I’ve already reached the 100th post milestone but today is the day! This project is truly a labor of love, and I’ve met (virtually, anyways) so many great people in the blogosphere, many who are caring for a loved one with Alzheimer’s. My deepest thanks to all of the advocates out there and my deepest admiration for all of the tireless caregivers around the world.

An image has been on my mind this week, and it is of my dad’s hands in the last years of his life. They were bony, with veins poking out just beneath the thinly stretched skin. There were age spots mottling the flesh and his fingers were cool and clammy to the touch. I doubt that I had held my dad’s hands, or even taken notice of them, since I was a little girl who needed help crossing the street.

Dad holding on to my hand, trying to hold on to his sanity.

When dementia began to creep into our family, there’s a photo of us on the couch at my parent’s house, and my dad is gripping my hand so tightly, as if he’s afraid of letting go in more than just a physical sense.

In that final year of my dad’s life that was spent in the nursing home, my dad couldn’t say much, so holding his hand was one of the only ways I could still connect to him. I remember watching his hands, twitching with a bit of a tremor, lift a cup of hot coffee to his lips and sip tentatively. Then he reached out the cup to me.

“Do you want some,” he asked, with a polite innocence that was heartbreaking.

Of course, being me, my mind raced with the thoughts of germs and how I would be able to get out of this awkward moment. I thanked him and held on to the cup, until he was ready for his next sip. It took him so much effort to do something he once received great enjoyment out of. Alzheimer’s strikes again.

There’s a tenderness that many caregivers offer those with Alzheimer’s and it can greatly improve quality of life. I just wish that I had shown a little more tenderness while my dad was still aware enough to appreciate it.

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April 10, 2012 · 7:00 am

Happy birthday Dad

My dad would have turned 80 years old today. It would have been nice if he could have reached that milestone, but not with Alzheimer’s.

He spent his last birthday at the assisted living facility. The staff bought him a McDonald’s meal as a birthday treat. My mom had visited him shortly before his birthday and I called from Atlanta. I have never felt so dishonest as when I mustered up whatever cheeriness I could find in my voice to wish him a happy birthday.

I knew there was no way that it would be a happy day for him. By his 79th birthday, Dad’s dementia, along with the increased medication being fed to him at the care center, had left him an emotionless shell. He wasn’t necessarily sad or angry; he just didn’t seem to be feeling anything at all.

But I always felt that there was this lingering despair that my dad somehow was clinging to, that somewhere deep below the fog of Alzheimer’s, he was aware of his condition and how hopeless his future was.

I hope I was wrong.

Even when he was well, Dad never made a fuss about his birthday. A card, a small gift like cologne and dinner was about all he wanted. I think birthdays in his mind put him closer to death, which he always feared, so he approached the day with trepidation, instead of a spirit of celebration.

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April 6, 2012 · 1:42 pm

Dad and Bruce

Today, we said goodbye to our 17-year-old dog. If death comes in threes, then this should be it for awhile: Dad, my cat Michigan and now Chloe.

Dad met Chloe once, many years ago. He said she reminded him of an old family dog named Bruce. Now that I know Dad’s grandmother had a farm, I guess Dad and Bruce enjoyed plenty of romping around the grounds.

Chloe. R.I.P.

When Dad’s dementia began to surface, he would talk longingly of getting a dog just like Bruce, who had been a Labrador Retriever. He talked about how animals can provide one so much comfort and companionship.

Little did he know how much of both he would need in the coming years, as the dementia turned his world upside down.

He also suffered from hallucinations. I remember on one visit, Dad pointed out the window and said, “Look at that black dog out there. It looks mean.”

There was no dog to be found, but I told Dad that it seemed like a nice dog.

Like Chloe.

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March 22, 2012 · 11:24 am

What’s under the sofa cushion?

I was talking to my mom yesterday and she was telling me about how she flipped over the sofa cushions. (Yes, bless her heart, she describes her life to me in this kind of micro-detail.) When she lifted up the cushions, she found a blue pen that belonged to Dad and an old photograph. My ears perked up at the mention of a photograph.

My mom said it was a wallet-sized black-and-white photograph taken at a wedding. My dad is on the end, perhaps the best man. My mom didn’t recognize the other people in the photograph, the apparent bride and groom, and a woman on the opposite end of my dad, probably a bridesmaid. My mom broke out the magnifying glass to see if she could read the printing on the back of the photograph. It was some photography studio in Belfast, so at least the location is known, but no year could be found.

Of course, the big question is, what in the world was this photograph doing under the sofa cushion in the living room of my parents’ condo? It’s common for those with Alzheimer’s to drift to their past, as those memories seem to be left intact longer than trying to deal with the confusing present. So maybe Dad stumbled across this photograph in a drawer and decided to hang on to it. Maybe he slipped it into one of his many wallets when he went through his money hoarding phase and it fell out. We’ll never know for sure, but it does make me want to turn the rest of the house upside down to see what treasures are hidden.

One of the last things my father said in my presence was about three weeks before he died. He had been moved from CCU to the regular medical floor at Presbyterian Hospital in Albuquerque. After watching him narrowly escape death, I had to head home to Atlanta. He seemed a bit brighter and more coherent.

He said, “I’m going to go see Maureen and Kathleen.” (Those are his sisters, both still living. They live in Northern Ireland and Australia, respectively.)

I said okay and he replied, “Sure, why not?”

Why not indeed? If memories of happier family times brought him some sense of comfort, if it offered him a brief respite from the dementia, then so be it. Even if he could only see his sisters and relive these memories captured in old photographs in his rapidly disintegrating mind, so be it.

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March 16, 2012 · 9:48 am

Sacred Heart Auto League member

I found this membership card in one of Dad’s nightstand drawers, along with many other religious icons and cards. Apparently, he was a member of the Sacred Heart Auto League. I was not familiar with the organization, so I Googled it. Seems like a decent enough of a group, encouraging people to drive safely as a way to honor their religious beliefs. I think Dad lived up to the “prayerful and careful driving” that the League preached, as he always drove slowly, much to the chagrin of the fast and loose California drivers. (Some of those drivers would make hand gestures as they sped around Dad that I’m pretty sure Jesus would not approve of.)

And who knows, maybe all of those religious icons and prayers kept my parents safe as Dad’s ability to drive deteriorated when his dementia became more severe. If there was ever a time to believe in guardian angels or some type of protective spirit, it’s when you are taking care of a loved one with dementia.

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March 11, 2012 · 1:25 pm

Tracking down Dad as a kid

Dad had a habit of disappearing on us when we were shopping at the mall. Understandably bored, he would usually sit in the car and read or meditate. But in the sweltering summer heat, Dad would have to venture elsewhere. And that’s when I was sent out as a reluctant one-person search party while my mom set on a bench in the shade and checked over her receipts to make sure she got all of the discounts owed her.

I can remember circling the mall completely, and still seeing no sign of Dad. I would peek inside at the handful of places he might venture into, such as the newsstand. I would check all of the smoking areas, where sometimes I would get lucky and find him. Other times, I felt like I would never find him. I would be mildly concerned but mainly irritated. It’s not like I ever thought he was in real danger at the time.

Of course, when the dementia set in, tracking Dad down was not a benign, mildly frustrating event but a frightening ordeal. My mom could not even go and have important work done on her teeth without Dad slipping away at the dentist office, despite the promise that the staff would look after him. “He’s at Sonic, is that okay,” the receptionist would ask my mom while she was trapped in the dentist chair, mouth numb and useless due to the Novocain.

“No!”

The dentist would try to finish up the procedure as quickly as he could, while my mom envisioned my dad crossing the street at the wrong time and being hit by a car, or taking off again and getting even more lost.

So Dad was always a wanderer, but the disease made it much harder to find him.

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February 24, 2012 · 10:13 am

Dad’s vivid nightmares

I’m not sure if dad’s vivid nightmares began before or after the haunted hotel experience. Growing up, I remember both my mom and I being frightened by the screams and moans my dad would make when he was suffering from a particularly bad nightmare. I’m sure it was not fun for my mom to be awakened by my dad’s thrashing and yelling. She said sometimes it would take her quite awhile to wake him. He then would bolt upright in bed, wide-eyed and with sweat lining his brow. “Oh, that was a bad one,” was a typical response.

When he could remember the dreams the next morning over breakfast, they usually consisted of the “bad man chasing me” variety of nightmares. Dad was usually a pretty calm, quiet kind of guy, so when he exhibited the kind of fear he did when he was having a nightmare, we knew he wasn’t being dramatic. The bad dreams didn’t happen that often, maybe a handful or so a year, but I can definitely recall waking my dad up from a bad nightmare on more than one occasion in my childhood. It was a bit of a role reversal in the family unit, as usually it’s the parent that has to soothe the child and convince them there’s not a monster under the bed.

It does make me wonder if Dad continued to have nightmares as his dementia progressed. If so, was he able to comprehend that it was just a dream and not reality?

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February 9, 2012 · 12:44 pm

My dad, the rubber band man

There was a year or so where dad was still able to run errands on his own. This was sometime between the 2008 photo where his eyes began to look vacant and the burrito incident.

Mom would send dad to the post office to mail letters, usually a bunch of bills. The post office was not very far from their home. When she saw how forgetful he was getting, she started putting rubber bands around the letters. She’d snap two or three red, brown or green rubber bands around the envelopes, just as much to keep the letters together as to keep dad together enough to complete the task. All he had to do was place them in the outgoing mail box at the post office. It was a task he had done hundreds of times in the past flawlessly. Now it required a plan, a course of action.

Mom would tell my dad to take the rubber bands off the letters just before he dropped them in the mailbox. Then he was to wear the rubber bands on his wrist like bracelets until he came home. That was the sign that he had completely the task successfully.

And it worked for a stretch of several months or so. (At least, as far as we know, none of the bill payments were reported lost.) Dad would hold up his arms when he arrived home. Mom would peel the thin bands off his bony wrists, kiss him and tell him job well done.

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February 7, 2012 · 10:22 am

Dad’s eyes reflected Alzheimer’s

A family photo from March 2008 illustrates the beginning of my dad’s mental decline. There is a vacancy in his eyes, as if he’s not quite there with us on the couch, even though he’s gripping my hand tightly.

Dad most likely started showing symptoms of dementia in late 2007. It’s difficult to pinpoint dementia’s starting point, because often the symptoms at first are vague and not of concern until you step back to look at the bigger picture. He seemed more forgetful, conversations were a bit more awkward, but for the most part, he was still there.

I remember this photo clearly. Dad’s driving days were numbered, and we had just returned from a stressful, harrowing ride into town. We went to dinner and he was still able to order his meal and pay the bill at this time. Soon, my mom would have to place all orders and pay for them. Dad almost ran off the road as we were turning into the condo community my parents called home.

I was leaving the next day and wanted to take a couple of photos. Dad still had his bulky jacket on, a sign he was about to go outside for a smoke. At the time, I had no idea that this photo would be so revealing. It was the beginning of long, painful journey as my dad’s mind was destroyed by disease. We were still a family unit, but one of our members was vanishing, slowly but surely.

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