Elvis has left the building

Like I tell people, this situation is always evolving. Never underestimate the ability for things to change...FAST.

Yesterday I was upstairs collecting garbage. I heard Mom saying something, kinda loudly, which is unusual. Finally, I hear her yell: "KAREN, DAD IS OUTSIDE."

I threw down the garbage and ran downstairs. I knew this didn't mean he was on the deck where he's been many times. Nope. He walked out the front door (left it wide open), went down the front steps (there are about 20 of them) walked down our street (we live on a hill) down to the sidewalk. Then he turned around, walked back and up the stairs and walked inside like it was no big deal.

I said: "DAD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" He looked at me calmly and said: "I went for a walk. You told me I needed more exercise. My back feels absolutely perfect."

*Cut to me burying my face in my hands.

Look, this is bad. This is VERY bad. This means Dad can't be trusted to stay in the house. Until now, I felt safe in the knowledge that he didn't have the leg strength to "escape." Suddenly he's had a miraculous cure?

I don't know what to think, but I'm pretty sure that now I have something new to worry about.

The Artist

Dad is an artist. He never went to college, but he did go to art school at the Art Institute in Chicago. He became a commercial artist and worked as an art director in the point-of-purchase industry, i.e. displays that you see in stores.

Yesterday, my son had a posting on Facebook that he was looking for someone to create artwork for the demo of the new musical that he has written. A couple of his friends offered their art skills but had limited time. I sent him a quick message and said: "If nobody can do the art, Grandpa could use a project." My son sent me an excited text saying that he'd love for him to do it.

The timing was perfect. I had just finished telling Dad AGAIN that he wasn't going home. Actually, here's the conversation:

Dad: Hey, a week from Saturday, we're going to pack up.
Me: Um, OK. Where are you going?
Dad: Home, duh. 
Me: Dad, we talked about this yesterday. You can't go home.
Dad: We did NOT talk about this.
Me: Yes, we sat on the deck and had a long conversation about how you and Mom need somebody to care for you.
Dad: We don't need anyone to care for us. We're fine.

The conversation went on, but needless to say, I once again disappointed him. But somehow, this conversation made ME feel better because it reinforced the dementia diagnosis. I felt slightly less crazy. I still felt crappy, but less crazy.

So I got the text from my son, asked him for some direction in the illustration and then bounded into the library with an assignment for Dad. I told him his grandson needed his help and that it had to be done quickly.

Dad sat at the dining room table with the list of elements my son wanted in the illustration. Within 5 minutes, he created the art you see above. 5 minutes. It's definitely rough. You can see the shakiness in his hands, but my son LOVED it. And for those 5 minutes, Dad felt needed. He felt valued. Somehow, I have to make that happen more often.

The interesting thing about dementia is what Dad's brain retains and what simply escapes like a wisp of smoke. The art is in there, somewhere. I've been trying to get Dad to draw since he came here, but I guess he just needed a specific assignment.

Poop meets the fan

I'm really confused. Well, maybe not confused...yes, well, maybe I am....

Dad sat me down yesterday and said that in two or three weeks he will be ready to go home.

*Cut to me burying my face in my hands. 

Here's what's so hard about this: He seems absolutely perfectly lucid and calm. We had a thoughtful discussion during which:

• He disagreed with my statement that he's fallen at home. (Said it was once and that he tumbled onto one knee.)
• He blamed his one fall here on his socks matched with my slippery floors (even though he fell in the carpeted bedroom.)
• He said he's growing stronger.
• He told me that he feels that he's intruding on our life.
• He told me that he and Mom really miss their house.
• He said the management of his/their medication is "not rocket science" and they don't need help with that.
• He said that the next door neighbor will drive them to medical appointments.
• He said that he'll take taxicabs to other appointments.
• He said they're only a block away from Trader Joe's where they can get food. 
• He told me that he'd rather kill himself than live here for 10 years.
• He said that nobody asked him if he wanted to come here. (Duh.)
• We discussed the possibility of them moving into an assisted living residence and he said that would be more isolating than our house because he'd have to interact with "new people."
• We ended the discussion with him saying that we are going to sit down every Saturday and have a "campfire" meeting and discuss how they feel about everything.
• He came back a second time and said that maybe we can hire a personal assistant who can be "here."

I told Mom all of this and she buried her face in her hands.

My head is spinning. I'm trying my best and it's not good enough. Plus, Dad DOES seem more coherent, but I think part of that is that he's trying to prove that he's OK to move back home. Last night, he was yelling for Mom so that he could do his PT exercises. Suddenly there's enthusiasm for such activities?

I know he hates it here, which makes me feel TERRIBLE. I said I was OK with being the bad guy...and I am. But when the rubber meets the road, I'm a complete wuss. I don't take it lightly that I've ripped someone out of their home and put them someplace they don't want to be.

God help me.

Keep calm and carry on

So Mom took me aside yesterday to tell me that Dad is hatching an escape plan. He's decided it's time to go back home. Apparently, the first part of the plan involves writing down my sister's phone number. (Not sure what that's going to do, but, OK. Sis, consider yourself forewarned.)

Mom said she re-explained to him that he can't take care of himself. Somehow they ended up with this compromise: Every day they are going to write on the calendar how they are feeling. One day at a time. (Again, not sure what that's going to do, but OK.)

This brought up my newest dilemma: How do I deal with situations like this? When someone with dementia hatches a plan like this, what's the best way to respond?

A) Sit down and calmly explain AGAIN that there has been a dementia diagnosis and that living alone is not an option.
B) Acknowledge the escape plan and offer an alternative.
C) Keep calm and carry on, i.e. ignore the escape plan and know that this too shall pass.
D) All of the above.

Hubby and I had a LONG discussion about this. No, I do not want to attend a support group meeting. I seriously just need to call 1-800-DEMENTIA and ask how I handle such a situation. My first instinct is to treat Dad with the utmost respect, acknowledge his wishes and explain why they cannot be granted.

The problem with that approach is that it means re-introducing the dementia diagnosis and, for some reason, just doing that seems to induce confusion and anger. I don't need angry and confused Dad. I need happy and content Dad. He's easier to deal with.

Offering an alternative seems to open him up to the possibility that there's a chance I'll spring him from this suburban prison. Sure, there's a chance, but there's no other place to offer. If I could give them some independence, I'd do it in a heartbeat. Right now, it's not happening.

So, we're going with option C - Keep calm and carry on. I will pretend that I don't know about the escape plan and continue to offer HD TV, yummy meals, gentle scolding and sub-par accommodations.

Sometimes the best thing to do is nothing at all.

Pity party

Yesterday was rough...for many reasons. Partially because it was the first day of the holiday weekend and I couldn't do what I wanted...even though I probably wouldn't have done anything differently. It's all about perception. I think I'm trapped, but I'm not. Not really. I can do virtually everything I could before. I just have to plan a little better. Truly not the end of the world.

But sometimes I feel like having a tiny little pity party. I feel sorry for my self...for no damn good reason. This is where the words of my father echo in my head:

QUIT YOUR BELLYACHING.

Anyway, at one point, Hubby and I went out for ride. We checked out a potential housing "option" which turned out not to be an option. Suddenly, I felt like everything was caving in on me. Here's almost everything going on in my brain during my mini freak out session:

• I don't understand our health care system.
• I feel ill-equipped to care for my parents.
• I want my house back.
• I'm in SUCH a pissy mood.
• How are we EVER going to do this?
• Are we doing anything right?
• How does everybody else do this?
• What are we going to do about ________ (fill in blank.)?

And then I lost it. I took it out on Hubby, who has been STELLAR during this entire process. But I completely lost it. I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.  OK, I admit it, I did cry.

Then I realized that dinner wasn't going to make itself, so I went to the grocery store, bought some food and made a kick-ass dinner. (I made fish, people...no, not fish people.)

And then I felt better. Absolutely nothing was figured out, but I was done with my pity party.

Sometime in the middle of my freakout, Dad and I had a confrontation. I realized that he had been sitting in the library, doing NOTHING, for about 8 hours and this pissed me off. I told him that he needed to go do his PT exercises. He said he did them already. I told him he needed to do them twice a day. He balked. I didn't budge. I told him that he'd lose use of his legs if he didn't exercise a little.

We both dug our heels in and then I did the meanest thing ever to him: I TURNED OFF THE TV. He literally cried out in exasperation. He shuffled out with Mom to do the exercises and then Mom came out and explained to hubby that if we turn off the TV, they don't know how to turn it back on. Hubby was more sensitive to their "plight." I told him that I was happy to turn it back on after the exercises...which I did...

...and then Dad went to bed AT 7PM.

*Cut to me burying my face in my hands.

But this brings up something that I'm REALLY worried about: Dad isn't moving or interacting nearly enough.  He's bored and so he sleeps...ALL DAY LONG.

As tough as I can be on him, I feel powerless to really make him do the things he NEEDS to do.

And now, just saying that, I want to start another pity party.

Balloons anyone?

Losing the filter

If you spend any time around old people, you notice that they have no filter. You know, that impulse control mechanism that makes you stop saying things out loud that might be rude.

Last night, we took Mom and Dad out for dinner. This is no small effort because it requires a long, pre-trip discussion of which restaurants have stairs vs. ramps and which ones allow us to park close to the door. (Yes, we've applied for the handicapped tag. No, we haven't gotten one yet.)

So we settled on a local sports bar that serves a decent fish fry. I'm getting completely used to the hubub surrounding our entrance to a restaurant. Some of us hold the door, some of us lead the way, some of us find places to park the walker. This is all a way of saying: It's pretty damn obvious that WE HAVE AN OLD PERSON IN OUR GROUP.

After about 10 minutes, we finally settled at a comfortable table and could relax.

Approximately mid-way through our meal, a party of two arrived in the bar/restaurant. It was two women, one of which was quite old and had her own walker. She also had a severe case of osteoporosis. (Note to self: DRINK MILK...LOTS OF MILK.) She was trying to get past our table and her companion was helping her navigate with the walker. She walked in a very hunched over manner, poor thing.

So, we're sitting there, in kind of a small room in which only 3 tables are filled and it's not very loud. (This is meant to explain that anything said at any table could be heard by any other table.)

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Dad says: "There's a woman over there without any head."

*Cut to me, burying my face in my hands.*

Seriously, Dad? You, who can barely shuffle anywhere are going to make fun of another senior citizen?! I call you on a flagrant foul against your own generation. Stop throwing boulders in that glass house you have.

I should also mention just moments earlier Dad whispers to the waitress: "Do you have a cushion I can sit on?" (Because his butt hurts...all the time...BECAUSE HE SITS ON HIS ASS ALL DAY LONG.)

Must...not...be...angry....

Mother Teresa does not live here

Yesterday, I felt sad. No special reason. Nothing bad happened. Nobody did anything in particular. I just felt sad. There will be days like that and I'm trying to learn to accept them. I'm still searching for things to look forward to. (Yes, I know, dangling preposition. Go ahead, shoot me, Grammar Police.) Right now, here's the list: Coffee, chocolate, tennis and working out. That's all I've got.


Look, I wouldn't be honest if I didn't say I wish things were different. My old, amazing life, as it was, is gone. I'd change it if I could. But that's not to be and so you have our full house with old people and perhaps young people who may not be happy with the current situation (that might be the real issue here) and all of us doing our best to make it all work.


I'm just a ridiculous people-pleaser who pleases nobody...or at least that's what it feels like. If people are happy, then everything feels better. But lately, nobody seems happy, least of all, me. And it's at times like these that I poke the proverbial sleeping bear. I walk around asking people if they're mad/sad/bored/itchy/unhappy. What a ridiculous waste of time. Why do I go around looking for trouble? I can't help myself.


We'd all be better off if I just minded my own business and stopped worrying about everyone else. Therein lies the problem: Everybody's business IS now my business. I'm a caretaker. How do you stop caring? And is it caring if you sometimes have the overwhelming urge to throw people off your deck? Yes, I admit it. I get angry about all of this. I'm human and very flawed. I get mad at people for situations that are NOT THEIR FAULT.

I think if Mom and Dad were in a better, younger place in their life, they'd be pissed off too. They'd MUCH rather be in their own house, their own place, with their own snacks and nobody questioning every freaking thing they do.

Me: Dad, why are you putting eye drops in the refrigerator?
Dad: Because they don't go in my eyes well and I think that will help.

Cut to me burying my face in my hands.

What's difficult is not trying to fix things. They say insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result. I keep having the insane urge to do something...anything, that will make everything better...even though "better" is a relative term.

It's clear that I have no idea what I'm doing. Maybe that's best or maybe that will be my defense the next time I lose it and start screaming.


No, Mother Teresa does not live here.

Defining dementia

Furtive - adj - characterized by stealth; sly and secretive

Dad is a quiet guy. He's soft-spoken, doesn't make much noise...unless he's waking up in the morning, slamming his walker around the bedroom despite the fact that Mom is still sleeping. He shuffles around the house, sometimes quietly venturing into the kitchen, grazing for snacks, not knowing that I can see him from our loft upstairs.

Dementia is a quiet disease. It sneaks up on you, takes you by surprise. Sometimes those with dementia seem fragile, weak, old. Other times, they are sharp as a tack and make you feel like you are the feeble-minded one.

Last night we were eating dinner. We had steak. Everyone was quietly chewing, cutting, enjoying...not much conversation. Our daughter turned to Hubby and said: "Geez Dad, you're really going after that steak furtively." Hubby and I both looked at her and said things like: "Whoa. Big word." Actually, I said: "What does furtive mean?" (Because there's no mistaking the fact that I'm the bottom-feeder in the brains department at our house. Somebody's gotta be.)

What followed was an animated discussion of the definition of the word "furtive." Daughter gave her definition. Dad listened, turned to her and said: "Good word. Wrong usage," and then raised his eyebrow and his steak knife as if to accentuate his point.

Again, I was amazed...mostly because he was right and because he was clear, lucid and funny. I couldn't help myself. I turned to everyone and said: "Well, Grandpa is really rockin' that fresh patch tonight." (Referring to the dementia patch that he gets every night at 5pm.) I wasn't sure if it was the patch or just a good moment, but I really enjoyed it. Daughter was a little annoyed. Perhaps she felt like we were ganging up on her. I just liked the fact that she and Dad were interacting....or the fact that Dad was interacting at all.

No doubt about it, dementia is furtive.

The overmedicating of America

This is my kitchen counter right now. Pretty, isn't it? Some of these are Mom's and some of these are Dad's. (Oh and these aren't even all of Mom's. She's got most of her medications in a separate spot.)

If we're trying to figure out what's wrong with senior citizens, we might want to look in their medicine cabinets...or, their kitchen counters. Virtually every one of the medications you see here comes with one of two warnings: "May cause dizziness," or "May cause drowsiness." If you want to know why Grandma is falling asleep every 10 minutes, it's pretty clear to me: She's overmedicated.

OK, fine, maybe not overmedicated, but I'm starting to wonder if anyone treating geriatric patients is even considering the consequences of what they're prescribing.

For instance, my Dad takes TWELVE medications per day...plus a Tylenol or Advil or two, depending on how his back is feeling. I'm guessing that no matter what he complained about to his former primary physician, he could get a prescription for it. And, I'm certain that the doc also never took a look at the LONG list of meds and said: "Hmmm...I wonder if all of these meds together will put him in a stupor..." Nope. Pretty sure nobody did that.

And this doesn't even take into consideration whether he should have been driving while on all of these drugs. I'm thinking the police should be pulling over senior citizens and asking to see their medication list. SERIOUSLY.

Yesterday I picked up a refill on my Dad's prescription of Folic Acid. I looked at the label and it said: "May cause dizziness." What? Why are we giving folic acid to a guy who is having trouble navigating the path from couch to bathroom? (Add this to the long list of things I'll ask the new primary care doc.) 

Science and medicine are wonderful, but is there a point where somebody should dispense some tough love instead of just an Rx? At the very least, shouldn't every senior citizen get somebody who evaluates their medication list IN TOTAL and wonders whether any one of the TWELVE meds combined might be a toxic disaster? Are we depending on Walgreen's to do this for us? Have you shopped at a Walgreen's lately? I wouldn't trust those people to water my plants.

I feel like Mom and Dad are in good hands. I've turned into a bit of a pit bull and I'm not afraid to ask tough questions at medical appointments. I can advocate for them. But too many senior citizens are trying to figure this out on their own...WHILE ON LOTS OF DRUGS. How can they possibly make safe decisions about their own health?

This post came about because Dad had a rough day yesterday. I was gone for a few hours and Mom said that Dad was having lots of weakness getting around and was acting erratically. Including the moment when I found him on the phone with the Illinois Secretary of State asking why his license was revoked. I went upstairs to fold laundry, came downstairs and he was on the phone. (I didn't even know he knew where the phone was. Guess he figured that out.) Anyway, he was grilling some girl about "who pointed the finger" at him and that "this is like a conviction without a trial." I tried my best to interrupt him, whispering: "Dad, I can tell you why," but it was for naught. They told him that they'd send him the medical report that resulted in the revoked license, so perhaps that will give him a clue. (Oh and he wasn't even holding the phone properly, which might explain to him why he couldn't really hear anything. Sigh.)

In any case, I went through his hospital discharge papers and highlighted the sections where it says he has dementia. I re-explained the diagnosis to him and then handed him the papers. (Mom took me aside and said: "I hope you made copies of those." We're all on to him now, aren't we?) Again, another exercise in futility. An hour or two later, when he was on his 5th episode of Law and Order: SVU (The most heinous show on TV. Since when is brutal rape considered entertainment?), I asked if he had any questions and he said: "Nope. I haven't looked at them yet." And this is how it goes....

My point is that Mom and I were trying to figure out why he seemed different yesterday. The dosage on the dementia patch doubled so we were thinking that was the culprit, but if you look at any one of his medications, the combination of which could knock over an elephant, you might find a reason why he can barely get up and/or walk.

All I know is that things are not improving and I feel like I have even less of a grasp on this situation than I did a day or two ago. Sure, I'm in better control of his medications than he probably was at home, but that doesn't mean his quality of life is improving. Unless you factor in the HD TV....and the desserts....

Control freak

Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Control freak.
Control fr....
YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO SAY "CONTROL FREAK WHO!!"

Yep, that's me. A certifiable control freak of the first degree. At any time, I have a constant need to be in complete control of a situation, especially one that's, um....messy. And let me tell you, elder care is messy.

I don't mean messy, dirty, messy....although there are most certainly elements of that in this experience.

I mean unpredictable messy.

I mean an inability to depend on things happening on MY schedule.

For instance, despite what it says on the time stamp (which I believe is West Coast-based), it is now about 6:04 am. Dad shuffled out of their bedroom at 5:53 am. THAT'S RIGHT, I SAID 5:53 AM.

Look, I get up early. It's what I do. Ironically, I get that from my Dad. But here in my house, I OWN the early morning. I revel in it. I get up around 5:07 am, feed the dog and take her out and then quietly, all on my own, sit at the computer, read the paper, drink my coffee...BY MYSELF.

So now Dad is up at dawn for the second day in a row. I don't like this. It's not predictable. I didn't schedule this. DAMMIT, I'M NOT SHARING THE MORNING WITH ANYONE. 

He's harmless, really. Tucked away in the library watching the local NBC morning show followed by FOUR FREAKING HOURS OF THE TODAY SHOW. (Kill me now.) I really don't have to talk to him, but I just don't like that he's not sleeping, especially this early. Sigh.

Here's my real concern: I worry that if he's getting up this early now, who's to say that he won't push the envelope and get up even earlier next week? Earlier than me....to wander around and do, who knows what? Clearly Mom is sleeping through this "dawn patrol." He's here because it's not safe for him and Mom to be alone, but what if us being in the house just isn't good enough...SAFE enough?

Oh great. I think I've just figured out the next thing to be worried about.

Itchy and scratchy

So yesterday was Mom's turn for attention. About damn time, I guess. To make a long story short, she had a bad rash all over her entire torso and head. It was crazy. I took her to the urgent care clinic. (Why do they use the word "urgent?" To me, that implies speed.) There, they thought it was a reaction to a drug she hasn't been on for a week. Just to be safe, they sent us to the ER. Sigh. There goes my day.

The ER we went to is, basically, the Level 1 Trauma Center for all of southeastern Wisconsin. Consequently, it was a busy place. Poor Mom, with her red, itchy rash, ranked pretty low on the triage totem pole. Regardless, they looked her over carefully and did some blood work to make sure all was OK.

During the exam, the Physician's Assistant was asking Mom about the rash and the itchiness. Here's the conversation:

PA: So how does the rash feel? Is it terribly itchy?
Mom: How does it feel? Well, it's hard to explain. I feel like my body is shrinking and caving into my 'pelvic.'
Me: Mom, she wants to know how the rash feels.
Mom: Oh. I'm fine.

Mom is the queen of tangents. Ask her a question and she'll find ten ways not to answer it. I can't explain it. It's like there are answers buried in her head and she needs to share them with somebody. She looks for a question remotely connected to something she's been dying to tell someone. Lately, it's this "my body is caving into my pelvic" thing. I'm guessing this is because my Dad has largely ignored her for 60 years.

So, finally, after 4 hours, we were able to head home with a couple of drugs and a hope that the docs are guessing right about this bad drug reaction.

In Dad news, he's still on the "I want my license back" kick. He left Hubby a note saying that he wants it back. Here's the conversation he and I had:

Me: Dad, I saw the note you left. Why do you want your license back?
Dad: Because I WANT it. That's all.
Me: Dad, you can't have it. You can't drive.
Dad: I'm not going to drive. I just want my license.
Me: Dad, we'll get you a state I.D. You're not going to get your license.
Dad: Don't tell me what I can't do. 

Oh and  one of the meds that he's on increases his appetite. I can see that now. He's started cruising through the kitchen in search of carbs. Yesterday, he pulled a brilliant move. He walked into the kitchen and asked for a spoon. Hubby asked him what for. "Ice cream," he said. (Which he hadn't yet been served.) Well played, sir. May I please have a wine glass?

I have this terrible foreshadowing that I'm in for a big fight. Thank God I've got Hubby on my team. I'm just praying that I'm not alone next time Dad decides he wants something he can't have.

Curve balls and adjustments

Had a visit from my brother and his two toddler kids yesterday. It was a nice break from the regular routine. Still, every day I see Dad completely retreating more into himself - not talking, physically moving away from people and then falling asleep in a group setting. At least now I'm not the only one to see it. I think my brother finally could tell. Mom plugs along like the true trooper that she is, but it's hard to hold whatever is next at bay. And that's the sticky part. What IS next?

Just when I think we've got a reliable routine, something changes. Again, I can't help but compare this to raising children. You finally get them to nap at a certain time of day and then they grow and age out of that nap. Suddenly, that time you had to get something done is gone. Another adjustment.

Yesterday, Hubby and I had tickets to a Brewers game. We bought a 10-pack for the season, but this was the first one we were able to attend. Darling daughter was prepped and ready to hang with Mom and Dad in our absence. She also created an amazing lunch for all of us. She's quite the cook. An amazing kid.

Anyway, we escaped the house for a while and everything seemed fine when we got home. Then suddenly, Mom was making a beeline for me:

Mom: Um, I need to tell you something.
Me: Uh oh. What is it?
Mom: Dad said he wants to get his driver's license back.
Me: Well THAT'S not going to happen!
Mom: He said he was going to call about it. I told him that it's Saturday and he said he'd call on Monday.

Once again, Dementia throws us a curve ball. I GET why Dad thinks he's OK. So often, he seems absolutely sharp as a tack. He remembers things and can converse easily. But then things like this happen. He forgets that there's a solid reason for him to have had his license revoked. Not to mention the fact that he falls asleep in a room with 5 adults and 2 toddlers. Even without the dementia, he'd be a risk behind the wheel.

And then last night he commented on the nice visit we had with my brother. "Did you know he was coming over?," he asked. I started to remind him that he called on Mother's Day and Dad was really excited to hear that he was going to visit, but again, I need to reserve my energy for things worth doing.

Early on in Dad's stay here, he wrote a letter to his best friend to let him know what happened to him. It took him a while to write it. The man whose penmanship was always artistic and precise has deteriorated. He asked for an envelope and I gave it to him. He asked me to mail the letter. At the risk of invading his privacy, I decided that I should read the letter before I mailed it in case it made no sense at all...or, in case it said: HELP ME I'M BEING HELD CAPTIVE.

In any case, the letter basically said that he fell and that he's here, in Wisconsin, "recovering." It then referenced a house that my parents hadn't lived in in over 30 years. Plus, the handwriting was tough to read. I boldly wrote a cover letter to Dad's friend to explain what was happening. I encouraged him to call or visit anytime and thanked him for his longstanding friendship to both of my parents. We didn't hear anything for a long time and I worried that I scared his friend away.

Then yesterday, a letter with no return address came in the mail. (If you recall, we are now sneaking the mail in the house and dispersing it in a more safe manner, lest important documents are shredded.) Dad's friend thanked me for my letter and said that last time he saw Dad he didn't seem like himself and my letter helped explain that. It was the nicest thing ever and restored my confidence that some of the things I'm doing on Dad's behalf aren't totally worthless.

I must remind myself - a day at a time. A day at a time.

The roller coaster of daily living

Holy crap this is a roller coaster ride...

Remember my post mid-afternoon yesterday about Dad digging his heels in and refusing to go to the library? Well, Hubby and I had a meeting late in the afternoon. It ran long and I didn't have my usual time to prepare dinner. As we were heading home, I asked what we should do about dinner. "Let's take them to John's," he said, referring to our local diner/sandwich shop. "Are you kidding?," I responded. "Do you remember what happened today?" He looked at me and said: "Yes, but this is food," he sagely replied.

I hate when he's right.

We returned home and I calmly said: "Dad, we want to take you to our local sandwich shop for dinner." "OK!," he replied.

Huh, wha....?

He gamely put on his shoes and waited patiently while we all waited for our daughter to do what girls do before they go out. (I'm too old to remember what it is, but just know that if you have a daughter, NEVER expect them to be ready in less than 15 minutes to do anything. It's a law, or something.)

And then we grabbed his rollator (new walker/rolling thingy) and all climbed in the car. Honestly, I was more nervous than bringing a screaming toddler into church. Would it be crowded? Would he want to leave after 30 seconds? Would he tell me that he just wants to sit in the car?

No, no and no. He was happy as a clam. He loved it. Did you hear me? HE LOVED IT!

He kept looking around, saying: "This is such a nice, homey place. Very quaint!" Who is this man and what did you do with my father?

Honestly, it's like we took him to ___________ (insert name of amazing, famous restaurant here). He loved his food. LOVED the restaurant. It was the happiest little field trip we've taken...ever.

So, apparently food is the magic elixir.

Who knew?

All in all it's just another brick in the wall

Today I ran into a brick wall of elder defiance.

Mom had listened to all three of her audiobooks and desperately wanted to get some more from the library. She's been so patient and I should have done this days earlier. I told her that I'd take her and Dad to the library this morning, figuring it would be a good way to get him out of the house. Nope, not happening. Here's how it unfolded:

Me: OK, Dad, we're going to the library. Why don't you get your shoes on?
Dad: I don't want to go. You can take my wife. I'll stay here.
Me: No, Dad. We can't go without you.
Dad: Yes, you can. I'll be fine. I'm not going to fall down or anything.
Me: No, Dad. WE CAN'T. You're unstable on your feet and don't make me tell you the other part of this again.
Dad: What other part?
Me: The part about how you have DEMENTIA.
Dad: I don't have dementia.
Me: YES YOU DO HAVE DEMENTIA. I have the paperwork from your hospital stay, which talks about your dementia and how you failed their tests.
Dad: No, I don't have dementia. You can go. I'll be fine.
Me: *really pissed now* DAD, STOP BEING SELFISH. Mom really wants to go to the library and this is unfair to her. WHY ARE YOU BEING SO SELFISH? It will do you a world of good to get away from the TV and get some exercise.
Dad: I'm not being selfish. I don't need to go. I won't go. I don't want to go.

*I marched off into the basement and asked our daughter to keep an eye on him while we're at the library. This was always an option, but I didn't want him to know. He really needs to get out of that f*&%ing chair. Sorry, but it's true.*

It's funny, but yesterday a social worker came over to assess him for a county program that would offer various services. He was perfectly lucid, sharp as a tack. Today, this is definitely dementia speaking. Mom had the same thought I did: Did I give him his patch yesterday? Yes, I did. She also said that he got up this morning and seemed loaded for bear. Wanted to get dressed (same clothes as yesterday) and wanted to immediately change out of his nightly Depends. I get it. He hates them. Doesn't mean I can leave him alone.

So there you have it. He won that round. But I'm breaking through that brick wall, dammit. No way he wins in the end. Actually, no way any of us wins.

Sigh.

One step forward, two steps back

I think I figured out one of Dad's problems....because it's my problem too.

I've always been a "forward-thinking" kind of girl...and by "forward-thinking" I mean I live each day looking forward to something else. Yes, that means I'm not usually living in the moment. I can't help it. It's what I do and it's what Dad does. We make plans and then we look forward to them.

For me, my plans were wide-ranged. Honestly, I was living the life of Ryan, whoever the hell Ryan is/was. (Probably a former governor of Illinois, now spending time in jail.) In any case, it would not be unusual for me to say to Hubby: "So, what do you think about going to Vegas or New York next month?" And he would be fairly open to this suggestion. Yeah, it was cool.

For Dad, his plans were much more short-term. A special dessert he might have that evening. Sunday-night sandwich prep, i.e. the story behind the name of this blog. (Click here to read.) Or, between September and May, a new episode of NCIS. His plans were simple and yet they brought him a bit of joy.

Technically, Dad can still look forward to the same things. I haven't taken them away and, in fact, a case could be made that we've made those things better. Desserts are better. NCIS is WAY better in HD TV. But blocking his view of these things is the fact that he's here in my home, not in his home. This bothers him immensely and, therefore, it bothers me.

The other day, Dad told Mom that he felt like he was "kidnapped." And, technically, he was. We brought him here, against his wishes. Yes, it was for his own safety and well-being, but he still would rather not be here.

So my new goal is to create things that Dad can look forward to. I've got the dessert thing down. I've become the master of low-calorie, low-sugar, great tasting desserts. I should have my own show on the Food Network and my head isn't nearly as large as that Giada woman and, unlike Ina, I do have a pulse. (I know, I know, you want her life. I do too, but her voice makes me sleepy.)

The challenge will be figuring out activities and/or events that A) Dad will do, B) will engage his mind and, C) which are about as strenuous as walking from the couch to the bathroom. I know he can do it. I've seen him summon his best cognitive and orthopedic skills when the nurse or the PT are here. But getting him to do it for me, that's another story.

Why are you so ugly?

It was an unusual day. I was mostly gone today. My childhood best friend's dad passed away and today was the funeral. I left the house at 6:45 am and didn't get back until 5pm at which time an amazing friend delivered an entire dinner to our family. Wow. Such a blessing. I'm truly humbled by this gesture which was incredibly well-timed.

This funeral brought me back to my childhood church. I literally haven't been there for 28 years - since one of my friends got married there. Wow. It hasn't really changed at all and was so beautiful. The funeral was lovely and yet the family was more broken up than most I've seen for someone who was nearly 85 years old. He was truly a well-loved man. And when I commented to my friend's mom about how well she cared for her husband for the past several years (he had fairly severe stroke-related issues) she simply said: "I'd love to do it all again."

Wow. Again, SO humbled. Why can't I be more willing and less whiny? I'm truly built of different stuff.

But what I love about going to funerals is that you get to hear great stories and meet great people. You get a sense of a person's entire life - what they left behind and how well they lived and were loved. It's a beautiful thing, bookended by sadness.

I remember my friend's dad as being nearly impossibly picky - that no matter what, she couldn't please him. It always made me appreciate my own Dad who was generally fun and upbeat and who I adored being around. My friend also adored her Dad and her Mom and cried when she moved out of their house. I may have turned and waved on my way out. Different worlds.

Along with reconnecting with old friends, I also met my friend's Aunt Ellen. She asked who I was and how I knew the deceased. I explained that I was "Annie's" best friend growing up. She wasn't really sure who "Annie" was but pointed at the casket and said: "That's my brother." "I'm so sorry," I said, and she told me that he was the youngest boy of 12 children.

She seemed interesting, this Aunt Ellen. So I continued to ask about where she grew up and other facts about her family. Then she asked me again who I was. I quickly realized this familiar pattern. Aunt Ellen had some form of dementia. OK, I've got this.

Aunt Ellen: "Who are you?"
Me: "I'm Annie's friend."
Aunt Ellen: "Who's Annie?"
Me: "She's Tony's middle daughter."
Aunt Ellen: "Oh, OK."
*Moments pass and she taps me on the arm*
Aunt Ellen: "Why are you so ugly?"
Me: "Um, I don't know, why?" (I truly thought there was a punchline.)
Aunt Ellen: "Did you hear me?"
Me: "Yes, and I have no idea why you said that."
*She looks away with a smile*

Later, Aunt Ellen was making the rounds during the post-funeral luncheon. She walked up to me with a gleam in her eye, tapped me on the arm: "Why are you wearing men's pants?" she asked. "Because I like them?," I responded.

So there you have it. Dementia comes to find me, 90 miles away from home. The funny thing was (besides Aunt Ellen's questions), I had no problem interacting with her. A few years ago, I probably would have blushed and made a big deal out of this. Now? No big deal.

Elder hostile

It's not a secret that I take things personally, even when it has nothing to do with me. I'm overly sensitive. That can be good and bad. Right now, it's not working in my favor.

Maybe it's my imagination, but I feel like I'm losing Dad. He seems lost, bored, disinterested, depressed and angry. I understand that he has some short term memory issues and I feel like it's part of my job (along with dishing out drugs and Cheerios) to keep his brain engaged. But selfishly, I'm trying to keep myself from killing him because he's driving me crazy.

I also understand that he'd rather not be here in my house. Other than the primo meals (I am doing SOMETHING right), he pretty much hates it here.

He doesn't want to do ANYTHING. He's parked in the library with the TV and the heater on. (That's my fault. I made him go in there...for my own sanity.) It's a cocoon that makes him sleep half the day. I'm doing a poor job of getting him up and out of the chair, moving and interacting. Truth be told, I don't really care to interact with him. He hates life and I'm trying desperately not to hate my new life. It's a tug of war that he and I are having. He's trying to pull me toward the dark side. I'm resisting, but I feel like he's winning.

You know how there are some people that are great at getting people motivated? I'm not one of those people. This feels so much like when my own kids were bored and I'd suggest two or three things and then give up and hope they'd watch The Lion King for the 245th time so I wouldn't have to figure something out.

Dad doesn't seem to like me. I say that I expected that and that I was ready to handle it, but truth be told, I'd much prefer to be liked. And that's why I do my best to find new and fun desserts for him. It seems to be the only thing he likes about me - that I dish out sugar (or sugar substitutes)...to a diabetic. (And yes, this is definitely a reflection of my own poor parenting style. That my kids turned out great is nothing short of miraculous. They should be unemployed meth addicts.)

My brother called yesterday and Dad perked up. There was a tinge of excitement in his voice. When he got off the phone he said: "Your brother's coming here on Saturday!" The immature me wanted to say something sarcastic, but I didn't.

I'm losing the will to be enthusiastic. I had a giant bunch of it when I needed to convince my Dad how great living here was going to be. Now that he's here, HD TV and a comfortable chair doesn't seem to be enough for him. I can't blame him. I've stripped him of his independence and, therefore, his dignity.

Actually, if Dad got mad, it might be better. Then, at least, I'd have an emotion to deal with. What I really hate, is the blank stare....the napping...the apathy.

God, it's killing me.

All about Mom

Let's focus on Mom today, because, well, it's Mother's Day! But also because it's about time we give her some attention. Dad has this way of sucking all of the air away from Mom, whether it's by sitting quietly, with a deep-set frown on his face or by softly complaining about something...anything.

I don't mean this post to throw Dad under the bus. Trust me, I'm a huge Dad fan, and you'll hear more about that in the coming days. But Mom deserves a little limelight, if you will.

Honestly, Mom and I never got along all that well as I was growing up. I was absolutely convinced that she just didn't "get" me. I also vastly underestimated her intelligence and her wit. Dad was always the funny one who knew everything. Mom was content to simply stand in his shadow. That's so unfair.

One of the many blessings of having new roomies is that I'm rediscovering Mom. I'm learning who she is. I'm figuring out that she's an amazing, amazing woman. She and I have one big thing in common - we've both lost children. When my son Andrew was born severely developmentally disabled, she was crushed. I didn't understand it at the time, but I do now. She had lost my younger sister Lisa to Leukemia and it happened at a time (1968) when therapists were mostly for "crazy" people. My Dad lived his Don Draper-like existence in the advertising world while my Mom stayed home with us and wondered how anybody could go on after that. That explains a lot.

I seem to remember Mom as being really crabby while I was growing up. Maybe I was the crabby one because now, she's an absolute almost constant ray of sunshine. In the midst of being uprooted from her home, she's just happy to sit and chat with somebody, anybody. It's nothing short of amazing.

Last night, Hubby and I talked with our daughter about how she feels about hanging out with Grandma. She laughed and said: "Every time she walks in a room, she asks if she can do anything for me. I want to tell her 'I'm here to take care of YOU!'" A double-wow in that one. First that Mom is always putting EVERYONE'S needs before her own and also that our daughter feels this sense of responsibility in this new living situation.

I probably tend to be more like Dad in that I complain a lot. My hope is that I'll somehow absorb Mom's attitude and learn to roll with the punches a bit more. Lord knows it'll come in handy in the coming days, months and years.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. You are AWESOME.

A shadow of himself

I can't help but compare this experience to raising my children when they were young. I guess that's because you surrender a giant chunk of independence. My morning routine is to feed the dog, then head up to the loft to read email, check Facebook and do all things computer-related. It's my quiet little slice of heaven. I'm doing that right now, in fact.

Just now, I heard the click, click, click of Dad's walker as he headed into the bathroom. I literally said (in my head): "Please go back to bed. Please go back to bed." Not that it would kill me to walk downstairs, pour him coffee and put on the Today Show, but I just really treasure my alone time. It's an an unblemished slice of my old life that I like to hold onto.

Yesterday, Dad was visited by the visiting nurse and the PT. The nurse appointment made me sad, mostly because she quizzed Dad over and over again about his interests. My Dad used to be quite a fascinating person. He loved music. He liked Elvis Costello long before ANYONE had heard of him. He liked Evita LONG before it became a Broadway classic. He used to call me to discuss the Grammy Awards. And, of course, there was racing. My Dad is a former amateur race car driver. It completely DEFINED him. My strongest childhood memories were of Dad in the garage, working on his race car.

Flash forward to today and Dad has almost ZERO interests. He's done a tiny bit of reading since he got here, but only seems to tolerate it. His only interest seems to be in finding NCIS on TV. Oh and dessert. He's flipping passionate about dessert. But that doesn't count, right?

Well, the nurse was trying to mentally probe him and figure out what he could do to get his mind going. He wasn't buying it and she wasn't giving up. She mentioned Adult Day programs to him and I could see the switch turn off in his head: "Don't make me go someplace and interact with old people." I helped him answer some of the questions, but the jig was up. Dad has virtually no interests and sitting and watching TV all day is not going to help him in the least bit.

I understand her purpose in doing this, but how much can you change a person's stripes? For the last 10 years, Dad has sat and watched TV and read books. That is truly the sum total of his later life. He wants to be in his own home doing these two things. That's it.

This makes me sad, really sad.

A laugh I needed...

This is AWESOME. What? You think this is mean? Clearly, you're not understanding the point of this blog. Yes, I suck.

White Coat Syndrome

Yesterday I had a mini meltdown. And by "mini" I mean that only Hubby knew it was happening. My brain shut down. Here's why:

I have an issue with making medical appointments for my parents. I don't mind making the calls, but there are extra "issues" involved that make things tricky. I have to explain that "I moved my parents here from Illinois and blah, blah, blah..." Plus, I'm not sure where you make medical appointments, but here, it involves spending a LOT of time on the phone. I HATE spending time on the phone.

Oh and can I just say, that the medical community is OBSESSED with asking who your "primary care" doctor is. I get it! But sometimes, we CHANGE primary care doctors and the answer isn't so damn simple!!! (Sorry, I'm ranting.) 

So, one of the things I've been putting off was getting my Mom a rheumatologist up here. (Sidebar: I love that word "rheumatologist." It sounds all old-timey. Like a doctor that someone on the Honeymooners would go to see.) Let me interrupt this again by saying that Mom has "White Coat Syndrome." If you ask HER about it, she will tell you that it means that her blood pressure goes up in the doctor's office. I believe that it means that she falls in love with her doctors. Not LOVE, love, but intense "like." If they are nice to her, she thinks they are the best thing on earth. And who wants to leave the best thing on earth? (I've met a couple of her doctors and they are nice, but I won't compare them to Jonas Salk or anything. When I look at her doctors I think of the BMW that is parked in the lot outside the office or the McMansion that Mom's Medicare pays for.)

Mom's current rheumatologist gave us a referral...all the way across town. I'm sure that person is great, but try shuttling two old people all the way across town, let alone just getting them in the car and you'll understand my hesitation. We have a GARGANTUAN medical campus 5 minutes from our house. It's a Medical College and Level One Trauma Center along with ancillary specialty clinics, literally within walking distance (for me.) It would make my life MUCH easier if her new rheumatologist were in the medical campus, so I had this talk with her:

"Mom, I'm going to ask your new primary care doctor (who Mom hasn't yet met) for a referral to a rheumatologist. I know that Dr. Bello recommended somebody, but that person is all the way across town and it will be hard on all of us to manage regular appointments over there, especially if you have to go twice a week for occupational therapy."

In response, Mom gave me sad, puppy dog eyes and then said: "But I'm on medication. I'm on prednisone. I need someone to check that."

"Mom, I'm pretty sure that there will be someone over here on the medical campus who knows about prednisone. I guarantee you they have an incredible rheumatologist. In fact, that's where all the rheumatologists learn to be rheumatologists. And I'm pretty sure they are all quite familiar with prednisone," I replied.

Basically, this whole situation was tough because this was one of the first times I've told my Mom no. I did it for my own sanity. I saw my future and if my future involved getting these two oldsters in a car and driving somewhere, all of us will benefit if our destination is 5 minutes or less. Right now, the weather here is nice, but I'm pretty sure my new roomies aren't heading to their Florida condo in November when it will be cold and snowy and traffic will be snarled. THEY DON'T HAVE A FLORIDA CONDO.

So, prior to telling Mom "no" I melted down on the phone a little with Hubby. I literally got a bit weepy. He heard it in my voice. He tried cracking a joke. It wasn't funny to me at that moment. But I survived.

Oh but my big accomplishment yesterday was taking Dad over to that giant medical campus for blood work and a kidney ultrasound. Alone. Just me and Dad. Mom wanted to stay home, and who could blame her? So we got there and parked. (I NEED that handicapped tag for my car. I refuse to break rules and park there without one.) I ran over and grabbed a wheelchair (no way Dad could handle walking that far) and Dad and I navigated through hallways and floors and found everything we needed. It was actually a nice little trip. Dad was fairly lucid, despite being at the end of the dosage for his dementia patch. We chatted a bit and as I pushed the wheelchair, he pointed and told me where to go. Simply adorable. I think, for a few minutes, he felt relatively normal. Like nobody was treating him like an idiot. I get it.

Another day survived.

Mom's random quote of the day

"You can put anything on pizza....except dirty socks."

Why old people hate the government

That's a photo of my phone. The number you see displayed is the time that it took me to call the Social Security office to change the address and phone number of ONE of my parents. That's right, it took me 12 minutes and 51 seconds to change the address of each parent. For 25 minutes and 42 seconds, I sat on the phone and listened to their "easy and convenient" automated system. (This does not take into account the five previous times I called and listened to about half of the recording only to find out that I needed to have additional information.)

During my "automated menu" time I learned:

- Unemployment numbers are high because there are no more humans answering phones.
- If you don't have a touch tone phone, you get to talk to one of the rare humans. (Yes, I considered choosing this option.)
- If you don't know your mother's maiden name, you are screwed.
- You can't change your address if you're not receiving benefits. Did you hear me? YOU CAN'T CHANGE YOUR ADDRESS IF YOU'RE NOT RECEIVING BENEFITS.
- The recording SAYS you can say the word "question" at any time if you are confused. I literally YELLED the word "QUESTION" about 20 times and absolutely nothing happened. I'm pretty sure Ashton Kutcher Punk'd me on that one. Pretty funny, jerk. 
- Not one time was I offered the option of changing an address for a spouse. Don't assume the spouses are all dead, although many may have expired during their time on this stupid automated menu.
- Automated phone systems think that you're an idiot. They are the idiots.

I was more than happy (OK, not really, but let's pretend) to do this on my parents' behalf. All I could think about while making these maddening phone calls was how frustrating it would be to try and do this if you're elderly, visually impaired or having trouble hearing. They worked all their lives to qualify for these benefits. Many of those in this "Greatest Generation" risked life and limb to protect our great nation, only to be confused and angered by an overly friendly computer voice offering almost no help at all.

How did we get to this?

Mind games

Dementia is a funny thing. Not funny, ha ha...although when Dad was in the hospital and thought he was at home but that he had gone to Texas and somebody put TWO HD TVs in his room, that WAS kinda funny. Sorry, but if you don't laugh, you'll cry.

But Dementia is funny because sometimes those affected seem absolutely lucid.

For instance, today, while the physical therapist was talking to Dad, she was trying to schedule her next visit. We agreed on a time and then Dad interrupted and said: "Don't forget, I'm training for the Olympics." Hilarious and lucid, right? He knew he was kidding and I knew he was kidding. All seemed happy in the Senior Sauna.

Fast forward to this evening. I took Mom to the hair stylist for a cut. I returned home to Hubby going through piles of stuff. Not really unusual, but not in his usual "why don't you ever look through this crap?" kind of look.

Me: What's up?
Hubby: Looking for some mail.
Me: What kind of mail?
Hubby: There were FOUR envelopes addressed to your parents. They were sitting right there. I can't find them.
Me: What's this? (Pointing at something torn into pieces.)
Hubby: That's the license plate renewal notice for his car. He tore it up.

Yep, now he's tearing up mail. And he's hiding other pieces of mail. Oh and he's rifling through our mail on a regular basis. Who knows what he's torn up. Things are missing. Things like insurance notices and premium notices and IMPORTANT CRAP!!!

So now we will play a game called HIDE THE MAIL. Every day, I will get the mail and EVERY DAY I WILL HIDE IT AND PRETEND WE DIDN'T GET ANY. Sounds fun, doesn't it?

I'm telling you, this Dementia is crazy. Yes, that's redundant and NO that's not an exaggeration.

Mind games, I'm telling you.

Dream on

My hubby cracks me up. This morning, he came downstairs after getting dressed. My parents weren't in the living room. In fact, they were out of sight.

He looked around for them and then said, with a huge, impish grin on his face:

"ARE THEY GONE?!"

Totally made my day.

Visiting nurse, quinoa and clarified butter

I really shouldn't post so impetuously. I was feeling all Negative Nancy and just had to get it out. But that's what this blog is for - sharing the good, the bad and the ugly. People did hate me, but I did not eat worms.

Yesterday, a visiting nurse came. I like the idea of professionally-trained medical personnel visiting the Senior Sauna. I'm immersed in this world and I kinda wanna know if I'm doing something, anything right. Here's what I found out:

• My parents' toilet is too low. (Explains the poor aim.)
• We don't have a disaster plan, fire extinguisher or a first-aid kit. If something happens, we're screwed.
• I should be pre-sorting daily drugs to make my life easier.
• Dad thinks his stay here is temporary.
• A visiting nurse can order all kinds of things for us - huzzah!

Basically, I need to start testing Dad's blood sugar. The nurse is going to order a Glucometer, a person to help bathe Dad, the name of a visiting podiatrist and probably some other things that I can't remember. In short, I just needed to say what we were having problems with and she could write an order. FINALLY, somebody to help us. (Wonder if she can get alcohol delivered...hmmm....)

Dad's dementia is a sneaky thing. He seems remarkably lucid lately. So when the nurse asked him how long he'd be staying here, he said "temporarily." That threw me for a bit of a loop. And then later, he told me to call my sister and ask about her moving into their house. I told him that we've already been discussing that and he was PISSED. He almost yelled at me for keeping him "out of the loop." I felt terrible. Then I talked to my hubby who reminded me that he had talked to my Dad in-depth about this a couple weeks ago. Again, the dementia. Very sneaky.

And then I asked Dad to move into the library because he was blasting the TV and it was taking over the house. I asked if his hearing was OK and he gave me a death stare. I stopped his walker and asked why he was mad. "Stop finding things wrong with me," he said. OK, then. 

I decided to go to the grocery store and just buy food. I had an idea and acted upon it. The result? Quinoa with Corn and Black Beans and marinated chicken. The Quinoa was wildly popular! Dad LOVED it. Who knew? If you're keeping score, that's TWO "off-the-wall" things I've cooked in three days. Miracles are happening, people. I can't cook and yet I am cooking. It's like I visited Lourdes. (No, not Madonna's daughter....)

I'll leave you with Mom's random quote/question of the day. She was driving me a little batty yesterday. I was trying to cook, which is such a struggle. I really just wanted NOT to talk, but I had no idea how to say that. So I was quietly prepping food. She plopped down in a chair, looked at me and said:

"OK, burning question. Clarified butter. What IS it?"

The hated

This song best describes my feelings right now:

Nobody likes me, everybody hates me,
I think I'll go eat worms!

More explanation later....

Things I no longer feel guilty about....

Calling my parents more often. Suck it, bitches!

Small talk, big problem.

My mother is the human equivalent of a Golden Retriever. I know this because I actually own a Golden Retriever, Millie. Both of them follow me around adoringly. I should accept this affection and soak it in. Instead, it's kind of driving me crazy. With Millie, I can curtly turn to her and say: "Millie, go sit down." I can be direct and a little rude and she's fine. I can't yet do that with Mom.

Mom is like a ninja. She's tiny, fast and quiet. Just when I think I'm alone, I turn a corner and she's there...with a question, or an observation or something random to say like this:

"Wow, the internet. Think they'll ever improve upon that?"

Um, um, um....I have no idea what to say in response to that.

Basically, my mother is the manifestation of my worst fear - a cocktail party in my house every day. You see, I HATE cocktail parties because I hate mingling. I have zero ability to walk up to people that I don't know and make small talk. My Mom, the human Golden Retriever, laps up any and all information on all people. She LIVES for small talk.

So now, I have small talk around me all the time. I'm having a really hard time with this. I have run out of things to say. I used to think that my Dad was being rude to my Mom. Now I think he was just trying to get through each day. The woman never stops. She's a sweetheart and she's driving me crazy.

Help me.

Comments and sharing

Just a quick bit of housekeeping before you read my next post which will be MUCH more upbeat than the last one. (That's right. Debbie Downer took a vacation day.)

Anyway, thank you SO much for reading this - all 3 of you. Some of you have mentioned that you've tried to leave comments but that you have to register with a Google account. I actually changed the settings so that you can post comments anonymously. I just have to "moderate" them so that spammers stay away. But I also understand if there's nothing to comment about. This is me just venting, sharing and documenting. I have no idea if this will be helpful to anyone other than myself and my family.

Oh and I think you can "subscribe" to this blog and get emailed when there's a new post. I'm not positive how to do that. If you're smart, you can probably figure that out on your own. Knock yourself out.

Which brings me to my next point. If you want to share this with anyone, you can feel free. I haven't shared it on Facebook and Twitter because, well, I'm not quite ready to be completely transparent. For good or for bad, my parents don't know that I'm doing this blog. My Mom barely understands the internet. I think the idea of a blog in which she's a main "character" might blow her mind. We can't have that.

But we can have people reading this who have cared for the elderly or who might do so in the future. I don't want to scare anyone off, but someday, you might be in my situation. Maybe I'll say something that might be helpful in that regard. It's doubtful. But other miracles have occurred.

In the meantime, thanks again. You rock.

Some days are diamonds

Whoa. Yesterday ran the gamut from awful to amazing. That seems to be the way things go around here and I just need to ride out the ups and downs.

It's not like things started out horribly. In the morning, hubby and I drove over to a place that I'll call an "adaptability" store. Basically, they carry all the devices you might need if you were disabled in any way. We wanted to get Dad one of these:

Dad's legs have been getting weaker and weaker. We're not far away from a constant need for a wheelchair which will a major problem.

In any case, hubby saw this a week ago and we decided to give it a try. The verdict? Win-win.

Dad has finally gotten the message that his legs are weak because he's not using them enough. I showed him this device. Told him that he can pedal this while he watches NCIS. I put his feet in the pedals and off he went! Seriously, he was doing it for about two hours. I finally told my Mom to take it away so he wouldn't exhaust himself the first day.

At one point, I went in and asked him how it was going. He said: "It's fine, it's not that hard." I responded: "So you're kind of enjoying it?" He quickly said back: "I'm not going to lie to you. I don't like it at all. But I can handle it." OK, then.

Oh and the other great part of the pedal exerciser? There's a counter and a timer, so we can make this something he can track. I'm hoping this will be good.

Shortly after this, I noticed that our daughter was unhappy. In fact, she was downright angry. I'm overly sensitive and couldn't figure out what was going on. I stayed out of her way and left the house to go for a LONG run. (Exercise is totally saving my butt lately.) When I got back, she was still quiet and I asked her why she was so angry. She explained that when I/we left the house, unannounced, like we did when we went to the adaptive store, she felt "on duty" with complete responsibility for my parents. She felt overburdened and underappreciated. Wow. I felt terrible. I apologized profusely and explained that they can be left alone for an hour or two safely, as long as we're within 15 minutes, in case something happens. She cheered up considerably and I felt better that we figured that out. I worry a lot about how this whole situation affects her. I know it will be challenging but I don't want it to be daunting.

But the best moment of the day was late afternoon. Yesterday was the Kentucky Derby. I got all "theme-y" and decided we'd have a celebratory menu. Homemade guacamole and chips (for Cinco de Mayo) - our daughter makes the BEST guac in the world. And for dinner, I found recipes for Kentucky Burgoo and Derby Pie. (Again, daughter stepped up and made the pie which was sinfully delicious. 506 calories per slice!) We turned on the Derby, pre-race and we all sat together and watched for about 45 minutes. It felt nice to do something together.

We sat down for dinner which was DELICIOUS. Burgoo is basically a thick stew made with chicken, beef, pork, potatoes and vegetables. Everyone was surprised it was good because, well, I'm a terrible cook. I was surprised too!

After dinner, with our pie, I started talking to Dad about horses. I've found that he brightens considerably at dinner. He said that he owned two different horses, one of which died. The one that lived, which was brown, was named Slim. He owned it when he was about 15 or 16 and boarded it at stables that were near Devon and Kedzie in Chicago. He said that back then (1945), that was considered the outskirts of the city and he and his friends used to ride horses together. He said Slim cost him about $300 and he boarded him for about $30 a month, including food. (I know nothing about horses, but that seems insanely cheap.) He sold Slim to a police officer and then, two weeks later, Slim got lockjaw which gave Dad a reputation as a "crackerjack horse trader." I asked if he ever took Mom riding and he said no, that she was only 3 years old. I reminded him that Mom is only a year younger than him, but he said that they didn't know each other.

Then we talked about his military service and we had this great exchange:

Me: Dad, why were you in Germany during the Korean War? 
Dad: That was shrewd planning on my part. Guys were getting shot in Korea. I had a choice. I chose Germany. Duh.

OMG, he is SO funny sometimes. And he continued on. He talked about his military job repairing helicopters and how all the "top brass" in the army used the helicopters as sort of a high-end limousine service. He remembered a specific General being around wherever he was stationed.

And then he told the story about when he was stationed in San Antonio, TX. He hitchhiked often between San Antonio and San Marcos. A car full of Mexicans picked him up. He was supposed to sit in the back seat and there was already a woman in the back seat in a long white wedding dress. He still climbed in. He went to close the door to the car and he closed it on the wedding dress, thereby creating a big black mark halfway up the skirt of the dress. We were all, including Dad, laughing hysterically at this story. God, it was great to see him smile. His eyes were twinkling and his memories and mind were sharp and clear.

What made me so happy about all of this was not only how great it was to pull him out of his funk and see him being happy, but also that our daughter was sitting, listening to the stories, laughing hysterically. I can tell that she really likes her Grandpa. She knows that he's funny and dark and witty and this just brought it back out again. I felt so incredibly blessed that we were there to see that.

Later, as Mom and I cleared the table and did the dishes, Mom looked at me and said: "Now you know why I married him. He was SO interesting." And in her eyes, I could see bright, brilliant love and devotion, nearly 60 years later. Another blessing.

At the end of the day, I decided that Hubby and I needed to get away after Dad was in bed and walk to the village for a glass of wine (or two.) We've spent very little alone time together, except for running "elderly errands." It's funny but as we sat there, I realized this was just like when our kids were little. We'd finally get away from them and what did we talk about? The kids. Here we were again, listening to some really nice music, drinking good wine and talking about that amazing after-dinner conversation we had with Dad.

I then asked Hubby what was the worst part about all of this for him. He replied: "When you're upset." Wow. I was so humbled. All I could think about was how this affected my life and he sincerely thought me being upset was the worst part for him.

How did I deserve somebody so great?

Temper tantrum

I'm losing it.

While I was writing the previous post, upstairs in the loft area that overlooks the living room, Dad and Mom woke up and wandered into the living room. I gave them both coffee and put on the Today Show. Then Dad tried to turn up the volume....which changed the channel on the TV.

F*%@!!!

These are the things that are going to break me. It's not the showers or the shaving or the feeding a diabetic or doing more laundry than I've ever done in my life. It's the tiny little clash of daily habits.

I HATE TV in the morning. HATE it. Unless the world is ending, I'd rather find out passively, quietly, in the newspaper. I don't need Ann Curry spoon-feeding it to me from New York.

Still, in order to find domestic tranquility, I'm squelching my hatred of morning TV. I'm letting Dad have a semblance of his regular morning routine in MY living room...and then hiding myself away.

But then technology roars up and bites us in the ass. Seriously? Now the remote controls don't work? Great.

So what do I do? I lose my temper and my patience and take it out on Dad. I snap at him and grab the remote.

How much do I suck? A lot.

In praise of the handlers

Good God, how do other people do it? How do MOST people wade through the insanity of health care? My amazing hubby is handling this for my parents and to me, it's nothing short of AMAZING.

Here's my advice to everyone planning on getting old: Save money and find a smart person to handle things for you.

Seriously. It's hard enough getting old -  losing your eyesight, hearing, physical fitness and ability to think fast. To me, it's difficult for a fairly intelligent and young-ish person to figure out health care and insurance. Try handling it when you're over 80. THAT'S the biggest crime against "the greatest generation." We've made it virtually impossible for them to adequately take care of themselves. We've added layers upon layers of government and rules and regulations and put them all in 8 point type that nobody over 35 can see. And then we ask our sweet senior citizens to repeat their birth date again and again and again. I'm just waiting for one of my parents to say (pardon my French) "I'm fucking old, OK?"

Yesterday we met with an elder care attorney. This woman rocked. She and hubby talked back and forth about programs and agencies and eligibility and rules and regulations. I sat quietly while my mind drifted off thinking, "Dad needs a shower and a shave tonight." That's me. VP in charge of Personal Hygiene....and diet...and laundry....and pee cleanup.

In that regard, we talked about getting funds for services and resources and equipment and maybe somebody to help Dad shower and shave. I felt a glimmer of hope, quickly extinguished when I heard the strains of NCIS. Again, kill me now.

Still, I think we're making progress and yet there's so much more to do.

My brother is going to visit today which will definitely perk up my Dad. Then again, maybe Dad will take him aside and ask him to help him escape.

Sorry, Dad. Me first.

Except for the heroin

Big day over here at the Senior Sauna.

First, we may have inadvertently found an awesome way to both segregate NCIS from the rest of the house AND make the household climate acceptable to those of us under age 81.

The weather turned warm today...in fact, downright muggy. So my daughter, who kept her dorm room at a temperature appropriate for penguins, was not happy with having the heat on. Who could blame her? So she flipped on the AC and Dad was NOT HAPPY. (I blame Mom. She spilled the beans.) So I took matters into my own hands and brought up a space heater....and....AND.......I put it in the library where the new TV is. That's right, if Dad wants to stay warm, he has to stay in the library!!!! It's a win-win for EVERYONE!! He's toasty warm in that 78 degree room and I don't have to hear NCIS.

*does victory dance*

But the big day was really all about the doctors. We took Dad to his first medical appointment here in Wisconsin. And, it was at a Memory Care Clinic. Yeah, remember yesterday when he wanted to leave? Well, that idea was pretty much slapped out of his head by a bunch of people surrounding him talking about...HIS DEMENTIA.

I'm making it sound rude. It wasn't. They were respectful and kind and treated him with dignity and when they administered a memory test, he FAILED IT WITH FLYING COLORS. Any thoughts I had that he doesn't have dementia were completely erased. I hate to say this, but THANK GOD.

Anyway, the best part was the vast network of doctors that they have to which they can offer referrals. Oh and a nurse and physical therapist are going to come to the house to evaluate him and give him therapy.

*giant sigh of relief* 

I think we have a ray of hope of managing all of this!!

But two GREAT things also came out of today. First, when we got home, Dad was EXHAUSTED (even though we used a wheelchair at the doctor's office due to a long walk through hospital hallways.) He spent most of the morning just sitting. Still, he was spent. When we got home, he headed straight for the couch and literally almost couldn't make it. I stopped him short of sitting on the arm of the couch and he LITERALLY couldn't move his feet. I took the opportunity to point out how an inability to move would make that much-wanted return home impossible. He said nothing, either because he couldn't remember asking to return home or because he knew I was right. I'm going with the latter.

The second GREAT thing was this snippet of conversation between the Physician Assistant and my Dad:

P.A.: "I'm required to ask, do you have any history of abusing drugs?"

Dad: "Nope....except for the heroin."

I'm sorry, but that is freaking HILARIOUS. The man has a dark, dark sense of humor that even shines through dementia. I love that.