Killing the cats

Last night I had a BIZARRE dream about killing cats. For a while, it seemed perfectly logical. Although it's true that I am not a big cat fan, we used to own a cat and I am, in general, not a cruel and horrible person. (Although I cannot vouch for anything that I do while suffering from PMS.)

Anyhoo, there were two cats - one was calico, the other black and it was my job to exterminate them. They apparently were part of our family - not our house, but our family. (Yeah, makes no sense. I know. Just stick with me for a bit.) Somehow, I got both of them into two separate cat carriers. (Sidenote: Try saying CAT CARRIERS fast, three times.) The cat carriers were covered up somehow, so the cats were literally and figuratively in the dark.

I then met up with, I think, my sister, and we discussed the extermination of the cats. I had decided that the cats would be drowned, but then sis and I decided that would be kind of cruel. So then we agreed that I'd just let them loose and they'd figure out life on their own.

W. T. F. ?!

So then I got up this morning and thought about this dream which, as I mentioned, seemed perfectly sane while I was dreaming it. All of a sudden, I realized what this dream meant. Are you ready? Here it goes:

MY PARENTS ARE THE CATS.

Yep, that's what I came up with. Here's why I think that: Yesterday, Hubby and I visited another assisted living facility. This one was MUCH better than the last, with the only real downside being that their "apartment" would be basically just a single room with attached bathroom. No kitchen. All meals would have to be taken with the community, which is very nice. The staff seemed super sweet and a lady whose mom lives there saw us touring and, unprompted, said: "This place ROCKS." All in all, it was nice, although slightly too much of the "assisted" with not much independence. I'm not sure that's the right fit, not that Mom and Dad aren't in need of a lot of assistance and less independence.

But I guess I was thinking about what kind of place I was willing to "leave" them at. My sister and I were comparing this process to dropping your kid off at college. You want to make sure the fit is perfect so that you don't get one of those phone calls that says: "I hate this place. Come and get me, PLEASE." It's a very tricky dynamic, to say the least.

So that's why I think that, in my dream, my parents are the cats. I'm trying to re-situate my parents (for THEIR well-being) and feel pretty guilty about it, like, in a way, I'm slowly killing them. I know, that's overly dramatic, but I kind of feel that way. I take this VERY seriously. I can't do anything to them that I wouldn't do to myself.

Yep, cats.

I feel bad about....everything.

Guilt. I have this magical way of inserting it into every moment of my life. My kids do something wrong or struggle with something in their lives? I blame myself or figure it was my inadequate parenting skills. My husband is in a bad mood? (Which he NEVER is, dammit.) I assume it's my fault. And yes, I've managed to include guilt as part of the "elder care package."

Mom's hip has been bothering her lately. I'm not sure if it's her bionic (a.k.a. "replaced") hip or her old one. Either way, I'm worried. I'm certain it's because she's sleeping on an Aero Bed in the bedroom while Dad, um, hogs, the queen size bed. They had a king size bed at home and so they just don't fit together in this new bed. Dad is sleeping quite well, thank you, but Mom is definitely not. She just got up at 6:15 am made a beeline straight for the Tylenol...because she's in pain...because she's sleeping on a blow-up mattress.

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

Last night, she and I had a talk about the possibility of them moving into assisted living. We sat on the deck in the lovely weather last night and discussed their future. She was really fine with it and I assured her that wherever it is has to be good enough for me in order for it to be good enough for them. Well, this morning she woke up and said: "How are we going to afford assisted living? Because I'm worried about how much we can afford because your Dad won't be happy unless it's a nice place." I talked her down off the ledge and ASSURED her that Hubby and I are working on those details and she shouldn't worry at all about it. I didn't lie to her, but I wouldn't be honest if I didn't say that I too worry about those things.

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

I already feel bad that I ripped them out of their house and dragged them up here. OK, that's overly dramatic, but sometimes it feels that way. The transition has been challenging, to say the least. I know it was for their own good, but try keeping someone at your house when they don't want to be there. Not easy and not fun.

The only thing that made me feel a tad bit better was that Mom said she's MUCH more relaxed now that she's living with us and the blood pressure reading at her last doctor's appointment was STELLAR. Phew.

Oh but I feel guilty when I sneak out and have a fun night out with Hubby or my friends. I feel badly that I didn't provide an equally fun night for my parents.

I know, I know, I shouldn't feel guilty. But this is someone's life we're working with here. Actually, TWO people's lives. And, their "sunset" years, to boot. I feel a tremendous responsibility to "do the right thing." I have a very small window in which to give them comfort, love and happiness and I honestly feel like I'm woefully short. Mom is so easily placated that I often feel like I take advantage of her overly flexible demeanor.

On any given day, I feel badly about five or six things as they relate to my parents: unhealthy food, lack of exercise, lack of stimulation, not providing them with a closet because I'm too lazy to empty out the guest room closet, not sitting and talking with them enough, allowing the TV to be their babysitter.....

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

It only hurts when I laugh

Skipped a day without posting because not much happened....ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

(Warning: This post may make little or no sense because it will mirror the current state of my life.)

So, the other day, Dad fell again. Actually, he slipped on our hardwood floor while I was at the pharmacy picking up one of his medications. I pulled in the driveway and got a text from my daughter: "Grandpa fell. I helped Grandma get him up, but just so you know." I went barreling in the door and found him in his usual chair complaining that his arm hurt, but he was generally OK. Thank GOD my daughter was there to help.

To make a long story short, he fell on his shoulder and was bruised but not broken. I know this because the first thing he said in the morning was: "Wanna make a trip to the Emergency room?" Thus began my day. We didn't go to the Emergency Room because when I asked him how bad his pain was on a scale of 1 to 10, he said a 2. Turns out, he thinks 1 is the worst.

*Facepalm*

Instead of going to the Emergency Room, I called his doctor's office and asked for some guidance. This doctor has an Urgent Care as part of their office. Basically, they set it up so that existing patients can get in same day just like an Urgent Care but it's in the regular office. I set up an appointment and then a few minutes later his new primary care doc called. I had just been told that he wasn't on duty, so I was confused. But he called to check in, say he was sorry to hear that Dad had fallen and to reassure me that he'll check on the report after Dad has been seen by his colleague. Wow. I can't tell you how impressive this was. I'm so used to health care being cold and impersonal.

So, Dad and I spent about 3 hours in the doc's office, then getting x-rays, then going back to the doc's office. During this time, he was completely Mr. Sassy Pants. At one point, he looked down at his shoes and said something about needing to get a shoe shine because the suede part of his new shoes wasn't shiny enough. Oh and when the doc asked if his arm hurt, he said "only when I laugh." Jeez, Dad, answer the question. But the Doc got it and did a little back and forth with him. I love that these people understand old people and treat them with dignity and humor. Thank God we've found the right place.

After I got Dad home, settled and enjoying a lunch he proclaimed was the "best ever," I went upstairs and was doing something. Suddenly, I hear Mom shouting for me. I dropped my dental floss (look, SOMETHING in my life has to be good, it may as well be my teeth) and ran downstairs. Mom said: "Your father is outside." I look outside where he has walked out, left the door open, went down the stairs and is reaching in the mailbox. SHIT, SHIT, SHIT. This is bad on so many levels: A) He walked out AGAIN. B) He went down the stairs AGAIN. C) He went looking for the mail which, as you know, we've been kind of keeping away from him. I tried to distract him while admonishing him. It kinda worked, but later, he shuffled up to me and mentioned that he hasn't gotten any mail in weeks. I said something about how there have only been bills and Hubby has been paying those with the online bill pay system (not a lie) and that we didn't want to worry him. I felt terrible for betraying his trust, even though it seriously is completely for his own good. If we let him open and rip up mail, we may have further insurance issues. Sigh.

Hubby arrived home and then he and I went to visit an Assisted Living option for Mom and Dad. We've been looking into this with the expectation that we hope to eventually give them back some independence but it has to be in a safe and VERY caring place. The place we visited was nice on the assisted living side. Small apartments that allow Mom and Dad to be together and yet still be safe and independent. Only 23 residents so it doesn't seem like a giant "facility."

Then we looked at the attached nursing home. The first thing I noticed was that it smelled like pee. I had told Hubby that there is no way in hell that I will put my parents in a place that smells like pee. It had a completely different vibe than the assisted living side and I didn't like it. In the car, on the way home, I burst into tears. Hubby agreed, completely understood and held my hand while I wiped my nose and sniffled. He promised that we'd find a place that would be better. We can't afford the Hilton, but we won't put them in Motel 6. Thank God.

We returned home after that depressing outing and Dad seemed really good. He asked if I'd take a walk with him to the fire station the next day. "Um, sure, I'd be honored," I responded. I have no idea why he chose that destination, but he seemed genuinely enthusiastic about it. Who knows if he'll remember it today.

I had a blessed evening of tennis last night where I escaped the stresses of home. I got back and Hubby told me that Dad fell down onto the floor TWICE and he was there to help him up. Such a mixed bag of feelings from hearing this - Thank God Hubby was home, we are right to search for assisted living, how is he declining so quickly and oh, crap. My mind is spinning.

I have no pithy way to end this. ________________ (Insert your own entertaining comment here.)

Ignorance is bliss

The other day, Hubby and I went to one of our beloved neighborhood restaurants. For obvious reasons, we haven't been there in a while. Our favorite server asked what was new: "My parents moved in with us," I replied. There was a long pause and then a quiet "OH MY."

Seriously, if you told people that a new puppy or an adopted child moved in with you, they'd get all excited and congratulate you. But when you tell them that old people have moved with you, it's Debbie Downer time.

I find this reaction amusing. It's as if we told people __________ (insert horrible situation here.) Universally, they feel TERRIBLE.

Part of me is grateful for the sympathy. It's nice for people to acknowledge that I'm not whining without reason.

Another part of me wants to run up to them and ask: "Wait, you mean it's not going to get better?!" Everyone ASSUMES that what we have going on here is AWFUL.

Look, I'll be honest, this IS challenging. On a daily basis, we are worrying about at least five things. But it's not unlike the beginning of the parenting cycle. Things are crazy. You work out some fixes. There are good days and bad days and you feel a little fist pump of victory when the old folks are fed and put to bed without incident.

Although I tend to be rather pessimistic, there's no way I could get through every day if I didn't feel like we were managing pretty well and people were happy.

Then again, it's entirely possible that I'm completely ignoring the big picture, which is that we have old people living with us, they drive us a little crazy, they are in moderate to poor health and they're going to decline.

It's all in how you look at it....or not look at it.

Is this Christmas?

Yesterday morning, I heard Dad's walker clicking around at the usual time. I met him in the library with a cup of coffee.

He grimaced a bit as he was sitting down, looked up at me and said: "Is this Christmas?" I calmly responded: "Nope, it's June."

As I've mentioned before, the maddening thing about dementia is that in its early stages, the "patient" drifts in and out of lucidity. There are days when Dad seems crystal clear on everything. There are other times, like this moment, when I know that I'm the one who's not losing it.

I feel a little guilty saying this, but those moments are reassuring to me. Why? Because sometimes I feel like we're jumping through an awful lot of hoops for two people who would MUCH rather be in their own home. I feel like I'm literally holding them captive against their will.

But then Mom will need daily help sorting through her medications and Dad will take a left turn into Crazy Town and I get an instant reminder of why we are doing what we are doing.

I'm not saying we are doing it well. As I tell people, we are simply the last, best option.

If this is Christmas, where are my presents?

The checkup

Yesterday I took Dad to see his new primary care doc. I thought it would be a brief appointment, because seriously, when was the last time you had a "checkup" that lasted more than 30 minutes?

Well I was wrong. NINETY minutes. This guy was thorough. UNBELIEVABLY thorough. He checked EVERYTHING. And he asked questions....lots and lots of questions. He asked Dad about whether he was sad. Dad said no and I nodded my head yes. He asked Dad if he's lost interest in doing things. Dad said yes. (Victory!) The doctor asked him what things he used to do that he stopped doing. Dad said "working on cars." (Um, Dad hasn't worked on cars in over 10 years.) The doc asked how long it's been that he lost interest in working on cars. Dad said "Six months." Oy.

The doc spent a lot of time on Dad's feet and arms and it was obvious there was concern. He said that Dad has suspicious joint stiffness that may or may not be the beginning signs of Parkinson's Disease. We'll make a follow-up with a neurologist to check that out too.

Toward the end of the appointment, Dad pointed to me and asked me to bring out the driver's license revocation appeal letter from the Illinois Secretary of State. I handed it to him and he gave it to the doctor and asked him to fill it out and send it in. The doctor said: "I will, but it's not going to be good news." He then explained, in-depth, why Dad should no longer drive. He talked about his dementia, the neuropathy in his feet, the stiffness in his arms and how all of this together leads to poor reaction times in driving and, how he could hurt himself and someone else.

The doctor stepped out of the office and Dad and I had this conversation:

Dad: This guy is good, REALLY good.
Me: Yeah, he is. Very thorough. So Dad, why do you want your driver's license back?
Dad: Because I want to drive. Duh. That's a stupid question.
Me: Jeez, you don't have to be mean. I was just wondering. By the way, I'm not going to let you drive.
Dad: Oh yeah? Then you're going to have to throw yourself in front of the car. You can't stop me.
Me: Dad, did you hear what the doctor said about how you shouldn't drive?
Dad: You know what? This guy is SO good, he could find something wrong with YOU so that YOU wouldn't be able to drive.
Me: Is that what you think happened? That the doctor is so good that he was looking for things that were wrong with you?
Dad: Yes I do.

*Cut to me burying my face in my hands.

The doctor came back in and I decided to be bold:

Me: So, doctor, just to confirm, you do not think that Dad should drive, right?
Dad: Jeez, don't go and ruin everything! 
Doctor: That is right. I do not think it is safe for him to drive. 

*Dad shoots me daggers while inside I do a little victory dance.

I literally don't think that Dad heard that last part. I think he truly thinks he has a shot to get his license back. I also have this small fear that somebody will be asleep in the Secretary of State's office and will just give him the license back. But we'll deal with that if and when it happens.

In any case, Dad was pretty happy with his new doctor, although he was also quite annoyed that we had to set up a follow-up appointment in three months. He said to me: "You know what my philosophy about doctors is? Don't go see a doctor until you have to."

Sure, Dad. How's that working out for you?

Groundhog day

I'm all for consistency. It's comforting knowing that something will happen on a regular basis. But sometimes, consistency can get irritating...and repetitive.

Lately, in our house, the theme is: Get the license back. Yep, as in: Dad is intent on appealing his driver's license revocation.

Yesterday I was gone until about 9:30 am. Due to a late-starting meeting, Hubby was home during that time. Dad sat him down and said that he wants to go back to Illinois, hire an attorney to set up all the services that Hubby his worked his a** off to get and get his doctors and his license back.

I'm so glad I wasn't home. Hubby calmly told him why that won't work. Dad walked away seemingly depressed. Hubby cornered me the minute I walked in the house to tell me about the conversation. We were both concerned and ready to sit down with Dad together again.

We went downstairs. Dad came out of the bedroom and asked Hubby where the letter from the Secretary of State was because he's going to apply to get his license back.

*Cut to me burying my face in my hands. 

Hubby calmly said: "You'll have to get a doctor to sign off on that." Dad nodded in agreement.

Later, during dinner, I reminded Dad that we have an appointment with his new primary care doctor this morning. He brought up the license thing AGAIN. After dinner he sat down, filled out the license revocation appeal and put a stamp and a return address on the envelope. He set it out for us to bring to the doctor.

He is completely and totally focused on this license thing. I don't even think he remembers why he wants a license, but this has become his new mission. It's almost at an absurd level.

Hubby has done some research into dealing with dementia and found that studies show that you're supposed to "meet the dementia patient where they are." In other words, don't argue with their logic, or lack thereof. Thus far, I have not done this, but I've started when dealing with "License-Gate." 

Yesterday afternoon, I called the doctor's office and gave them a heads-up that Dad was going to ask about the license and that he wants to return home to Illinois. I said that I could really use the doctor's help in dealing with this. Given the fact that this new doctor is in a Memory Care clinic, I'm PRAYING that they will help me deal with this.


I'm not sure I can wake up tomorrow to another round of: "Karen, where's that letter from the Secretary of State?"


Then again, maybe I can....