What Day Is this?

 

I woke up to a beautiful, blustery, sunny day. After being sick for the entire week, it was great to hear the birds singing outside of my bedroom window and to see the sun shining brightly. I did a mental check of how I was feeling: 

No fever…. Check.

No headache…. Check.

No stomach ache…. Check!

No lower back ache…. Well, maybe a little, but nothing a little ibuprofen won’t relieve. So, surmising that I am feeling much better, I get up to start my usual routine. 

So thankful for Angelo, who stepped right up and made sure that both Mom and I were well cared for.

After breakfast and making certain that everyone’s needs were cared for, I decided to run my usual Wednesday errands. I noticed that I didn’t have my usual pep in my step. In between running into different stores, I had to sit in the car to regain my energy. By my third stop, I realized that my stamina was depleted and that I needed to narrow down my errands to just one more venture and head back home.

While driving home, at a red light, I began to make a mental note of what I had on my schedule for the next day when suddenly I realized that this day was in fact Thursday, not Wednesday… OH NO! I totally missed an important appointment that I needed to attend on Thursday… today.

Now, as a caregiver of a parent with dementia, I often question: is this the beginning for me? Honestly, I’m not being paranoid. You see, my father also lived with Alzheimer’s disease, as well as his mother and two of his sisters. So, cognitive disorder is not uncommon in my bloodline. Therefore, the concern is real!

Tell me, do you too question if you’re losing your memory or have the potential of having Alzheimer’s disease when you can’t remember something that you know you know? Or when you can’t find those keys, or your phone, or that shirt that should be in that certain place?

After giving it much deliberation, I realized that my week was thrown off because of being ill and sleeping most of the days earlier in the week to recover. So, once again I gave myself some grace and drove myself home and lay myself down in bed for a nice cozy nap.

Good news! For the rest of the week I didn’t have to ask, “What day is this?”

Keywords: weather humor, losing one's mind. accepting reality, frustration and resentment, forgetting, senile senility, aging humor, care for an older family member, dealing with memory loss, stories about dealing with dementia

Hashtags:#aginghumor, #caringforanolderfamilymember, #dealingwithmemoryloss, #storiesaboutdealingwithdementia

You Got This Girl!

"Stop making all that noise up there!" Mom yells while banging on the wall. I quickly run into the room gasping, "Mom, what's wrong? Who are you screaming at?" "Those people upstairs are so noisy." she replies frantic and frustrated. Mom that's Angelo. He's just opening the garage to get the gardening tools out." "No! That's not Angelo. It's those noisy people in the building. The ones living upstairs over my apartment!" "Mom, there is nothing upstairs but a roof. There is no upstairs." Suddenly I remember that we do have an attic and some attics have drop-down steps. I'm really not sure if the attic of this ranch style home has steps because I'm too afraid to venture up there to see if there are drop-down steps. What am I thinking? By this time my own thoughts are confusing me. 

Looks like she's finally did it people. She finally got to me. I'm second guessing my own reality. I feel like I just got infected with a dipsey daft virus and if I stay in her room any longer I will start showing the full symptoms of lunacy.  I can see the signs on the wall. "Welcome To The Insane Asylum For Seniors." "Straight jackets are free - Drop your clothes off at the door." "Stay calm, someone will be with you shortly."

Very slowly I step backward out of her apartment, uh... bedroom. As  I step into the hallway, I start feeling dizzy.  I look for the first chair I can to sit down on and start trying to pull myself together. I remember seeing a video on how to calm down...

• Start by deep breathing slowly in and out while counting from one to ten 
• Gently pat your chest while counting. 
• Focus on your senses.

After taking a few deep breaths I soon start to realize I'm not insane. At least not yet. This was just a mild panic attack. The first I've had since my Mom moved in. I know it won't be the last. At least they won't be carting me off to the looney bin today.

I hear my inner voice say, "You're doing fine. Just take good care of her during the few golden years she has left and a big blessings will pour down from heaven somewhere down the line. You can do this. You're in control! You got this girl!"  As I close my eyes and think of the gentle swell of ocean waves coming from the horizon of a beautiful sunset, I feel a calmness come over me. I got this. All is well. 

The Uncontrollable Remote Control

Mom will go to great lengths to do absolutely nothing. For example,  3 or more times a day while laying on her bed and enjoying her TV shows she accidentally changes the channel or hits the power button and turns off the TV. She surmises that she did not do anything wrong. It's the remote control's fault. The remote has run amuck and it needs to be caught and disciplined! So after fiddling with it in order to make it work herself but then failing she quickly gets out of the bed and searches for someone to fix her remote.  

I dread the day when she can't find anyone in the house to fix the remote and ventures out of  the house.  She would knock on our neighbor's door, and when it opens she will say, "My stupid remote control won't work. Can you fix it for me." Of course the remote control works fine. It's the latest in remote control technology. The problem is for the past 12 months she has not learned how to work it. The poor thing. But it's not entirely her fault. To add to the confusion, some days she thinks the remote control is the cell phone.  

Since she moved from Maryland to Pennsylvania, we had to change cable services. The new service came with an upgraded cable box with remote control. We hoped she would have learned how to operate the new remote by now, but she hasn't. It would not be so bad if she would just put the thing down and stop trying to change the channel with those busy fingers of hers.  So three or more times a day she roams the halls searching for me or Angelo to help her make her remote work. 

Without her television shows she would  resort to staring at the walls and contending with her thoughts, good or bad, and she's not ready for that. So we've tried near genius measures to address her busy fingers and the uncontrollable remote control. For example;

1. We take the remote when she's ready to retire. When she gets up to use the bathroom in the morning we turn on her TV and select her preferred channel with one of her favorite TV shows. This works fine so long as we come out of our own slumber and hear her entering the bathroom.  Of course by noon she is back to looking for her remote to change the channel. 

2. Next we tried taking the batteries out of the remote so her fingers can be as busy as they want to but they do not change the channel, turn away from the cable box, or accidentally turn the TV off. This works fine for a while but at some point she notices it's not responding when trying to change the channel and insists her remote doesn't work anymore.  

3. We even tried buying a whole season of her favorite sit com, but she eventually gets tired of watching the same season all week. That's actually a good sign. It means Mom's dementia is not advanced to the point of forgetting what she watched yesterday. 

At the end of the day, it's a good thing she wants her remote fixed. The fact that Mom is hot on the trail of  resolving the uncontrollable remote control issue indicates that much of her cognitive functions are still very much intact and active. 

So go ahead Mom, do what you must. We're here for you sweetie. Let's get that uncontrollable remote fixed.

The Case of The Missing Pajamas

 

Honestly, there are days when I must retrace my steps to nudge my brain into remembering what I went into a room to get, or what I was supposed to do. For example, on this particular day, I was certain that I placed a clean set of pajamas in the bathroom for Mom.

When I glanced into the bathroom while prepping for Mom's shower, there were no pajamas! Then I realized that Mom just came out of the bathroom, and she has the habit of taking her pajamas and tucking them away when she feels that she doesn't need them at that moment. So now the hunt is on! Nope, they're not in the laundry basket of freshly laundered clothes. Nope, not in her dresser drawers. Nada, not in her closet. Negative, not in my closet. Now that leads me to look in the bathroom storage areas:cabinet, under the sink, in the tub, and in the dirty clothes hamper. Nothing, nill, zilch! Not there either. So I ask Mom if she saw her PJs and as no surprise to me she replied, “You gave me pajamas?” I answered, “No Ma’am, they were in the bathroom. Did you see them?” “No, I haven’t seen any pajamas.”

I decided to get off this spinning hamster wheel and just pick out another set of sleepwear. I'll give up the hunt for the missing pajamas for now. Later that evening, while collecting trash I noticed the unusual weight of the bathroom waste basket. I looked inside and there at the very bottom were the missing pajamas! "How in the world did they get in there?" I asked shaking my head. Well, I guess Mom thought that she no longer needed them.

The Name Game - Who's Her Favorite?

I think it’s safe to say that most of us who have a brother or sister have been summoned by our parents by the name of the other sibling. When that occurs a sibling may chuckle and jest that this is proof as to who Mom's favorite child is.

Of course Mom would say that she loves us equally and has no favorite. But, I beg to differ. Throughout each and every day, I here, “Renee!”, the name of my darling sister. “Renee, come here please.” or “Renee, I need help with my TV.” or, “Thank you, Renee!” Mostly, I just smile graciously and carry out her request, but a time comes when I just can't take it anymore. 

The thing that gets my goat the most is when my own birth mother completely forgets that joyous day when she gave birth to me and I received my rightful place in the family as the adored first born daughter,  endearingly named "Marie".  It's a name unlike any other name. A name to be proud of. It speaks gently and softly of the one who possesses it. It is lovely, warm, and kind.  It is wonderful!  How could anyone forget it or trade it in for any other name. My Mom could, and actually did!

Somehow after the passing of six decades she decides to suddenly and overtly adjust the system of nomenclature and change my first name! And not to a name of someone of note and distinction. No, that would be too kind. But to a name from second place. One which  to my chagrin seems to more easily flow from her two lips--- the name of the "pretty one" as Mom too often says--- "Renee!" "Hey Renee, did you find my teeth?"

Today I refuse to answer to Renee. As her hardworking caregiving firstborn daughter, she will learn to call me by my given name. She will call me Marie! 

A few minutes later, after a brief moment of silence I ask, "Hey mom, did Renee find your teeth? "Well, let's just wait for Renee (who happens to live in another state by the way) to show up and find those missing teeth of yours, shall we? And while she's at it, she can answer all those other questions you've asked her today!" She then laughs. I unexpectedly chuckle and snicker, wondering if this could be what I think it is? A brief moment of recognition of my actual name after an entire week of conversation addressed to Renee? If so..., I think I'll take it.