Marriage

"I love my wife very much. That's what I do."
"Is my wife still alive? That's what I want to know."

(I explain to him that he ate breakfast with her this morning and lunch with her less than an hour ago.)

"So my wife is still alive. That's what she is. I had breakfast with her, that's what I did. I had lunch with her, that's what I did. I will have dinner with her, that's what I will do."
"How old is she? That's what I want to know."

(I explain that she is 80)

"I love my wife very much. That's what I do. We are very old. That's what we are. We are very old, but we are still alive. That's what we are."
"So I've gotten old; that's what I've done." "My wife has gotten old; that's what she has done."
"She is my wife. and I love her very much. That's what I still do."
"We had 2 kids, that's what we did."
"So I live in Dallas, that's what I still do."

(He moved away from Dallas 9 years ago)

"I love my wife very much, that's what I still do. So I miss her very much, that's what I do."

(miss her? she's been away from him less than an hour and is taking a nap in her room)

Water in China

As a lawyer, Dad dealt almost exclusively with land and property rights. This included easements, right-of-way, mineral rights, and of course important in Texas, water rights. I think this background somehow connected in Dad's mind to the news stories this week about the tsunami in Asia and my Chinese son-in-law being in the house for Christmas to come up with the following story:

"There is lots of water in China. That's what there is."

"They have floods in China because there is so much water in China. That's true of them."
"Russia does not have enough water. That is true of them."

"They can't pump the water up hill from China to Russia. That is what they cannot do.""Although there is lots of water in China, they can't pump it up hill to Russia. That is true of them."

And so on for the next hour and a half...

Bodily Fluids

Years ago, a friend of ours (male) made the statement, "Babies are a series of uncontrolled openings." As we are learning, this is just as true of individuals with Alzheimer’s. Oh, we were long prepared for incontinence. That started 19 years ago when Dad had surgery for prostate cancer. We just weren't prepared for the other things.

Spitting: an ongoing problem. (background) Dad has a special cup that his THE cup for water. It's an insulated mug from my brother's medical school. It's just the right size and shape for holding with unsteady hands. The handle just fits his grip. We've fussed at Dad so much for spitting on the floor, that I think he is TRYING to be better. Yesterday morning when I was refilling his cup, I noticed that he had spit IN the cup. Overcoming my evil impulse to make him drink his own spit, I washed the cup before I filled it. This morning, Dad had spit ON the cup. The handle was covered. When I unsuspectingly picked it up by the handle...

Drool: For Mom's birthday, the day after Christmas, we had a big family dinner of barbecue. Dad had to have his face wiped more often than my 23 month old grandson. Barbecue sauce everywhere...

Pee: It's easiest to changed Dad's diapers in his bedroom because he can sit on a protective pad during the process. I chose commercial-grade indoor/outdoor carpet for his room because I knew it would get gross. I guess I underestimated how gross (more below). In dressing him in the mornings, my husband would strip Dad while he was sitting on the bed and walk him to the shower. The down side was that getting comfortable seemed to trigger peeing. Dad would pee across the floor while walking to the shower. My husband solved this for a while by using the dirty clothes to catch any dribbles. When the volume got too great, my husband resorted to leaving the diaper on until Dad reached the bathroom (with tile floor--easier to clean).

Poo. For the past several years, we could put Dad on the toilet morning and evening as his clothes were changed and he could move his bowels. Wiping was another story, but at least the clean up was limited. Recently, he got less predictable and would have bowel movements in his diaper. Yep, an adult sitting on poop is just as messy to clean up as a baby sitting in it. It goes everywhere. This morning, Dad did something new. My husband had cleaned up the morning load, showered Dad, and dried him off. On the way back to the bedroom to dress, Dad let go with another load--all over the carpet. Keeping him from walking in it was a challenge in itself. I guess diapers are going to have to be put on in the bathroom as well as taken off there. I hope this isn't a new trend and just is a result of 2 days of large holiday meals.

Ghosts of Christmases Past

In our family, it has traditionally been the older members who get up first on Christmas morning. I have always had to wake up my children. The last several years that Dad and Mom lived in their houses back door to mine (connected by a gate and a sidewalk), Dad has been the first one ready for opening the presents. He would come knocking on our back door at the first sign of daylight--even before Mom was up. Some years, he didn't even bother to dress--came over in pajamas, bathrobe, and slippers. He wasn't as excited about getting things as he was about seeing the grandkids opening their presents.

This year, even when we were gathered around the tree opening presents, I don't think Christmas registered with Dad. He opened his presents only with prompting.

Christmas was sort of empty this year...

Christmas Surprise

8:20 a.m.

Standing totally naked at his bedroom door:

"Where is that man(my husband) that helps with the hard stuff?"
Now if we could just get him to call for help BEFORE he takes everything off...

Spitting Again

We've almost given up the war against spitting. It's gotten so bad that we pick our battles. One of the lines is when Dad spits so much that the slimes the entertainment center 4 feet away from his chair. My son called me at work one day saying that the home health aide was treating Dad like a child. Dad was spitting, and the aide had turned off the TV. She wouldn't let him watch again until he quit spitting. We had given her the Ok to try to see if it would curb the spitting. Not much luck.

Sometimes we can get him to spit into a tissue. However, what he does with the used tissue is a whole other problem. He was spitting into his napkin at the table and leaving it for the person who cleared the table to pick up his digusting mess. We're trying to get him to put it into a bag hanging on the back of the chair. Limited success.

Used tissues sometimes make it into the trashcan sitting next to his chair in the living area. Most of the time, they just fall around the can.

"They fall on the floor. That's what they do." As if he has no control over where he drops them.
Tonight, my usually patient husband lost it. He staying home with Dad while the rest of us went to the Christmas Eve service. While my husband was emptying the dishwasher, Dad started spitting on the floor. My husband ended up fussing at Dad just like Dad was a small child. Sometimes that is the only way to get through.

But you feel so bad--treating an "adult" like a toddler. We have to realize that in many ways, Dad is a toddler. The hardest part is that instead of learning from experience, it seems to get worse.

Noticing Things

I didn't think Dad was even noticing that his great-grandson was in the house. However, my daughter told me that she was sitting alone at the table with Dad when he pointed to the highchair and asked, "Where's that baby that always sits here?" At that point, the "baby" (now nearly 2 years old) had only been in the house for 3 days--not even close to always.

My daughter explained where the baby was and who the baby was, reminding him who she was. Dad's comment was that he didn't even know she was married. My daughter reminded him that he had been to the wedding. He responded, "Well, then, I guess you are married and it's OK for you to have a baby."

Chaos

Last night we were all sitting around the table for dinner. The toddler was in his highchair right next to Dad. Dad didn't even notice. He was too busy making up a story about World War II.

The truth: Dad was 24 when Pearl Harbor was bombed. He didn't volunteer; he waited to be called up in the draft. His family was from a denomination that didn't believe in fighting or killing, but still served in the military. There are medical corpmen from his church that have earned the Medal of Honor. So, with this background, Dad was given a clerical position and sent to England. That was the highlight of his life. He told the same WWII stories over, and over, and over until my brother and I could recite them along with him. Now, all memory of this time seems to be gone.

Dad's version: "I registered for the draft, but they never called me up. They said they forgot to call me up. They admitted it was there fault. I never served in the army. Now I'm too old to serve in the army. They don't want me now. It was their fault that they forgot to call me up. They admitted that they were to blame."

Dad was so worried about being "forgotton" in the draft than he didn't even notice the chaos going on around him. The toddler right next to him was making a total mess with the spaghetti Alfredo. Everyone was talking at once. All Dad cared about was his "lack of service."

(8+4+3)*2 = Insanity

For the next 2 weeks, we will have eight people from four generations plus three dogs at our house. The oldest and youngest wear diapers and eat with their fingers. Two of the three dogs are still puppies and chew.

Dad seems almost totally unaware of all the insanity. He has talked to my daughter, but we're not sure he knows who she is. He hasn't even said anything about his 2 year old great grandson. Last August when they visited, he made regular comments. I'm not sure if his increasing blindness is making him unaware or if he is just overwhelmed.

I'll try to listen closely and see how he interprets all the people...

Really Short Term Memory

My husband got Dad up, gave him his shower, and dressed him. Dad came to the table where he had his usual breakfast of a banana, toast, egg, and coffee. He had just finished and I had not even put his dishes in the dishwasher yet when Dad asked where his breakfast was. I asked him what he meant.

"I need my grits and milk."

Dad has not eaten grits for breakfast in the 53 years he has been married. I told him what he had just eaten.

"Well, I guess I'm not hungry then."

My Brother

Dad seems to obsess about my brother. He is a doctor in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. He and his wife have 2 elementary school-age childern with very busy social schedules. This means they don't get down to see us very often. So...Dad talks about them endlessly. Or, rather, he talks about my brother endlessly.

About a week after my brother's last visit, Dad decided that he would never see my brother again. He started crying and saying, " He's gone. He won't come again. And that's it." "He left and that is true of him."

Later, Dad decided that there was a problem because I was here, but my brother wasn't. He decided that my brother must somehow be neglected and/or abused. This was during the period that Dad thought that he was in his 40s. Even though I explained to him that he was 87, his childern were grown, and my brother had childern of his own, Dad was still convinced that my brother was being mistreated.

Last night, Dad was talking about my brother's name. His first name was chosen long before he was born because we have a long-standing family tradition of naming boys after their grandfathers. My mother told us years ago that my brother's middle name was one of her favorite names. She had wanted to give that name to her son even before my parents met.

Dad was saying "I had to name my son all of a sudden." (as if he didn't have 9 months warning). "I had to name my son, so I named him." "And that's his name today. That is true of him."

Bedtime and Poop

Instead of telling anyone that he needs to be changed, when Dad is poopie, he decides to put himself to bed. This includes pulling his diaper off and getting poop everywhere--on the floor, on his bed, on his hands, and on anything he touches. My husband was only half joking when he talked about getting a buzzer that will signal us any time he goes into his bedroom.

screaming in frustration...

Changes

Until recently, Dad always recognized me. I'm not sure if his current problem is due to the Alzheimer's or to his increasing blindness. His vision has deteriorated so much that he has trouble reading newspaper headlines. At meals, he can't find the food on his plate unless it is dark food on a white plate. Even then, he can't tell if there is food left or just juice. We say that "nanoscale" is the level to which Dad scrapes the pudding out of his bowl. He has such a sweet tooth that he keeps trying for "just one more taste" long after the bowl is empty.

Last night after Dad went to bed, I had to go into his room to get some towels. Before, he either called me by name and said hello, or if it was too dark to see, he would ask who it was. Last night, he thought I was his sister (who has been dead 15 years--he went to her funeral and administered her estate). This wouldn't be too far off except I'm about 5 inches taller and 75 pounds lighter than she was. There is no way to confuse our profiles. She was even heavy as a teenager.

Oh, well...

Topics I Can't Listen To

Most of the things Dad talks about are at least sadly funny. However, he has two topics that I just can't listen to.

The first is about his sex life. Now I know that most of what he says is made up from whole cloth, just like his other things. However, it makes me want to put my fingers in my ears and go "blah, blah, blah" so I can't hear him. Too much information...

The other topic that gets next to me is when he talks about his parents deaths. His mother died December 22, 1964 and his father died two weeks later. Dad was at their bedsides both times. In fact, my grandmother died at my house. That was before the days of hospice programs. Everyone knew MamaGrandee was dying of bladder cancer, and the doctors could do nothing more for her. Since Mom and my aunt (Dad's sister) were both R.N.s, they took turns caring for her. They rented a hospital bed and other equipment and put her in my brother's bedroom. He had to share the room with me for a couple of weeks before she died.

Monday night Dad asked about why he hadn't seen his parents in a long time. Mom explained to him that they were dead and had been dead for 40 years. Dad said that no one had told him they were dead, and no one told him about their funerals. He started crying (which I had seen only once before in my life) and saying that he loved them very much and that he missed them. It really got next to me, especially since I don't think he ever told his parents that he loved them. It's tragic that 40 years after their death he could finally say out loud that he loved his parents.

"Curiouser and curiouser!" cried Alice (Alice In Wonderland)

Either my Dad is Lewis Carroll or my grandmother followed the White Rabbit down a hole...

My grandmother's side of the family is small. Even the ones of "average" size have small bones. Little Papa was really little and Big Mama was at most average size. Their children, especially the girls, were 5 feet or less. My grandfather, on the other hand, was close to if not above 6 feet tall. So, my grandparents had a difference in height of about 1 foot.

Last night Dad decided that this difference in height must have bothered my grandfather.

"My mother grew two inches in height to make my father happy. My father wanted her to be taller, so she grew two inches. It made my father happy that my mother grew two inches."

However, this magical growth wasn't without complications.

"My mother went to the bank to cash a check but the bank didn't recognize her. She had grown two inches in height, and the bank didn't know who she was. The bank told her she had to lose those two inches if she wanted the bank to recognize her."

"My mother lost two inches in height, and the bank was very happy. They said that they now recognized her as Mrs. Willam T. P--- and that they would always recognize her as Mrs. William T. P---. The bank recognizes people by their height, and that as long as she stayed the same height, they would recognize her as Mrs. William T. P---."

This went on for over 3 hours....

By the end, I was expecting to see a white rabbit with a pocket watch worrying about being late.

Beards

For quite some time, Dad has been very concerned about beards. I'm not sure why, but I'm guessing that my husband's full beard plays a role. Dad never in his life had much of a beard. Even in his 40s it was thin and blond. I never saw him with a 5 o'clock shadow. Dad's caregiver shaves him every morning. However, he has an electric shaver next to his chair in the family room that he runs over his face 3 or 5 times a day. I wonder if he just likes the sound and the vibration. He asks regularly if we can see a beard.

Dad's maternal grandfather was a small man, just over 5 feet tall, with a beard to the middle of his chest. Everyone called him "Little Papa" because he was small. His wife was several inches taller and out-weighed him by 40 pounds. She was called "Big Mama." They lived on a farm in East Texas. Big Mama died before Little Papa. He couldn't keep up the farm by himself, so the farm was sold and Little Papa lived the rest of his life rotating among his 12 children. This much of the story I'm pretty sure of. The story Dad added last night was probably pure fiction:

"Little Papa came to live with us in Dallas. It is illegal to have a beard in Dallas. They made it against the law to have a beard because it can be used as a disguise." "When Little Papa came to live with us in Dallas, they made him shave off his beard." "Little Papa didn't like having to shave his beard because he had one all of his life." "Little Papa had to shave his beard becasue they were outlawed in Dallas." "Little Papa died shortly after they made him shave his beard. I guess he died of shame because they made him shave his beard."

After Dad got tired of talking about Little Papa dying of shame because they made him shave his beard, he created another story about Dallas laws and beards.

"They made me grow a beard in Dallas. They took my picture with a beard. Then I shaved it off." "They took everyone's picture with and without a beard do they couldn't use the beard as a disguise." "They made me grow a beard so they could take my picture." "As soon as they took my picture, I shaved my beard and haven't had one since." "Everyone had their picture taken with a beard."

Kind of hard on the women. How did they grow beards?

Too Much Information

Periodically, Dad starts talking about his sex life. Given the accuracy of some of his other statements (last of the Romanovs, being Egyptian), there is no telling what, if anything, he says is true. Still, I'd just as soon not hear it at all.

Last night, in addition to talking about sex, he was upset that he wasn't sleeping with Mom.

"I'm a married man. I shouldn't have to sleep alone. I should sleep with my wife."

Now Dad has slept sitting up in a chair for several years. When Mom and Dad still lived in their house, Dad slept in his recliner in the family room. This was a problem because he fussed if anyone walked through the room after he "went to bed" or if anyone turned on a light in the kitchen. There was no way to get from the bedrooms to the rest of the house except through the family room, so he was frequently upset.

I knew this wouldn't work when he moved in with us, so we bought him a second recliner to put in his bedroom. However, he still has to have a separate bedroom from Mom because he turns on the light at random times during the night and talks endlessly if he wakes up.

When he was complaining about sleeping alone, I told him that as long as he slept in a chair instead of a bed, he couldn't sleep with anyone. He never really understood that.

Holiday Traditions

Every year since I can remember, Dad and I have gone out shopping the day after Thanksgiving for Mom's Christmas and birthday presents.

We had a traditional Thanksgiving this year with turkey and all the trimmings. I used the china and silver, even though only 5 of us were home. We talked about Thanksgiving and Dad watched the Macy's parade and the traditional football games. However, for the first time ever, Dad didn't mention shopping. Since walking is difficult, I just took care of getting the presents for him. Now, I almost (repeat almost) wish I hadn't.

Last night after dinner, Dad asked what the date was. When I told him, he immediately thought of Christmas and Mom's birthday and wanted to get her presents. I told him they were taken care of, and I think he understood.