Tag Archives: mother and son

A #Shadoobie by any other name: Pt. l

Posted in August by

WARNING: READER DISCRECTION ADVISED

A friend called me the other day while I was in my room so I went out to the balcony to chat.

I call the outdoor space my ‘summer living room’, a place where I can feel free to talk uncensored and without being heard (except, of course, for the neighbors if I talk too loudly).

It’s not that I have anything to hide or secrets to guard, it’s just that being a caregiver there is very little privacy, so I try to carve out what little space I can.

As I walked through the apartment I happened to look down and noticed that Miss Cathy had spilled something on the caret in the hallway right in front of the kitchen doorway.

Earlier I’d heard her in the kitchen rustling around with the kitchen garbage (something I’ve told her time and time again I would take care of because she’s famous for leaving the garbage bags ‘next’ to the can and never taking them out to the dumpster) so I thought it might be coffee grounds or maybe chocolate ice cream that had spilled.

But, I continued on, chatting away, I thought little of it, other than to make a mental note to go buy some caret cleaner later and joked to my friend, “I don’t know what that is, it could be poo for all I know” then I proceeded to the balcony where I spent the next hour or so talking about everything from the Project Runway season premier on Lifetime (television for women-and gay men) to the Anthony Weiner scandal (television for women-and gay men).

After clicking off my conversation I was ready to tackle the stain, which now looked as if an attempt had been made to clean it up but the result was less than successful.

Fearing permanent damage (because it looked like she really rubbed it in instead of lifting the stain out) I went to mom’s room in search of some answers.

She was already tucked in bed for the afternoon.

“I’m going to the store to get some carpet cleaner”, I said. “So I need to know what you spilled.”

“Oh, that”, she answered, as matter of fact as if I’d just asked the time.

“That’s shit.”

Calculating Cutlery: Pt. lll

Posted in August by

I’ve always thought that if Miss Cathy won’t do the things recommended (by doctors, specialists, social workers and mental-health care professionals) to keep her mentally challenged (things like crosswords puzzles, reading, exercising, socializing, or knitting) then she could at least be conscientious of keeping her surroundings organized and clean.

So, putting away the silverware and keeping the drawer organized seemed like a no-brainer to me when it came to keeping her brain stimulated.

One day I asked Miss Cathy to join me in the kitchen for a little tete a tete and quickly realized after watching her struggle that there was more at play then simple indifference to order.

She stood there trying her best to correctly place a spoon in it’s proper place in the drawer and to stand on her feet, laboring the entire time to do both.

After five minutes I simply couldn’t take it anymore and put an end to the task.

The fact that she has so much trouble standing is an unfortunate but direct result of her lack of exercise (the blame for which I lay at the feet she can’t support herself up on for very long) but that’s her choice and I learned long ago to pick my battles (after losing that one).

But her inability to distinguish what goes where and how to get it there in the cutlery drawer is something that she has little to no control over.

Miss Cathy’s brain isn’t firing off the neurons or whatever it is that fuels her ability to problem solve, and as we discovered after consulting several doctors, her brain is also playing tricks with her eyes.

And when she’s having one of those bad days it can affect everything from forgetting how to perform simple tasks, mood swings, to asking me the same question over and over again.

So, now that I know all of this I just remind her from time to time to be conscious of what she’s doing (whether it’s replacing the cutlery, her posture, hygiene or any number of little things) and she either responds or not.

Alzheimer’s is not only about keeping your loved one safe; it’s about learning to respect their limits and boundaries.

And it’s been important to learn that her mood swings, depression and confusion come and go, the same as her ability to put away the silverware.
I always thought that if Miss Cathy could stay ‘aware’ of the little things then one day the big things won’t be as daunting…or so I hope anyway.

As for the cutlery drawer, it’s become more than a place to retrieve eating utensils; it’s a Rochard test, a crystal ball, tea leaves at the bottom of an empty cup whose chaos or order is a glimmer into the mind of Miss Cathy.

Happy Birthday: Pt. ll

Posted in July by

I decided on a ‘Sweet tooth’ theme for mom’s birthday.

I ordered rum balls from “Sweet Mama’s”, a tasty Tulsa, Oklahoma bakery that shipped in time for the big day. I placed them on a hand-blown glass cloche that was part of her ‘sweet tooth’ themed gift, it’s not only pretty, it’s perfect for the occasional apple pies and “sock it to me” pudding cakes that Miss Cathy likes (and I try to buy in moderation because of her diabetes).

I put a bow on the glass ball top of the cloche, walked Miss Cathy into the kitchen with her eyes closed and when she opened them-voila, a sweet birthday surprise!

A lady should never tell her age but I’m no lady so I’ll just put it out there that mom is seventy-five years old.

Seventy-five isn’t that old really, not these days, especially if you factor in that ‘sixty’ is the new ‘fifty’ (at least according to pop culture), people are working long past seventy (by choice or economic necessity) and doing all sorts of amazing things mentally and physically so by all accounts mom should still be a ‘vital’ person, and she would be, probably, if Alzheimer’s hadn’t stepped in to rob her of her ‘essence’.

Miss Cathy’s’ self-assurance has been replaced by a halting, questioning fragility and a begrudging reliance on me to help her with things that used to be second nature for her.

Life is becoming harder for her to navigate day to day and it’s becoming increasingly difficult for her to trust herself to either ‘remember’ or ‘to do’ the things she wants as Alzheimer’s continues to take a toll on her confidence and independence.

She still struggles to make peace with her diagnosis but as her condition becomes less subtle and more overt even she can’t deny that something is wrong.

With the help of her new neurologist she seems more accepting and she just might be ready to take some steps away from denial toward participating in her own care and maintenance, maybe….hopefully.

That is my birthday wish for her anyway.

She was touched by the gift and the gesture. She gave me a kiss and a hug then I was off to catch a train for New York where I’ve been teaching a summer program at LIM College this month and part of next.

I’m gone for most of the week and back at the weekend, my brother staying with mom while I’m away.

I can’t believe that another year has passed so quickly. The first week of August marks my third year as a caregiver.

So much has changed and there is still so much ahead that is unknown.

But, celebrating the day of her birth (however briefly) I could see that she was happy and present for the gifts she received and that’s enough, more than enough….. for today anyway.

Happy Birthday: Pt l

Posted in July by

It’s Miss Cathy’s birthday tomorrow.

What do you get for the woman who’s likely to forget what you’ve given her?

To be fair, I bought mom a gold watch to replace one that had been stolen years ago and rather than save it till now I gave it to her back in the Spring (I figured at her age why wait to make her happy).

She cherishes it and takes every opportunity to let people know that it was a gift from me.

But I also think its fun to have something to give on your loved one’s actual ‘Birth’ day, even if it’s just a little trifle, its a reminder that they’re loved and special.

I wish there was a way to give back her mind (the way it was five or ten years ago) when she was sharp as a razor and still on top of her game.

Oh, she still has the ability to cut you down to size (I’ve been verbally decapitated a few times myself in the past three years….that’s all blood under the bridge for now) but the Alz has tempered her temperament.

Those of us who are lucky enough to be healthy and whole take simple things (such as remembering the date that we were born and our age) for granted. So I’m reminded everyday of my blessings being healthy in body and mind.

Sometimes though I have a moment when I’m stopped cold by the thought that maybe the researchers are wrong.

What if Alzheimer’s is genetic? Am I’m witnessing my own future? Will there soon be a day when I’m searching the air to try to remember the year I was born, much the way Miss Cathy has been lately?

I’ve never professed to have a great memory so it’s been of little concern to me through the years that is until I became a caregiver.

Now I bear witness to the slow determination of a loved one’s mind and memory on a daily basis.

So it’s only natural (I think) to wonder, “is my mental state early signs of dementia or just the by-products of the stress that is so much a part of my life nowadays?”

Water off a Duck’s Back: Pt. lll

Posted in July by

I was tired of debating the merits of therapy with Miss Cathy week in and week out.

After so much Sturm und Drang I realized it was her life and she could not examine it if she didn’t want to.

Some days she’d tell me that the sessions were no more than gossip, other times that the therapist was very smart and she’d learned a lot but inevitably she’d ask me, “How long do I have to keep going before I can stop?”

How she could even contemplate stopping when she’d only just started baffled and frustrated me, but, her questioning the process was insightful and it told me she wasn’t actively participating (meaning she probably wasn’t dealing with any of her core life issues) in her sessions (not in any meaningful way it seemed).

It was amazing to me how she could even try to quantify seventy-five years of neurosis and think that she should be ‘cured’ in less time than it takes to get a reservation at a four star Michelin rated restaurant in Manhattan….but, hey, I’m just saying (to you anyway).

To Miss Cathy I said, “You can cancel if you want but you’ll still have to pay for the session”.

“It’s up to you, what do you want to do?” I asked, reminding her that her appointment was in less than two hours,

“I’ll got then”, she said grudgingly, “but I’m not going back.”

Instead of listing all the reasons why she should continue with therapy I simply said, “Fine by me, do what you want, you always do.”

So, I took mom to her session and wrote in my journal as I waited for her.

Afterward her therapist brought me into the room to announce that she and Miss Cathy had come to an agreement.

Miss Cathy would commit to going to the Senior Center and become more engaged in her life and if she did this with some regularity then she wouldn’t have to come to therapy as often.

I was skeptical but gave my right to an opinion when I announced earlier that I didn’t care anymore. I was alittle surprised and put off (read: pissed off) that I was asked to agree to “sitting down for at least one meal a week with Miss Cathy”.

How the hell did I get roped into this? Whatever….. I shrugged but agreed.

Time will tell if she holds up her end of the bargain or if she simply reverts back to her old habits and all her promises evaporate like water off a duck’s back.

Water off a duck’s Back: Pt. ll

Posted in July by

In addition to battling over exercise (or her lack thereof) I’ve fought with Miss Cathy through the years about a number of issues.

There was her wandering away from the kitchen while she had a skillet on the stove (usually turned up to the highest heat possible), murdering toasters (to date I’ve bought six toasters in three years after she’s managed to break them), her denial about her Alzheimer’s, her penchant for ‘doctoring’ herself (meaning she might decide to increase, decrease the dosage of her meds (or stop all together) based on what she thought was appropriate) and there is her propensity to forget if she’s taken her meds so she would either skip a cycle and not take them or double down and take the same meds twice in one day.

As soon as I realized what she was doing (three years ago she could be trusted to be responsible to take her medication as prescribed) but as time went on and her condition progressed (ever so slightly) and it was obvious that I had to intercede.

I took complete control over her meds after that, standing over her twice a day now like Nurse Ratched in “One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest” making sure she swallows all of the pills and isn’t losing them or squirrelling them away somewhere.

Other things haven’t been as important (or as potentially life threatening) but you learn to choose your battles; whether it’s food, hygiene or seeing physicians.

Lately it seems that after every session she’s had with her therapist (and there have been less than a dozen in the past three months) she’s balked at going back.

Just last week we had come back from a morning doctor’s appointment and I could see that she was already eyeing her bed with a look that said she was ready to dive in for the rest of the day (and it wasn’t even 11:00 am yet).

So I quickly reminded her that she had a one o’clock meeting with her therapist, knowing that if she got under the covers nothing short of the promise of taking her to the casino and spotting her a couple hundred bucks would be able to blast her out of bed.

“I’m not going back there, I’m tired!” she hissed as she walked into her bathroom.

“Tired?”

Tired from what is a discussion for another day but this was not that day.

And you know what, I was tired, tired of trying to convince her week in and week out that what she was doing for her emotional heath was just as important as her physical well-being.

I was tired of her schizophrenic reaction about going to therapy; most days she was elated to have gone, waxing poetic about how she’d “learned so much” and “how knowledgeable and nice” the therapist is/was.

Then flash forward to the day before (or day of) a new session and she’s railing about “what a waste of time it all is/was” and asking “how much longer did she have to go”

Jeez….who was she, Sally Field in “Sybil”?

Guess who’s coming to Breakfast: Pt lV

Posted in June by

Once inside the foyer, Aunt Dorothy made a big show of taking off her shoes (which was kinda sweet actually) even though Miss Cathy and I both tried to insist that she didn’t have to participate in the custom that we adopted from my sister-in-law’s Japanese traditions.

“No”, she insisted, demonstrating flexibility worthy of someone decades younger than her eighty-four years, smiling all the while as she bent down to unlace her shoes.

“I know what to do”.

It seemed to me that Dorothy wanted mom to know that she’d been listening during all their conversations since Miss Cathy became ill.

And that she remembered all the stories she’d heard about all the redecorating I’d done to the condo and the wall to wall carpet Miss Cathy was so proud of and how determined she was to keep it looking as new as possible for as long as possible (believe me, if she could have wrapped it all in plastic as was the trend in so many lower middle class households in the 60’s I’m sure she would have).

They walked arm in arm into the living room, comfortable to be in each other’s company again.

For the briefest moment I could see the girls they once were together, while Aunt Dorothy pointed out the various changes that had been made since she’d last been ‘up north’ as if she were the guide and Miss Cathy the visitor.

With everyone settled around the two matriarchs, mom in her usual spot at one end of the sofa nearest the windows and Dorothy across from her, to her left in a wingback chair, my cousin, Dennis in the wingback next to his mother and Darlene, his wife next to mine, I went off to gather drinks and start the meal.

I decided on a red, green and yellow pepper omelet stuffed with cheese, bacon on the side and toast, nothing fancy, just colorful.

I forgot to garnish the plate with one or two strawberries (always thinking that a ‘pretty’ presentation goes a long way in balancing ‘so-so’ cooking) because I was too busy trying to get the plates out as soon as I could to feed our guests, still not knowing how much time they had to spend with us before getting back on the road.

Laughter from the living room where Miss Cathy held court drifted into the kitchen and mixed with the sounds of the eggs cooking and bacon sizzling.

She’s never been at a loss for words and after years of hearing most of what she has to say, I smiled to myself as I folded and flipped an omelet, happy knowing that she had a new audience that she could entertain.

Physician, Heal Thyself: Pt. Vb

Posted in June by

Miss Cathy was quieter than usual as we settled ourselves in Dr GG’s waiting room after I checked us in with the receptionist.

We sat in a pair of soft leather seats angled for intimate conversation and privacy accented with a small side table topped by fresh flowers in a bud vase.

Ours was one of many such groupings in the large well-appointed room. Under our feet the carpet looked to be a high-end Berber and the walls were papered in a tasteful stripe.

And instead of the ghastly fluorescents glaring down from a drop ceiling that can make any one look ill (even those that are not sick) the lighting here was a healthy soft glow emanating from sconces, floor and table lamps.

I was impressed to see original art on the walls (not the faded, dated prints one usually finds in a doctors office that looked like they’d been holding up the walls since the 1980’s).

There was also a large plasma TV and computer workstations for patients to view and peruse while they waited.

The conspicuous display of taste and wealth went a long way to make me feel comfortable and was a welcome change from the other offices where I felt like we were waiting in a bus depot in Hoboken, New Jersey (no offense Hoboken).

Dr D, the Retina Specialist told me that there were only a few Neuro-ophthalmologists in the country so I assumed that might account for the feeling of exclusivity in being in Dr GG office.

Because of a cancelation I was lucky enough to get the appointment for Miss Cathy as quickly as I did.

I’m not sure if mom noticed the change in surroundings or even cared, she just seemed pleased that I’d remembered to bring some water and snacks for her to eat while we waited. It was obvious that all the running here, there and getting nowhere was finally wearing her down.

But, as an assistant came out to walk her back for some ‘pre-tests’ (my presence was not needed just yet) I could hear her asking the young man question after question so she still had some life (and a lot of babble) left in her.

I was getting pretty worn out too but came prepared (as always) with my “Cathy Clutch” (a tote bag filled with all of her files, paperwork, notebook and the film from all her exams) so I was ready for whatever was to come, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more”.

Come back Miss Cathy: Pt lll #RépondezS’ilVousPlait

Posted in May by

After listening to the voicemail from Phillips Lifeline my first instinct (like any good doggie) was to abandon my evening, turn tail and return home.

But, since I’m a person and not a dog I sat in my car for a few moments to ponder the situation. Before I went anywhere I knew that I needed to call mom (and hope she wasn’t too freaked out and had her shit together well enough to answer the phone) and find out what was going on and get a feel for where she was emotionally.

I had just enough time as I waited for the call to connect (or not) to beat myself up alittle for not picking up the unknown call earlier and for not having the number in my contacts in the first place! (I have since added the name/number to my phone contacts list).

The names of the people on the emergency contact list that Phillips Lifeline had contacted were also running through my head.

I knew that I needed to call them back asap…including Phillips Lifeline…Oye!

To my relief (and surprise) mom did pick up the phone. She said that Ron, our upstairs neighbor and her unofficial third son, had come down to reset the alarm then gone back home.

She was clearly agitated, sounding like ‘fragile Cathy’ and said that she wanted nothing more to do with setting the alarm after I suggested she try again and then go back to bed.

I told her that I would walk her through the steps (something she’s done a thousand times but because of the Alzheimer’s each time is the becoming the first time) and tried to reassure her that she could do it but she was having none of it.

“Do me a favor and breathe with me”, I suggested, her anxiety growing when it should have been dissipating.

“I know you, if you don’t set the alarm you’re just going to lay awake and jump all night every time you think you hear something…you won’t get a wink of sleep.”

“Yeah, well”, she lamented, “then I-just-won’t-sleep-then. I’m not fooling with that damn alarm thing again tonight!”

“Okay then, if that’s you decision…” It was no use arguing with her so I said good-bye and hung up.

A deep breath then it was time to call everyone else that had been invited to this little ‘panic party’ and tell them thanks for the rsvp and that they could all go back to whatever they were doing, all the while parked not two blocks from the restaurant where I should have been répondez s’il vous plait for my own evening.

Lady looks like a dude

Posted in May by

We all know that Dementia is a serious and cruel disease that in time will rob a person of their memories and dignity.

As painful as it is for me to watch Miss Cathy’s confusion and struggles with Alzheimer’s it also pains me to see that she has forgotten about something near and dear to my heart (no, not me or my face)…Fashion.

I know there are worse things to deal with and if you’ve been reading along you know that I’ve shared enough Sturm und Drang and this ain’t that.

What’s maddening is that I don’t know which to blame, the Alz or old age for the fact that these days Miss Cathy looks like a suburban bag lady.

I understand that as one gets older it’s less about fashion and more about comfort but still…a little effort. Besides, the two aren’t mutually exclusive.

It’s not that she was ever a fashion plate (nor that she ever really had a passion for it) but
2 ½ years ago when I first joined her life she would greet each day (whether she had an appointment outside of home or not) with a different outfit and a smile on her face outlined by her favorite shade of red lipstick courtesy of Avon.

Her ‘go to’ wardrobe these days looks like pieces gleamed from a dumpster and not a department store.

Gone are the skirts and lightly embellished knit tops, nowadays she’s usually wearing a printed tee shirt over drab olive fatigues or cargo pants and zip front walking shoes and when we go out she’ll top off her ensemble with that damn Ravens football cap of hers.

I want to hand cuff her to a copy of Vogue and turn her into the Fashion Police.

She has three closets crammed full of clothes (some of which Joan River’s might even give a ‘thumbs up’) and her wardrobe is full of ‘labels’; unfortunately none of them read St Laurent, Chanel or Valentino.

She’s a retired civil servant so a wardrobe of couture is not realistic but a few pieces of St John…J. Jill….is that too much to ask?

Hell, I’d be over the moon if she shopped at Chico’s.

But, ‘it is what it is’ and she ‘has what she has’, the problem is she’s not even wearing any of her ‘off labels’ anymore.

Lately it’s hard to distinguish between her bedclothes and her street clothes (and I’m not talking about the lingerie as daywear look popularized by Madonna back ‘in the day’ either).

Miss Cathy will just as soon sleep in an oversized printed tee and then think nothing of wearing it over a pair of ‘man’pants and toddling out to my car to go to a doctor’s appointment.

I wonder if someday when she forgets who she is I can convince her that she’s Audrey Hepburn, or anyone else for that matter capable of wearing a LBD (Little Black Dress).

Till that day I can only hope…and hide her cargo pants and football cap.