Tag Archives: mother and son

People who need people

Posted in November by

One day last week I was listening while Miss Cathy was talking-there’s really no other way to describe a ‘conversation’ with her really. She was telling me that she’d decided against having a girlfriend drop by for a visit. I listened as she complained about how this particular friend was someone who hated to be alone and how she constantly needed to be around someone. Mom made a point of “not” empathizing with her friend’s personality trait, saying that she didn’t understand people ‘like that’ because she was perfectly fine to be on her own.

“I get tired of her calling all the time, she’s so persistent”, she fumed, “wanting to come over here or for me to go over there. Stay home, I’m tired, entertain your own damn self.”

Exactly what she was ‘tired’ from I had no idea-a long hard day of watching TV perhaps. Frankly, I’d have thought she’d relish the opportunity to talk to someone (anyone), lord knows the two of us don’t do much of that anymore, we’re like that old married couple that’s heard each other’s stories and jokes one (or six hundred and twenty-eight) times to many-at least I feel that way.

I know it all sounds a little harsh but what do I know, they’re her friends and she’s got a right to have whatever feelings she wants to have about them. I just worry that one day she’s going to wake up and realize that she’s alienated them all and there’ll be no friends left to rail against.

She becomes quite agitated when she’s talking about something that’s happened between them. She gets herself wound up like a clock and her face becomes flush with emotion. I’ve warned time and again that she’s going to give herself an aneurism investing so much emotion in telling her tales. I try to remind her to just ‘tell the story’ and not to ‘re-live’ it-she’d have been a great Method actor.

Besides, the girlfriend she’s talking about is the very person that helped find her after she’d had her fall last year. If it wasn’t for the ‘persistence’ of this friend there’s no telling if or when anybody would have found her on her bathroom floor.

That fact alone would give that person a lifetime pass (in my book anyway) to come over or have me do whatever they wanted (you want to go to the Piggly Wiggly-no problem, I’ll push the grocery cart. Drop by at seven a.m. for a chat-I’ll put the kettle on). But hey, that’s just me.

I know she’s grateful and I know that she loves her friend but lately I’m noticing a shift toward the negative.

She’s also full of contractions, I know for a fact that as much as she rails against her friends and family she can work herself up into a panic if a few days pass and she hasn’t heard from one of them on the telephone. And telephone she does, morning noon and night, I hear her on the phone talking but that’s not how you maintain relationships (especially one’s that are within a ten-mile radius).

Besides, isn’t it better to have something to look forward to-even if it’s a visit from a friend you’re not particularly crazy about (that day) instead of just watching TV and napping until it’s time to go to bed at night? I worry that at the rate she’s going all she’ll have is the past because there’ll be no future (friendships anyway).

Maybe she has some variation of ‘survivor’s guilt’. While she’s grateful to her friend for helping to save her life maybe it’s hard to be around her now because her friend reminds her of that day and her diagnosis. I don’t know, I’m not ‘in’ their friendship. I just know that Miss Cathy seems to have less time in her day for people and the irony is that all she has is time.

Sometimes I wonder if being ornery is because of her age or her diagnosis, it’s hard to separate sometimes. Unfortunately, It’s not like I have a ‘quote, un-quote’ ‘normal’ seventy-three year in a closet somewhere that I can pull out as a control group-you know, some old person that I can gauge their reactions against hers.

No, all I have is Miss Cathy, she’s my ‘people’ and cranky or not, consistent or not, I’m still one of the luckiest people in the world because I do need her (although some days I’d just like a less chatty, nicer version of ‘her’).

Food for thought

Posted in November by

Food seemed to be a recurring theme this week, specifically the “new” and the “mistaken”.

One of the perks of my part-time job working in catering is the occasional food that I get to bring home, less so these days as I bartend more than serve but I worked an event last Saturday and I was able to bring a few things home to share with Miss Cathy. She always calls these unexpected goodies “a special treat” and lights up like a Christmas tree at the sight of them.

She joined me in the kitchen and settled herself on one of the bar-chairs as I told her that one of the things that I brought for her was a small tin of caviar. Well, the lights went out faster than you could say “ Bah humbug” and she let out a little squeal.

“Oh nooo! I can’t stand that fishy stuff,” she said, making a face like Lucille Ball whenever she found that she’d stepped in it on “I Love Lucy”. “No thanks buddy, you can have that, I don’t want any of it!”

“Caviar,” she mocked, dragging out the syllables as if she were pulling snakes out of a hole, “ it’s suppose to be some expensive delicacy-big deal.”

“Oh, you’ve had it before?” I asked, already knowing the answer to the question.

“You can keep that stinky mess, it smells just as bad as what poor people eat down south, umm, what-is-that-called? Oh yeah, chitlins…it smells just as funky.”

“Umm, okay,” I said, amused, “so, that’s what you think, now answer my question, have you ever eaten caviar-yes or no?”

“No,” came the reply, “and I’m not going to start now, I’m not eating raw fish eggs, that’s what it is right?” “I don’t eat things raw, I don’t like sushi (another word wrestled out of her mouth as if saying it were the same as consuming it) and I don’t like caviar, ut uh!”

Her logic and stubbornness reminded me of a four year old so I treated her like one. For some reason I got a perverse kick out of this exchange and it suddenly became very important to me that she taste the caviar.

“How can you say you don’t like something if you’ve never tries it?” I reasoned as I prepared a cracker with sour cream and topped it of with some of the salty, little black pearls.” “Well, it seems to me that you have to try something at least once before you can render an opinion

“Aww! No I don’t,” came the petulant replay.

I walked the cracker round the table to where she sat and said, “Oh come on, just try it.”

“Let me smell it.” She said by way of negotiating as I lifted the hors d’ oeuvre closer to her mouth.

“Don’t smell it, just take a small bite, then that way you can say you’ve tried it and you don’t like it.”

She scrunched up her face as if she was about to be spoon-fed castor oil but to my surprise she opened her mouth and took a little bite.

“Now, that wasn’t so bad,” I said, pleased with myself that I got her to try something new.” What did that taste like?”

She looked at me and said, “Nothing, I didn’t taste anything but the sour cream.”

I took that as the go-ahead to load up the remainder of the cracker with more caviar. She took another bite and again she was un-impressed.

“See, much ado over nothing.” “Well, now you can say that you’ve tasted caviar and you’ll know what you’re talking about when you dismiss it-and you can stop saying how bad it smells because it doesn’t.”

She shrugged, ready to move on to something more appetizing. She was much happier eating the shrimp and cocktail sauce, it was familiar and more in keeping with what she’d call “a special treat”.

A little later that same night I started to make some dinner for myself. While I was out working Miss Cathy had made salmon cakes (just this side of “not” being burned, loaded with salt and a motley mix of spices, onions and garlic) and peas (with a generous amount of butter). Some of the salmon patties didn’t quite hold their shape so she’d put the cooked excess in a bowl beside the stove. I took one look in the bowl and re-named it “Who-hash” (named for the fantastical food that appears on the banquet table at the end of classic cartoon “The Grinch that stole Christmas”). Despite how it looked it tasted pretty good so I decided to put it over some rice I’d made the day before along with the peas and some diced jalapeno (Miss Cathy’s not the only one that can concoct a very a meal for a very discerning palette).

I left my concoction in the kitchen while I made a phone call in my bedroom to my ex, Chad. As I was saying goodbye I opened my door and heard Miss Cathy say, “Ut oh, I think I picked up the wrong bowl.”

I walked past her door, not taking the time to focus on what she was saying because I was still talking on the phone. It wasn’t until I entered the kitchen that her words made sense to me. I looked on the counter for my bowl and it was gone, next to the microwave sat an identical bowl and when I looked inside it only contained a spoonfull of the “Who-hash”.

I told Chad about the mix-up and promptly got off the phone. I went into Miss Cathy’s bedroom where she was sitting on the side of her bed eating my dinner to straighten out the “hash-up”.

“Why are you eating my dinner?” I queried.

“Oh,” she said putting the fork back into the bowl. ”I thought it was strange that there was so much food in my bowl, it just didn’t look right but I just added some sour cream then I put it in the microwave and started eating it.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said, once again amused by Miss Cathy and food,” you saw the bowl, knew there was something “not” right about it but you took it anyway AND you started eating it knowing that you didn’t make it?”

“It didn’t dawn on you that maybe somebody else, namely me, might have put that together?”

“Well, I knew there was something not right but..”

“…. But, you took it anyway, drowned it in sour cream and started eating it.” I said, finishing her thought as we laughed together.

“Yeah, I guess, but this is too much for me, I don’t think I want all this.”

“Too bad”, I said, teasingly, taking the bowl from her, “you loaded it up with sour cream so now you’re gonna eat it. I’m going to put it in the fridge for you and you can have it tomorrow.”

So, it’s been a very interesting week-food wise, between the caviar and the “who’s” hash.

Word(s)

Posted in October by

I am someone who loves to talk, ask any of my friends and they will confirm this about me. I know that I inherited this trait from Miss Cathy, unlike my brother who is what I would call a ‘minimalist’ where conversation is concerned. My mother loves to talk and I grew up ‘loving’ to listen. There wasn’t a topic that was taboo; sex, politics, sexism, racism, feminism, growing up poor in the south and the world at large. There was little she didn’t have a strong opinion about and wasn’t afraid to express it.

I remember I would always volunteer to help her with the Sunday dinner, because I knew that it meant hours of uninterrupted entertainment. I was her eager sous chef, pressing an old jelly jar into dough to help make biscuits along with some other minor duties as she spun tales.

Nowadays things have changed and talking with Miss Cathy is not the same. Of course I’m not a child anymore and I’m no longer eager to learn about life through my mother’s stories. I’ve long since ventured out into the world and now have my own tales to tell.

Not that she’s any less entertaining or as insightful as she always was-she is, it’s just that since her diagnosis there has been a noticeable change in the rhythm and/or the course of her conversations.

I’ve noticed that over the past few months that each time you talk with her you don’t know if or when the conversation will go from the norm to a game of “what’s ‘that’ word I’m looking for?”

It doesn’t really matter what she’s talking about, usually she’s trying to get me interested in the latest bit of gossip about a relative of unknown origin (not that she doesn’t know who they are-believe me she does, it’s just that the blood lines are sometimes so convoluted that I stop listening, hence the title) and I’m about as interested in the conversation as a four-year old is in Nuclear Arms dismantlement.

But, you can’t ‘not’ listen, and somehow you get sucked in and just when I’m about to find out why Aunt Whoitz and Aunt Whatitz hate each other (this week) suddenly, without warning Miss Cathy would stop interrupt her own story and say, “Shoot, what’s that word I wanted to say?”

While she looks around the room as if the word is hiding behind a chair I start ‘free associating’, saying anything that comes to my mind, “uhh,.. move, blow my brains out, slap myself unconscious, move”

“No, no,” she’d say, “that’s not it. Darn, what was I talking about? Oh yes, now what was I trying to say?”

And so it goes, if she didn’t find her “word” we’d either move on to another topic (meaning another relative) or that would be my cue to escape to my room. Sometimes she’d actually find the word, sometimes in the moment and sometimes in the middle of another story.

Oftentimes though, the word is just…gone and her reaction is usually frustration and anger. I’ve found that her emotional reaction varies depending on her overall mood or the time of day. She’s not a “Sundowner”, a person with Alzheimer’s whose symptoms seem to deteriorate as day turns to night. No, it just seems to me that if she “loses” a word in the evening she’s more apt to be more upset because it’s the end of the day and she’s already tired.

Her stories may not fascinate me as they once did, but I still try to listen, even though I‘ve heard most of them more times than I care to remember but now that I think of it that could be a good thing because as she loses a word here or there I’m more apt to be able to pick it up and give it back to her.

So, her words may not be lost after all, she’s just didn’t realize that she gave them to me.

Ahh-choo

Posted in October by

I was sick with a cold most of last week and have just come back to the land of the living.

At the first sign of my cold Miss Cathy started to hover, trying to mother me but I shoo-ed her away with my best, “It’s only a cold”, telling her that I’d be fine once it’d run it’s course. After all, it was only just a cold. I’m lucky that I’m in reasonable health and not plagued by the usual maladies, aches and pains that a lot of my contemporaries have.
After all, I’m fifty-two and that is an age where the body starts to betray us if we’re not careful.

I’m used to living alone and this was the first time in a lonnnng time that someone has been around to witness every sniffle and see the trail of discarded, crumpled, pieces of toilet paper that I use to blow my nose and leave wadded up in my room on tabletops, the bed, the desk or any other surface I happen to be near at the time, stopping to picks them up much later when they look like faded, white flowers littering my bedroom.

Disgusting I know but that’s ‘single person’ behavior-when you live alone (no matter how fastidious, neat and tidy one might be otherwise) a cold is when (for me anyway) my inner “Oscar Madison” comes out (the slob half of Neil Simon’s “The Odd Couple”).

I don’t think I’d been sick around my mother since I was a teenager so I’d forgotten how she behaves. In the last year I’d grown accustomed to my role of taking care of her so it was odd to be in a position where she was back in her role as caregiver to me.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with having Miss Cathy take care of me, what adult doesn’t like to return to childhood (if only for a moment) and be doted on by a parent, taking you back to the days when you didn’t have a care in the world and you knew because you were sick that whatever you wanted only had to be asked for.

But, life as I know it is now is focused on me taking care of her and (hopefully) making her days as carefree as possible.

Besides, what was okay at six or even sixteen isn’t as easy to accept on this side of life, that awkward age when at fifty-two you’re no longer middle aged (how many one hundred and four year olds do you know?) and you’re not quite “old” –yet, and your seventy three year old mother is futzing with your pillows and insisting that you eat and drink when all you want to do is curl up into a ball and die (in between blowing your brains out into toilet paper).

Add to that Miss Cathy bringing me concoctions like hot tea with orange juice. After I took a few sips of the god awful brew I asked her what was in the tea and she replied, “I didn’t have any lemons so I added the orange juice because you know, orange juice is good for you when you have a cold.”

Ye, I agree. But not together-hot!

Then there were the times that she woke me up-just to make sure that I was sleeping (as apposed too?….I know I’m her baby boy and everything but the possibility of me being a victim of SIDS is long past.)

And there was the trepidation I’d feel whenever she’d come into my room with a tray carrying a bowl of “Chicken soup”. I could never be quite sure what she may have added to the broth-it’s not like I was expecting dead rat over rice under the cloche like in “What ever happened to Baby Jane?” but still, there were some questionable ingredients in her soups-like whole cloves of garlic (to open up my sinuses or to ward off vampires I guess) and in the same bowl there might be noodles and rice-starch much?!

But, I drank her tea (or as much as I could stomach) and I ate the food that she brought me because I could see that she was enjoying the role-reversal-and believe me without her help I probably would have been sicker a lot longer. I think she felt good to be back in charge and not the person waiting for their pills, meals or to be helped in the bathroom.

For a few days she got to be who she used to be for me; my protector, provider and confidant and I gotta say, that was worth a few sniffles.

Out with the old-in with the (not quite) new

Posted in October by

One day I found myself standing in the small appliance aisle at Target shopping for an electric can-opener. We needed a new one (again) because Miss Cathy had gone through two since I’d moved in-not mention the two hand-held can-openers she’d also broken.

The latest malfunction occurred when she tried to open a can with a flip top lid. I was in my room working when I heard a horrific noise (it sounded like a couple of drunken cats singing through auto-tune). At first I ignored it but couldn’t the second time and went into the kitchen to investigate.

When I entered the room there she was, standing with the mutilated (and unopened) can in one hand and a perplexed expression on her face. I took the can from her, pulled the flip top lid and poured the contents into the waiting saucepan on the stove top.

“You can’t try to open cans with the electric can opener that already have a flip top,” I explained to her. “See, it’s even got a graphic on the top of the can. It’s a drawing of an opener inside a red circle with a line drawn through it to tell you not to use a can opener.””

“Oh, is that what that is” she said unfazed, stirring the sauce with a wood spoon,” I couldn’t tell what the was without my reading glasses on.”

“Well, that’s it for this can-opener.” I said as I unplugged it and threw it in the garbage can before going back to work in my room.

So, that’s how I came to be standing in this century’s version of “Woolworth’s” about to pay another $25.00 for a small kitchen appliance that had about as much chance of seeing in the New Year as an open bottle of good champagne.

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, I found myself putting the Hamilton Beach product back on the shelf, leaving the store and driving to one of the second-hand stores that I scavenge for the occasional mid-century piece of furniture or object d’art.

It’d dawned on me standing at the register in Target that I’d spent about $75.00 on electric can openers since I’d moved here over a year ago (and I’d yet to replace the skillets and saucepans that Miss Cathy had decimated-usually by forgetting that the burner was on high and walking away, scorching the pan-not to mention burning whatever was in it. And there was the ruined Teflon surfaces that she’d scratched up using silverware or other metal to stir or turn the food in the pans).

I’d realized that it was getting pretty expensive to replace things around the apartment and if I’m here for the marathon I’d have to pace myself financially to go the distance.
The appliances, the cookware…. the telephone, it was all just more collateral damage of the disease.

That day in Target I’d come to realize that places like the Goodwill, Valu Village and other second-hand stores are gold mines for the things that I needed as well as the fun things that I wanted.

Why pay retail for things you know your loved one with dementia are going to break (eventually-but not intentionally) when there is a low-cost alternative for those with a discerning eye.

Of course one would have to be very selective about the things they bought but I’ve gotta say, a lot of the second-hand stores have merchandise that’s in very good condition and some even have brand new items from stores that are over-stock that they sell at a greatly reduced price.

I suggest finding second-hand and thrift stores in/around or near upscale neighborhoods (their cast-offs are usually always of a higher quality than those of people on lower-income brackets).

For example, instead of paying $20 to $35 dollars for a new can opener I bought one (that had been “gently used”) for $6.00 (and it was a Hamilton Beach appliance) and it works great. I got the same bargains for the cookware, too. I paid $5 and $10 dollars for pans that would easily cost $50.00 or more at Macy’s.

The way I see it, Miss Cathy still deserves the best-I’m just giving her the best that someone else had purchased first.

So now she can break and burn with abandon (because we all know it’s just a matter of time before it happens again) and the can-opener’s days are numbered but I don’t have to worry about counting because I know where to get a quality back up cheap.

Doppelgang-ette

Posted in October by

It’s been said that every one of us has an identical twin, a “doppelganger”, walking amongst us somewhere on the planet. Your replicant could be in the next town or in Abu Dhabi, looking like you, sounding like you and living exactly the way you do here and now.

Lately though I’ve been seeing a variation on the Doppelganger; women that don’t look exactly like my mother but they posses her essence and a lot of her physical characteristics-a “Doppelgang-ette” as it were.

And they are everywhere it seems, in the Malls, downtown, in restaurants, but mostly I see them when I’m in the grocery store. I see little old women wobbling along behind their carts as they push them through the aisles. I don’t know whether their gait is because of bad feet, arthritis, having walked a lifetime of working and caring for others or if (at this stage of life) it’s because of a knee replacement (or two), or from carrying a lifetime of extra weight and worry.

The way these women walk, rolling from side to side as they move forward, reminds me of a popular toy for toddlers that was advertised on television over and over when I was a kid. I see these women and I can’t help but hear part of the jingle in my head, “Weebels wobble but they don’t fall down”-only most of these wobblers need the same medical alert necklace that Miss Cathy wears (Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!) Because unfortunately, unlike the toy- they will fall down.

It doesn’t matter their race or color, they all share the same “old” DNA, a penchant for loose comfortable dresses or elastic waisted pants of a non-porous material and makeup that has evolved from wanting attention in youth to commanding respect in their golden years.

I watch them as they make their way to the cashier to check out and some are pulling out their coupons (as I’ve learned to do) while others look worried as the register totals an amount that may exceed their budget for the week.

I applaud them being self-sufficient, by necessity or design, because they are usually alone, no husband, friend or adult child to reach for something on a top shelf, or to bend waaaay down for something they need but have to decide if it’s worth the effort or not.

A little over a year ago Miss Cathy was one of them, wobbling along, up and down the aisles marking time and making do as her memory started to fail and daily life became harder and harder. I can only imagine how hard it must have been for her to shop; never knowing that when she returned home only to realize that she forgotten what she really went to the store to buy or came home to discover that she’d already purchased the same items just a few days before.

What must she have said to herself when she found that her world was getting smaller and smaller and that within the year she’d soon “choose” to stop driving long distances to visit her son in Virginia or travel to a casino for an afternoon of her beloved game of quarter slots and that the market a mere mile away would be about as far as she would venture from home.

I watch them; the doppelgang-ettes and I wonder, “Who is home waiting for them?” Do they have any maladies and if so, is someone there to care for them? As they drive away do they worry that this may be the day that they get into a car accident or forget the way home? And when they make it safely to their destination is there someone on that end to take in the heavy bags that the clerk wheeled out to her car and placed in the trunk for her?

I see these women and I see Miss Cathy.

Dr Alemayehu Part l

Posted in September by

A Friday morning appointment with Miss Cathy and her neurologist, Dr Alemayehu:

“How has your summer been?” He asked her after we were seated in the examination room.

“Oh fine, fine”, she replied, eager to update him, “it’s been wonderful ever since you said that I could stay at home by myself; gosh, you don’t know what a blessing it’s been not to have to go anywhere when my son goes out-of-town. It feels wonderful so I truly thank you.”

“So”, the doctor said smiling at her, “you’ve declared your independence! Well, that’s very nice, I want you to know that I prayed for you.”

“Did you, oh bless your heart, thank you doctor.”

“Now”, he said suddenly becoming more doctor and less old acquaintance, “ I want to ask you a couple of questions.”

“How do you function? “How is your memory?”

“Well”, she said,” I do alright, but I get nervous.” When he asked what she meant she told him about the earthquake and having to go to the emergency last month because she was so upset over her granddaughter being in the hospital.”

He listened but didn’t comment right away, then he said, “I want you to take this pen and paper and I want you to do something for me but I want you to listen carefully before you start.”

He told her that he wanted her to draw the face of a clock and to put in the numbers where they should be, then put the hands of the clock on 10:45. Satisfied that she understood what he was asking of her he got up from his seat and left the room.

I looked on from my chair in the corner as she drew the circle, then the number “6”, then the “12” and the numbers 1 through 5 down the right side of the clock (pretty good so far) then she put the number “9” almost in the center of the circle and the rest of the numbers were in the right order but they were more or less vertical instead of following the left curve of the circle that represented that side of the clock.

“What time did he say,” I heard her ask herself,” was it 10:45 or 11”45?” Then she looked at me and asked me, “What time did he tell me-11: 45?”

I mimed zipping my lips and she said, “Come on now, hurry up and tell me so we can get out of here.”

“No can do,” I said, “ It’d be like helping you cheat on a test.”

Since she drew a very short hand that went from the middle of the clock to the eleven and another verrry short hand that pointed toward the nine it was hard to tell what time she was trying to indicate. But when she was finished she wrote “11:45” at the top of her page so that her intent wouldn’t be misinterpreted.

Dr Alemayehu came back into the room, sat down in front of her once again and studied her drawing. “Do you think this right?” and when she said she thought it looked like a clock he said, “ I’ve never seen a clock with numbers running up the middle and the time was supposed to be 10:45.”

But he seemed satisfied (enough) with the drawing so he continued with his questions.

“What floor are we on?”

“First”

“”What kind of office is this?”

“Neurology doctor”

“What’s the date?”

“Eight, August, twenty-eleven.”

“Who’s the President?”

“Dr….uhh, Obama.”

“The one before?”

“Oh, I will never forget him-Bush.”

Then he showed her the word “world” written out on a piece of paper and asked her to spell it backwards.

Next week: Part ll

This ‘n That ll

Posted in September by

Routine and structure seem to be the anchors that ground a person with Alzheimer’s and this is definitely true of Miss Cathy. She has a set routine and it (more or less) seems to work for her on a daily basis. Most days she’s content with being at home, talking on the phone, taking her nap and watching television. But even within the confines of that familiarity there are the occasional mood swings (usually misplaced anger) that can erupt within the course of a routine day and they are (still) surprising and hurtful but (now) it is about as bad as an unsuspecting pinch on the arm.

I’ve noticed that having a routine can be a double-edged sword because with each day being the same it becomes hard for her to distinguish one from the next. So, occasionally she will forget what day it is but let’s face it, who wouldn’t-living like one of the characters in the movie “Groundhog day”.

Days when she has to venture outside of the condo like a trip to the doctor’s office or to the market can be very stressful for her. Even after a seemingly good day, being out with her girlfriend, Adele she’ll come home pretty much worn out (no matter how “good” a day she’s had). More often than not she’s visibly drained, agitated, and grumpy, leaving me to wonder sometimes how long it will be before she stops venturing out all together.

She does like to busy herself with “projects”, some big, some small. It could be anything from organizing her calendar to going through old paperwork or looking through her closets to find things to donate to charity.

Miss Cathy doesn’t want for much and seems to me to be content to complain just for the sake of hearing her own voice most of the time (and that’s cool, because most of the time I’m only half listening anyway).

Lately thought I’m finding that she will start a project but I’m the one who ends up finishing it, or if I don’t have to finish then I need to make sure that the project’s completed and there are no loose ends to tie up.

The other day I came into the living room to discover that she’d “re-potted” a plant but when I looked down into the new, larger pot I could see that she’d done no more than stuck the plant (crooked) in the larger pot, leaving the roots exposed.

When I called this to her attention she said, “I know, it needs some more soil to fill it in but the bag was too heavy.”

I’m thinking, “Okay, that makes sense but the bag has always been heavy so why even bother?” Unless of course she knew that I would have to finish re-potting the plant in which case that would make her a pretty clever duck.

I’m Okay, You Okay? Part ll

Posted in September by

I was on my way out the door but feeling uneasy about leaving Miss Cathy by herself, even thought the earthquake had long since passed. I had my metro card in one hand and the other reaching for the doorknob. I knew I’d heard what I wanted so that I wouldn’t feel guilty but I also knew that my gut was telling me something else and I’ve learned (after so many times of not listening) that “gut” trumps whatever I’m thinking so I said, “You know what, I’m not going to work, I’m going to stay here with you.”

Although she said she’d be “fine”, I could see that Miss Cathy was visibly calmer.

I put my shoulder bag down and went to call my boss only to discover that my cell wouldn’t call out (still not realizing the extent of the damage done by the quake). But I realized that I could still text so I sent him a message, changed clothes and joined Miss Cathy on the sofa to watch the news coverage.

We sat watching the television as the full scope of what occurred unfolded before our eyes; there was no loss of life (yet reported) but the quake was felt from the Carolinas up to New Hampshire with varying degrees of impact depending on where you were. Every federal building in Washington DC (where I was headed) was evacuated and most businesses shut down for the rest of the day. The metro (which I would probably have been riding into the city) was slowed down to 15 miles an hour so they could check all tracks for damage. I listened as the newscasters did there best to report the news “ live” without the teleprompters to give them the cool, impersonal polish they usually have during regular broadcasts.

I text’d family and friends asking how they were (if they were on the East coast) and to let them know that we were okay.

One of the reporters commented that we’re lucky to be living in a time when technology has advanced to a place where even if land lines were down and you couldn’t get a strong enough signal on a cell phone to call, one still has the ability to communicate via text. To illustrate his point the camera pulled back and you could see most people on the streets were busy texting on their cell phones.

The same was not definitely not true of the earthquake in I experienced in Manhattan in the early 1980’s or even ten years ago when I was still living in New York City on 9/11. I don’t think I had the ability to text on my phone that day or if I did it was so new (to me anyway) that I didn’t know ‘how’ to text. No matter, the events of that day are buried deep, no need to dredge them up now, suffice to say, I don’t think texting was as prevalent as it is now.

I sat next to Miss Cathy wondering, “what was I thinking?” to even debate whether or not to leave her alone. I was disappointed in myself that my first (and only) response wasn’t to stay and support her. And (during the quake itself) when my first instinct was to make sure my IMac didn’t topple over (granted I was standing right in front of it) instead of immediately rushing out to take care of Miss Cathy, I had to wonder (again) if I’m seriously cut out for this job.

I’m like that overwhelmed parent that leaves the baby in the car seat “on top” of the car and starts to drive away before realizing that ‘something is missing’ AND then remembering his primary obligation and purpose.

I hope whoever is keeping score won’t deduct too many points from me for that day.

I turned and asked how she was doing and she said, “I was heading into the bedroom to take a nap when it happened but I’m wide awake now.”

“I guess that earthquake fixed you for sleep”, I said smiling.

Miss Cathy said that ‘if’ it happened again she would go downstairs to a neighbors apartment. I told her that the best place to be if an earthquake ever happened again (and I’m not around) is to move away from all windows, especially the sliding glass doors, and stand under a doorframe in the back of the apartment.

I held her hand and made her promise she wouldn’t go outside the apartment and risk falling down the stairs. I told he that her balance isn’t good on her best day and in a panic with the ground moving it was a recipe for disaster.

She promised she would heed my advice (but she also promised to stop talking on the telephone in the living room while she was cooking) so I knew to take any pledge she made with a grain of panic.

The phones were back in service an hour or so later so mom jumped on the horn to call family and friends, expelling some of her nervous energy.

I took the time to go back to my room to do the same. The news reports said that the last earthquake to hit anywhere near Washington, DC was more than 100 years ago-an amazing little factoid.

Less than a week later most of the East coast was battened down bracing for Hurricane Irene. Again, we were spared any major damage by the time it hit our area as Irene had been downgraded to a tropical storm but holy moly-that’s a lot of Mother Nature for one week!

Since there had been so much coverage on the weather channel about the impending hurricane Miss Cathy was mentally fully prepared. She wasn’t nervous at all, just concerned as she watched the coverage.
Hurricanes and earthquakes can be traumatic for the most stalwart of us, making it all the more difficult for anyone with cognitive and/or behavioral issues. Special attention must be paid during and after to keep them calm and to explain the unexpected in a manner that is reassuring to them in a way that they can understand.

The experience taught me that like other aspects of our life living with Alzheimer’s that have had to be adjusted, it’s best to be prepared in the event of a natural disaster and I found some great tips on the Alz.org website at: http://www.alz.org/nca/

So, thanks to what I’ve learned I’m okay. Do yourself a favor, learn what you can do so that you’ll be okay, too.

I’m okay, You Okay? Part l

Posted in August by

Standing in my bedroom I could sense “something” coming before I could see or feel it. I guess it’s kinda like the intuition that animals have before something bad in nature occurs, only I’m not feral enough to know what it means or when you’re suppose to run.

Before I could make sense of what was happening the room started shaking and everything around me was moving; the walls, the floor, all vibrating as if it were an everyday occurrence and it was the room’s time to come alive. A lamp on a bookshelf across from me started to fall and I knew that I couldn’t reach it in time but I instinctively reached out to steady the things nearest me as I watched the lamp tumble and bounce for a second or two as the floor moved beneath me.

I stood there, staring at the lamp; the shade crooked, at an odd angle, like it was a person who’s neck had been broken in a fall. Suddenly, pulled out of my dark reverie, I remembered that there was something more important than the lamp or the objects I was holding so I started down the hall to find Miss Cathy.

In the few seconds it took to reach her in the dining room all was calm. I could see that she was visibly shaking as she asked, “What was that?”

“It was an earthquake”, I said plainly, her reaction clearly that of someone who didn’t quite believe what she’d just heard.

I couldn’t blame her really; it’s not the first thing you’d think would be happening, this wasn’t Los Angeles or San Francisco, we were on the East coast, very close to Washington DC where we only read about such occurrences. The only reason I knew with any certainty was because I had experienced an earthquake before. It happened in New York City in the early ‘80’s when I lived on the fifth floor of a six-story apartment building in the East Village.

It was the middle of the night and I remember waking up to what sounded like a loud crash, I thought a semi or some other large vehicle had slammed into the side of our building, that would “explain” the noise but then the entire apartment started to shake. I held onto the bed for dear life not knowing how to process what I was seeing and feeling.

It ended almost as soon as it started but those seconds felt like hours while it was going on, after the vibrations and sound of things falling and shifting there was an eerie quiet that (to me) rang in my ears as loud as the quake itself. There was no major damage from that quake but it was recorded at 5.0 and something that hadn’t happened in New York in more than a century.

Although I didn’t know the official number for our area (yet) it definitely felt a lot milder than what I’ve experienced before. But, being as it was mom’s first quake it didn’t matter if it registered as 1.0 or 10.0-it was just as upsetting.

My instincts told me that the worse was over so I got Miss Cathy settled on the sofa and I walked back through the condo to check to see if there was any damage. I “right-ed” pictures that were askew and picked up objects that had toppled over.

I received a text from my ex, Chad asking “U ok?” and I text’d back, ”I’m ok, u ok” not knowing if he-in the Midwest (or the entire country for that matter) had just experienced the same thing. He’d contacted me so soon after it happened here that I just assumed the same thing was happening to him (later he told me that he was in his car when the news came on the radio so he text’d me right away concerned about Miss Cathy and me).

I rejoined mom in the living room and watched the TV with her. The news reporter announced that a earthquake had just hit a majority of the East coast, registering 5.9 at the epicenter in Mineral, Virginia, about 80 miles away from where we lived. Miss Cathy (now convinced) sat in amazement, digesting what she was hearing and seeing.

“I thought something was going on upstairs in Ron’s apartment.” she said, “I heard this rumpling sound and I looked up at the ceiling fan and I thought it was odd that it was shaking so I thought he fell or dropped something heavy up there to make it move like that.”

She tried calling his apartment but the phone wasn’t working.

Looking out the sliding glass doors that lead to the balcony I could see that neighbors from the apartment complex across the parking lot were streaming outside, coming together as people seem to do when a common experience occurs, huddled together trying to make sense of what had just happened.

“I’m just so nervous, I can’t stop shaking.” She said, “ I didn’t know what in the world was happening, how did you know it was an earthquake?”

I reminded her of my long ago experience in New York and how it’s such a strange feeling that once it’s happened you never forget it.

She seemed to be handling it all pretty well, I thought. I was concerned about her shaking but I wondered if that wasn’t adrenaline-you know, the whole “fight or flight” feeling that takes over our bodies when situations are “heightened” (as this was pretty “high” on the list of things that had happened to her lately).

I asked her if she wanted a glass of water and sat with her after she declined the offer. Given how she’d reacted to recent doctors’ appointments and other mood swings, I have to say (other than the shaking) she was calmer than I thought she’d be but I was no less worried about her. There wasn’t much I could do for her besides sitting with her but sometimes that’s enough.

I had been getting ready to go to work when the quake hit so I got up go back into my room to finish getting dressed. I asked Miss Cathy if she was all right and if she wanted me to stay with her.

“No, I’ll be alright,” she said, “I’ll get myself together after a little while. That’s not going to happen again is it?”

“No,” I said, “probably not, but there are usually aftershocks can come after the initial quake but they’re usually much milder.”

I could see that little factoid didn’t give her much comfort but I had to finish getting dressed and I kept reminding myself that she said she’d be “alright” (I kept repeating this assertion to myself to assuage any guilt I was feeling about leaving her alone).

I must have asked her “are you sure you’ll be alright, I don’t have to go to work, I can stay here with you” half a dozen times. Each query seemed to receive the same tepid “I’ll be fine.”

I picked up my bag and headed for the door going over my rationalizations for leaving
(against a gnawing in my gut that I should stay), using “I’ll be fine” as the green light to go.

It’s interesting isn’t it how we ask a question not wanting an answer so much as permission to do whatever it is that we know we shouldn’t but we’re not quite ready to take ownership of the action, instead, “asking” absolves us of any responsibility for that which we know we shouldn’t do.

Next week “I’m okay, You Okay?” Part ll