Shhhhh! My husband is asleep

old man sleepingin bed

Even while asleep this caregiver gets comfort from her husband with Alzheimers; sleeping in the house.

I sometimes feel a bit isolated when the caregivers leave, but not for long.  Ken is in bed and usually asleep as the evening stretches before me.  Yes, cabin bound, but I don’t feel I’m alone in the house.  I’m not.  My husband is sleeping in the next room.  I can sit with him and read or I can talk to him if he’s awake.  Awake or asleep he doesn’t make much sense, but that’s all right.  If something entertaining is on the tube, I can sit next to his bed and watch TV, holding his hand while he sleeps – or not.

Alzheimer’s makes life such a dichotomy: at times I state that he is gone and other times when we are alone he is with me.  At night, his very presence gives me a semblance of companionship – the same feelings I had years ago when his day had been long and hard, and sleep beckoned earlier for him than usual.  He was at home although he was asleep.  If someone called I would simply ask if it was important because Ken had a rough day and had gone to bed early. I suppose that’s the feeling I have now at night:  my husband is here, but he went to sleep early.

It’s with that feeling I go about my evening – even laughing at myself for the lack of logic in some of my actions.  Ken’s caregiver, Ben, is very good to me and very considerate.  Waste Management comes to our neighborhood on Wednesdays to collect the contents of our various waste containers so Ben puts the cans out on the street before he leaves each Tuesday evening.  He also makes sure the cans from the house have been emptied as well. However, there are times when a forgotten waste basket filled with paper needs to be added to the recycle can.  I think nothing of taking the trash out to the street before I go to bed – even at midnight.  I have no fear of leaving the door open and dumping my small amount of paper into the recycle bin for pick up the next day because my husband is in the house.  If I lived totally alone, even though I am comfortable in my neighborhood, I wouldn’t empty the basket until daylight.  How rational is that?  Am I safer because he is here?  In his condition, certainly not, but because my husband is here,  I feel safe.  I know my reasoning defies logic, but feeling safe and feeling that I’m not alone is not only a comfort, but a battle fought and won, and it’s a blessing to have someone with me in the house, even if that someone could do nothing if a bad guy jumped out from behind a bush.

Bob DeMarco in his Alzheimer’s Reading Room blog often talks about AD victims still being here, and physically DeMarco, of course, is right and in some cases an AD victim’s cognitive awareness is in and out.  In reading about his experiences with his mother, Dotty, I realize that where she is with her AD is not where Ken is with his AD. During his awake time when daylight fills the room he is seldom the Ken I have been married to for more than a half century.  And when I look into his hazel-green eyes and see no response or recognition, and I’m sure others will agree, that’s when I have that feeling he is not here – he is gone.  But other times, and during those long night hours, as lacking in logic as it is, he is here with me — but we mustn’t disturb him because my husband is sleeping. And his presence fills my home and my heart.

Originally posted 2011-11-05 03:25:19.

HALLOWEEN AND MY SUPER FUN DATE

Halloween pumpkins

Carved pumpkins a sure sign of Halloween

I have often said the bonus part of being married to Ken is that he was a fun date. Not only was he a fun date before marriage he continued to be a fun date after marriage, but then many of our friends remained okay dates after marriage until the tube took over, turning them into the well-known couch potato. The difference between Ken, who did watch his share of ball games, and our friends was that he continued to be a fun date up until AD became a third wheel in our lives.

Our early neighborhood was mostly made up of young couples with small children, and all but a few budgets were pinched tighter than a size eight foot in a six shoe. Consequently, nights out on the town, or even a movie, were few and far between. However, to keep our social appetites fed, kids in tow, we entertained one another at our various homes taking turns hosting: we bar-b-cued, planned picnics in the parks, or at the beach, and enjoyed Sunday summer band concerts by our city’s Municipal Band – all without spending any money. In addition, a couple of nights a month the neighbors got together for a game of penny-ante with no one going home richer than he came. It was for fun not fortune as all of the winnings went into a kitty until there were enough accumulated funds for everyone’s dinner, plus a tip, which happened every year or so.

And there were parties and celebrations according to the calendar, but perhaps none so outlandish and memorable than Halloween, with costumes required. The 31st, of course, was kids’ night so the adult party was usually held on Friday or Saturday night before Trick Or Treat, but not every year. For those less willing than Ken to dress up as someone-something else was much too much to ask of some husbands on even a yearly basis.

Prior to our just-across-the-street friends Fred and Phyllis adding a family room, all parties were held in the host’s garage. Once we found their new room to be a warm and cozy place without a draft their home became the gathering place during the colder fall and winter months.

So it was that Phil donned in black shorts, black shirt, a cowboy hat and toy six shooters hanging from her hips became a female Paladin (Have Gun Will Travel, a popular TV series at the time). Laughing, she opened the door to let in the party revelers. Fred put on two arm bands, a bow tie and took his place behind his bar as the in-house bartender, which was the costume for many of the men. Ken wasn’t much different that first year matching my Roaring 20s flapper dress with gangster-looking attire, including arm bands.

Other years, and good sport that he was, he agreed twice to wear the other half of Raggedy Anne: Andy with a sailor hat and sprouting red yarn hair. Our faces matched with cherry-circled cheeks, smiling mouths and exaggerated eyes. We wore it to Fred and Phil’s second party and a few years later our duo costumes appeared at other events. There were times when I couldn’t believe he was still such a fun guy and so willing to throw caution to the wind and be just plain silly.

Several years later we had occasion to attend a fund-raiser for a local community service organization. I made Ken a white sports coat out of a piece of left-over polyester knit from years gone by, painted a black mustache on his upper lip and handed him a baton. As Xavier Cugat, he matched my Carman Miranda outfit topped off with a turban headpiece filled with an assortment of fake fruit, including a cluster of purple plastic grapes. We were a hit with friends, but didn’t win the grand prize – not even runner up – which was all right. It was a good time because I had a special evening out with my fun-date husband. I sure miss him.

Even as Ken succumbed to Alzheimer’s, I continued to decorate for the holiday, and the second year of Ken’s illness he remembered about the little ones coming for Trick or Treat. Together we put out decorations making our house look spooky without being scary. Every morning, though, I would find the pumpkins, scarecrows and the friendly, smiling ghosts on the kitchen table. More of a morning person than I wanted to be, Ken busied himself getting the house in order while I slept. “Why did you bring in all of the decorations,” I asked him. “Halloween is over,” he replied. “Let’s put this stuff away.” Explaining that the holiday wouldn’t be over for two more weeks, I asked him if he wanted to help me put the things outside. “Of course I’ll help,” he said, ready and willing to have it all in place when the costumed children came for candy.

We went through the same routine every morning until November 1, when I agreed that we could put Halloween away for another year. It would have been easier for me to just give in the first time he brought the whole array into the kitchen. But I wanted our life to be as normal as possible even if it meant doing the same job over and over, and for several years it worked.

This year in front of our house there is a seven foot happy-faced ghost – possibly a distant cousin to Casper — hovering in the midst of our juniper bushes, surrounded by candy corn lights and spider webs. Ken no longer brings in the decorations during the early morning hours. Sleeping in a hospital bed with full rails his morning activity is limited, as is his walking ability.  He isn’t even aware that Halloween is fast approaching. Actually, I doubt he notices what’s outside, much less the passing of days, one being much the same as the last. Neither is he aware of the leaves turning gold and the hint of another year soon to pass. Alzheimer’s, like a thief in the night or a mysterious, ghostly intruder has stolen away my fun date, and the demon disease didn’t even ask, “Trick or Treat?”

Originally posted 2011-10-29 18:14:30.

THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT

Haunted House

When an old house creaks, it may be haunted or not.

“Your house is spooky, Grandma.”  The statement did not come from one of our younger posterity but from our 23-year-old grandson Brian.  Several years ago, before Ken contracted Alzheimer’s we had asked Brian, recently returned after a four-year stint in the Marines, if he would stay in the house while we were on vacation; look after the dog, take in the mail, water and cut the grass and keep everything ship-shape until we returned.  We also agreed to pay him a tidy sum for his efforts.  He happily accepted.  When we arrived home we found that he had been more not here, than here.

“I just couldn’t stay in your house after the first night,” he explained, expounding on every creak and groan he heard or imagined. “I think it’s haunted!”  I turned to this brute of a man and asked, “How old are you, Brian?  How tall?  And how much do you weight?”  If he looked a bit chagrined, it didn’t change how he felt.  “You house is spooky,” he repeated “really spooky.”

He then proceeded to detail his night in our so-called chamber of horrors.  “This place has bumps in the night, stuff moving in the shed next to the house and in the wood pile and in the backyard,” he confided.

“Probably a cat,” I explained. “Or it could have been a rat – or a possum,” none of which eased his mind.

“The floor creaks,” he continued, “like someone is walking.  So do the walls and I can hear the roof in the family room going snap, crackle, pop, and I believe there is something living in the attic making a rasping sound.”

Reliving his night of terror seemed to add to his vivid and out-of-control imagination.  He had verbally tagged everything except the foundation and windows, but I couldn’t really remember any of the strange sounds except the time when we did have mice in the attic.  Explaining to this gentle giant that our house was an older home and no doubt had settling noises, I also acknowledged that after a hot day the flat roof on the family room addition contracted making it sound like the bowl of Rice Crispies he described.   That wasn’t enough.  Unconvinced, Brian insisted the house was haunted even though I pooh-poohed the whole idea.  He did, though, express regret for abandoning his house duty, but assured me that the dog had been cared for as were the yards and mail – all accomplished during the safety of daylight.

Perhaps the sounds were there and Ken and I had just grown used to them so we didn’t notice, but our conversation reminded me of another dark night and an unexpected noise from long ago when our children were young, the house was fairly new and there was no Emergency 911.

I believe both Ken and I were awakened at the exact same moment by the click of a door latch as it snapped into its slot, and then nothing.  That one sound had brought me into wide-eyed wakefulness.  Lying in our bed I could feel that he too had heard the noise and was no longer sleeping – hardly even breathing – yet I managed to murmur, “Did you hear that?”

“Someone just closed the kitchen door,” he whispered back.  “We have a burglar in the house.”

“Call the police,” I uttered.

Quietly, he reached over and picked up the phone setting it on the floor to muffle as much sound as possible.  Feeling the rotary wheel he placed his forefinger into the “O” and pulled it to near full circle until it stopped, and then he let it go. The clicking as the dial returned to its place almost matched the thumping of our hearts.  “Operator,” a woman answered.  “Someone is in our house.  Call the sheriff,” Ken said, barely audible.  Within seconds a man’s voice was heard, “Sheriff.”  Ken quietly explained our situation and gave him our address.   We were assured that a squad car was on its way even as we spoke.  Ken hung up the phone and we lay there staring at the shadowed ceiling.

On the clock possibly a minute and a half had lapsed since the kitchen latch had pulled us both from our slumber when suddenly I exclaimed, “The children?”  Leaping silently from my bed I rushed to the boy’s room.  From the light cascading through their window I could see that all was well.  Slipping down the hall with Ken close behind I opened the door where our girls slept.  One bed was empty.  “Julie is not here,” I declared.  Adrenalin pumping and as quiet as the proverbial mouse Ken cautiously opened the kitchen door and tiptoed into the darkness armed with a baseball bat which he had picked up from the boys’ room.  Bravely, he called, “Whose there?”

“Daddy?” a small voice returned.   “Julie?” Ken questioned, “Is that you Julie?” he repeated placing the whiffle-ball bat on the seat of an adjacent chair.

Snapping on the light we saw our frightened little girl, ghost-like in her nightgown, peeking around the darkened corner.  “I had to go to the bathroom,” she explained.  “Why didn’t you use this one?” Ken asked pointing to the one right across from the bedrooms.  “I didn’t want to wake you,” she continued, “so I used the one in the laundry room, and then I heard noises so I stayed in there.”

Tucked back into her bed with an extra kiss, we said goodnight to our sleepy child and returned to our bedroom.  Ken picked up the phone a second time and dialed the operator who connected us once again to the Sheriff’s department.  Apologizing and asking that the car racing to our house be canceled, Ken explained, “There is no intruder.  It was a child.”  “Whose child?” grumbled the officer.  “Ours,” said Ken sheepishly, “and she’s fine.”  With that I could visualize the sheriff smiling as he said to Ken, “Have a good night.”

As the fall of another year edges its way into earlier darkness causing the evenings to become longer and longer – especially after the caregivers leave –I find that it’s really a good time for me.  At the end of the day Ken is very tired.  Alzheimer’s seems to sap his energy so he is soon asleep and I have several hours of free, uninterrupted time.  I write, or catch up on bills, or do other busy work, or treat myself with a CD to watch.  Then it’s off to bed where I read until sleepiness blurs the print. I can lose myself in a good book.

The house is silent.  Every so often one of the cats will gallop down the hall before jumping up on the bed – a familiar thumping.  Turning the page I hear another sound.  Pausing to listen I ask myself about the bumping coming from the shed, a thud as a log tumbles onto the bricks from the woodpile.  “It’s probably a neighbor’s cat,” I say to me, “or a rat, or a possum.”  I listen to the relaxing of our half-century old house as it yawns and settles in for the night.  If Brian were here I would say, “No, Brian, the house isn’t haunted; like me, it’s just tired and our joints creak.”  But if I do see an apparition I will take the advice of psychic Silva Brown from one of her books, “Just tell the ghost to take the first door on the right and go home.”  Then I’ll add, “And on your way, please don’t let the latch click.  It might wake up Ken.”  That’s when I close my book, move the cat, turn off the lamp, snuggle under the covers and go to sleep.

Photo courtesy of  country-boy-shane http://www.flickr.com/photos/shanegorski/

Originally posted 2011-10-22 02:54:49.

KEN AND THE MOVIES: “WATCH OUT BEHIND YOU”

B movie Poster

The theatrics of a 'B' movie can be likened to Alzheimer's patients.

Ken and I are from the era of double features, short subjects, news reels and cartoons: the old Hollywood when studios had the last say about which mega star was contracted for the lead role in the latest “Big” movie.  Other hopefuls were sent down to the “B” studios.   Those were the days of block-buster pictures with Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn, or John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara, and the low budgets with – who remembers.

Not only were the unknown actors soon forgotten (unless they became STARS), but so were the “B” movies.  However, a few of the ploys in the plot, seen time and time again, were snickeringly remembered.   Actually, a few have become legendary. The one I recall most vividly, used by the good guys as well as the bad guys, was a scene where a captured person stood with his hands high above his head facing in the direction of a door – opened or closed – it didn’t matter.  The guy holding the gun was in charge, and could either shoot his captive (bad guy), or handcuff him and cart him off to jail (good guy) depending on the script.

Sometimes, though, just as the final chip was down the captive would say something like, “Look out behind you!”  and the gun holder would glance behind him – just long enough for the captive to reach forward grab the gun and take charge.  Or, there was someone actually there to relieve the gun from the gun holder. The scene was used so often in “B” movies it became laughable.  That must be the part Ken remembers.

Dear Ben is so faithful in his caregiving duties, and Ken is usually so unappreciative. “Ben is your friend,” I croon as the three of us head for the shower.  “Him? He doesn’t know anything,” Ken replies.  “And you, you don’t know anything either.”

Before long Ken will slip into the imagined scene.  He looks at Ben and threatens, “You’ll get yours.  Just wait till my friends get here.”  Then he calls out through the open door.  “Get him guys,” or, looking at Ben, “Watch out behind you.”  I can’t help but giggle a little, telling Ken that people don’t fall for that line any more, but I know in his limited mind it makes sense to him. He can also take on a military roll: standing near attention he glowers at Ben and says, “You are dismissed.”  Never an officer I ask myself, “Where’s that coming from?” Probably some old movie he had seen before he met me.  Other times he’ll look directly at me, nod his head toward Ben and say, “Call the police.”

Or he can be very angry with me wondering who I am and why I keep bouncing in and out of his mind, he’ll request, “Hand me that ax, I’m going to whack off her foot.”  “Ouch!” I tell him.  “That’s not very nice of you to say things like that.”  Puzzled he responds, “What did I say?”  Like pushing the wrong button on my hand-held calculator all kinds of jumbled and incorrect numbers appear on the screen.  His mind seems to break down information and then scrambles it, sending thoughts and words in every which direction.

Ken’s Alzheimer’s is now very advanced, but I can sometimes read him through his eyes or changes in his facial expressions.  He can also be very cunning – liked a frightened, trapped animal.  So he doesn’t hurt any of us during clean up and shower time, his hands are temporarily restrained, but it is amazing how quickly he can “throw” an elbow into Ben’s or my ribs, get a knee high enough to make a definite impression in someone’s groin area, or bring up a foot for a well-placed kick.  Whether it’s a calculated plan or an instinctive defense I’ll probably never know.  “Whaaaaattttt?” he questions when caught in the act, followed by “I didn’t do anything.”  “You punched Ben with your elbow,” I tell him.  “I didn’t do that,” he insists, his eyes looking innocent.

Yet, there are times when Ben is helping him and he’ll take on a new roll and say, “I appreciate everything you do for me.  Thank you.”  That could be from any of Jimmy Stewart’s movies. Ben responds with a smile and says, “You are welcome, Sir.”  Good manners don’t last long.  Other times when Ben turns his back Ken will scrunch up his nose and stick out his tongue.  I’m surprised he doesn’t give him a loud, spit-filled raspberry to go with it.  Instead he’ll look over at me and wink as if he knew exactly what he was doing.  With Ken’s threats coming from the “B” movies, the niceties spoken by STARS such as Cary Grant, and  those naughty mannerisms are probably coming from his watching too many “Our Gang” comedies when he was a kid.  That favorite was later adapted to TV and became a beloved half hour for our kids after being edited and relabeled as “The Little Rascals.”

Of course we don’t know how much memory Alzheimer’s is covering when we observe parts and pieces of the past sneaking out through the tangles and plaques covering his brain.  It’s all such a puzzle with impossible pieces to fit together, but moments like this can make an interesting and funny happening.  That’s why we take comfort in learning to laugh at some of Alzheimer’s silly situations — so much better to laugh than cry.

Originally posted 2011-10-15 03:30:16.

TILL DEATH DO US PART — UNLESS YOU GET ALZHEIMER’S

wedding couple hands

Alzheimer's is just part of "in sickness & health" for this caregiver.

I recently watched a clip on the internet where Pat Robinson talked about advising a man to divorce his wife who was a victim of AD.  Mind you, this is not a criticism of the Reverend or the man’s desire to begin a new life.  We all do what we have to do.

“She’s gone,” the distraught husband had told Robinson.  “She’s gone — just gone.”  Affirming what he believed to be true, the husband was seeing another woman. Understandably, he yearns for companionship, happiness and everything that was once held so dear in making life worth living.  Advising that he remain financially responsible for his wife’s wellbeing, a divorce was recommended.  After all, the man had already left his marriage. With advice from clergy — not necessarily approval — I am certain the husband felt an enormous burden lifted from his shoulders.  Nevertheless, it isn’t my place to be anyone’s judge.

There was nothing said about his age or how long they had been married.  A good while ago we had friends who were a few years older than we – married for a long time.  Happily married with grown  children and numerous grandchildren, Jean and Boyd lived a good life.  Suddenly, Jean became very ill with cancer.  Together, they fought the brave fight, but lost.  Boyd was left alone and not even the devotion and company of his children was enough.   Loneliness is a torturous and demoralizing companion.

Eventually, he married again and for a while the newlyweds were happy.  The new wife, and I’ll call her Sadie, was a good woman who had been widowed, so it was natural for two lonely souls to reach out to one another.  However, the fates were not kind and within a few years, Boyd developed Alzheimer’s.  Coping as best she could, for as long as she could, Sadie finally returned Boyd to his children saying, “I’m gone,” and she divorced him.

I can’t say that I was surprised.  Dedication and long-term caring for a victim with AD is no easy task.  A few years of togetherness, even in a happy, but short, marriage, doesn’t form a good, solid foundation such as one fortified with 40 or 50 years of history which creates the required devotion and “long suffering” it takes to see the illness through to its ending.  I don’t blame Sadie for ducking out.

If all the stats were in, and this is only a generalization, I do believe that women are better at coping and as caregivers than their counterparts, and I’m not talking about Sadie.  Most men are not natural nurturers, whereas women appear to come equipped with budding broad, encompassing wings and caring hearts, bursting into full bloom with the birth of the first child, or some other life-changing phenomenon.  From there on in it just gets better.

And yet I’ve seen friends show by their actions that my observations may be biased, if not downright wrong.  After a year or so caring for his wife Elaine, Arch moved the two from their family home into a cozy apartment in a semi-care facility where they could be independent with help as needed.  He cared for her as she muddled along with mild AD in a most kind and loving way until he fell, broke some ribs and died of pneumonia.  It was then they separated, she going to the home of their son and his wife and finally to a full-care facility, and he to eternal rest.  Perhaps I can again return to the thought that we just do what we have to do, and it probably has nothing to do with gender, nor does it have anything to do with right or wrong choices, but it has everything to do with us as individuals and who we are.

I’m reminded of a sweet email that circulates across my screen periodically.  It tells of an old man waiting to have stitches removed from a minor cut on his hand, and continues something like this:

The nurse watched as he fidgeted and looked at his watch, and then asked if he had another appointment.  He explained that he spent each morning feeding his wife breakfast at the nursing home — something she could no longer do because of having Alzheimer’s.  “Does she know you?” the nurse asked.  “No,” he answered.  “Then it won’t matter if someone else feeds her breakfast just this one day,” she concluded.  “It will to me,” he replied.  No need to wait for the doctor. The nurse quickly removed the stitches and sent him on his way.  An added p.s. reminded us that we all need to learn how to dance in the rain.

“God won’t be angry with you,” said my son-in-law Tim.  “If you need to place Ken in a full-care facility, I’m sure He will understand.” Attempting to ease my worry following a horrendous automobile accident early in 2010 I knew he was guiding my way into options for my return home and decisions which would have to be made.  “It isn’t about God,” I replied.  “It’s about me.”

As it worked out I have wonderful caregivers to help with Ken and I’m glad he’s here at home.  I’m glad I can come and go without guilt, or do busy work and stop in my chores to pat his shoulder and say, “Hi, Hon.  How are you doing today?”  He may mumble something or he may not, but he’s here with me, and that’s what I want – what I have chosen.  I’m glad that I can check on him before I go to bed, tuck in the covers, kiss him on the forehead and tell him once again that I love him. “Through sickness and in health – till death us do part.”  Divorce?  For me – that’s not an option.

Originally posted 2011-10-08 04:07:56.

HANDICAPPED MORPHED INTO SPECIAL NEEDS

wheelchair

If we live long enough we may all end up with special needs.

I noticed in Erma Bombecks’s column, which I referred to in my last blog, that she used the word handicapped in reference to children with special needs.  How easily “special needs” rolls off the tongue in today’s world.  It was one of those descriptions that came through evolution during the pre-politically correct era.  Words have made it through transition since words began, and often that’s a good thing, but the emphasis on being politically correct I find irritating, if not a paralysis of speech. I’m one for calling a spade a spade – for example: when clothes come back from camp they are covered with dirt – dirty, dirty, dirty!  They are not soiled, they are dirty – even filthy.  In other areas I strive always to be kind, keeping my words sweet in case I have to eat them, but I also believe in the 1st Amendment.  However, being p.c. is not the issue.

The word handicapped is a good word to replace when its reference is health.  Any story you may have heard about its origin beginning with beggars in London holding their cap in hand as they plead for a handout is not true – a myth – an urban legend.  Handicap has been a word used in sports dating back to Scotland and golf, and you hear it often in horse racing. Why, around 1913, someone decided to use it for children who were born less than perfect no one knows.  Handicapped was expanded to include adults and people with mental disorders around 1950. That’s another “why” question when the word was, and is, doing so well in sports.  Disabled became its replacement, and many thought less-abled was even better, and whether it’s p.c. or not, special needs seems to be the most descriptive – especially for children. I like disabled for adults rather than less abled.  The less part sounds so contrived and leaves questions hanging.

Ken and I have seven disabled great-nieces and great-nephews, all belonging to our niece, Carla, and her husband, Chris.  Following the birth of their first child, who barely made it through a very premature delivery, the doctors warned the couple that any future pregnancies would, no doubt result in more preemies.  Furthermore they were advised that this baby would have considerable cognitive loss, wouldn’t be able to see, possibly not walk, and then mentioned there may be more disabilities they didn’t even know about – if she lived at all.  Nothing mattered as the couple waited the endless weeks while the fragile life ebbed and flowed, and gradually took hold.  Strong in their faith they knew they could handle anything.  “Just let her live,” was their fervent prayer.

Amazing could be the word, but no doubt it was more faith, humility and God’s plan that brought the tiny girl into near normalcy with her whole life spread out like a blossom-covered meadow. Yes, Aurora was a miracle.  “However,” explained Carla “we now know God was preparing us for something else.  When we decided to adopt, rather than risking more early deliveries, because of the unknown factors surrounding Aurora’s birth, we had already come to terms and accepted the idea of a child with cognitive disorders, cp, seizures and the like.  When the case worker asked if we had ever thought about a child with one of these – we just cracked up. The truth is God knew our children before they were even formed, and He knew Chris and I would not be willing to step forward — too daunting.  So in his incredible wisdom, he used Aurora to prepare us.  We never knew what a blessing her birth would bestow on each of us.”   They wanted a big family so the couple began adopting children with special needs from around the world; their disabilities ranging from mild to severe – which is all in the eyes of the beholder.

As an extraordinary teacher Carla works in a school district with a wide range of students and lifestyles.  Many of the parents have more important interests  than their children – leaving their youngsters with special needs of a different kind:  some are neglected – spiritually, physically and emotionally.  Some suffer from various kinds of abuse and many are just hungry for love and a sense of belonging; all of which fits beautifully into Carla’s loving and giving nature.  Her experience—vast.

Both she and Chris have given their children the best of all gifts:  a loving family, which is number one.  Additionally, the two have never bothered making an issue of any disabilities their children possess.  “Special Needs” doesn’t necessarily mean special schooling or classes, but it could include two prosthetic legs, a hook for a hand and muscles that don’t always obey.  Yet, it’s taken by the family as almost incidental.

Their beautiful little brown-skinned girl with the dark hair and near-black eyes was found living on the streets of Puna, India and did need special classes to teach her limited mind.  She remains the beautiful brown-skinned girl with dark hair and near-black eyes.  Even experts in special education were limited in what they could teach this child from the streets.  She has, however, inched along in her progress to be the best she is able to be.  With no background and no family history, much of her remains a mystery.  Nevertheless, she has grown into a happy, functioning (for where she is) adult.

All of the children are grown and constantly buzz in and out of the Oregon family home. Their lives are very normal and they are either continuing in higher education or working at a job — or jobs.  These young adults have a different understanding of disabilities, expressed by their parents right from the “get-go,” “Our theory has been that some of us are disabled now, and the rest of us are just temporarily able.”

I think of the irony played on humanity by the fates and find this thought process very true.  I look at my husband, with his AD, and realize he is disabled: both mentally and because of his cognitive decline he is becoming physically disabled.  Ken’s parents were disabled in their old age as was my own mother.  My dad, with no mental disability still needed help physically.  We moved him from place to place in a wheel chair, and because of his worn-out knees, he relied on a walker to get him safely around the house.   I suppose that made him somewhat disabled.  Perhaps the absolute mark of disability is having a placard which allows parking in a “Disabled Parking Only” area, and even that isn’t necessarily accurate.

It would almost seem that in the cycle of life we begin by being totally dependent on others for our well-being, and at the end of life we again are dependent on others.  Following the death of both his parents, Ken was determined that their fate would not be his fate.  Consequently, he began to take extra care of his body, making sure of a goodly amount of exercise: running and gym workouts, and keeping himself in general good health.  Noticing Ken’s unusual strength and his still well-developed body, his caregiver Crizaldo has said, “Mr. Ken defies age.”  In that respect, Ken did achieve his goal.  Physically, he would still be a very able-bodied man if it were not for Alzheimer’s.

I do believe there is a message here.  Many aging adults, and I’m the first to say “but not all,” are disabled.  Disability does not always have to be part of growing old although it is the road often traveled.  For those striving to remain able bodied, we all know the best way to keep on moving is to keep on moving.  I sometimes wonder if Ken, when we are helping him out of bed and he becomes as rigid as a board (which is totally self-imposed) isn’t doing what comes so naturally for him: stretching — exercising.  In this case he’s doing isometrics, and he is making his caregiver and me his opposing force.  After a few pulls using us as resistance he relaxes, cooperates and gets up.  How’s that regimen for keeping in shape?

Originally posted 2011-10-01 03:14:53.

GOD’S ASSIGNMENTS

Assignments from God are there to help us grow.

I miss Erma Bombeck.

While sorting through files recently I found a scrap of newsprint which I had clipped from our local paper.  Turning it over my thoughts raced back nearly 20 years when her column “At Wit’s End” was a twice weekly must read.  For those who never had the chance to become acquainted with Erma’s charm and wit, she was known, and probably still is, as a great American humorist.  I’m not sure if that adequately describes her, but it’s a start.  No doubt she was a devoted wife and loving mother because her mainstay was poking fun at child rearing, homemaking and living in suburbia.  Much of what she wrote began with a good laugh and often ended with a few tears, or she could reverse all of it leaving the reader chuckling the whole day.  Or you could just be filled with the profound and clever wisdom of it all.

The column I had pulled and filed away was so very poignant.  I suppose that’s why I tore it out and kept it all of these years.  Erma loved to play God and she was very good at it.  Well, maybe not play God; she was more like a reporter standing next to an assistant angel watching them at work.  She wrote about humanity’s relationship with God fairly often, which made us think, ponder, smile and feel good.

Special motherhood was the subject matter of my yellowed copy as Erma visualized God hovering over the earth deliberating which mother would get which spirit child as God and an angel made notes in a giant ledger.  The day’s work also included assigning an exceptional patron saint selected because of his or her strengths.  “Give her Gerald,” God instructed the angel, after assigning twins — probably two adorable, rambunctious, high-spirited boys — “Gerald is used to profanity.”

Progressing nicely in their labors, God passed a name to the angel and said, “Send her a handicapped child.”  Puzzled, the angel asked, “Why this one God?  She’s so happy.”

Explaining, God said it wouldn’t be proper to give a handicapped child to a mother who didn’t know laughter.  “That would be cruel.”

Continuing, God listed the qualities this woman had:  Patience – but not so much that she would drown in despair feeling sorry for herself.  She won’t have time for a pity party.  “Once the shock and resentment wears off,” assured God, “she’ll be fine.”  Then he told the angel how He had noticed her feelings of independence and self-worth that He found rare, yet so necessary in a mother.  The special-needs child required a mother who could do for the child what was needed and still be her own person.

With caution the angel informed God that this independent woman didn’t even believe in Him.

God just smiled, assuring the angel that He would take care of that.  “She’s perfect, with just enough selfishness.”

Stunned, the angel asked, “Since when is selfishness a virtue?”

God nodded to the affirmative, explaining that she would have to separate herself from the child on occasion, or she would never survive.  Then He went on listing all of the blessings that would come with this child of need.  How the mother would never take for granted the growth of her child, how just hearing that first, “Mama” would be a miracle, and how generous these children are with their love.  “I know that she would teach the child of my creations, seeing and knowing them as she had never seen them before,” confiding in the angel that this child would be blind. The angel agreed, and God concluded, “She will never be alone, for I will be with her every minute of each day.”

Curious the angel asked about the patron saint.  “A mirror will suffice,” God smiled.

All of this, of course, gave me cause to wonder about His assigning caregivers to an ever-growing number of people with Alzheimer’s.  For sure, there are countless members of the human family with special needs even if that need doesn’t appear until later in life.  Previously, I have talked about my friend, Madalyn.  Light heartedly, we remind one another that we don’t remember signing up for this job.  And yet, the assignment was/is ours just as parents with children having special needs learn to accept and live with what’s given to them.

So what are some of the hoped-for character traits which God might have seen in us?  Wow!  I wonder if He remembered that most of us – whether caring for aging parents, other relatives or our spouse – aren’t young anymore.  We used most of what were the best parts of “Us” bringing up that batch of children He sent to us early on.  So, now we’re running on leftovers?  No matter though.  Let’s see what those leftovers might be and what worn-out qualities we’ll have to reorder.

  1.   Patience:  Not a lot left, but I’m slowly acquiring more.  I no longer plead, “Give me patience and I want it right now.
  2.   Strength and energy:  The tank is pretty near empty, but I’m surprised how much I can muster up when required.  However, I have been known to sneak away and take a few naps.
  3.   Wisdom:   I didn’t have all that much when I had our first baby, but I managed to gather some by the time they were grown.  Whether it was enough I’ll never know.  My mom used to say, “It’s a shame that age comes so quickly and wisdom so slow.”  But what I did learn applied to children and young adults.  Now I must begin all over again gathering applicable wisdom for an adult with special needs, and it’s different.  I can’t sit down and reason with Ken about his attitude and how it might have a negative effect on his future, and then remind him he should make every effort to change his thinking.  If he listened at all he would probably say something like, “YOU!  You don’t know anything!” Any new wisdom I might receive will have to be applied to me so I can become a better caregiver.
  4.  Sense of self and independence:  I believe I still have that.  Being my own person has always been a blessing.
  5.  Tears:  God didn’t list them in Erma’s column, but tears go along with empathy, sympathy and love.  Besides, living in a state of perpetual mourning tears are commonplace, and are necessary as part of venting.  I’m sure most women, including mothers of special-needs children have a goodly supply of tears.  Typed on the prescription bottle is, “Use tears as needed,” but they often spill out during unexpected splashes of joy, and random acts of kindness.
  6.  Selfishness:  Yes.  I have my share of selfishness too.  And God’s reasoning is so good.   It is prudent to have some kind of life away from our needy charges no matter what our age – without any guilt.  We do have to take care of “us,” or we can’t take care of them.  Just as the instructions on the plane tell us: “Place the oxygen mask on you first, then the child.”  “ME FIRST” is a must-have attitude.  That advice belongs to all mothers and caregivers alike, but never “Me first and only me.”
  7.  Vanity:  That wasn’t listed either.  I would say to the angel that in this case, like selfishness, it is a virtue, and one of dire importance.  Not a narcissistic kind of vanity; I’m referring to humble vanity.  (Now, isn’t that an oxymoron?)  Nevertheless, when we look our best, we feel and do our best – at least we do better while striving for best.  Motto of the day: comb hair, brush teeth, touch of makeup and put on a clean shirt.  Get dressed every day and no sloppin’ around the house in a bathrobe.
  8.  Laughter:  I believe a good hardy laugh shakes down the woes leaving room for joy and other good feelings.  I have always tried to be best friends with laughter.  If it has slipped away, renew the relationship. Find where it’s hiding and bring it into the living room so it becomes part of the family.
  9.  Acceptance:  It may take a while, but no one can fight “what is.”  This is where life has taken me, and many of you, and there is no escape for the dedicated.  Might as well sally forth into the tomorrows and make them as good as possible.  Besides, nobody knows how many tomorrows are left.
  10.  Call home often:  God was certain we could do the job, and whenever we need to talk, He’s there.  He said so in Erma’s column: that he would be there every minute of every day.  Not only because he loves us, but He so appreciates us for doing some of his work, and caregiving is God’s work — especially when it’s done with a glad heart.

Oh!  And by the way, I believe Patron Saint Gerald has been reassigned to me for those times when my patience tank is running on empty.

Originally posted 2011-09-24 19:18:26.

FAMILY GENETICS, OR DON’T WORRY BE HAPPY

DNA molecule

Only time can tell whether Alzheimer's is transmitted through the gene pool, in the mean time live life to its fullest.

My mother was one of ten children: six girls and four boys.  Mother, Irene, and one sister, Elaine, were victims of Alzheimer’s.  It would appear that two out of the four boys were also stricken,  all developing AD in their later years. Keeping with those same statistics, several of the siblings died at or before they reached 60, with one in her 40s. Whether some of them would have succumbed to Alzheimer’s is pure conjecture.  Yet, the four out of 10 is 40%.

In retrospect, I would say the Alzheimer’s gene came through our grandfather who died in his 50s as a victim of pernicious anemia.  Possibly, AD would have come to him later in his life had he lived, but that, of course, is another guess.  It did not come to our grandmother who died at 84. She could be stubborn, a bit cantankerous, and a little forgetful, but her quirks didn’t seem to fall under the guidelines of anything from the Dementia Umbrella.  In that same search of the past and from the stories and memories my mother told about her early childhood including remembrances of her mother, I do believe my grandmother was afflicted with attention deficit disorder, ADD.  So far, and not to my knowledge, ADD does not fall under the Dementia Umbrella.

My grandmother was proficient, though, in being able to run a somewhat organized farm life.  In addition she had her own system of birth control spacing her babies every two years (having at least one miscarriage following the birth of Irene leaving a four-year space between her and the first son).  My grandmother’s last child, a boy, was born just six months before my older sister, making him more like a cousin than an uncle.

Mama’s sister Elaine seemed to have been a little off center all during her adult life.  It wasn’t as if she lacked intelligence, it was just the fact that she seemed to be what my sisters and I called, “a little bit dingy.”  She and her husband were childless, and, perhaps, that may have influenced her life of self-importance and indulgences.  With no one to be concerned with except Elaine, her world appeared extremely limited to us.  She seemed to skate on the surface of life like the water skitters I remember buzzing over the top of stagnant pools as the creek dried up near our grandparent’s property.  Our aunt was limited in her scope, never venturing beyond where her focus was, paying no heed to anything above or below the surface of her tight, little pond. Signs for actual AD diagnosis began to appear in her 50s suggesting she was a victim of Early Onset Alzheimer’s, and possibly before.

Her husband Ray cared for her at home, with the help of my sister, Janet, for as long as he could manage. When he could no longer cope, they reluctantly found a good full-care facility where Ray hovered over his beloved wife spending every moment possible.  However, during his visits it wasn’t at all unusual for Elaine to dismiss him in favor of the familiarity of other residents which left her devoted husband shattered.  Eventually, even the familiarity of the familiar became illusive for Elaine and little by little she slipped into the nothingness of AD leaving only her shell which seemed to cling to life with the tenacity of a last leaf.  She outlived Ray by most of her 10-year confinement as Janet continued to supervise her care.

As more and more is learned about the diseases falling under the Dementia Umbrella, I see concern looming over the horizon when Ken’s and my adult children speak of the possibility of AD in their years ahead. The knowledge that both sides of their paternal grandparents have victims, and a few of Ken’s first cousins developed full-blown Alzheimer’s the future can appear daunting for the next generation.  There is fear: of course they have fear and the ever-present question, “Will I be a victim?”

As we continue our discussions I mention that the jury is still out on me and my two sisters.  I get the glance and then a possible eye roll.  “Mom!  You’re not going to get Alzheimer’s.  What do you mean the jury is still out?”  Then I remind them that my mother was in her mid-eighties when we saw the first signs.   I also remind them that there is no history whatsoever of AD existing in my father’s family and their longevity also extends into a near century.  “Hello.” I tell them in an effort of reassurance, “The genes which make up the life force in you – my children — include the strong genes of my father’s family as well as all of your other early p;rogenators.”  As our p.c. doctor mentioned when I first asked about AD and Ken the wise doctor said, “At conception, there are numbers beyond measure from which to draw the genes for a fetus.  I would say that Ken’s chances are possibly yes, and possibly no.”

The wise part from our doctor’s declaration wasn’t said in exact words, but I see it now.  He meant for me and Ken to live our life together to its fullest and deal with the problem if and when it arrives, which we did.  Even as the disease progressed we lived our lives to their fullest.   My wonder – and worry — about worry is, “Can worry cause more worry – and that worry become a problem – creating an illness through worry — thus triggering AD into a self-fulfilling prophesy?”  How much bombarding of our psyche with negative worries can a psyche endure without succumbing to that worry?  Again, a question without answers.

Statistics tell us that if we live long enough 50% of the population will have Alzheimer’s.  That’s one in every two people.  Presently, there aren’t many options:  testing is the most promising – if you can call it promising – and if you want to know the answer.  If you know, then early treatment is a good thing, and even that’s not without questions.  Perhaps we should all take a deep breath, relax in the moment — and in that moment – those moments – don’t worry, be happy.   Then burst into song with Doris Day as she belts out “Que Sera Sera,” or in other words, “What will be, will be.”

Photo courtesy of  http://www.flickr.com/photos/wheatfields/with/2074121298/

Originally posted 2011-09-17 20:03:10.

UNAVAILABLE: ALMOST LIKE A VACATION

hammock

Being unavailable to my caregiving responsibilities was like going on vacation.

I recently took some time off to have my gall bladder removed.  Golly, but body-part removal sounds ghoulish — even neglectful or careless although I know that isn’t true – things just happen. Furthermore, Dr. Frankenstein is not my surgeon. Replacements and repairs sound all right – like putting a new engine in a car – a pacemaker, new hip or knee replacement.  That sounds like good maintenance.  It’s the removal word that sounds menacing, discarding – like we’re throw-a-ways — like taking the car to a junk yard.

However, that comparative idiosyncrasy exists only in my imagination.  Actually, I had a good-size stone which produced some severe stabs of pain and some degree of discomfort, but never a continuing 10-on-the-chart pain, which was a good thing.  Nevertheless, a lack of urgency placed the procedure into an elective surgery category.  My surgeon’s advice:  it should be removed.  So I was faced with having a body part taken out – scary.  I mourn a tooth extraction, now I was considering the removal of this important and useful, but expendable storage/distribution organ which has been with me all of my life: a part of me.  It was time to share this news with family and allow for other opinions, and it’s times like this that I feel so alone and really miss Ken.

Years ago having one’s gall bladder removed was a major, lengthy hospital stay, long-recovery operation.  Today, using laparoscopic surgery, it’s an in-and-out ambulatory procedure requiring three small, intentionally placed slits in the upper abdomen and an interesting reconfiguration of the navel. Yet, even with family input, I debated whether I should wait for a No. 10 on the pain chart.  I conferred once again with my p.c. doctor (who believed it was warranted) my dermatologist (with whom I had a chance-same-week appointment) — she advised that I should do it — and finally I shared my hesitations with another doctor during my pre-op appointment.

I knew that it wasn’t going to get better even though many people carry a gall bladder filled with stones and never feel even a twinge. The most compelling reason for me to have it done before I was driven to consent by a siege of No. 10 pain was because I am the prime caregiver for Ken.  Everyone in the family would best be served, including me, if it wasn’t an emergency situation.  As the pre-op doctor and I were talking about my husband having Alzheimer’s one of the nurses overheard and after the doctor left, she suggested that at some time I really should get away for a rest – whether I did the surgery or not – she felt I was ready for a respite: a pause in my care-giving duties.  I assured her I was all right and that I wouldn’t consider traveling more than an hour away in case of him having an emergency.  “Then,” she said, “You should take some time off and be unavailable.”  Continuing, Nurse Nancy explained that she had cared for her mother who was a victim of AD, and her sister came periodically from out of town to relieve her.  “I never went anywhere either,” she said, “but when my sister was with my mom I was ‘unavailable.’  You’ll be surprised how refreshed you will feel.”

Following my pre-op appointment I was mentally ready for the procedure and made arrangements with our daughter, Debbie, to come from Utah to be at home with me and Ken for three weeks.  Although most of our grown children are self-employed, she is the only one who has the flexibility to bring her work with her. 

She arrived as scheduled, helped Ben while our daughter-in-law, Sabina, accompanied me to the hospital and brought me back home to my waiting bed for some R & R.  Debbie continued helping Ben and pampered me when necessary with other family members nearby as backup.  Furthermore, I happily found myself totally unavailable for anything outside of my own personal needs. 

I cannot express what an incredible sense of freedom I felt.  It isn’t that helping the caregivers with Ken is so difficult because it isn’t.  It’s just the responsibility of caregiving is relentless when done every day 365 days of the year.  Scheduling is unbroken and it’s the unbroken part that becomes not only relentless but stressful which usually goes unnoticed because it’s a silent, consistent buildup of tension.  The wise nurse knew exactly what she was talking about.

Up and about I was back checking my computer the next day.  Opening my email I found that my personal address book had been hacked and the hackers had sent out an ad under my name for weight loss.  Several of my friends sent it back with questions.  Emailing everyone on my list I stated that I had not mailed the ad, and then changed my password.  Hopefully, that will eliminate the problem of further intrusion – till next time.  Coincidentally, the timing couldn’t have been more on target lining up perfectly with my surgery, and I did see a little humor in the entire scenario.  The text read that the recipients should use the product because, as stated in my bogus testimonial, I had lost 29.2 pounds in the last 30 days.  I thought about the troublesome stone which was now gone, “It was like your father’s,” the doctor had explained, “about the size of a small egg.”  Remembering my erroneously reported weight loss, and although shedding a few pounds in never far from my personal goals, I’m sure glad my small egg didn’t weight in at the better part of 30 pounds.

You ask if I am still enjoying my recuperation.  Without a doubt, I am.  However, because I feel so good I must remind myself periodically that I am still recuperating.  Following doctor’s orders I’m not lifting heavy boxes or mowing the lawn.  Debbie and the caregivers haven’t missed a beat in Ken’s care.  Perhaps he too is appreciating a change, and I am comforted that he is well and as happy as a victim of AD can be.  From the comforts of my own home I can watch from afar yet spend time with him as a visitor, all the while making myself very unavailable for any of his needs.  If it weren’t for a few tender spots in my torso I could lose myself in a book and even pretend I was on vacation.

Photo courtsey of:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/chumpolo/511227025/

Originally posted 2011-09-11 00:02:18.

AND THEN THERE WERE NONE

I visited with my friend Eva this afternoon. I have mentioned Eva and her very talented musical family, originating from Hawaii, who

finances

Running out of money adds to the stress of aging and Alzheimer’s caregivers.

entertained many of us living here on the Mainland. Whenever we craved the swaying of palm trees, balmy beaches and the setting sun over the Pacific we asked them where they would be holding their next luau. Eva’s husband, Ed, and his band played the very best dancin’ music in town. Not only did they make an evening romantic in its artificial setting, the group provided authentic food, young and beautiful grass-skirted women doing a variety of Polynesian dances, and a traditional fire dance, accomplished by their oldest son as part of the grand finale. Eva taught her girls everything she knew, and when the entire group danced you would swear their hips were on springs. Everything you dreamed about being in the Islands was there during those wonderful evenings of long ago.

Eva now has Alzheimer’s, as did her husband. She is also 90 years old. It seemed that no sooner had he passed on that Eva began showing the same signs of confusion and forgetting. Yet, with the help of her youngest son Matthew, Eva, dressed in a fitted muumuu of her own design, a flower tucked behind an ear, continued to volunteer her musical talents, singing and strumming her ukulele at Senior facilities throughout the East Bay of San Francisco. Eventually, as the disease took hold, she sang her last song and her ukulele lay silent in its case.

She has been absolutely content living in her own home with Matthew, whose mental capacity had prevented him from reaching responsible adulthood. The rest of the family agreed they would be able to remain there by doing a “Reverse Mortgage.” When she was 82, the family helped her work out the details with the bank and a long-term professional caregiver, which included an iron-clad contract for her care until she was 90. The family was certain the 8-year contract would suffice, knowing that Eva was also plagued with diabetes.

Every year Eva’s children came from far and wide to help celebrate her birthday with a grand party, music supplied by friends, and tables filled with Island food. Hearing her friends sing and play the familiar music seemed to bring her confused mind back to what she loved most: music, singing, entertaining and her beloved family. Eva sang bits and pieces of songs she had known and the sounds floated through the air as many joined in to help her recapture the past. She even kicked off her shoes and danced a little. Unfortunately, we all knew that it would be forgotten the next day.

This summer Eva turned 90, and we helped her celebrate the end of an era with family and a few scattered very old friends. It also brought an end to the contract, her caregiver and her home. The house belonged to the bank. As the old book title states, “And Then There Were None.” In this case it was money. The estate was broke. The reversed mortgage had paid its last payment. So now what? When the elderly infirmed reach a point when there is no money left, and the family, scattered all over the U. S., is unable to furnish additional funds, or care for a loved one what happens?

I visited Eva today in her new home which her daughter had found several months ago, explaining the situation to the admissions director and arranging an entry date. I was pleased to see it roomy, comfortable and clean. I also appreciated the important part: the air smelled fresh. Apparently, when family funding runs out for an older patient, the state picks up the tab. It’s no longer like the 1800s when Charles Dickens wrote his sagas about people without the ability to pay being turned out to live on the streets – or were tossed into a debtor’s prison. I couldn’t imagine my frail, gray-haired friend who had given so much in time and talent to the community not to be cared for in an appropriate way. She also needs full nursing care as complications from diabetes made the amputation of one leg necessary.

Arriving at the location I rambled down two long halls before I peeked into Room 36B. Finding the bed empty I couldn’t imagine where she might be. In my return journey down the hall in search of Eva I spied her sitting in a wheel chair with a few other people – also in wheel chairs. They didn’t seem to be chatting, but at least they were company for one another. She smiled up at me, but then she smiled at everyone. I gave her a hug, asking the duty nurse if I could take her for a ride, she nodded and I wheeled Eva into a nearby room where I pulled up a chair so we could talk. It was mostly idle conversation where she could fill in the blanks. Like Ken, deep-thought communication was not likely. By filling in the blanks, she gave no wrong answers. I quietly sang some of the church songs she had taught the children many years ago. Eva managed to join me with some of the words. Later, she asked, “Did your husband come with you?” I doubt she remembered who I was much less Ken, but I took it for what it was worth and said that he hadn’t been feeling well so he stayed home. She sighed, “Oh. That’s too bad.”

Matthew comes to see her daily; the rest of her children and grandchildren come on occasion. Separated by hundreds of miles keeping in touch in a physical way is difficult. Additionally, most of her friends are gone – separated by a spirit world. Again we could say, “And Then There Were None.” Life has a way of making such gradual changes that we hardly notice until we look around and see how alone life can become. Sadly, that applies not only to money, but to family and friends as well.

I wheeled Eva back to where I had found her, reminding the duty nurse that she was back. “It’s good seeing you looking so well,” I told her, giving her another hug and a quick kiss on her cheek, “I’ll come again soon.” She smiled and said, “Thank you.”

photo courtesy of http://www.seniorliving.org/

Originally posted 2011-09-03 20:09:03.

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