Health

THIS LITTLE PIGGIE WOULDN’T DARE GO TO MARKET

Sweet tiny baby toes can turn into a monstruous care job for people with Alzheimer's.

What miracles we all were, slipping into this world soft and cuddly with skin as smooth as a dish of newly churned butter, a patch of hair – or not — and fingers and toes — miniatures of perfection.  And then we begin to grow into the person our genetics will make of us.  A few months later a mother coos, her thumb and forefinger wiggling a small delicate appendage located at the end of a tiny foot, “This little piggy goes to market.”  The gentle movement sends tickles through the rest of the baby’s toes and the whole of this small scrap of humanity bursts forth into a cascade of delightful giggles so contagious that all assembled laugh with him.

A decade or so later the foot has booted a few soccer balls, been on the ground side of sliding over home plate with the winning run at the Little League Park, and got itself (and owner) in trouble for kicking dirt at the umpire.  Before he rents the shiny dress shoes for his senior ball those same feet, grown to measure nearly one “foot” or more will have been stomped and tromped by the opposing football team more times than any young man cares to remember, and if he steps on the toes of his date, or she steps on his it won’t matter, because – with feet and toes — there’s always more abuse to come.  It’s all part of the battering the lower extremities take during a lifetime.

They’ll be bruised and banged, sprained and strained, stubbed and rubbed, tubbed and scrubbed, stepped on, dropped on and possibly run over before getting the pampering they deserve after years of unrelenting service.  “Hon,” Ken called out years ago, “can you cut this one toe nail?”  My first thought was not one of wifely cooperation.  I didn’t want to cut his toe nails.  “Can’t you do it?” I retorted, wondering when he had become incapable of caring for his own feet, and fearing his toe nails were beginning to look like those once belonging to his father.  Reluctantly I ventured in to find him struggling to get the clippers to cooperate.  That’s when I noticed.  Yes!  His toe nails were changing – becoming thick and yellowish — taking on an appearance almost like the talons of an eagle.   

I had cut his father’s toe nails a few times when we couldn’t get him to a podiatrist.  They needed to be soaked and softened making the task manageable.  Looking at Ken’s troublesome toes I told him to soak his feet.  “You’ve got your father’s yucky toe nails,” I concluded, as I began snipping away at the thick mass.

We later found out that it actually is somewhat of a genetic thing.  Not so much guaranteed, but Ken has the gene which causes susceptibility to the fungus causing the nail to thicken and turn brownish-yellow in color – no doubt inherited from his father.  It became my chore as the symptoms became worse to trim his toe nails, which was all right.  Over the years I had trimmed lots of toe nails for our older relations – and all were relatively easy with ordinary clippers when no fungus was present. However, I found the best tool for Ken’s yellowed toe nails was a small pair of pruning shears (which I dowsed with bleach after every use).  Their ability to snip through a tough branch made them ideal for snipping through the thickness of an ailing toe nail.

Apparently, having a predisposition to onychomycosis is quite common and the fungus is very opportunistic latching on to a victim at swimming pools, showers and other public places where one might be barefoot.  Not having the gene, my toe nails are just fine, but some of my children are showing early signs of toe nail fungus.

There is a medication on the market which, supposedly, eliminates the intruder.  The ad on TV was so disgusting I always turned away after I had watched it a few times. This ugly animated creature (the fungus) lifted up the nail of the big toe and with a devilish smile climbed inside making itself right at home and settling in for the long haul.  The thought and the ad gave me the creeps.  Furthermore, in reading the lengthy list of side effects my conclusion was that no one should be taking that particular medication for any reason even for yucky toe nails.  However, I also understand that it works especially if, all of your life, you’ve been kind to your liver which has an awful lot of extra hard work to do while coping with the toenail drug.  I have also read recently that the fungus can be treated with Laser if caught before it becomes too entrenched.  Furthermore, some of the essential oils, such as tea tree oil, do a good job as well.  I’m glad there is something for so many out there troubled with this intrusive nuisance.

Ken’s foot problems, though, are beyond striving for a cure.  Just getting the nails cut is the challenge, and getting him to the podiatrist – any of his doctors — is a pull-out-all-the-plugs effort – gargantuan — but it’s worth it.  Ben came an hour early so we could get everything done: out of bed, into the bathroom, cleaned and shaved, into the shower, out, get dressed, into the kitchen for breakfast.  “Good,” Ken grumbled, “I haven’t had anything to eat all day.”  Up from the table and into the wheel chair, out the door onto the driveway, out of the chair into the car.  “Move over so Ben can sit next to you,” I encouraged.  He growled because he would just as soon drive away leaving Ben at home, but Ben managed to squeeze into his space.  Besides, we need Ben. Off we go and we’re actually going to be there on time.

Once we arrive at the medical offices and no matter how bad Ken’s AD gets, it appears he is still putty in the hands of a doctor.  He sat down in the chair – Ben did hold Ken’s feet to prevent him from punting the good doctor into the hall if he took a mind to be combative.  With firmness, I gently held his hands and Dr. Laura trimmed the toe nails.  Within five minutes it was done.  “There,” she said, patting Ken on the knee, “That will hold you the next three months.” 

I am on top of the world, reeling with success when we have a good day.  A good day is when plans are made and the task is completed.  With a smile and a sigh of relief I said, “Let’s all three of us get into the car, go home and have lunch.”    “Good,” grumbles Ken.  “I haven’t had anything to eat all day.”

Originally posted 2011-08-27 23:34:53.

A NEEDLE IN THE EYE — AND COOPERATION

Getting a needle in his eye, is a difficult procedure for Alzheimer's patients.

Getting a needle in his eye, is a difficult procedure for Alzheimer's patients.

In the earlier stages of Ken’s Alzheimer’s we paid a visit to the eye doctor.  As we sat down Ken looked around the waiting room and casually said, “Funny, with my right eye I can see the wall and painting on one side and on the other side I see the door, but I can’t see anything in the middle.”  Good grief, I thought to myself, he doesn’t see the chair.   I was surprised to hear his “complaint,” and glad we were having his eyes checked, but I also thought it odd that he had never mentioned anything before about not seeing things in the middle.  It was if he had a hole in the center of one eye, which sounded like macular degeneration.Our eye doctor gave Ken’s eyes a thorough examination and seemed pleased to find his eyesight as good as it was, but sent us to another doctor who specialized in the treatment of macular degeneration.  “Yes,” said Dr. Specialist, “I do see that you are having some difficulty in the right eye.  If the degeneration isn’t too far advanced, we may be able to treat it.”

No matter what Ken’s temperament was when we left the house, his behavior was exceptional when we entered a doctor’s office.  He was like putty in their hands and at the very top in patience doing whatever the doctor asked of him.  I often wonder what would have happened if suddenly one of Ken’s other personalities emerged and socked the good doctor right in the mouth, but so far Ken was Ken with everyone in the medical field.  Dr. Specialist explained about the new treatment for degeneration and possibly Ken could be helped.  Continuing, the doctor said, “The treatment consists of shots directly into the eye…….”  I do believe the only thing I heard was “shot” and “eye.”   “A NEEDLE IN THE EYE?”  I am thinking is the man crazy? Ken’s AD plays mind-tag with his other personalities. Does the good doctor really believe all three will sit still and allow him to stick a needle in their eye?  With the steady hand of a knife thrower, intense concentration, and my husband not moving or blinking, the doctor completed the procedure followed by a bandage over the eye to be worn until the next morning.

In a nut shell, the follow-up examination proved that Ken’s degeneration was too advanced to continue further treatments.  How many times, because of his AD, would he have allowed such an assault to continue is unknown and incidental at this point?  However, the needle-in-the-eye experience brought to mind the importance of advance warning: being told exactly what was going to happen.  Imagine the disaster it would have created if the doctor had not told Ken, or any patient, what he planned on doing, but just said, “Hold very still, don’t move and don’t blink,” then went ahead and stuck a needle in his eye.

Clearly, we all like to know what’s coming next.  “I’m going to give you a few shots to numb the tooth,” says the dentist.  You don’t like it, but you prepare yourself because you know what’s going to happen, and your mind says it’s reasonable: hence – cooperation.

Youngsters like to know what’s coming as well. “See this dangling piece of flesh,” the doctor tells our 12-year-old who had shoved the heel of his hand through a closed window.  “I’m going to sew it back in place, but first I’ll give you a shot so you won’t feel a thing.” Mission accomplished with only a few jaw clenches.

Even for major surgery, someone tells you what’s about to happen.  The first step being,  “Count backwards from ten,” instructs the anesthesiologist, “and you’ll be asleep.”   “Ten, nine, eigh………….”  Cooperation and instant sleep is the reward for advance information.

“Okay Sweetie,” I can remember crooning to my 2-year-old.  “Mommy is going to put your socks on.  Now your shoes – hold still.  Okay, other foot.  Socks and shoes on – thank you.  What a good boy – or girl.”  Even when they were little they soon learned.  Not only did their vocabulary grow, but they began to understand about cooperation – until they tasted independence and learned to say, “Me do it,” but that’s another story.

I find myself thinking of our little ones very often as Ben and I – or Criz – work with Ken during the morning routine.  “Put your jeans on,” I hear myself purring, as the caregiver guides each foot into the pant leg.  “Socks on, very good – other foot (as if he were two) now your shoes – okay.  Good boy, stand up now.”  These are all simple words, simple statements, something for his mind to absorb, wrap around and to ponder (if the thought remains long enough) in his mixed up world.   “Are you ready for breakfast?” I ask.  “Of course,” he grumbles, “I haven’t had anything to eat all day.”

Another morning we begin with, “Today, we’re going to take a shower, Ken.”  “No thanks, I took one already.”  “Good, but we’re going to take another one because you really like showers.”  In addition to the words, it takes a little coaxing, a little direction, another reminder, “We’re going to take a shower,”  leading a bit, encouraging and pushing gently, still guiding and holding, into the stall where Ken sits on the waiting stool.  “Ahhhh,” he exclaims as Ben lets the warm water splash over him, “that feels so good.”  I’m tempted to say, “See.  I told you so,” but I don’t.   Instead I feel grateful for small successes.

Does giving instruction and preparatory information beforehand help and does it always work?  Sometimes, yes – sometimes – no.  There are times when I say, “Okay, we’re going to stand up.  One, two, three — stand uppppp.”  He stiffens like a rigid board and shouts, “No,” and then begins to jabber at the top of his voice, adding yelps and screams.  So we back off until everyone relaxes and calm prevails.  When he is quiet I get close to his ear (holding his head with my hand to avoid a head butt) and repeat what we are about to do in a calm, firm voice, “We’re going to stand up now and you can help because you have good, strong legs.  Okay, one, two, three – stand uppppp.”  Finally – cooperation — and up he comes with hardly any effort from me and Ben.  At times he will remark with a touch of sarcasm, “Why didn’t you just say so?”

Sometimes telling patients exactly what you are planning works, and sometimes it doesn’t.  With AD, there is no pat answer, but I believe the conversation helps and it’s worth a try.  Who knows exactly what goes on in the diseased mind?  I am certain that he finds some inner comfort in being told what we’re doing.  Perhaps it takes away some of the fear.  In any event, his caregivers and I will continue doing what we believe is best and what appears to bring about positive results.  Besides, when it does work it makes life more pleasant for all of us, and in the long run it is comparatively easy — nothing like it would be if we had to stick a needle in his eye.

Originally posted 2011-07-16 18:45:20.

ALZHEIMER’S, HEALTH AND ANGER

Angry man

Anger is a part of Alzheimer’s, and is present in both caregivers and AD victims.

April 20, 2012 — Do Alzheimer’s patients get angry?  Absolutely!  However, I see Ken’s anger is more of a defense mechanism – a reaction to an immediate situation he can’t control: he growls,  hisses, grumbles, or shouts profanity and can be combative as part of the anger he spews upon me, Ben or Crizaldo when he feels threatened or doesn’t understand what’s happening, and then it’s quickly dismissed – usually.  He doesn’t hold onto it because his anger isn’t the same anger he may have felt when he was well, or even in the mild cognitive stage of his Alzheimer’s. Continue reading

Originally posted 2012-04-21 05:34:14.

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