friends

A BEST FRIEND FOR A LIFETIME?

women friends in a 50's suburb

You could make an instant friend in the suburbs of the 50’s, but would it last a lifetime?

August 13, 2016 – We tend to think that way, especially women, when friends have been friends for years, actually decades, but people are people and everyone is different. Physically, we’re probably made of the same stuff, but when it comes to emotions we are definitely different. My friend and I enjoyed so much in common: living in the suburbs, children about the same age, married about the same number of years. With former farmlands converted to housing developments the returning WWII veterans and their spouses quickly snapped up the sprawling quick-fix to a severe housing shortage. Throughout America, numerous tracts of cookie-cutter houses sprang up over the countryside as if the former farmer had planted and fertilized an expansive bumper crop of single-family homes. Following the end of the war, many of us moved into our new abode on the same day or within a week or so from completion date. With so much in common,  it was easy to be friendly and get acquainted  before all the paint was even dry.

SPATS AND DISAGREEMENTS

Early on with our neighbors, I noticed a little something with my new best friend (I’ll call her Beatrice) that was a little out of sync (at least with me). If we had a little spat, as is often the case when families live in such a condensed environment. I believe a similar scene repeated itself many times during the next half century in every neighborhood throughout our country.

Beatrice was never one who apologized when she needed to step forward and say, “I’m sorry.” So it was always me who stepped forward, rang her bell usually holding a baby on my hip asking, “May we come in?” She welcomed us. and we picked up where we left off and just went on with our similar lives until a small break happened again which was resolved within a few weeks using the same pattern

FAST FORWARD SEVERAL DECADES

As neighbors, we were all shocked and saddened by the death of her husband Jack before he even reached the age of 50. Friends couldn’t do enough to help her adjust and begin a new life without him. The men jumped in to finish any project Jack had been working on, doing more and going beyond what may have been on Jack’s list while the women were at her beck and call. There was nothing we wouldn’t do for Beatrice. We were like family.

Life remained relatively good for a long while. Our children all grew up, went to college, or not, got married, or not. And then tragedy struck again. The daughter of one neighbor died suddenly and so unexpectedly, her demise leaving all of us filled with compassion and concern wondering about the whys and adversities of life that we all experience, yet manage to live through. I spent an afternoon with Constance, the young woman’s mother—once she was settled and had accepted her loss. The following week I asked Beatrice if she had gone to visit Constance? She had not. I suggested that it just wouldn’t right if she didn’t and she should force herself to pay the grieving mother a visit even if she felt uncomfortable. Reluctantly, Bernice finally did.

SKILLS FOR LIVING

We should all have them, or at least some. Somewhere in our life, we all need to learn not only how to show sympathy, how to be empathetic, show compassion, share a hug or two when appropriate, read up on the right things to say, or not to say, during a time of loss and learn to listen. There are times when most folks need a listening ear and a soft shoulder where they can just cry. Not forever, but for a little while. There are some, however, who just cannot, no matter how hard they try, help carry other folks’ burdens. I do believe my friend Beatrice is one of them.

NO SOFT SHOULDER, JUST SIGHS AND EYE ROLLS.

It was when my husband Ken began showing obvious signs of Alzheimer’s that I paid a few visits to my friend of 60-some years that I noticed her wandering gaze when I mentioned some of the things Ken had done because of his AD. I even caught a few eye rolls. It didn’t take me long to get the message that she just didn’t want me to talk about my husband or his devastating disease. Asking, “How’s Ken was strictly a formality?” She really didn’t want to know. Nor did she offer a hug or an invitation for me to come over anytime and the assurance that she was going to be “there” for me during this time of adversity.

Furthermore, other neighbors had mentioned to me that she was being more than critical about the need for more professional care that she believed he would receive in a all-out care facility. Apparently, she felt the care which I was providing for this truly mild-mannered man who was no danger to them or to himself was not enough. “He should be in a home,” she complained to our neighborhood community.

I know and understand that we all have our foibles and weak places in our personalities. She isn’t me, and I’m not her and that’s all right. Even if she wasn’t “there” for me with a soft shoulder, she is still my friend and I have forgiven her her apparent inability for empathy. Not everyone is able to “step up to the plate.” I have noticed that her health is beginning to fail, and she has a touch of dementia. I visited with her recently and have told her that if her son isn’t available, I’ll be “there” for her. “Just give me a call.” After all is said and done, we have been friends forever and still are. 

Originally posted 2016-08-15 01:51:29.

EVEN 33 HOURS CAN BE A VACATION

My grand daughter Katie and her new husband Brian

My granddaughter Katie and her new husband Brian

July 20, 2012 — Alzheimer’s is a prison for the victim and often for the caregiver.  As caregivers, especially those of us who care for our loved one at home, we struggle against the confinement.  Keeping our head above water in the never-ending stream of responsibilities and duties we must fight diligently to give ourselves the needed breaks we not only deserve, but desperately need.  I periodically write about breaks” for caregivers and the different things we can do, places to go and the importance of friends not only to keep us as a viable part of society, but to keep us sane as well.  Undoubtedly, all of those suggestions seem to work for the day-to-day functions of our busy and often stressful lives. Continue reading

Originally posted 2012-07-20 21:21:59.

AFTER ALZHEIMER’S — WHAT AM I GOING TO DO NOW?

Author Ann Romick

Alzheimer’s caregiver and blog author Ann Romick

June 1 2012 — Good question.  As a caregiver, you can wonder what will happen after Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, Lewy Body dementia, MS, cancer and a host of other awful diseases that are, in most cases, terminal.  Spouses, lovers and family members become caregivers, and often caregivers become shadows of their former selves.  Not to be dreary – that isn’t my intent.  It’s just that as caregivers we are duty bound and love bound to our patients, and responsibilities filling our every minute with something to do: constant busyness – an observation to be given considerable thought.

THE RAT RACE

It’s a rat race not only out there, but in here as well, and caregivers are the runners. As a spouse you soon become aware of how much the other spouse did in this partnership, and now you’re accountable for doing it all.  Coming, going, rushing in every which direction to get it done and still there is more to do.  Each day ends in exhaustion: physical, emotional – most of the time both — but before you can drop into bed you must make one more check to ensure your patient is all right: covered, comfortable and asleep. Continue reading

Originally posted 2012-06-02 02:59:27.

ALZHEIMER’S: ANOTHER WORLD AND COMMUNITY

Alice in Wonderland and Catepillar

Unusual happenings in the Alzheimer's World can be as strange as Alice's chat with the caterpillar.

May 18, 2012 — As stumbling humans we are either falling into a rabbit hole or squeezing through secret openings in the looking glass in much the same way as curious Alice in her Wonderland adventures.  Traveling along this road of experience called life I doubt we’ll meet up with a talking white rabbit worried about the time, or a grinning cat, but we can learn and be gifted with a multitude of different perspectives as we venture along the way.

A DIFFERENT VANTAGE POINT

From a Ferris wheel high in the sky we are left suspended in a swinging basket to survey our first upside-down world.  We may have been frightened, yet there is intrigue wondering what else is out there yet to be discovered.  Leaving the airport’s solid ground we glide upward into dandelion puffs of drifting clouds, floating on currents of air into another realm, viewing the earth below as a patchwork quilt.  Next? If we’re brave enough to put on a mask and air tank we can enter into the watery kingdom of fishes, other sea creatures and plant life living on, or near, the sandy beaches of the ocean’s floor; truly another world. And wasn’t Christopher Columbus, in his curiousity, led to a “New World?” Life is a revolving door pushing us into, in front of, behind and along the edge of the mystical looking glass whether we like it or not.  We are constantly moving through different worlds of learning, and while they might not be the fun and exciting places where Alice traveled, they are, nonetheless, for our experience and understanding. Continue reading

Originally posted 2012-05-19 05:35:16.

GRINCH STEALS CHRISTMAS – FOR KEEPS

The Kindess of All Makes up For Christmas Grinch in Oakley, CA

The Kindess of Many Makes up For Christmas Grinch in Oakley, CA

Unfortunately, there are among us a lot of Grinches and Scrooges, and while we would like to believe they all reform at the end of a story, that just isn’t true.  Take, for instance, the good folks who live in Oakley, California, located in Contra Costa County which is part of the nine counties making up the greater San Francisco Bay Area.  For months the “Friends of Oakley,” a non-profit organization, who serve their fair city, had been collecting toys and food donations for those of the community who were down on their luck during these tough economic times; everything to be delivered just before Christmas.

The day after Thanksgiving, all was going very well until the committee arrived at the school where the growing supply of good wishes had been stored only to find that a Grinch had stolen everything.  The empty store room, without nary a can of food left to roll across the floor, told an obvious tale:  this Grinch, more than likely these Grinches, had no intention of returning their cache of goodies.

Of course, the crime was promptly reported to the police department, the City Council and the mayor.  Word of the robbery spread via TV, newspapers, social media, emails, texting and even phone calls.  Many local residents and many throughout the Bay Area wanted to help.  In addition, the “Friends” received word from a retired school teacher living in North Carolina that she too wanted to contribute.  Such outpouring of concern and generosity quickly erased the hanging cloud of gloom and despair.  However, the big question remained:  in less than a month could all the good intentions in the world replace the missing toys, blankets and non-perishable food items that were meant to help and bring a bit of joy to 800 children, 300 families and 100 seniors this Christmas season?

“The response was incredible,” said newly sworn Mayor Kevin Romick. “Wells Fargo Bank joined the effort with a $4,000. gift, Oakley Disposal added an another $2,000. and many other local businesses made like donations.  The weekend before Christmas additional food was contributed by The Food Bank of Contra Costa and Solano Counties.  While volunteers wrapped and packed, Santa’s helpers in the form of volunteer drivers with trucks checked their lists twice for delivery of two gift cartons for everyone in need.  “There are some wonderful people living among us,” concluded the mayor.  “Probably some are your neighbors”

Thinking about my adult children, including Mayor Romick, it warms my heart to know the apples didn’t fall far from the tree.  Over the years I have been aware of the many charities to which these adults who shared our life and home have contributed both with money and time, their constant support of worthy causes, and their individual efforts to bring comfort and peace to those  in need – you might say to be the answer to someone’s prayer.  And I remember many of Ken’s and my efforts to do the same. I am pleased with my family, all of whom continue to serve their fellow man and if he were able Ken would tell you so himself.  With Alzheimer’s his mind no longer registers the happenings in life, but I know that somewhere deep in his heart he feels the joy.

It is sad to acknowledge that there will always be unreformed Grinches and Scrooges living among us, but the good news is we have wonderful people as well — some of whom are my children – and some just might be your children, or your neighbors and no doubt you.   So, recalling the most famous and most reformed Mr. Scrooge of all time I’ll echo his Merry Christmas, and in the words of Tiny Tim, “God Bless Us, Every One!”

Originally posted 2011-12-24 05:48:57.

WHAT’S YOUR EXCUSE?

Decorated Christmas Tree
Even something as simple as putting up the Christmas tree could be a great help for Alzhiemer’s caregivers.

Continue reading

Originally posted 2011-12-10 05:37:08.

THE RUSTING YEARS

Like an old and abandoned truck, some seniors feel they are in their rusting years.

“The Golden Years my Aunt Tillie,” said Frances as we talked about these last few rungs on life’s ladder.  “They’re more like the rusting years.”  “Well put,” I had agreed as she was in the midst of recovering from a bad face-on-the-ground fall that knocked her into the next county breaking her jaw which had to be wired shut while it healed. Like a flash of lightning Frances could zap out words faster than Quick-draw McGraw could whip out his trusty six-shooters.  Her comments could be loving, kind, happy, knee-slapping funny, profound, glib, and, at times, a bit stinging. Did the wired jaw stop her conversations or even slow her quick wit?  Never.  As long as her tongue and mind worked in unison the tumbling words slid out between her teeth and lips with never a pause.

We had become good-enough friends that every so often I was allowed to say, “Oh Frances…….” when a remark might be a little too biting, too stinging or sarcastic, but most of the time I laughed.  She was very funny.

Frances was a widow, and had been for more than 15 years and even with Ken’s AD she invited us for dinner, and I, in turn, prepared dinners for her.  Ken had been Cub Master and she was a Den Mother when all of our boys were just boys.  The two hit it off famously and became the best of friends with my utmost approval.  Frances always puckered up and gave Ken a quick peck on the lips whenever they met.  Following their amicable kiss Frances would say, “How! Great White Father,” holding her hand up with an Indian greeting in reference to a long-ago Pack Night theme from a sweet, innocent time when we were all young.  Then one day we were no longer young and she was suddenly gone.  I miss my friend.

I’ve noticed that a lot lately; our friends keep dying, or they move away.  “Get some younger friends,” advised another dear friend Sofia who, with her husband Don, have moved away, but not too far, just inconveniently far.

Making “couple friends” is difficult though when your spouse has a debilitating terminal illness.  So I mostly hang out with women who have lost their husbands.  They are widows and I am sort of a widow, but I’m not.  Nevertheless, there is an inescapable loneliness in being the one left behind no matter what your title.  Unfortunately, that feeling of being alone can never be filled by friends or family, even though the need for friends and family remains paramount to the well being and happiness of the remaining individual.

I thought about this the other day when I visited Eva.  She and her husband were the entertainers from Hawaii who I have mentioned in other writings.  He’s been gone for more years than I remember, and now with her AD and circumstances dictating the remainder of her life she lives in a very nice full-care facility.  Walking through the halls I was aware of so many lonely souls sitting in their wheelchairs outside of their rooms, and I wonder who they are and about those who still share their lives.  Sofia’s husband Don has a phrase that I often think about when I visit people with full dependency on a nursing home:  “A mother can care for seven children, but seven children can’t seem to take care of one mother.”  It’s only a phrase, but following that first capital letter and the ending period, there’s a lot of truth in those few words.

I found Eva in front of her room matching the forlorn description of the others. Tiny little thing sitting there by herself, looking lost, lonely and pitiful, and I couldn’t help but feel a stab of melancholy as she scanned the area – searching – waiting.  “Let’s go for a ride,” I suggested, securing the foot rest, and then wheeling her through an open door.  It was pleasantly warm outside, so that’s where we went.  I parked her chair in the shade with ribbons of filtered sun teasing the shadowed greenery.  “Where……,” she stammered.  “What is it?” I coaxed.  “Where is my family?” she asked looking puzzled about her surroundings.  That’s the trouble with AD; the answer has been given, but the question keeps rising to the surface.  “All of your children except for Matthew live very far away,” I reminded her.  “They come when they can, but I know Matthew is here to see you almost every day.  I’m sure he’ll come later this afternoon.”  I think of Eva remembering how she was:  beautiful and vivacious in her brightly colored and fitted muumuus, and so filled with charm as she strummed her ukulele and sang melodies from the Islands and pop tunes of the day.   Now I feel overwhelmingly sad that the life she knew, her home and all that was familiar are gone.

Rather than making small talk I sing to Eva.  To those who know me really well my singing is a joke, but I’m not making conversation, nor do I, for one minute, think I’m the entertainment du jour.  I’m communicating with her spirit.  This I believe.  Eva relates to music so I softly sing some of her favorite hymns and songs I recall from her entertaining days.  She manages to join in with a few words and she smiles, and for that little while she appears to be content.

At 90 most of her friends are gone, others are not capable of travel, but I do believe there is a self-imposed detachment that happens with some friendships – and even some family members concerning these last years. I know with certainty that many people claim they don’t have the capability of coping with seeing their friend or loved one in a care facility, hospital, or even visiting the infirmed or elderly in their home; “Too depressing.  I just can’t deal with it.  It hurts me too much,” I’ve heard people say.  I understand because my father was that way.  Yet, I want to scold and remind them, “This isn’t about you.  It’s about Eva, Uncle John, Rose, grandpa, your sister, brother, your father, or Frances’ Aunt Tillie.” You need to strive to bring some joy and a little companionship into that person’s life.  Forget about yourself.  It’s called love and compassionate service, and the more you participate in reaching out to others, the more you grow as a person.  Pretty soon, you’ll even catch the spirit and you’ll be surprised at how good you will feel when bringing some brightness into another’s life.  I could say all this, but I won’t.  It isn’t my place, but if Frances were here, she would.  She might also tell them a few funny stories about the rusting years.

http://cdn.lqw.me/gather.html?t=13799573414eb9b391d20e65.80060532&m=&_adpk_datetime=2011-12-03%2008%3A02%3A10%20UTC&v=d67fc23&_adpk_src=&_adpk_subid=&h=annromick.wordpress.com

Originally posted 2011-12-03 01:59:36.

SUPER BOWL GRATITUDE DAY

football game

Though gratitude may not have to do with football, to this caregiver it makes Thanksgiving, the superbowl of gratitude.

I never think of November without conjuring up thoughts of Thanksgiving which I have come to refer to as the Super Bowl of gratitude. There are a few grouches out there who believe the holiday is all a bother. No doubt the naysayers are imagining some corporate CEO greedily scooping up profits from the turkey market. Even if that were true the holiday is and can be so much more.

Squeezed in between Halloween (which seems to be getting bigger and better every year) and Christmas, Thanksgiving looks to be the forgotten holiday. No one appears to give it much thought except school children with their Pilgrim collages and hand-traced-paper-plate birds, and supermarkets whose windows are adorned with cornucopias, autumn leaves and fan-tailed turkeys.

So I find that before the family gathers around the table on the 4th Thursday of this month I begin early to count my blessings. Actually, I do most every day when I offer my morning prayer of gratitude, but sometimes it takes a reminder to appreciate things we take for granted, and don’t always think of as blessings – only bills.

I’m the first one to grumble about the increases in our utility costs, especially with the tight economy and our very tight budget, but what if gas and electricity weren’t available. The other morning, just as my day was getting started, the electricity went off.  It’s happened before, many times, and it’s always such a surprise. My immediate reaction – always — is what’s wrong with the lights? Automatically, I flipped a few switches. No electricity. I knew that already. There is something about a power failure that announces exactly what it is when it happens: the power fails. Perhaps it’s the suddenness followed by a brief, yet eerie silence as everything stops that momentarily baffles our senses.

Outside, there was plenty of light, but neither of our bathrooms has a window. Question: What shall I do until the power returns? Answer: I’ll prepare breakfast. Wrong, the stove is electric as is the microwave. When Ben gets here we can get Ken started on his day. No we can’t. The bathrooms are dark. Check my email, vacuum the rugs, wash/dry some clothes, or mend some of Ken’s things waiting for me on the sewing machine. Can’t do any of those catch-up chores, there is no electricity. Instead I made my bed, and before Ben arrived the power was back on. I went about the day immediately dismissing my half hour of inconvenience. When in reality, utilities, even though we must pay for them are blessings taken so for granted.

The next day the wall furnace, in the family room, where Ken “lives” (eats, sleeps and sits) stopped working. “When troubleshooting a furnace,” someone had told me, buy a new thermostat.”  I did. “Who told you that?” asked the servicewoman from PG&E as she sat cross-legged in front of my ancient wall heater. I gave her a “duh” answer to which she replied, “The first thing you do is call PG&E.” More often than not their house call can get the heat up and running, or they can tell you what’s wrong but they can’t fix it as the problem is beyond their service parameters. And they do this as a free service. She even installed a new thermocouple to match my new thermostat. “Don’t get a new heater,” she advised, “It’s a valve, and you need to get a good heater/plumbing person.”

The PG&E service woman who came and the people in the office with whom I spoke about the problem were incredibly helpful. They all got a “5” on the follow-up phone survey and I am so grateful for their help.

“Mason can fix it,” said a sweet young friend, Tara, when I mentioned my problem. “I’ll have him call you when he gets home.”

So that’s where we are this week in life’s comedy of ups and downs, struggles and solutions, and I am grateful for the kindness, the advice, the help and the general goodness of people, and to Mason who put the heater back in A-1 condition. Grateful for my comfort-filled home; certainly an understatement. Today’s homes are filled with luxuries beyond measure. What a marvel our lives and conveniences would be to our long-ago ancestors: running water in the house – hot and cold – heat on a chilly day, sanitation, lights to take away the darkness, a stove to cook our meals and a big white box to keep our food cold and fresh.

Setting aside the wonders of our modern world I can’t forget so many wonderful people who will and do step forward to help. I could go on, but I won’t. I have to save some thoughts for Super Bowl Gratitude Turkey Day when I will share my appreciation and feelings of love with those I am passionately thankful for: my family.  Ken and I are truly blessed.

Originally posted 2011-11-12 04:01:01.

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.

SIMPLIFYING IS DIFFICULT

home library with books

Cleaning out the study of a loved one with Alzheimer's is just another difficult task for caregivers.

Today I started cleaning the office.  While it has a corner for my computer, it has always been Ken’s room – his den – inherited when the last of our boys left home.  It’s filled (as I have mentioned before) with his things: collections by the score, memorabilia from his youth, school, Navy days and of course his Marathon and fun run awards.  And books; we can’t forget the books: college books, history books, WWII books, a few novels, lots of Navy books, and binders filled to overflowing with what was important to him.  They all seem to look down upon me as I work, perhaps asking, “What now?”

Alzheimer’s is such a perplexing disease.  Our son Kenney dropped by to say hello this afternoon.  Reaching out to shake his father’s hand, Ken didn’t even look at him, but said, “No.” I tried to get his attention so he would at least glance up and smile at his son, but he didn’t.  “He looks good,” said Kenney.  And he does.  Other than that disconnected gaze often found in their eyes AD patients look very good, and normal.  So normal in fact that as I began cleaning the thought raced through my mind, “What if he wakes up tomorrow and the AD is gone.”  What if he came into the office remembering everything and asked what I had done with his engineering books, his drafting and building books, his Architectural Graphic Standards?  What would I say?  I know it’s never happened: a return from the bottomless pit of Alzheimer’s, nor do I believe it will happen, at least not in our lifetime.  Nevertheless, I sometimes find myself wondering “what if?”

Is that the reason I’ve delayed for so long to sort through a lifetime of collections and dispose of what will never be used again – even some personal items — at least not by Ken, and then asking, “What can be used by someone else?” Questions we mull over and over when downsizing. I glanced at some of the publication dates knowing full well the books were obsolete, and even if he were still Ken, most likely they would never be opened much less read.  Even he would have to admit they were outdated.  But they were his and he liked seeing them on the shelf – they were part of him – who he was and what he did.  The drafting books?  Even I know drafting is all done with computers – CADs as they are called – computer-aided drawings.  So it was almost with force that I persevered and sorted out that one section of books – with more to happen at a later date.

My friend, Bob, who had visited the earlier part of the year as he celebrated the life of his deceased wife Julie with all who knew her, called to say that he was home and his journey was complete. We talked about all of these chores that needed our attention, and Bob said that his next goal was to simplify his life.   He planned on sorting his books; technical books from his past, just like Ken, which he had always planned to review or read again, but now he needed to be honest with himself knowing that he never would.  So he planned to take them all to a place where they would be shredded and sent on to be recycled.

In our area of California we have a recycling program, and I knew that if I put the books into the recycling bin, they would be shredded and made into new paper – or whatever.  So into the bin went Ken’s tech books.  A scene from an ancient movie popped into my mind as they clattered to the bottom.  As a youth I watched the screen in a darkened theater as countless books were dumped into a burning bin because Hitler in his madness had ordered obliteration of a good part of the past in his march to world domination, and books held vast treasures of knowledge and history. Perhaps that’s why I’ve always loved books and felt a desire to protect them — treating them with great respect — wanting them to be there for future generations.  Now I was sending some of them away for destruction.  Even though I know it’s really all right and recycling is for a good purpose I felt a little guilty, consoling myself that a modern world has no use for obsolescence.

Ken loved books as well.  I suppose that’s why he had so many, but Bob is right about simplifying. I need to repeat that word over and over as I continue sorting through Ken’s and my lifetime of stuff.  The one thing I have found is that beginning is the hardest part, and once started I know with certainty that Ken isn’t going to wake up in the morning and ask what I had done with his engineering books. Alzheimer’s never pardons their prisoners.

Originally posted 2011-08-14 00:00:33.

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