Mom's lunchtime table-mates are apparently commenting on the fact that she's visibly weaker - she actually seems smaller every time I see her - and they convince her that she is not well. So she's at the table, but doesn't eat anything because she's not well. Odd. So the staff move her into a chair in the empty social room while everyone else is having lunch. They put a sandwich on a plate in her lap - most unappetizing - or an aide stands by her with a bowl of fruit and spoon-feeds her every bite.
Wende was here, and the 3 of us sat and talked a bit. It didn't help get her to eat the sandwich, but she enjoyed the socializing. Wende could also see that mom is slowly failing. Every time mom gets another virus or bug, she gets over it (with the help of antibiotics) but never really comes back 100%.
This process is too damned slow. She's not having a good time, she's physically uncomfortable (usually she's cold, no matter how many layers of clothing they put on her), and she is unable to interact effectively with other people. I can't imagine that today's Gen X'ers will put up with this kind of thing when the Boomers are sliding into Deep Age. They'll come up with a better-faster way to wrap up a useful and satisfying life without having to change too many Deep Age diapers. Meantime, I'm not suffering about it the way I was. It's sad, but it's no longer maddening.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
What day is it?
Frannie has hospice care now. She still calls out, "Help me! Help me!" but only once or twice and someone comes to her side and reassures her.
Joe is never coming back from acute care, and his wife, Julie, is still testing her keys in his room lock to see where he is. A 60-year marriage, and she can't be with him except when someone takes her downstairs or brings him upstairs. She's far enough along in dementia that she doesn't understand why he's not there, and not far enough along to settle down and not worry about it.
Mom was thrilled by the pine cones I brought back from California, touching each one and cooing, "Isn't this beautiful. Look at this."
I told her I'd see her on Friday. "Friday?" she asked. "Why so long?" She hasn't done this before, and doesn't know what day it is, so it was surprising she was doing the time estimate.
"Today is Wednesday," I told her. "So it's only two days and I'll be back. Okay?" She was okay with that. She also mentioned it would be nice to come to my house. Yes, it would. But I stopped bringing her to my house over a year ago - it was just too disorienting for her. She would get bothered during the 15-minute drive, wondering where she was and when I moved here. Still, I'm thinking maybe I should try again.
Joe is never coming back from acute care, and his wife, Julie, is still testing her keys in his room lock to see where he is. A 60-year marriage, and she can't be with him except when someone takes her downstairs or brings him upstairs. She's far enough along in dementia that she doesn't understand why he's not there, and not far enough along to settle down and not worry about it.
Mom was thrilled by the pine cones I brought back from California, touching each one and cooing, "Isn't this beautiful. Look at this."
I told her I'd see her on Friday. "Friday?" she asked. "Why so long?" She hasn't done this before, and doesn't know what day it is, so it was surprising she was doing the time estimate.
"Today is Wednesday," I told her. "So it's only two days and I'll be back. Okay?" She was okay with that. She also mentioned it would be nice to come to my house. Yes, it would. But I stopped bringing her to my house over a year ago - it was just too disorienting for her. She would get bothered during the 15-minute drive, wondering where she was and when I moved here. Still, I'm thinking maybe I should try again.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
All-Night Dementia
For an interesting article on dementia, copy this address into your internet connection:
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/14/nyregion/14cover.html?_r=1&emc=eta1
June 14, 2009 - All-Night Care for Dementia's Restless Minds - By CARA BUCKLEY and JAMES ESTRIN. A home for the aged in the Bronx offers a dusk-to-dawn drop-off program to help combat the night terrors that can strike people with dementia.
I cannot imagine trying to deal with an aging parent at home. I know lots of people are doing it, and they're mostly not happy about it, but I'm confident I wouldn't go well for me. Mom was here in our house for 2 weeks (that's 14 very long days) between the time I took her out of her house and the time her assisted living suite was ready. I marked each day off on my calendar as it was complete.
It wasn't that she and I don't get along, it's that she required much more attention that I am used to paying to anyone other than a client. I mean, I pay attention to my husband and sister and friends, but I am not responsible for seeing that they don't use the stove, or being sure that they have something to do, or answering the same questions many times a day and pretending they are new conversations. For me, mom was high-maintenance, and took me away from the many more interesting things in my world: business and volunteer projects, reading, writing, etc. Even preparing a meal was complicated - I did the meal preparation, but I also had to find something for her to do (chop, mince, stir) so that she would feel part of the process. Maybe it's much like having a child - another lifestyle choice I dodged.
Anyway, hats off to the kids who host their parents and remain sane (or not). And what an interesting idea to have someone take those night-walkers off your hands between 7 pm and 7 am (see the article).
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/14/nyregion/14cover.html?_r=1&emc=eta1
June 14, 2009 - All-Night Care for Dementia's Restless Minds - By CARA BUCKLEY and JAMES ESTRIN. A home for the aged in the Bronx offers a dusk-to-dawn drop-off program to help combat the night terrors that can strike people with dementia.
I cannot imagine trying to deal with an aging parent at home. I know lots of people are doing it, and they're mostly not happy about it, but I'm confident I wouldn't go well for me. Mom was here in our house for 2 weeks (that's 14 very long days) between the time I took her out of her house and the time her assisted living suite was ready. I marked each day off on my calendar as it was complete.
It wasn't that she and I don't get along, it's that she required much more attention that I am used to paying to anyone other than a client. I mean, I pay attention to my husband and sister and friends, but I am not responsible for seeing that they don't use the stove, or being sure that they have something to do, or answering the same questions many times a day and pretending they are new conversations. For me, mom was high-maintenance, and took me away from the many more interesting things in my world: business and volunteer projects, reading, writing, etc. Even preparing a meal was complicated - I did the meal preparation, but I also had to find something for her to do (chop, mince, stir) so that she would feel part of the process. Maybe it's much like having a child - another lifestyle choice I dodged.
Anyway, hats off to the kids who host their parents and remain sane (or not). And what an interesting idea to have someone take those night-walkers off your hands between 7 pm and 7 am (see the article).
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Zoo Baby & Accordians
Thought I'd be able to go every day, but things happen. Like going to see the baby elephant at our Columbus zoo and getting rammed by a lady in her electric cart, pinning my foot to a wooden post for a too-long minute and requiring an x-ray. So I was in the doctor's office during mom's prime visiting time.
I saw her today, and she's much better. Awake, alert, and best of all she's back at her proper lunch table. Not eating much, but at least able to interact and look like she's feeling good. We went downstairs together as the Memory Wing ladies trooped in to see a pair of accordion players for their afternoon entertainment.
That elephant is pretty cute, by the way. He's 500 lbs and frisky, still small enough to walk underneath his mother. And my foot's ok, just bruised.
I saw her today, and she's much better. Awake, alert, and best of all she's back at her proper lunch table. Not eating much, but at least able to interact and look like she's feeling good. We went downstairs together as the Memory Wing ladies trooped in to see a pair of accordion players for their afternoon entertainment.
That elephant is pretty cute, by the way. He's 500 lbs and frisky, still small enough to walk underneath his mother. And my foot's ok, just bruised.
Monday, June 8, 2009
How Do We Get Out of Here?
Last week: Monday + Friday visits
This week: Every day.
Situation: Awful.
She's got that terrible cough again, probably associated with her COPD plus a few germs, and she's so weak that she can't get around on her walker without a lot of help.
I knew things were bad the minute I walked in the door to her wing: she was not in her usual spot at her usual lunch table. She was at Virgie's table. The worst: Virgie is a million years old, doesn't communicate much, and sometimes needs help with her food. Mom sitting at that table is a big message of failure. And sure enough, she's sitting there asleep in her chair with a dish of ice cream in front of her. I nudged her awake and fed her some ice cream, but every cough exhausted her and she'd fall back into her chair with eyes closed.
The furniture in her room was arranged to make room for a tray table. Obviously she had her Friday night dinner in her room, and maybe other meals too. I asked the aides about the tray table, which produced a scuttle about whose table it was: turns out it belonged to Virgie, and shouldn't have been in mom's room. I'm sure the Friday aides are going to get a scolding.
This is awful. She's thin as a twig, trembling, and totally wiped out of energy to pay any attention to her surroundings. It's heartbreaking that she is so uncomfortable and there's nothing to do about it. The only coherent sentence she said today is, "I want to get out of here." I hope she does.
This week: Every day.
Situation: Awful.
She's got that terrible cough again, probably associated with her COPD plus a few germs, and she's so weak that she can't get around on her walker without a lot of help.
I knew things were bad the minute I walked in the door to her wing: she was not in her usual spot at her usual lunch table. She was at Virgie's table. The worst: Virgie is a million years old, doesn't communicate much, and sometimes needs help with her food. Mom sitting at that table is a big message of failure. And sure enough, she's sitting there asleep in her chair with a dish of ice cream in front of her. I nudged her awake and fed her some ice cream, but every cough exhausted her and she'd fall back into her chair with eyes closed.
The furniture in her room was arranged to make room for a tray table. Obviously she had her Friday night dinner in her room, and maybe other meals too. I asked the aides about the tray table, which produced a scuttle about whose table it was: turns out it belonged to Virgie, and shouldn't have been in mom's room. I'm sure the Friday aides are going to get a scolding.
This is awful. She's thin as a twig, trembling, and totally wiped out of energy to pay any attention to her surroundings. It's heartbreaking that she is so uncomfortable and there's nothing to do about it. The only coherent sentence she said today is, "I want to get out of here." I hope she does.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
A Slow Death
Another laundry run, this time without the chatty visit. I saw mom, but she was in a wheelchair being pushed by an aide who explained that she had been very tired and perhaps had a cold. She then outlined for me what she'd eaten (a can of Ensure and some fruit) and explained that mom was congested here (patting her upper chest). Mom was surprised to see me, and obviously too tired to react much. I patted her arm and told her to have a good rest, and that I would see her soon. She seemed relieved and nodded her head. I escaped with the dirty clothes.
I had a brief chat with Fred, Anna's husband. He lives in another building for independent seniors, and visits Anna in mom's dementia wing (right next to mom's apt.). Anna is the one who wanders into mom's room and looks at things, sometimes wandering off with them, so they have to keep rooms locked. Fred said it's hard to watch "a slow death", and often feels he should be doing more for her. "But there is nothing to do about this," he admitted. We agreed the best path is to take care of ourselves as best we can.
Mom has COPD, which is the only health problem she has at age 91 aside from stage 6 dementia and needing a mild daily thyroid boost. She has all her own teeth, a good heart, and a respiratory challenge that limits her energy and succumbs to germs easily. I left hoping she wouldn't suffer with the exhaustion and distress she usually has when she's sick - either recover or croak quickly. But there's been nothing quick about this whole process. Three years since the Alzheimer's diagnosis, but who's counting?
I had a brief chat with Fred, Anna's husband. He lives in another building for independent seniors, and visits Anna in mom's dementia wing (right next to mom's apt.). Anna is the one who wanders into mom's room and looks at things, sometimes wandering off with them, so they have to keep rooms locked. Fred said it's hard to watch "a slow death", and often feels he should be doing more for her. "But there is nothing to do about this," he admitted. We agreed the best path is to take care of ourselves as best we can.
Mom has COPD, which is the only health problem she has at age 91 aside from stage 6 dementia and needing a mild daily thyroid boost. She has all her own teeth, a good heart, and a respiratory challenge that limits her energy and succumbs to germs easily. I left hoping she wouldn't suffer with the exhaustion and distress she usually has when she's sick - either recover or croak quickly. But there's been nothing quick about this whole process. Three years since the Alzheimer's diagnosis, but who's counting?
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Dementia-World
Took some pictures in to show mom yesterday. My sister left me several choices, and I went with the iris and cat pictures. The iris picture was a big hit - sunlight on deep purple iris - she loved looking at it, and I left it with her because she didn't want to part with it.
One cat picture showed Mittens on top of the kitchen cabinets (over the refrigerator). Cute. "She seems like she is angry," mom said, reading human emotions into cats as she always does. "No, she's just watching everything that is happening in the kitchen," I told her. She accepted the verdict.
The other cat picture was a closeup of Mittens' face. She seemed frightened, and said, "I don't like this one." The Activities Lady was there, and told me that it was because the face was too big - it filled the whole photo. Mom was genuinely uneasy about it.
How long does it take for an Activities Lady to learn all this stuff about people with dementia? Where does she get the patience to go back there every day?
While I was there, Julie was being weird again, asking about her keys - "Where are my keys?" She was going into other people's rooms and asking, "Have you seen my keys?" Julie has no keys. Nobody up there has any keys. They are all way past being able to drive, or have a key to the door on their own room. They are "kept" people - the staff are the only ones who have keys. Julie hasn't settled in to her new world of dementia yet, and the Activities Ladies are still having to do a lot of Julie-maintenance.
I could barely stay there for 30 minutes before I had to come up with my excuse for leaving. "I have to go to a meeting," I told them. It was true, but I would have said it even if it wasn't.
One cat picture showed Mittens on top of the kitchen cabinets (over the refrigerator). Cute. "She seems like she is angry," mom said, reading human emotions into cats as she always does. "No, she's just watching everything that is happening in the kitchen," I told her. She accepted the verdict.
The other cat picture was a closeup of Mittens' face. She seemed frightened, and said, "I don't like this one." The Activities Lady was there, and told me that it was because the face was too big - it filled the whole photo. Mom was genuinely uneasy about it.
How long does it take for an Activities Lady to learn all this stuff about people with dementia? Where does she get the patience to go back there every day?
While I was there, Julie was being weird again, asking about her keys - "Where are my keys?" She was going into other people's rooms and asking, "Have you seen my keys?" Julie has no keys. Nobody up there has any keys. They are all way past being able to drive, or have a key to the door on their own room. They are "kept" people - the staff are the only ones who have keys. Julie hasn't settled in to her new world of dementia yet, and the Activities Ladies are still having to do a lot of Julie-maintenance.
I could barely stay there for 30 minutes before I had to come up with my excuse for leaving. "I have to go to a meeting," I told them. It was true, but I would have said it even if it wasn't.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
