Mom, Buck and I were in the car on 93 North after visiting Patrick & Jessica and their five children. Mom felt uplifted by all the love poured on her by those precious great grandchildren. My cell phone rang. Elliot cardiology calling. Mom's second Holter monitor had registered only six hours.
"That's odd. She said she took it off when she got up. It should've been on for at least 20 hours," I said. I turned to face Mom in the back seat and confirmed once again that she had kept it on until 7:00 am. She confirmed that.
The nurse said she would check with the doctor to see if he wanted to schedule another testing and call back.
"I hate wearing that damn thing! There's nothing wrong with my heart anyway," she said.
I quizzed her a little further about when she took it off because it didn't make sense that it had only recorded six hours. "Did you accidentally unhook one of the wires, do you think?"
"No. But I did unhook it to take my bra off when I went to bed, but I hooked it right back up."
"MOM, YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO DISCONNECT IT!"
"Hey, don't scream at her," said Buck. "Calm down!"
"Why not?" she asked.
"Because you have to leave it on for 24 hours, that's why. You're supposed to sleep with your bra on."
"I can't sleep with my bra on. I took it off the first time I had the monitor."
"No you didn't. They told you specifically that you would have to sleep with it on," I said.
She didn't believe me. Denied it up and down. Claimed she never has slept with her bra on when, in fact, she slept several nights in her bra after breaking her wrist in June. It had been too painful to try to get it off.
"Well, they might want to repeat the test," I said.
"I don't know why. There's nothing wrong with my heart."
"They did discover one area of blockage that might have caused you to faint."
She continued to insist there was nothing wrong. Then she said, "I wish they would just cut it out and feed it to the pigs!"
Friday, December 30, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
Heart Tests
On October 8, 2011, at 4:00 in the afternoon, Mom called my cell phone. "Donna. I fell down and my nose won't stop bleeding. I'm not sure what I should do." I was 40 minutes away at the new house my son and his wife had just purchased--it was actually their move-in day.
"What do you mean it won't stop? Is it gushing out?"
It wasn't gushing, but it wouldn't stop, she said. "Do you need an ambulance?" She didn't think so. "I'm leaving now. I'll be there soon."
As I sped North on Hampstead Road in Derry which has terrible cell phone coverage, I prayed I'd have service long enough to talk with my neighbor. I asked her to run over to check on Mom and determine if she needed an ambulance. Within 10 minutes, I had her husband on the phone as he talked with Mom. He didn't think she needed an ambulance, so I breathed a sigh of relief for the remainder of my drive back to Nottingham. We ultimately wound up at the Elliot Hospital ER and Mom was admitted in the wee hours of the morning of October 9. There was concern about her heart because of the inexplicable fall which we all suspected was the result of a fainting spell. She had a broken nose which had taken the brunt of the fall. They did a bunch of tests and sent her home in the morning of the 11th.
We had follow up visits with a cardiologist who prescribed a battery of tests. It was clear she had an area of blockage requiring a beta-blocker and follow up testing within a couple of months. So last Thursday at 10:00 am I took her back for her second 24-hour Holter monitor fitting. Since it was the second time for this, I was unconcerned when they called her name during my brief visit to the ladies room. I simply waited for her thinking she knew the drill. I didn't anticipate the effect of her short-term memory issues complicated by the fact the nurse told her someone else could drop it off the next day, she didn't have to physically go into the office for that.
The next morning, my phone rang at 8:00. "Donna. They said anyone could drop this damned thing off today. Will you be able to?" We had talked about Nancy (our Easter Seals employee who comes three mornings a week and gives me some much needed respite from dealing with Mom) driving Mom back to The Elliot to take off the monitor. I told Mom I was just about to call them and ask because I remembered they said that during the first Holter monitor testing.
"Good. It's here, all ready for you to take back," she said.
"You took it off already?" I said in an edgy voice.
"They said I should take it off when I got up. So I did."
"What time did you get up?"
"I dunno, maybe 7:00."
"Mom, you were supposed to leave it on for 24 hours, until 10:00!"
These kinds of things are exasperating, to say the least. I realize now that I cannot assume anything and have to repeat instructions often. I also cannot let her go alone for these things no matter how routine they might be.
"What do you mean it won't stop? Is it gushing out?"
It wasn't gushing, but it wouldn't stop, she said. "Do you need an ambulance?" She didn't think so. "I'm leaving now. I'll be there soon."
As I sped North on Hampstead Road in Derry which has terrible cell phone coverage, I prayed I'd have service long enough to talk with my neighbor. I asked her to run over to check on Mom and determine if she needed an ambulance. Within 10 minutes, I had her husband on the phone as he talked with Mom. He didn't think she needed an ambulance, so I breathed a sigh of relief for the remainder of my drive back to Nottingham. We ultimately wound up at the Elliot Hospital ER and Mom was admitted in the wee hours of the morning of October 9. There was concern about her heart because of the inexplicable fall which we all suspected was the result of a fainting spell. She had a broken nose which had taken the brunt of the fall. They did a bunch of tests and sent her home in the morning of the 11th.
We had follow up visits with a cardiologist who prescribed a battery of tests. It was clear she had an area of blockage requiring a beta-blocker and follow up testing within a couple of months. So last Thursday at 10:00 am I took her back for her second 24-hour Holter monitor fitting. Since it was the second time for this, I was unconcerned when they called her name during my brief visit to the ladies room. I simply waited for her thinking she knew the drill. I didn't anticipate the effect of her short-term memory issues complicated by the fact the nurse told her someone else could drop it off the next day, she didn't have to physically go into the office for that.
The next morning, my phone rang at 8:00. "Donna. They said anyone could drop this damned thing off today. Will you be able to?" We had talked about Nancy (our Easter Seals employee who comes three mornings a week and gives me some much needed respite from dealing with Mom) driving Mom back to The Elliot to take off the monitor. I told Mom I was just about to call them and ask because I remembered they said that during the first Holter monitor testing.
"Good. It's here, all ready for you to take back," she said.
"You took it off already?" I said in an edgy voice.
"They said I should take it off when I got up. So I did."
"What time did you get up?"
"I dunno, maybe 7:00."
"Mom, you were supposed to leave it on for 24 hours, until 10:00!"
These kinds of things are exasperating, to say the least. I realize now that I cannot assume anything and have to repeat instructions often. I also cannot let her go alone for these things no matter how routine they might be.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Naomi?
I ran up the stairs with Mom's mail, a couple of Christmas cards. As she started to open them, she said, "I put a couple of cards in the mail today." I asked her who she sent them to. She said one to her great grandson, Kyle, and a birthday card to her sister Anna.
"Anna's birthday is right after Christmas, you know," said Mom.
"Yes, I know. The 28th. The same day as Naomi's."
"Naomi," said Mom. She studied my face as she said the name again, this time as a question, "Naomi?" Her brow crinkled, her face a big question mark and I knew she wasn't just confused about when Naomi's birthday was, she was trying to place the person.
"Dana's daughter. Your son, Dana. The daughter that Dana had with Vicki. Naomi."
"Dana has a daughter named Naomi?"
"Yes. First they had Naomi, then Heidi, then Carly." She took a few more moments for thought before a look of recognition came over her face.
"Oh, oh, yes, of course. Naomi! Her birthday is the same as Anna's?"
I reassured her it was as I attempted to disguise how shocking it was that she didn't have immediate recall of a granddaughter she has loved so dearly for more than three decades.
"Anna's birthday is right after Christmas, you know," said Mom.
"Yes, I know. The 28th. The same day as Naomi's."
"Naomi," said Mom. She studied my face as she said the name again, this time as a question, "Naomi?" Her brow crinkled, her face a big question mark and I knew she wasn't just confused about when Naomi's birthday was, she was trying to place the person.
"Dana's daughter. Your son, Dana. The daughter that Dana had with Vicki. Naomi."
"Dana has a daughter named Naomi?"
"Yes. First they had Naomi, then Heidi, then Carly." She took a few more moments for thought before a look of recognition came over her face.
"Oh, oh, yes, of course. Naomi! Her birthday is the same as Anna's?"
I reassured her it was as I attempted to disguise how shocking it was that she didn't have immediate recall of a granddaughter she has loved so dearly for more than three decades.
A Facebook Friend of a Friend
I'm finding this Alzheimer's becoming more frightening as the months wear on. My link to the people in my past is disappearing as Mom's memory fades. The other day a Facebook friend of one of my Facebook friends saw my name and inquired of my friend about the possibility that we were related. Her maiden name was Larmie and her Dad's name was Frank. I remembered visiting an Uncle Frank when I was a child but didn't know exactly how he was related.
"Mom, how was Frank Larmie related to Dad?" I asked.
Mom looked into my eyes for a pregnant moment in which I suspected she was drawing a blank. "Frank? Huh, I don't remember a Frank Larmie."
"Yes, Mom. Remember, he worked at Cones for a while. We went to visit him a few times when I was a kid. He had a daughter, Debbie, close to my age. He lived in Newport. A few years ago we heard how he had diabetes and lost his foot or something. Remember?" I try my hardest to jog her memory and have her help me figure out how Frank was related to Dad.
"No. I really don't think I ever knew a Frank Larmie."
I saunter across the driveway back to my internet search with thoughts of the Christmas card I sent to Brother George. Did he get it? Or did it get thrown away unopened? He would be a link for me. He'd remember Frank. If only he were truly a brother to me.
I found myself obsessed with knowing who Frank Larmie was and how he was related. All of the genealogy websites ultimately needed money to allow my search, so since Ancestry.com had an iPad app, I went with them and downloaded a 10-day free trial. That's how crazy I got! I had to know how this friend of a Facebook friend was related! It turns out Frank was my dad's uncle, the youngest brother of my Dad's dad and only eight years older than my dad. So Debbie Larmie was my Dad's first cousin and is my first cousin once removed.
"Mom, how was Frank Larmie related to Dad?" I asked.
Mom looked into my eyes for a pregnant moment in which I suspected she was drawing a blank. "Frank? Huh, I don't remember a Frank Larmie."
"Yes, Mom. Remember, he worked at Cones for a while. We went to visit him a few times when I was a kid. He had a daughter, Debbie, close to my age. He lived in Newport. A few years ago we heard how he had diabetes and lost his foot or something. Remember?" I try my hardest to jog her memory and have her help me figure out how Frank was related to Dad.
"No. I really don't think I ever knew a Frank Larmie."
I saunter across the driveway back to my internet search with thoughts of the Christmas card I sent to Brother George. Did he get it? Or did it get thrown away unopened? He would be a link for me. He'd remember Frank. If only he were truly a brother to me.
I found myself obsessed with knowing who Frank Larmie was and how he was related. All of the genealogy websites ultimately needed money to allow my search, so since Ancestry.com had an iPad app, I went with them and downloaded a 10-day free trial. That's how crazy I got! I had to know how this friend of a Facebook friend was related! It turns out Frank was my dad's uncle, the youngest brother of my Dad's dad and only eight years older than my dad. So Debbie Larmie was my Dad's first cousin and is my first cousin once removed.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Where Does That Road Go?
On a hot July 4th weekend in 2003, we moved to our house on Gile Road, off of Route 152 in Nottingham, New Hampshire. Mom moved in with us that weekend too. Route 152 is a 10-mile stretch of road that connects Routes 4 and 125. We take route 4 to Concord and I-89 into Vermont. Route 125 is our route to the Epping Walmart where Mom gets all her prescriptions filled, her hair done, and the bulk of her grocery shopping. In the center of Nottingham, where the library is, Route 156 splits off with six miles of hill and dale into Raymond. Every time we get in the car for a trip to Manchester for a doctor's appointment, church, etc., we take 156 to Raymond and hop on Route 101.
Yesterday Mom and I went to Walmart to pick up her new eye glasses and drove 152, past the turn to 156, past the post office, all the way to the end and turned right onto 125 toward Epping and the Walmart. This morning, Mom decided to go to church with me. As I flicked on my directional and turned right onto 156, Mom said, "I wonder where that road goes?" and she pointed to Route 152 where the post office is located a half a mile up the road, the post office we drove by the day before.
"That's Route 152," I said.
"Huh! I don't think I've ever been out that road."
"That's the road to Walmart, Mom. Remember we drove there yesterday to get your new glasses?"
"If you say so," she said.
Yesterday Mom and I went to Walmart to pick up her new eye glasses and drove 152, past the turn to 156, past the post office, all the way to the end and turned right onto 125 toward Epping and the Walmart. This morning, Mom decided to go to church with me. As I flicked on my directional and turned right onto 156, Mom said, "I wonder where that road goes?" and she pointed to Route 152 where the post office is located a half a mile up the road, the post office we drove by the day before.
"That's Route 152," I said.
"Huh! I don't think I've ever been out that road."
"That's the road to Walmart, Mom. Remember we drove there yesterday to get your new glasses?"
"If you say so," she said.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Legacy of Love
It's been 8-1/2 years since we moved Mom into her apartment over the garage. I wouldn't be honest if I said its been wonderful and easy, because it hasn't. It's been good, AND it's been challenging on many levels. Jo-Ann was supposed to be doing this. My role was supposed to be supportive. Mom and Jo-Ann were peas in a pod, so good together. I knew it from a young age and it really didn't bother me. I am an introvert, sticking to myself, taking care of myself--it was natural for me. Jo-Ann needed Mom in ways I never did; that was true even after we were grown with families of our own.
But Jo-Ann left us and I gradually made peace with the truth after Dad died that I was "It." As if Jo-Ann, from the grave, had touched me and said, "Tag! You're it." I love my mother dearly. She's been through a lot of heartache in her life. Still carries a heavy burden for her first born who somehow has been able to justify writing her out of his life as if she were some evil he must avoid. I know better. My mother has her flaws, has made bad decisions in her life (who hasn't), but she hasn't deserved this rejection from her first born. I see her pain and longing as she gets older and has to consider leaving this world without seeing him again. Brings tears to my eyes as I write this.
Mom living with us has had its challenges. In fact, my relationship with my mother over the years has had its challenges. As she celebrated her 86th birthday on October 28, I sat with my journal to compose a little verse for the card I made her. Here's what ended up on the page:
You gave me life
You gave me love
Without you I wouldn't be
Who I am today
Thank you for your
Example of being
A devoted wife
A loving mom
A doting grandmother
A devoted great grandmother
Your life is a legacy of love
I can only hope mine will be as well.
But Jo-Ann left us and I gradually made peace with the truth after Dad died that I was "It." As if Jo-Ann, from the grave, had touched me and said, "Tag! You're it." I love my mother dearly. She's been through a lot of heartache in her life. Still carries a heavy burden for her first born who somehow has been able to justify writing her out of his life as if she were some evil he must avoid. I know better. My mother has her flaws, has made bad decisions in her life (who hasn't), but she hasn't deserved this rejection from her first born. I see her pain and longing as she gets older and has to consider leaving this world without seeing him again. Brings tears to my eyes as I write this.
Mom living with us has had its challenges. In fact, my relationship with my mother over the years has had its challenges. As she celebrated her 86th birthday on October 28, I sat with my journal to compose a little verse for the card I made her. Here's what ended up on the page:
You gave me life
You gave me love
Without you I wouldn't be
Who I am today
Thank you for your
Example of being
A devoted wife
A loving mom
A doting grandmother
A devoted great grandmother
Your life is a legacy of love
I can only hope mine will be as well.
Crocheting
The other day I dragged a large Rubbermaid container full of Caroline's Barbie dolls and accessories from the basement at Caroline's request. As we explored the contents together, we found Barbie doll clothes Mom had made 25 years ago. Several were period costumes from colonial America, prairie outfits, and even an Abe Lincoln outfit for Ken complete with a long-tailed jacket and stove pipe hat. Included with Abe's suit was a Mary Todd Lincoln dress, floor length with tiny ruffles cascading down the back made of the same calico fabric as the dress. Caroline and I slowly examined her craftsmanship full of wonder at the time Mom must have put in to making these tiny, intricate pieces of clothing on her old, black Singer sewing machine. The very sewing machine she gave to Caroline and Rob a couple of years ago.
As we continued to explore the treasure chest, we found expertly crocheted Barbie skirts, dresses, and gowns that fit the doll perfectly. Both Caroline and I were filled with wonder looking at them, both of us so aware of the recent attempts Mom has made at crocheting these days. It seems that Mom can't follow the instructions any more. Whatever she tries to crochet doesn't look like the picture at all. She's made a stuffed owl, turtle, giraffe, and is right now working on a little elephant. None of which look like the colorful picture in the crochet book.
It doesn't seem to phase Mom though. She somehow can't recognize the differences when she compares her finished project to the picture. So she keeps on crocheting and buying crochet books. In fact, just last evening when we made a quick trip to Ben Franklins because I needed some seam binding for a sewing project of mine, the first thing she did when we entered the store was look to see if there were any new crochet magazines. And she bought two more skeins of yarn! She spends most of her waking hours in her rocking chair, instructions in front of her, crochet hook in hand, working away.
As we continued to explore the treasure chest, we found expertly crocheted Barbie skirts, dresses, and gowns that fit the doll perfectly. Both Caroline and I were filled with wonder looking at them, both of us so aware of the recent attempts Mom has made at crocheting these days. It seems that Mom can't follow the instructions any more. Whatever she tries to crochet doesn't look like the picture at all. She's made a stuffed owl, turtle, giraffe, and is right now working on a little elephant. None of which look like the colorful picture in the crochet book.
It doesn't seem to phase Mom though. She somehow can't recognize the differences when she compares her finished project to the picture. So she keeps on crocheting and buying crochet books. In fact, just last evening when we made a quick trip to Ben Franklins because I needed some seam binding for a sewing project of mine, the first thing she did when we entered the store was look to see if there were any new crochet magazines. And she bought two more skeins of yarn! She spends most of her waking hours in her rocking chair, instructions in front of her, crochet hook in hand, working away.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Hearing Voices
Taking Mom to see Dr. Vadalia at Generations always seems like such a waste of time. He usually sits, dressed in a navy pin-striped suit, and asks how Mom is feeling. Five minutes later we are in the car for the 35-minute trek home.
We sit waiting in the "session" room (at 4:30 yesterday), an empty office with a desk and office chair plus two side chairs and a low, square table piled with miscellaneous magazines like New Mechanic, Good Housekeeping, and Cat Fancy. Along one wall is a bookcase lined with binders with "neuropsychiatry" something or other on the spines. I reach for my iPhone as Mom thumbs through a magazine--I don't pay attention to which one--but she interrupts my focus on Words With Friends a couple of times to show me a scenic photograph. "Wouldn't that be a pretty picture to paint!" she says each time.
With a soft knock on the door, Dr. Vadalia comes in. He is a small-framed, thin man with a thick accent, without doubt he grew up in India. Mom doesn't like him at all and complains how much she hates having to see him. He asks her how she is doing. She immediately tells him how she's been hearing voices. How she often thinks I have been visiting with someone outside but when she asks, I tell her I haven't been. She tells him how she hears motors running when she's not wearing her hearing aid. And how the other day when our neighbor Sandra was sitting and crocheting with her, she asked Sandra, "Do you hear those people talking?" Sandra didn't. Moments later, Mom asked, "Do you hear singing?" Mom actually investigated what might be the source of the singing by making sure her stereo and computer speakers were off. They were.
Dr. Vadalia quizzes her a little bit about how long it's been going on. She says for months. I'm not entirely sure. However there have been instances when she's thought either John or I have popped our heads through her door and yelled for her to get up. I've attributed those instances to dreaming, but now I'm not so sure. Dr. Vadalia excuses himself to look up her medical chart on the Elliot System, mumbling something about blood work. When he returns, he asks Mom if the voices started after she fell and broke her nose. She insists they started long before that.
Dr. Vadalia tells us that hearing things that are not there is something that a small percentage of Alzheimer's patients suffer. He says if it is frightening for Mom or very distracting, they do have medication. However, the medication has side effects and he is reluctant to put her on them if she is dealing with it. Mom says they don't bother her at all.
We spent a few more minutes discussing how well Mom is doing, that Dr. Bouregard's follow-up test indicated things were pretty much the same, and if we have any questions, not to hesitate to call. Driving away, I feel it was a worthwhile trip considering we have a better sense of why Mom is hearing voices.
We sit waiting in the "session" room (at 4:30 yesterday), an empty office with a desk and office chair plus two side chairs and a low, square table piled with miscellaneous magazines like New Mechanic, Good Housekeeping, and Cat Fancy. Along one wall is a bookcase lined with binders with "neuropsychiatry" something or other on the spines. I reach for my iPhone as Mom thumbs through a magazine--I don't pay attention to which one--but she interrupts my focus on Words With Friends a couple of times to show me a scenic photograph. "Wouldn't that be a pretty picture to paint!" she says each time.
With a soft knock on the door, Dr. Vadalia comes in. He is a small-framed, thin man with a thick accent, without doubt he grew up in India. Mom doesn't like him at all and complains how much she hates having to see him. He asks her how she is doing. She immediately tells him how she's been hearing voices. How she often thinks I have been visiting with someone outside but when she asks, I tell her I haven't been. She tells him how she hears motors running when she's not wearing her hearing aid. And how the other day when our neighbor Sandra was sitting and crocheting with her, she asked Sandra, "Do you hear those people talking?" Sandra didn't. Moments later, Mom asked, "Do you hear singing?" Mom actually investigated what might be the source of the singing by making sure her stereo and computer speakers were off. They were.
Dr. Vadalia quizzes her a little bit about how long it's been going on. She says for months. I'm not entirely sure. However there have been instances when she's thought either John or I have popped our heads through her door and yelled for her to get up. I've attributed those instances to dreaming, but now I'm not so sure. Dr. Vadalia excuses himself to look up her medical chart on the Elliot System, mumbling something about blood work. When he returns, he asks Mom if the voices started after she fell and broke her nose. She insists they started long before that.
Dr. Vadalia tells us that hearing things that are not there is something that a small percentage of Alzheimer's patients suffer. He says if it is frightening for Mom or very distracting, they do have medication. However, the medication has side effects and he is reluctant to put her on them if she is dealing with it. Mom says they don't bother her at all.
We spent a few more minutes discussing how well Mom is doing, that Dr. Bouregard's follow-up test indicated things were pretty much the same, and if we have any questions, not to hesitate to call. Driving away, I feel it was a worthwhile trip considering we have a better sense of why Mom is hearing voices.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Those Aren't My Clothes
The other day, Mom wanted me to ask John to find her winter clothes. He told me where they were and I retrieved the two large plastic storage containers labeled by Mom, "Winter Cloths-Sweaters" and "Winter Cloths-Pants" and lugged them up to Mom's apartment before I left to babysit Ava and Anna. "Here's your winter clothes, Mom. Maybe Nancy can help you sort through them today and you can figure out what still fits and I'll wash them tomorrow."
When I returned home that afternoon and went up to see how Mom's day had gone, the first thing she said to me was, "Donna, I don't know whose clothes those are, but they are certainly not mine!"
"Yes they are," I said. I motioned for her to come with me as I went to the containers sitting on the floor beside her bed. I took the covers off and began pulling her polyester comfort slacks out one by one. "These are yours, Mom. These are the pants you order from Haband. You don't recognize them?"
"No. I don't think they're my clothes."
"Mom, look at these sweaters--this Christmas one--remember this?" I held it up. She shook her head no. She insisted again they weren't hers.
"Yes, these are your clothes, Mom. Look at the writing on these covers. Is that your handwriting?"
As I looked into her aging blue eyes, I could tell she was finally convinced they were her clothes. "It's the Alzheimer's, isn't it?" she said.
"I think it is, Mom. I'm so sorry."
When I returned home that afternoon and went up to see how Mom's day had gone, the first thing she said to me was, "Donna, I don't know whose clothes those are, but they are certainly not mine!"
"Yes they are," I said. I motioned for her to come with me as I went to the containers sitting on the floor beside her bed. I took the covers off and began pulling her polyester comfort slacks out one by one. "These are yours, Mom. These are the pants you order from Haband. You don't recognize them?"
"No. I don't think they're my clothes."
"Mom, look at these sweaters--this Christmas one--remember this?" I held it up. She shook her head no. She insisted again they weren't hers.
"Yes, these are your clothes, Mom. Look at the writing on these covers. Is that your handwriting?"
As I looked into her aging blue eyes, I could tell she was finally convinced they were her clothes. "It's the Alzheimer's, isn't it?" she said.
"I think it is, Mom. I'm so sorry."
What Was I Thinking?
One day, Mom and I were in the car together heading home from a trip to Manchester. She had strolled the isles of Michael's while I got my hair cut. As we visited in the car, I told her how my hairdresser tries to get me to color the gray out of my hair but I don't want to be married to having my roots done every six weeks.
Mom said, "The only time I ever colored my hair was for Mary's wedding. And that was before you were born." I didn't say anything right away as I tried to think what she might be referring to.
Mom said, "The only time I ever colored my hair was for Mary's wedding. And that was before you were born." I didn't say anything right away as I tried to think what she might be referring to.
Then I asked, "Are you talking about Jo-Ann's daughter, Mary?"
"Yessss," she insisted, "Mary."
"Mary Rogers, Rich's wife, my niece?" I couldn't hide the edge of incredulity in my voice. "Mom, I think I was born. I went to Mary's wedding with you."
Mom grew quiet for a few moments and I knew she was thinking about it. She finally said, "Oh Donna, of course, you were born. What is wrong with my thinking?"
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Look What I'm Reading
Logan and Claire are spending the afternoon with me. I take them up to see "Mamie" because Mom always loves having the little ones explore all the fun things she has out on her shelves. She says as Claire heads for the windowsill where the clear glass paper weight with a lavender lily entombed within it lives, "There's nothing there that she can hurt." I run behind Claire and grab the hefty ball before she tries to lift it and drop it on her toe! At 16 months, she is easily redirected back to the toy box under the desk.
Mom holds up a book. "Look what I'm reading." I bite my tongue when I see the title, Healthy Aging by Dr. Weil. I honestly don't know how many times over the past couple of years Mom has read that book thinking she has never read it before. We've had conversations about how I remember her reading it. In fact, I've told her twice that I received a hard copy of the book for Christmas one year.
"Have you ever read this, Donna?"
I simply shake my head up and down as I say yes.
Mom holds up a book. "Look what I'm reading." I bite my tongue when I see the title, Healthy Aging by Dr. Weil. I honestly don't know how many times over the past couple of years Mom has read that book thinking she has never read it before. We've had conversations about how I remember her reading it. In fact, I've told her twice that I received a hard copy of the book for Christmas one year.
"Have you ever read this, Donna?"
I simply shake my head up and down as I say yes.
The Test
Mom was referred to a geriatric neuropsychiatric practice called "Generations" for Alzheimer's testing. On the days leading up to the test, she would ask me to remind her who the vice president of the United States is and did I think she would have to count backwards from 100 because she never could do that anyway. I said, "Mom, this isn't a test you study for."
The testing itself was impressive. Mom and I were interviewed together for 15 minutes by Dr. Bouregard and then I was excused and he continued with Mom for over an hour. On the drive home, Mom said, "It wasn't bad at all. He told me a story about a little girl who wouldn't eat her spaghetti and then asked me to tell him the story again a couple of times. He showed me pictures of animals, like lions and elephants and I had to tell him what they were. Can you imagine, Donna? But he said I did real good. I don't think I have Alzheimer's, do you?"
"Maybe not, Mom. We'll have to wait and see what they say."
At the follow-up visit, both Dr. Bouregard and Dr. Vadalia, the head of the practice, sat down with us in a small conference room to go over the test results. After explaining that the test is designed to identify whether people have normal aging memory loss or Alzheimer's, they said the words Mom didn't expect to hear: "You are in early stage Alzheimer's." As she sat beside me, I could sense her shutting down, growing very quiet and frightened at the news.
"Why doesn't God just take me right now?" she murmured to me. I put my arm around her. I knew how devastated she was. Dr. Vadalia asked her what she knew about Alzheimer's and Mom told him about people she had seen with it in the nursing home she worked in as a nurse's aide many years ago. How they didn't know anyone and couldn't feed themselves. She said she didn't want to be like that. Dr. Vadalia explained the stages of Alzheimer's and reassured her she was no where close to being like those people. He told us about the value of medications, socialization, and exercise that helped slow the progression of the symptoms. Mom grew very quiet.
Thoughts raced through my head about how to increase her socialization. Did I hear him say she needed socialization of a minimum of five hours a day, five days a week? Her long phone conversations with her sisters didn't count. She needed to talk to people face to face. No, television certainly didn't count either, in fact, she shouldn't watch much TV at all. They were optimistic that if we could do these three things--the medication Aricept, increased socialization, and get her out walking--then the symptoms, e.g., memory loss, could be controlled and manageable until she progressed through to second stage Alzheimer's. And the disease would progress; nothing will stop that. And there were other medications for the advancing stages.
We talked some on the drive home as I tried to help her understand what they had said. "I just hate the thought of going into a nursing home, Donna. I've worked in them. I know what they're like." It was clear her greatest fear was giving up her life in the apartment over our garage. "That decision is way in the future, Mom. We will do everything we can to keep you in your apartment as long as possible."
The testing itself was impressive. Mom and I were interviewed together for 15 minutes by Dr. Bouregard and then I was excused and he continued with Mom for over an hour. On the drive home, Mom said, "It wasn't bad at all. He told me a story about a little girl who wouldn't eat her spaghetti and then asked me to tell him the story again a couple of times. He showed me pictures of animals, like lions and elephants and I had to tell him what they were. Can you imagine, Donna? But he said I did real good. I don't think I have Alzheimer's, do you?"
"Maybe not, Mom. We'll have to wait and see what they say."
At the follow-up visit, both Dr. Bouregard and Dr. Vadalia, the head of the practice, sat down with us in a small conference room to go over the test results. After explaining that the test is designed to identify whether people have normal aging memory loss or Alzheimer's, they said the words Mom didn't expect to hear: "You are in early stage Alzheimer's." As she sat beside me, I could sense her shutting down, growing very quiet and frightened at the news.
"Why doesn't God just take me right now?" she murmured to me. I put my arm around her. I knew how devastated she was. Dr. Vadalia asked her what she knew about Alzheimer's and Mom told him about people she had seen with it in the nursing home she worked in as a nurse's aide many years ago. How they didn't know anyone and couldn't feed themselves. She said she didn't want to be like that. Dr. Vadalia explained the stages of Alzheimer's and reassured her she was no where close to being like those people. He told us about the value of medications, socialization, and exercise that helped slow the progression of the symptoms. Mom grew very quiet.
Thoughts raced through my head about how to increase her socialization. Did I hear him say she needed socialization of a minimum of five hours a day, five days a week? Her long phone conversations with her sisters didn't count. She needed to talk to people face to face. No, television certainly didn't count either, in fact, she shouldn't watch much TV at all. They were optimistic that if we could do these three things--the medication Aricept, increased socialization, and get her out walking--then the symptoms, e.g., memory loss, could be controlled and manageable until she progressed through to second stage Alzheimer's. And the disease would progress; nothing will stop that. And there were other medications for the advancing stages.
We talked some on the drive home as I tried to help her understand what they had said. "I just hate the thought of going into a nursing home, Donna. I've worked in them. I know what they're like." It was clear her greatest fear was giving up her life in the apartment over our garage. "That decision is way in the future, Mom. We will do everything we can to keep you in your apartment as long as possible."
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Old Pictures
Today I decided to organize my office closet. Nestled in the back for the past eight years was a box of Mom's papers. I settled onto the floor to see what was there. The first manilla envelope I picked up had "Larmie, George" written on it in Mom's handwriting. I figured it would be some of my dad's stuff. Instead it was an envelope full of pictures of my oldest brother, George. Pictures of him all decked out in a white suit and white Buck's on his feet standing with one arm around his first girlfriend, Virginia. Looks like a school dance picture. There were pictures of George and his wife, Judy, their kids Keith and Lona when they were babies and toddlers. A note from Judy.
I kept exploring the contents: a journal of Mom's notes to Dad after they had gone to the Marriage Encounter Weekend back in the early 1980s; genealogy notes for Dad's side of the family that Mom had collected from various relatives over the years; a journal of writing for her grandchildren with stories from her life; and lots and lots of miscellaneous photographs.
I got them all organized into a new box and took them up to Mom's apartment. "Look what I found," I said as I put the box on her couch. Her forehead crinkled at the sight of the unfamiliar box. "Oh this is just a new box I found that is perfect for all that stuff that was in that old white box you've been looking for." Mom knew what I was talking about and she immediately put away her crocheting so she could dive in and see what was there. I sat on the couch as she opened the envelope with "Larmie, George" written on it. She pulled out the pictures and quickly thumbed through them.
"Do you know who those kids are?" I asked.
"Not really."
"Keith and Lona when they were babies. Don't you love that picture of Dad with Keith?" I held it up for her. She murmured that she liked it. Then she picked up the picture of George in his Army uniform. She studied it. She turned it over and found no name on the back. "Do you know who that is?" I asked. She paused again. I waited. "I'm not sure. Is it Dad?" I told her it was her son, George. "Oh that's right!" she said.
 |
| I love this picture of my Dad from 1968 with my nephew Keith. |
The Reluctant Servant
(I wrote the following piece a short time after my mother was diagnosed with early stage Alzheimer's. It seems a fitting piece of writing with which to begin this new blog.)
Grabbing the steaming iron, I force it down on the thick polyester pant leg. I have pinned my mother’s slacks a hem-length shorter. This is an easy project and, even so, it’s taken a good deal of self-talk to finally be standing here at the ironing board.
Eight years ago when she was 77, Mom moved into the efficiency apartment over our garage. Back then I thought, she is across the drive way, not 2 ½ hours away anymore. It’ll be easy. I made sure it was easy—for me. “I can’t be your companion, Mom. I’m here for you, but I work, I need down time.”
Mom had her own car, her license, her independence. It worked well. She got her own groceries. Drove herself to White River to see her old friends and neighbors, visit her sisters, spend a night or two with my brother Dana, and sometimes had lunch with her niece Susie who was suffering from metastatic breast cancer. I always worried when she pulled out of the driveway. I’d whisper a prayer for her and all the other drivers’ safety for the hour and a half trip. In those early days, I knew deep down it wasn’t really going to be easy. Receiving the news last month that Mom was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s made that sentiment a gross understatement.
I have decided while steaming the new hem into place that I will do the hand stitching as I visit with Mom. “Did you bring my book up from the car yesterday?” Mom says, alarm in her voice, as I trudge up her stairs. No “Hello.” No “How are you?”
I picture the 8X10-inch hard covered, blue spiral-bound sketch book bulging with loose papers; a thick rubber band around the middle keeping it together. It had been on the back seat of my car and I remember grabbing it and hugging it to my chest like I used to carry my books in high school. I had carried it and two bags of groceries up her stairs and deposited everything on her kitchen table.
“Yes. I’m pretty sure I put it on your table.”
“No. It wasn’t on the table. I’ve looked and looked everywhere. I don’t even remember seeing it after we got back from Mary’s.”
Several years ago, Mom began to illustrate some of the stories of her life that she’s written about. We pasted typewritten copies of the stories with the illustrations in the sketchbook. And in recent months, she has expanded it to be more of a scrap book with pictures of all her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. It is Mom’s big project. She often speaks about how much fun it will be for people to look through it. We had taken it to her granddaughter Mary’s house a couple of months ago. We brought it home yesterday.
I check my car. The sketch book isn’t there. I go back to my house, her laundry in hand. After throwing her dirty clothes in the washer, I look for any sign of the sketchbook at my house. Did I absentmindedly take it home and put it on my dining room table? Nope. I go back to her apartment.
“Mom, are you sure you didn’t pick it up and put it somewhere? I’m positive I set it down on your kitchen table!”
“No, Donna. It’s not here,” she insists.
I look on her storage shelves in the garage. Nothing. I return to my car, look in the way-back, look on the floor of the back seat. Nothing. I’m beginning to think I’m crazy. Perhaps we didn’t have it with us when we left Mary’s after all.
“Do you remember us actually taking it out of Mary’s house, Mom?”
We both do. I know it has to be in Mom’s apartment somewhere. I look in the refrigerator. I look in her bureau drawers, her closet, the bathroom. I scan her shelves full of magazines, arts and crafts supplies, self-help books, Tupperware containers full of who-knows-what. It’s not in sight. Then I spot it. It is neatly tucked onto a shelf with magazine-size craft books down behind her rocking chair.
I sink onto the couch across from her, positioned so that I am lined up with her good ear—the one with the hearing aid. Mom is watching Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader? I proceed to hem her slacks. Mom sits in her recliner and tells me for the second time that the people at the senior center want her to paint another scene on their storefront window. I had dropped her off in the morning at the senior center for several hours. We are experimenting to find out if she will find companionship there at least three of the recommended five days a week. This is one of the three-pronged approaches we need to embrace during these early stages of Alzheimer’s: 1) a medication called Aricept, 2) 4-5 hours of socialization each day, and 3) physical exercise.
Three years ago, Mom failed the mandatory driving test when she tried to renew her license. After much discussion, she decided not to try again after the required 10 days’ waiting period. She gave up driving and now I have a new role, chauffeur. As I drove the 15-mile round trip to the senior center earlier, it felt like my life had played some kind of trick on me. In my late-thirties and early-forties, I gladly chauffeured my two young teenagers to various school functions, music and dance lessons, or back and forth to friends’ houses. I was invested in their futures. Sacrificing my time was not only my duty, but my calling. This is altogether different and I balk at the thought of sacrificing three mornings every week to transport my mother back and forth. Is this a glimpse of what life is going to be like? I wonder.
These are the early days following a serious diagnosis. Even though it wasn’t unexpected, it still is new and I’m on a learning curve. I suddenly find myself much more patient and understanding, no longer so annoyed by her behavior. Only a few weeks ago in the grocery store I badgered her about a bag of pitted dates.
“Oh my! Look at how they are packaging those dates now,” she said.
“Mom, you have been buying these, two or three at a time, for the past three years. You seriously don’t remember?” She seriously didn’t remember and I wanted her to remember, so I kept trying to jog her memory. I wouldn’t let it go until another shopper who was within ear shot glanced our way and I realized how I must have sounded. So, I finally said, “It’s gotta be the new packaging that’s throwing you off.”
I continue to hem the pants as we half pay attention to the game show on TV. During a commercial, Mom asks me, “What would you do with a nice chicken breast? How would you cook it?”
I hear her question but am distracted with visions of multiple weekend visits with her after Dad died when she cooked parmesan chicken breasts with mashed potatoes and a can of green beans for our dinner. “You used to make parmesan chicken.”
Mom looks at me and I can tell she’s trying to remember. She says she doesn’t. I realize another startling and complicated aspect of what the future might hold: Mom may not be able to continue to cook for herself before too long. I recall she recently said, “I’ve never made apple sauce before. How would you go about making it?” Mental note to self: keep an eye on more than just making sure the oven is turned off.
“Let me show you that chicken breast,” Mom says. She goes to her freezer and hands me a frozen, plastic-wrapped, fully-cooked turkey breast that has a date from nearly a year ago. I explain what it is and she exclaims how thankful she is to have me to rely on. She opens the refrigerator and says, “I’ll put it here in the bottom part and let it thaw. I’ll heat it up tomorrow.”
Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader? ends, the hemming project is complete, and an hour has elapsed. Mom has come up with several options for her dinner. “Pancakes wouldn’t be too many calories, right?” she asks.
“Well, it would be better if you had something with vegetables.”
“Oh, I eat vegetables every day. Fruit too.”
“You wouldn’t have a vegetable if you had pancakes for dinner and you didn’t have a vegetable for lunch,” I remind her. I wonder if I should take more of an active role in her menu planning. I don’t want to. I want to believe she will be able to take care of her own meals for a while longer. She has been gaining weight. Perhaps I need to pay more attention. It was clear I needed to take control of her medications a couple of months ago. Probably should have done that a lot sooner. But I am a reluctant servant and I decide I won’t decide about her meals today. It is time to leave and let her cook what she wants for her dinner—at least for today.
Grabbing the steaming iron, I force it down on the thick polyester pant leg. I have pinned my mother’s slacks a hem-length shorter. This is an easy project and, even so, it’s taken a good deal of self-talk to finally be standing here at the ironing board.
Eight years ago when she was 77, Mom moved into the efficiency apartment over our garage. Back then I thought, she is across the drive way, not 2 ½ hours away anymore. It’ll be easy. I made sure it was easy—for me. “I can’t be your companion, Mom. I’m here for you, but I work, I need down time.”
Mom had her own car, her license, her independence. It worked well. She got her own groceries. Drove herself to White River to see her old friends and neighbors, visit her sisters, spend a night or two with my brother Dana, and sometimes had lunch with her niece Susie who was suffering from metastatic breast cancer. I always worried when she pulled out of the driveway. I’d whisper a prayer for her and all the other drivers’ safety for the hour and a half trip. In those early days, I knew deep down it wasn’t really going to be easy. Receiving the news last month that Mom was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s made that sentiment a gross understatement.
I have decided while steaming the new hem into place that I will do the hand stitching as I visit with Mom. “Did you bring my book up from the car yesterday?” Mom says, alarm in her voice, as I trudge up her stairs. No “Hello.” No “How are you?”
I picture the 8X10-inch hard covered, blue spiral-bound sketch book bulging with loose papers; a thick rubber band around the middle keeping it together. It had been on the back seat of my car and I remember grabbing it and hugging it to my chest like I used to carry my books in high school. I had carried it and two bags of groceries up her stairs and deposited everything on her kitchen table.
“Yes. I’m pretty sure I put it on your table.”
“No. It wasn’t on the table. I’ve looked and looked everywhere. I don’t even remember seeing it after we got back from Mary’s.”
Several years ago, Mom began to illustrate some of the stories of her life that she’s written about. We pasted typewritten copies of the stories with the illustrations in the sketchbook. And in recent months, she has expanded it to be more of a scrap book with pictures of all her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. It is Mom’s big project. She often speaks about how much fun it will be for people to look through it. We had taken it to her granddaughter Mary’s house a couple of months ago. We brought it home yesterday.
I check my car. The sketch book isn’t there. I go back to my house, her laundry in hand. After throwing her dirty clothes in the washer, I look for any sign of the sketchbook at my house. Did I absentmindedly take it home and put it on my dining room table? Nope. I go back to her apartment.
“Mom, are you sure you didn’t pick it up and put it somewhere? I’m positive I set it down on your kitchen table!”
“No, Donna. It’s not here,” she insists.
I look on her storage shelves in the garage. Nothing. I return to my car, look in the way-back, look on the floor of the back seat. Nothing. I’m beginning to think I’m crazy. Perhaps we didn’t have it with us when we left Mary’s after all.
“Do you remember us actually taking it out of Mary’s house, Mom?”
We both do. I know it has to be in Mom’s apartment somewhere. I look in the refrigerator. I look in her bureau drawers, her closet, the bathroom. I scan her shelves full of magazines, arts and crafts supplies, self-help books, Tupperware containers full of who-knows-what. It’s not in sight. Then I spot it. It is neatly tucked onto a shelf with magazine-size craft books down behind her rocking chair.
I sink onto the couch across from her, positioned so that I am lined up with her good ear—the one with the hearing aid. Mom is watching Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader? I proceed to hem her slacks. Mom sits in her recliner and tells me for the second time that the people at the senior center want her to paint another scene on their storefront window. I had dropped her off in the morning at the senior center for several hours. We are experimenting to find out if she will find companionship there at least three of the recommended five days a week. This is one of the three-pronged approaches we need to embrace during these early stages of Alzheimer’s: 1) a medication called Aricept, 2) 4-5 hours of socialization each day, and 3) physical exercise.
Three years ago, Mom failed the mandatory driving test when she tried to renew her license. After much discussion, she decided not to try again after the required 10 days’ waiting period. She gave up driving and now I have a new role, chauffeur. As I drove the 15-mile round trip to the senior center earlier, it felt like my life had played some kind of trick on me. In my late-thirties and early-forties, I gladly chauffeured my two young teenagers to various school functions, music and dance lessons, or back and forth to friends’ houses. I was invested in their futures. Sacrificing my time was not only my duty, but my calling. This is altogether different and I balk at the thought of sacrificing three mornings every week to transport my mother back and forth. Is this a glimpse of what life is going to be like? I wonder.
These are the early days following a serious diagnosis. Even though it wasn’t unexpected, it still is new and I’m on a learning curve. I suddenly find myself much more patient and understanding, no longer so annoyed by her behavior. Only a few weeks ago in the grocery store I badgered her about a bag of pitted dates.
“Oh my! Look at how they are packaging those dates now,” she said.
“Mom, you have been buying these, two or three at a time, for the past three years. You seriously don’t remember?” She seriously didn’t remember and I wanted her to remember, so I kept trying to jog her memory. I wouldn’t let it go until another shopper who was within ear shot glanced our way and I realized how I must have sounded. So, I finally said, “It’s gotta be the new packaging that’s throwing you off.”
I continue to hem the pants as we half pay attention to the game show on TV. During a commercial, Mom asks me, “What would you do with a nice chicken breast? How would you cook it?”
I hear her question but am distracted with visions of multiple weekend visits with her after Dad died when she cooked parmesan chicken breasts with mashed potatoes and a can of green beans for our dinner. “You used to make parmesan chicken.”
Mom looks at me and I can tell she’s trying to remember. She says she doesn’t. I realize another startling and complicated aspect of what the future might hold: Mom may not be able to continue to cook for herself before too long. I recall she recently said, “I’ve never made apple sauce before. How would you go about making it?” Mental note to self: keep an eye on more than just making sure the oven is turned off.
“Let me show you that chicken breast,” Mom says. She goes to her freezer and hands me a frozen, plastic-wrapped, fully-cooked turkey breast that has a date from nearly a year ago. I explain what it is and she exclaims how thankful she is to have me to rely on. She opens the refrigerator and says, “I’ll put it here in the bottom part and let it thaw. I’ll heat it up tomorrow.”
Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader? ends, the hemming project is complete, and an hour has elapsed. Mom has come up with several options for her dinner. “Pancakes wouldn’t be too many calories, right?” she asks.
“Well, it would be better if you had something with vegetables.”
“Oh, I eat vegetables every day. Fruit too.”
“You wouldn’t have a vegetable if you had pancakes for dinner and you didn’t have a vegetable for lunch,” I remind her. I wonder if I should take more of an active role in her menu planning. I don’t want to. I want to believe she will be able to take care of her own meals for a while longer. She has been gaining weight. Perhaps I need to pay more attention. It was clear I needed to take control of her medications a couple of months ago. Probably should have done that a lot sooner. But I am a reluctant servant and I decide I won’t decide about her meals today. It is time to leave and let her cook what she wants for her dinner—at least for today.
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