Just another WordPress site

Category: Uncategorized

  • Alice in Wonderland

    What follows is two slices of life, nothing more. It is, perhaps, nonsensical in nature. As for Alice in Wonderland . . . that’s what it can feel like around here.

    ****

    One night, early this week I think, I was busy rushing around the kitchen trying to make supper. Grandpa was busy doing his thing. In the evening this usually means either messing around in the kitchen while I work, or else sitting on the couch and calling for someone to tell him if everything is set to right, and complaining that the pillows aren’t working. This evening he was sitting on the couch, but around the halfway point in supper production he had to go to the bathroom, so I stopped what I was doing and got him to the toilet. I then returned to the kitchen where I kept half an ear on his continued muttered complaints about the (to him) incomprehensible and malfunctioning nature of the world.

    Finally a plaintive squawk became loud enough that I decided it was time to go check on him. A quick dash away from the food on the stove to the bathroom and I asked, “What’s the matter?”

    “I can’t get this to work right,” he said, holding up the carefully folded hand towel.

    Seeing that he was done using the bathroom I said, “That’s okay, I’ll take care of it for you.” I hung the towel back on the rack. “There you go. You’re all done,” I prompted, and then rushed back to the stove.

    Grandpa didn’t follow, and as I worked with the food on the stove I heard continued befuddled mumbling about things not working and not being where they’re supposed to.

    “Everything is fine,” I yelled from the kitchen. “You’re all done!”

    “What?” came back the alarmed shout. “Who died?”

    “Nobody died!” I called back.

    “Oh. You said nobody died.”

    Short length of silence.

    “Well, okay. Let’s go,” Grandpa’s voice drifted down the hall, obviously talking to himself, or, more precisely, to his imagined companions. “Come on, girls. Come on.” Brief pause. “Come on, girls. Girls!”

    “There isn’t anybody, Grandpa,” I called out. “It’s just you, me, and the trees.”

    “Yeah. Yeah . . . I guess that’s what I meant, the trees,” he said.

    “I don’t know–” I heard his voice beginning to move down the hall and then caught a glimpse of him crawling past the kitchen entrance on his way back to the couch. “I don’t know anything. Money isn’t worth anything, [uncertain] isn’t worth anything, and I don’t think I’m worth anything,” he finished.

    ****

    Wednesday Grandma had an eye exam. So long as the weather remains mild, when Grandpa has to come along for some appointment of Grandma’s, he and I stay in the car. It saves him from the stress of going into a completely strange environment, and saves me from making a scene by carting him around, or being required to loudly ask him if he needs to go to the bathroom when he gets out of a waiting room chair to start wandering. I don’t mind waiting in the car as it is more private than a waiting room and is a place where I can do whatever quiet things I want to get done. Grandpa doesn’t mind either, so long as Grandma doesn’t take too long.

    But Grandpa’s patience lasts only about an hour, after which point he begins to get fidgety. I can keep him occupied for a little longer if I bring along my MP3 player which has the entire audio Bible on it. If I let him listen to that he can remain somewhat content a little longer.

    Then there is always the bathroom issue.

    Grandma’s eye exam ended up taking nearly two whole hours. That was far longer than Grandpa cared to stay in the car, especially when somewhere around an hour and a half into the wait he had to go to the bathroom. He may have needed to go before then, but it was only at that point which it became pressing enough that he became articulate.

    This, of course, brought about a bit of a problem. Grandpa wears diapers, so when he finally said, “I have to go pee-pee,” I told him, “Then just go. You have a diaper on, I can easily change you when we get home. Don’t worry about it.”

    Unsurprisingly, such an explanation wasn’t satisfactory. Grandpa and his bathroom needs and usage is no longer much about cognizant rationalization and mostly the fragmentary remains of deep seated habits. The result, as I have already chronicled, is a firm compulsion to not soil himself, even when this means pulling down his diaper and peeing on the carpet, in the sink, or on the table. There is no sense in it, and so no possible way to reason with him about it. He simply has to go, and doesn’t want to do it on himself.

    “I got to find a bush or some place,” he said, and started scrabbling to find some way to get out of the car.

    “Grandpa, you don’t want to do that,” I try to explain as gently as possible. “You don’t want to get arrested for indecency or something,” I said, trying to jest. “Just let it go. Don’t worry about it.”

    We were sitting in a parking lot right along the main drag of 434 with cars whizzing by, and even if we should contemplate such an idea the only nearby bushes were the landscaping in front of the building which neither the proprietor nor the coming and going customers would appreciate us watering. I felt sorry for Grandpa, knowing that he must have to go very badly, and doesn’t really understand my answer beyond the fact that I didn’t want him to do what he wanted to do. For one second I thought about getting him out of the car and taking him into the office to use their bathroom, but I quickly played that thought out: “Hi, this decrepit old man who can hardly walk who I am dragging about really needs to use your bathroom, or perhaps we’ll just end up peeing all over your floor. It happens sometimes, I’m sure you won’t mind.” No, we wouldn’t do that. Grandpa would just have to suffer.

    “I really have to go,” Grandpa said.

    “I’m sorry,” I said. “You can’t get out. It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

    “I’ll just do a little bit,” he said, finally managing to get the door open.

    So I got out from the driver’s seat and went around to put his feet back in the car, explaining that we can’t do that, he’ll just have to wait, it doesn’t matter and he doesn’t have to hold it in. Then I get back into the driver’s seat and electronically lock us in. At this point I’m trying hard not to laugh at the absurd stupidity of it all. Who would have ever thought I’d be locking myself and my grandfather in the car so he’d pee himself. What a cruel sick thing to do, and yet somehow you find yourself in the place where it seems the least unacceptable option. How does life get like this, you wonder.

    “How do you get out?” Grandpa insists, still trying to work the door, and I keep trying to calm him and explain to him why it has to be this way. “Yeah, I understand what you’re saying,” he finally says (whether he really did or not is a different matter) “It’s just that I . . .”

    “You don’t want to pee yourself,” I finish for him.

    “Yeah,” he said, though the thought probably was not so clearly fixed in his mind.

    We both lapsed into silence until a little later Grandpa said, “It’s strange, I don’t know, but the urge to go isn’t so bad anymore. I don’t need to go, so you don’t need to worry about it.”

    I didn’t bother to explain to him why suddenly he didn’t need to go anymore. It was sufficient that he was no longer in distress. When we got home I could easily change him.

    When we did get home we ran into a little more difficulty. The house is a split level, with the garage as part of the bottom, so there isn’t a lot of walking that has to be done to make it from the car to the couch upstairs, but when I helped Grandpa out of the car he said, “Boy, my legs feel so weak I don’t know if I can hold myself up.” This is not an unusual phenomena with Grandpa. If you’ve ever ridden a long time in the car you know how when you first get out there is some momentarily stiffness that can leave you feeling just a bit weak. For Grandpa sitting still even a much shorter time brings the same problem, and since he is already weak this leaves him feeling just about unable to stand, or walk.

    I thought maybe I could coach him into the house, but when he wouldn’t budge with a little forward prodding and simply leaned on his walking stick and looked at the door into the house as if the distance were a million miles away . . . I knew getting him there would be a huge struggle. I decided it wasn’t worth the fight.

    “Okay,” I said. “I’ll carry you.” I scooped him up in my arms and headed into the house, and started up the stairs.

    “No, you’ll hurt yourself,” Grandpa protested. “I don’t want you to injure yourself.”

    “I won’t,” I said. “It’s no problem. Don’t worry, I can do it easily. Want me to show you? I can sing and dance.”

    So I sang “La-Da-De-Dah” like some grand opera star and sort of hop-danced the rest of the way up the stairs and over to the couch, where I carefully deposited him.

    As if life wasn’t crazy enough, I have this urge to make it crazier.

    And that’s a slice of life with Alice in Wonderland.

  • Seeing, Hearing, Understanding

    It is interesting to see how the mental aspect of Grandpa’s Alzheimer’s progresses. We can divide the mental function of the brain into two categories: (1) Dealing with outside stimuli, and (2) Processing one’s own internal thoughts and reflections. It is hard to judge how Alzheimer’s affects the latter–we can’t see into the mind of others, and we really don’t understand how our own thoughts process or work very well either. But on the first matter, that of the failing mind of an Alzheimer’s victim dealing with outside stimuli, and the breakdown of that ability, a close observer gets a front row seat to the effects of deteriorating cognitive ability.

    For Grandpa, his ability to understand what he saw began failing before his ability to understand what he heard. Long ago I wrote about how he would see imaginary people and things. At times there were quasi-plausible explanations for the imagined people–a pillow or a blanket or some such thing that could be interpreted as a person by someone who was nearly blind or unable to make sense of what he was seeing. Other times there were no obvious triggers for the imagined things he saw.

    There is a strange kind of tension between the sickness of the failing mind and the retained cognitive ability. The failing mind cannot keep itself anchored within the present, so people and things suddenly appearing are sometimes accepted without question. Thus Grandpa can suddenly start talking to an imagined person sitting on the couch, without any thought that it might be strange to have someone appearing in his house who he didn’t remember coming, and may not even recognize. The only thing that matters is that the person doesn’t respond to Grandpa’s conversing, and he can become indignant or hurt.

    But then other times Grandpa does doubt himself. He will look in some direction and say, “Is there really [such-and-such] there?”

    And I will say, “No, Grandpa, that is just a [chair, or whatever he is looking at]”

    Then he will say, “Oh,” and look very perplexed because while what he saw didn’t make sense and so he questioned it, it was still what he thought he saw.

    And sometimes he will say in despair, “I don’t know why I see things that aren’t there. It doesn’t make sense. I guess I don’t know nothing.”

    Grandpa’s visual understanding of the world around him is not consistent. Some times he is better, other times he is worse. The trend is downward, and one think I notice in that downward trend is that, while he hasn’t lost things he had before, it is getting harder and harder for him to understand what he sees. For you and me we naturally interpret and understand what we are seeing. For Grandpa it is something he must work at. Recognizing people and things is mental effort much akin to how you or I might attempt to solve a difficult problem. And when it becomes too much work, or he is not paying attention, Grandpa doesn’t interpret or make sense of his surroundings. He ends up just being “someplace” with “things” around him. At such times he doesn’t know where he is, and he doesn’t know where anyone else is. In a very real sense, he finds himself alone. This is manifested when he talks to Grandma as if she was right there with him when she isn’t in the room, or asks her where she is when she is sitting right in front of him. He asks people where they are, and ask them where he is, and asks him where things are–and understands none of the answers.

    “I’m sitting in my chair,” Grandma says.

    “Where is that?” Grandpa says, looking right at her.

    “Why don’t you sit on the couch,” Grandma says.

    “Okay,” Grandpa says, standing beside the couch. “Where is that?”

    That is Grandpa at his worst. He is as good as blind then–worse actually, because a blind man still knows how to orient himself in space but for Grandpa not only does he not understand what he is seeing, but he can’t relate things to each other within space. At a doorway he can turn left or right, but has no understanding which direction will take him where or why he would want to go in either direction. He simply goes on impulse, or faint memories–which means when he comes out of the bathroom he is just as likely to go to the bedroom as the living room. When I take him to the bathroom he says, “Okay, which way are we going, this way or that way?” and points in two different directions. He has no idea of the destination, and no surety even in the direction. You can’t point things out to him, or explain to him how things are done, because what he sees has no meaning.

    That is Grandpa at his worst. He is not at his worst all the time, but rarely is he at his best. Most of the time he hovers somewhere in the middle, understanding some things, being able to understand some things, but existing in a limited state of awareness of his surroundings.

    For a long time Grandpa’s hearing was his great support. Though his eyes deceived him, his ears would reassure him. If he called for someone and they answered he would be able to place them in relation to himself and would be comforted. Recently, his ability to understand what he hears has begun to noticeably fail. Sometimes he will call and someone will respond and he will say, “Where are you?” sounding very much like a person lost in a great dark void–when in reality the person responding might be sitting across from him in the living room, or just in the kitchen. He is losing the ability to spatially place sound.

    He is also losing the ability to distinguish sounds. We recognize people when we see them, and we recognize people when we hear them. Grandpa has increasing ability recognizing who he sees–his own sons and daughters, and even increasingly Grandma–and now this is spreading to his hearing as well. I must distinguish between recognizing and knowing. So far Grandpa hasn’t demonstrated any forgetfulness that he is married and has children, grandchildren, and even great grandchildren. His failure, presently, is that he cannot recognize, or recall, who he is seeing. For example, he might say, “Who is that?” And I say, “That’s Daryl [his daughter, one of my aunts]” and he will say, “Oh, how are you doing Daryl,” and may even ask about her daughters, showing that he truly knows who Daryl is–he just didn’t place who he knew to be Daryl with the person in front of him.

    I don’t know exactly when his hearing ability began to fail in the same manner. Leading up to my realization of this, Some months ago–probably about early summer–he almost spontaneously started calling for his brother Gene all the time. Obviously this itself was a clear manifestation of cognitive decline, as his brother Gene lives about a half hour or so away in Pennsylvania and hasn’t been up to visit in all the time I have been living with Grandma and Grandpa. But the call for Gene doesn’t have a single simplistic explanation–I don’t know that there is just one reason he calls for his older brother. At least part of the time the call seems to find it root in an emotional impulse–Grandpa is feeling lost, lonely, uncertain, confused, or any number of other things, and the impulse is to call for someone to set it right, to explain, or whatever. But sometimes Grandpa does want something concrete, and he will call for Gene in that situation also.

    Initially when Grandpa called for Gene I would answer, “He’s not here. What do you want?” which would get varying responses.

    “I want Gene.”

    “Where is he?”

    Or sometimes Grandpa would tell me what he wanted, or make something up. As Grandpa began to consistently call for Gene it grew tiring to constantly say, “He’s not here,” before inquiring what Grandpa wanted. And I also began to suspect that Grandpa was in the beginning stages of conflating me with Gene. So instead of informing Grandpa that Gene wasn’t present, I took to simply answering his call of “Gene!” with, “What do you want?”

    At first, maybe fifty present of the time Grandpa would say, “You’re not Gene.” And I would say, “No, but Gene isn’t here, so I’m answering for him. Now when Grandpa calls for Gene I answer, and rarely does he say, “You’re not Gene.”

    Discovering how much simpler it made life for me if I simply answered Grandpa when he called for someone I started answering when he called “Ma!” Realizing that I haven’t been in Grandpa’s life long enough for him to ever get in the habit of calling for me, I have begun answering for whoever is called.

    Again, while at first Grandpa would say, “You’re not Ma” when I answered he began to do so less and less. I initially thought he was becoming accustomed to someone answering for Grandma, but then an incident revealed that in truth he was having trouble distinguishing who answered him.

    One evening he said, “Hey Ma!”

    “What?” I said.

    “Why don’t you come sit down beside me,” he said.

    “Okay,” I said and got up from the computer to go over and sit down beside him.

    “Not you,” Grandpa said, seeing me approach. “That woman said she would come sit with me.”

    “No that was me who answered you,” I said.

    From that point on it became increasing clear that Grandpa often could not distinguish who answered him. This discovery made life much easier for me because now when Grandpa would call incessantly for someone (usually Gene or Grandma) I could answer for either and quiet him. If he said, “Ma, how are you doing?” I could say, “Just fine,” and he would be satisfied. Or if he said, “Ma, where are you?” and I would say, “Over here,” and he would be appeased.

    It is not as if he never recognizes who is speaking, just as he can still recognize things he sees. But I think he has to be very much paying attention to distinguish who is speaking.

    However, things have continued to deteriorate. A few weeks ago one evening Grandpa was hollering “Ma? Ma? Ma?” so I came over and said, “What do you want?”

    Grandpa stared at me for a long minute. “Well?” he said. “She asked you what you wanted.”

    That was a new one for surreal exchanges where I somehow ended up being responsible for carrying on both ends of the conversation as two (or perhaps three?) different people.

    Again, more recently, Grandpa was calling for Gene but seemed to have no particular want in mind because when I came and inquired he muttered and mumbled stuff while pointing at the chairs and objects around him. I assured him that everything was all right.

    “Well, yeah, okay . . .” he said, and turned back to his fussing. Ten seconds later, “Hey, Gene!”

    “Yeah, what do you want,” I said. “I’m still standing right behind you. I came last time you called.”

    “Oh, geez!” Grandpa said, startling, having already forgotten I was there. “Yeah, I guess you did. Well how am I going to distinguish between when you and I speak?” he said, very well summarizing his problems.

    And that is where we are now.

    I was going to finish off with a recounting of how Grandpa was sick last Saturday, but I’ve already spent too much time on this, and anyhow it seemed like it might have turned out too much sounding like a “sob-sob pity me and my trials” kind of thing, which it wasn’t and not the kind of attitude one wants to project. Suffice to say just being a little bit sick robs Grandpa of what senses he still has, and rendered him nearly unable to eat, drink, or function. All the result of a minor head cold. He also peed on the kitchen table.

    Not sure how comprehensible that entire post was, but I wrote it fast and now I gotta go.

  • The Marvels of Youth, The Follies of Age

    Last weekend I came home to a sick family, and, true to form, my dearly beloveds passed it along to me. None of us likes getting sick, but I particularly dread it while living with Grandma and Grandpa because when the entire functioning of a house depends on you–well, you can’t afford to be sick. It’s miserable enough to be sick . . . it’s worse to be sick and have to make supper, or get up in the middle of the night repeatedly to take someone to the bathroom.

    I came home to vist on Sunday and when I woke up Tuesday morning I was definitely coming down with a sore throat. I try to deal with my colds as decisively as possible, on the hopes that the occasion will be short. I drank as much tea and other liquids as I could on Tuesday, and I decided to take it a little easy when I went on my bicycle ride and didn’t ride all the way to the top of the murderous hill at the end point in my route.

    I don’t know if it was my general good health, my drinking of plentiful liquids, or it simply happened to be a milder cold, but the worst of my suffering was contained to Tuesday. I had a sore throat and runny nose all Tuesday, and slept poorly (but not as bad as it could have been, thankfully) Tuesday night. God was merciful and Tuesday night was not a night that Grandpa had to go to the bathroom every hour. I stacked a bunch of pillows up to create an incline on my bed so my head would be elevated and the snot would drain out, instead of pooling up in my ears–that is a problem I often have and my solution, while not the ideal sleeping position, seemed so effective that I expect to use it in the future.

    Wednesday morning I felt the worst was over. My sore throat was gone, and while I didn’t have my usual energy the pall of general misery felt as if it had lifted. I have improved every day, so that today (Friday) I just had some head congestion and a mild cough.

    I would like to think that will be the only cold I’ll get this winter.

    On a somewhat related note of how glad I am to be young and healthy, I came back from my Thursday bicycle ride to Grandpa in desperate need of going to the bathroom. He got all turned around and insisted on using the basement bathroom in spite of my suggestions. So I helped him down the stairs, plopped him on the toilet and then dashed off to my computer to write down some witty dialog that had come to me while out riding. Well, it really isn’t wise for me to leave Grandpa unsupervised in the bathroom anymore–though I do it all the time because it is boring to stand around twiddling my thumbs waiting for him to be finished–so I got what was coming to me when I came back to check on Grandpa and discovered that rather than just taking a leak he had pooped as well and attempted to wipe his behind, and was now scrubbing down the sink with the filthy poopy toilet paper.

    There was a bit of hasty crises management as I quickly got the soiled toilet paper away from him and into the toilet, then rushed upstairs to retrieve the box of baby wipes and returned to clean the sink, Grandpa’s hands, and his bottom. With the garbage disposed of and Grandpa’s pants and diaper pulled up I suggested we go back upstairs. Grandpa was agreeable, but as soon as he stepped out of the bathroom he slumped slightly and said, “I just don’t feel like I have any strength.”

    “Well, would you like me to carry you?” I said, half joking and mimicking the act of scooping him up in my arms. I have fielded this idea several times in the past under the guise of jest–but never pursued it because Grandpa never expressed willingness or interest and I was afraid carrying him cradled in my arms might cause extreme pain to his messed up lower back. Up until this point I have done all of my propelling and carrying of Grandpa by lifting him from his armpits–something of a cobbled and less than ideal compromise between him being in total control and him surrendering all control. I have written about previously how this is difficult for me as Grandpa is always jerking around and trying to hang onto things, forcing me to fight against and compensate for his activities.

    So it has always been, but on Thursday when I made the half jesting offer Grandpa said, “Well, if you can do it without hurting me and without messing yourself up . . .” indicating to me that either his level of trust in me has grown or (more likely) demonstrating the level of his weakness and exhaustion.

    Without waiting for any second thoughts on his part, I scooped him up in my arms and carried up upstairs and set him down on the couch. It was almost miraculously easy. He was quite light (125 lbs didn’t feel as heavy as I expected) and rested in my arms like a baby, apparently finding no pain or discomfort from the position. I deposited him on the couch and he seemed rather amazed that so much distance had been covered so effortlessly.

    It’s so nice to have the health and strength of youth.

    Humor aside, the incident was an eye opener for me. Namely, the easiest way for me to get Grandpa around is to carry him in my arms, and it doesn’t (or, perhaps I should qualify that and say hasn’t yet) hurt his back. It’s the best solution for me, and for Grandpa. In one respect it makes sense, if you think about it. When we have the strength, we are naturally inclined–and it is most convenient–to move other people around by carrying them. Most people don’t move a baby about the house in a stroller–it’s too awkward and the stroller gets in the way. We carry babies about the house and plunk them down wherever they want, or need, to be. While most people will never carry anyone heavier than a baby, the situation is much the same with Grandpa. The wheelchair is like a over-sized stroller, with the same frustrations as a stroller, only more so.

    I realize that as much as possible Grandpa should be left to his walking, as (at least when he isn’t falling down) it is good for his physical health. Carrying him too much will only encourage him to become bed-ridden. But it can’t be denied that we are more and more heading in that direction, and it’s tempting to use it as the solution of first resort instead of last resort because it makes things so much simpler. Instead of engaging in a quasi-wrestling match with Grandpa to help him walk down the the hall–wherein Grandpa alternately tries to lean against the wall or pitch forward onto his face–I can simply scoop him up and carry him. It relieves both of us of our frustrations and difficulties.

    That being said, carrying Grandpa doesn’t solve all transportation difficulties. First, for his health I will try to leave him to do as much walking as he can manage. Second, because of how this house was designed, it isn’t easy to carry him everywhere. It would be very hard–if not impossible–for me to carry him into the cramped bathroom. I would have to walk sideways through the door just to get in, and if I turned around he might hit his head or feet against a wall. Also, it wouldn’t be as convenient to carry him to a seat at the kitchen table as it is to carry him to the couch.

    Even with these limitations, the option of simply carrying Grandpa is a great help, especially in the evenings when his strength is at its lowest ebb. He can be busy-busy all day, and especially in the afternoon–activity that is pure compulsion and it drives him past the point of his own endurance. Some days he reaches catastrophic failures–not that they all are real catastrophes, but I call them that because they when he suddenly reaches the point where he can’t go on.

    For example, this evening as I was finishing up supper Grandpa was going this way and that in agitated activity headed toward collapse. (There is nothing you can do about it–unless you are willing to stop what your are doing, sit him down and sit down right beside him, and even that won’t work 100% of the time.) So I was finishing up supper when I heard the call, “Gene,” in tones of some distress.

    I went and found Grandpa clinging to our bedroom door. In not so many words he said, “I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know where I am or where I’m going, but I can’t do it anymore and I’m about to give out!” Previously, I would have been required to manhandled him back to the couch. This time I simply picked him up in my arms and deposited him on the couch–much to his relief. Again, this evening after a trip to the bathroom his legs seized up and forgot how to walk. Rather than devolving into a laborious struggle to the couch I simply picked him up and carried him there.

    Now if only everyone could carry Grandpa we’d be all set.

  • A Song for Grandpa

    I wish I was in Carrighfergus
    Only for nights in Ballygrant
    I would swim over the deepest ocean,
    The deepest ocean to be by your side.
    But the sea is wide and I can’t swim over
    And neither have I wings to fly
    If I could find me a handsome boatsman
    To carry me over to my love and die

    My childhood days bring back sad reflections
    Of happy times I spent so long ago,
    My boyhood friends and my own relations
    Have all passed on now like melting snow.
    But I’ll spend my days in endless roaming,
    Soft is the grass, my bed is free.
    Ah, to be back now in Carrighfergus,
    On that long road down to the sea.

    Chorus:
    But the sea is wide and I can’t swim over
    And neither have I wings to fly
    If I could find me a handsome boatsman
    To carry me over to my love and die

    But in Kilkenny, it is reported,
    On marble stones there, as black as ink.
    With gold and silver I did transport her
    But I’ll say no more now ’til I get a drink.
    For I’m drunk today, but then I’m seldom sober
    A handsome rover from town to town
    Ah, but I am sick now, my days are over
    Come all you young men and lay me down.

    Chorus.

    ****
    That is an old Irish song called Carrighfergus.

    I think of Carrighfergus as Grandpa’s song. You need to be able to read the song figuratively to understand why. In the Bible wisdom and understanding is personified as a woman, and that is key to understanding the song my way. And the being drunk, is, of course, only figurative for the state the person finds themselves in.

    I don’t know if it shows artistic sensibility to reinterpret an old Irish song into a poetic lament on Alzheimer’s’s, but in my mind I did it. And to me the lyrics are terribly, terribly, sad in a way they never were before. For someone slowly dying from Alzheimer’s’s the gulf between them and their former wisdom and intelligence is vast. The sea is wide, and they can’t get over.

    For the record, I think someone told me that Grandpa wanted the song Will The Circle Be Unbroken at his funeral (I think the full lyrics to that are here). So, whatever songs I have applied to him, that is the one he would take for himself.

    As a foot note: I got the Carrighfergus lyrics posted above from here. I first heard a version of it sung by Loreena McKennit from her album Elemental. However, she sings a shortened version, and when I looked for the lyrics I found the longer version posted above, and thought it more fitting. The lyrics to the Loreena McKennitt version are here. I don’t know how many variants there are–as is common with old traditional songs, there seems to be many. I found at least one more minor variant here.

  • Bathing Grandpa

    I have taken a more active role in Grandpa’s bathing routine. Before Alzheimer’s’s began debilitating him, he had his own grooming schedule. After Alzheimer’s’s started debilitating him, he had an erratic and faltering grooming schedule. Basically, he took a shower whenever he thought he needed one, and shaved when he felt he really ought. It has now progressed to the point where it not only can Grandpa not draw his own bathing water but his sense of time (and perhaps his inclination) has become such that he could go weeks without bathing. Of course if it struck him he could bath two days in a row and then go three weeks without a bath, but the fact remains that he wasn’t cognizant of his own needs. On top of that Grandma was no longer convinced that when he cleaned himself he was actually cleaning himself enough.

    So I stepped in to take active control of Grandpa’s bathing schedule. This was a point I had concern about at crises of conflict, as Grandpa was modest and preferred to handle his own bathing. But as it turned out it hasn’t been an issue. The modesty was before, and Grandpa’s incapacity has progressed to the point that now he has pretty much (but not entirely) dropped it. It helps that I haven’t just barged in and taken over everything. I am taking it slow, only helping him with some things, getting him accustomed to the presence of help, and the consistent schedule set by someone other than himself.

    The schedule is a bath or shower once a week on the weekend. Usually it is Saturday, but sometimes I make an exception (and do it on Sunday). I try to get it done before lunch, because that is when Grandpa has the most energy, and is mentally most together. I allow him the option of a shower or bath but he has gravitated toward showers because he finds them easier. They are easier for him–there is no sitting down–but it is harder for me to avoid getting soaked while helping him.

    When he takes a bath I wash his back and his hair and will prompt him on washing himself. If he showers I wash his hair, and direct the shower head to make sure he gets thoroughly wet, and prompt him as needed. When you have to help someone else you start looking at things in a new way. This house was badly designed for elderly people, and those in need of assistance. The bathrooms especially so. There is only one teeny bathroom with a tub right off the main hall. The bathroom is far too small to get a wheelchair in the room, and the hall is so narrow that when Grandpa is riding in the wheelchair and I park outside the door I can only just squeeze past to get from behind to in front where I can help him get out. Then the bathroom doorway is narrow so often Grandpa or I smash into some part of the frame when the two of us are trying to go through at the same time. Then the tub has the sliding stall doors which means only one side of the tub can be accessed from the outside at one time–a real problem if you’re trying to help someone. Further, the tub is right up against the toilet and the toilet makes outside access to the end of the tub with all the faucets awkward from the outside. After struggling with this setup multiple times you begin to think a real genius must have designed the setup. The reality is that it was designed by someone who wasn’t thinking about caring for elderly or incapacitated people.

    I have come to realize that the days in which Grandpa can use the bathroom are numbered. When he really needs to use the wheelchair and it is no longer a convenience and helpful item, then stopping outside the bathroom and hauling him the rest of the way by hand to the toilet will be too much. At that time, or maybe even sooner, Grandpa will no longer be brought to the toilet–the toilet will be brought to him in the form of a commode. And, when Grandpa moves from needing some help with his bathing to needing a lot of help–then we won’t be able to use the tub either. Already it is a little bit dicey watching him step into and out of the tub. For someone with deteriorating strength and balance stepping over the side of something is an uncertain procedure. Further, trying to do all the work of bathing someone else when half of the tub is blocked by a sliding partition is madness. With additional reflection I realize that when Grandpa becomes more incapacitated hauling him in and out of the tub will be a lot of work for me, and increasingly painful and dangerous for him. So when Grandpa needs more than some help we’re moving from baths and showers to sponge baths. Of course I realized it would come to that when he became bed-ridden, but now I see the sponge bathing may begin a lot earlier than that.

    Grandpa is very sensitive to water temperature. I guess we all are, but he prefers his water significantly cooler than I would. Sometimes it seems to me the water is lukewarm edging on cool when he declares that it is finally not too hot. I always have him check the water before he gets in, and water checking is a procedure I must watch with care. He has a hard time locating the water he is supposed to check. Often he will feel the sink over, and give some declaration about how cold it is, and he has a tendency to want to lift the lid of the toilet and plunge his hand in the bowl. One time recently when I asked him to check the water to make sure it was okay he solemnly lifted his foot and placed it against the side of the sliding door and held it there for awhile before announcing that he thought it felt okay.

    Once I have him in the tub there is the problem–as we’re all familiar with–that the water doesn’t always stay the same temperature. For most of us this problem provokes little more than a muttered comment and a quick adjustment of the temperature. Since Grandpa no longer knows how to adjust the water he is terrified of it getting too cold or too hot. It’s not uncommon to hear during bath time “Aaaahhhhh! It’s getting too hot! It’s getting too hot!” Or, “Aaauugghh! It’s freezing! It’s freezing!” Usually the temperature hasn’t changed to the extreme that his comment would seem to imply–but he’s sure it will keep getting hotter until he is fried to a crisp, or keep getting colder until he is frozen to death.

    After he is finished in the tub I make sure he gets out safely and give him a towel to dry off. After he has done as good a job as he can manage I finish drying him off. Then I slather him down with baby lotion, because he has a terrible problem with dry skin. I also soak his scalp with baby oil, because he has dry scalp as well. When I’m done he’s all greased up and smells like a baby. My hands do too. I recently realized that I need to switch him over to baby shampoo and baby body wash as well. The shampoo because he’s having more difficulty keeping it out of his eyes, and the body wash because normal soap is too harsh for someone with very dry skin.

    When that is all done I get him dressed, come is hair, and then get him a cup of coffee and something to eat. When I first started the bathing schedule he complained a lot about taking the bath/shower because he was always sure the last time we had done it was yesterday. Now that the habit has become more ingrained–and I’ve persistently insisted that we’re only doing it every weekend, not every day–he complies more readily. I think it is a lot of work for him–mentally and physically–but I do think he feels better after we’re done.

  • Ear Update

    In somewhat better news, Grandpa seems to have recovered (some or all) from his hearing problem. He didn’t make any announcement to that effect, but I noticed some time this week that I no longer had to raise my voice and lean close for him to hear me–his hearing ability seems to have gone back to what it was before he complained of something plugging up his ears. I am very glad of this, because I was very torn over whether to take him to the doctors, and was feeling if his condition didn’t improve that I probably should. Since he appears to have recovered to his former state I’m assuming it was just fluid in his inner ear canal, like always.

  • The Wheelchair

    The wheelchair is another milestone. I asked Grandpa’s brother Doug if we could have the wheelchair he had, but no longer needed. (It was used by his ailing and now deceased wife.) We–or should I say Grandpa–don’t desperately need a wheelchair now, but it was clear to me we were beginning to edge into the gray territory where sometimes a wheelchair might be useful, and on a rare occasion–like if Grandpa had to leave the house–it would be necessary. When Grandpa can’t move himself I can pick him up and move him, but, as I told Grandma, I’m not going to make a scene walking down the street carrying Grandpa. I also thought it a good idea to have the wheelchair around the house if for some reason Grandpa couldn’t get himself around while I was out of the house and only Grandma or Titi or some other person was around who couldn’t physically move Grandpa themselves.

    For several weeks after Doug brought the wheelchair over it simply sat in the basement. Then I decided I had better bring it to where it was more accessible, and perhaps even start using it myself. I find it very easy and convenient to carry Grandpa around. I find it better than trying to help Grandpa walk because when Grandpa tries to walk him and I are constantly “fighting” for control. He tries to lurch one way and then another, grabs at things, and tries to throw himself forward–all things which are contrary to normal walking. I end up trying to compensate for his every jerk, lurch, and grab as I steady him, and try to propel him toward the goal he is supposed to be heading toward–which he often doesn’t know where is, or has forgotten he is heading toward it. Instead of fighting this mini-battle where I’m constantly trying to keep him from pitching forward, lurching sideways, or hanging onto the wall, I find it simpler to simply hoist him off his feet. Dangling in mid-air, he has no control and ends up like a limp doll in my hands. I can then move quickly and smoothly to wherever we’re supposed to be going. This is also simpler than using the wheelchair, which requires getting him into the wheelchair and then navigating it around a house that most certainly was not built with a wheelchair in mind.

    The problem is that Grandpa isn’t comfortable with me carrying him. First, I think it scares him. Just about anything I do with him scares him. He would like the world to move veeeerrrrry slowly, and when it doesn’t he is sure something will go wrong. If he were all by himself something would go wrong, but as it is he doesn’t trust me–not entirely. He is always half sure that when I sit him down he is going to fall over, and so on. How much worse when I left him right off his feet. Part of him cannot deny that he is dangling in mid-air, held quite firmly. But another part of his mind is sure that he is about to fall. The second part of the problem is that sometimes it hurts Grandpa when I carry him. It’s not clear to me how often it hurts his back when I carry him, and how often he is afraid that his back might get hurt. In any case it all comes down to the fact that–while on a rare occasion when Grandpa’s knees give what and I carry him to safety he is exceedingly grateful to have me carry him–most of the time he’d rather do anything else but have me carry him.

    So I decided it was time to give him the option of riding in the wheelchair.

    Grandpa would prefer to get himself around on foot, or crawl as he does more often now, but the wheelchair is definitely the easiest and most comfortable way for him to travel. He feels safe and secure in the wheelchair, and movement requires no thought or effort on his part (something walking takes in ever increasing amounts now). The problem (from his perspective) is that he is dependent on someone else to travel in the wheelchair, it offends his dignity a bit (though he has lost much of that) and also it requires some work to get into the chair and back out.

    Right now the wheelchair is only used regularly for taking him to the supper table. He doesn’t actually need the wheelchair most nights, but I think it is good to get him into the habit so that he becomes comfortable eating at the table in the wheelchair. Grandma likes it because Grandpa is restrained when the wheelchair is parked up against the table with the wheels locked. This is actually a bit of a headache for me–I’m uneasy about leaving Grandpa unsupervised in the wheelchair because I am afraid he will try to get out or move himself only to surely end in disaster.

    Today the wheelchair is needed only rarely, but its appearance marks another milestone in Grandpa’s decline.

    ****

    Moving on to Grandpa’s health:

    Grandpa has been suffering with some mild breathing problems. To a degree they have been with him since before I have taken care of him. He stopped smoking a year (or several) before my arrival because he started having breathing problems. Once he stopped smoking the worst of the problems went away, but the persistent problems he has, I think, are a result of his 50+ years of smoking. Previously I had mentioned Grandpa’s occasional problem with wheezing and his regular hocking up of snot to the doctor, but she said, “It’s just post nasal drip. A lot of old people have trouble with it. He sounds fine.” Well, sometimes he sounds fine, and sometimes he doesn’t, but I don’t think his trouble is just post nasal drip. Granted, there probably isn’t much, if anything that can be done for him. You smoke for fifty years you’re going to have problems. But it’s not just post nasal drip.

    Recently, the wheezing and hocking has become worse. About a week or so ago he was wheezing so bad when he laid down at night that it was difficult for me (and Grandpa) to sleep. If that had continued I would have recommended taking him to the doctor, but the wheezing has since passed (for the time being) and Grandpa is just constantly hocking stuff up. The recent flare-up has reminded me that lung problems will likely end up being what kills Grandpa. It clearly is the weak system in his body.

    In other ailments, Grandpa has, for as long as I have lived with him, also complained about popping and stuffiness in his ears. This is one of those on and off complaints that doesn’t seem to get completely better ever, and since it doesn’t appear to be tied with any particular sickness is not something I’m inclined to take him to the doctor over, especially since he is not able to converse coherently about his ailments. That is not a good environment for doctoring.

    But recently he complained that his ears had become stuffed again, and this time I noticed a great decrease in his hearing. He now seems to be hard of hearing, whereas before he could hear quite well. I’m not sure what to do about it, since he isn’t complaining of pain, fever, or any of the other symptoms one would associate with an ear infection. I see no sign of redness, swelling, or anything else out of the ordinary on the visible exterior of his ear. One possibility is that he might have wax on his eardrum, but should I take him to the doctors–with all the hassle and anxiety involved–just to get his ear cleaned?

    I don’t know. If Grandpa didn’t mind going to the doctors I would take him. But when it requires a great amount of effort to get him to the doctor, and then he isn’t very helpful once you are there, I don’t really want to take him unless I’m sure some good can be done, or at least that it really needs to be looked at.

    I’m sure there is something affecting his hearing–whether it is fluid inside his ear or earwax on the outside, I don’t know. But I do know that Alzheimer’s’s is also affecting his hearing as even before this recent trouble he has shown a decrease in his ability to understand what he has heard–not because he didn’t hear it but because he couldn’t interpret what he heard. So, while I know he is having problems physically hearing, I don’t know how many of the times he says “Huh?” not because he didn’t hear, but because he didn’t understand.

    Whatever the multiplicity of causes, this increased difficulty in communication has led to more stress and labor as now everything may have to be repeated three times before Grandpa might understand it. One can begin to feel like a broken record, repeating, “I just said that . . .”

    But there are much worse things to deal with.

  • How Hot is Hot

    Old people and young people react to temperatures differently. This is a fact I must constantly deal with in caring for Grandpa. Young people can take great extremes in temperature better than the elderly, and generally a younger person prefers a cooler ambient temperature than a older person. Thrown into this, some of us, even in our youth, prefer hotter temperatures and that preference becomes more marked as age increases.

    I definitely fall into the cooler category, and, whatever Grandpa was in his youth, he very much prefers it warm in these latter years of his life. While Grandma is not so extreme as Grandpa she also prefers it warmer than I. The result is that the house is almost constantly warmer than I would like, and it is usually unpleasantly stuffy. I love a nice pleasant breeze. I think fresh air moving through the house is conducive to good house. Grandpa, on the other hand, can’t abide the least hint of a breeze and is sure any puff of wind forebodes oncoming sickness. So, while I would throw every window open and let in some nice outdoor air, the windows generally remain shut.

    Thus I don’t wear long sleeved shirts unless I am going out of the house and the heavy duty short sleeved shirts that I found so comfortable back home now seem unbearably heavy to wear most of the time, and the jeans I used to wear without a thought became stifling over the summer. It sometimes felt impossible to get comfortable–not only because it was so hot but because there was no movement of the air. It felt completely stifling.

    During the day it can be hot, but the nights are always the worst. Grandpa and I share a very small bedroom. I feel bad if Grandpa wakes up in the morning and says how cold he was the previous night, so as much as possible I suffer with what feels like stifling heat to me so he won’t have to suffer with what feels like frigid cold to him. I try to get myself some relief by encouraging him to go to bed fully clothed and cover him with a sturdy blanket so that I can open the window (some) without him waking up in the morning and complaining about how he froze the previous night. But it is a difficult balance as the temperature fluctuates during the night and Grandpa doesn’t know enough (anymore) to add an additional blanket if he gets cold so I must think of it for him. The night starts out warm, so he may shed clothing and/or blankets while I have the window open and as the room cools toward dawn he will complain of freezing (when for me the temperature has just become bearable).

    I don’t think I have ever sweated so badly at night in any previous summer of my life. I have never lived with air conditioning so hot summer nights are nothing new, but back home we could alleviate the problem by putting fans in windows and creating a nice strong breeze. Grandpa, being so very sensitive to the least hint of a breeze, means our bedroom remains stifling and that–more than simple high temperatures–has been the cause of my troubles.

    How hot is hot? Or maybe we should say, how stifling is stifling? You might have thought soaking your pillow with sweat, or soaking your sheets with sweat, was only a proverbial saying, or only something that happens when you have a raging fever. Not for me. On the bad nights I will wake up several times a night to find my pillow wet with sweat. I flip the pillow over to find a dry side, and wake up a few hours later to find that side wet as well. On the worst nights it is so hot I can’t cover myself with anything. For most of the year the room is kept so warm that I can’t cover myself with anything more than a sheet. My rule of thumb is that if it gets cool enough that I can actually cover myself with a blanket then it is time to start piling more blankets on Grandpa because it means he’s getting cold. On the really bad nights my entire bed gets wet with sweat and when I get up to take Grandpa to the bathroom I come back and find my bed damp and cold. So I have to roll over and hope I can find a dry spot.

    There are much worse problems in life than a stifling bedroom, but dealing with sweat soaked bedding is probably not a problem one would naturally consider when contemplating the difficulties of caring for the elderly.

  • The Embers Are Dying

    For the record, here is a summarized account of the progression of Grandpa’s condition.

    Eating

    The big milestone in Grandpa’s eating has been a recognition that his inability to eat normal food has progressed to the point where he needs special food. As I have often said, things do not progress neatly with this disease. An Alzheimer’s patient doesn’t go from walking one day to not walking at all the next day, or from eating normal food always to not eating at all. The slow progression is like a form of torment for the victim as the lose their ability one little bit at a time and they struggle futility to hold onto what they have.

    With some things, like talking, you can only watch as the victim’s ability deteriorates. There is nothing you can do. But for other things as the disease progresses there are steps to take when the victim reaches certain points in progression. For example, there comes a time when it is time for the Alzheimer’s patient to start wearing diapers. That point as long passed here, but there was the awkward and delicate time when we had to introduce the fact to Grandpa. The trick is knowing when something has to be done.

    In the case of eating, when I first came to live here Grandpa ate everything we ate. He found a few things difficult to chew with his false teeth so he would spit them out, and I would cut his food up for him so he could eat it, but beyond that there was no question that he would eat the same meals as the rest of us. Since then, the situation has slowly grown worse.

    When I first came the influx of my better cooking and attention to Grandpa’s needs made him gain weight from about 125 lbs. to 135 lbs. But then, subtly, things began to change. As a subtle change, I couldn’t point to a particular time when I first noticed it. But I began to notice that Grandpa was having increasing difficulty using his for, he was spitting more and more of his food out, and his attention span was becoming so sort that he was having difficulty finishing all of his meals. This progressed to the point where I began to find it a bit alarming. It was one thing for him to struggle to eat and make a mess in the process if in the end he consumed all he needed. It was another thing entirely if he was no longer eating properly.

    My concerns were confirmed when a few weeks ago Titi commented that it looked like Grandpa had lost weight. A weighing only confirmed the fact–he was back down to around 125 lbs. It was time for a change in Grandpa’s diet. Since it seemed like Grandpa would spit out anything of differing texture in his food, my first thought was that it was time to go to pureed baby food. But at the grocery store I started to have second thoughts. My instincts said Grandpa wasn’t quite so far gone that he would find eating the bland puree of baby food acceptable. Though chewy things, crunchy things, and any other noticeable lumps would end up spat out, he still wanted taste and something. So I went to the halfway point of junior food which I found fit him just right. A junior food meal of chicken and potatoes with a cheese sauce had taste and substance without anything standing out enough for him to think it needed to be spat out.

    When I fed Grandpa the junior food it occurred to me that it basically looked like canned food. Normal canned soup is too thin (I think) to substitute for all meals, and Grandpa requires variety so I knew feeding him canned ravioli (which he likes but I loathe) wouldn’t suffice. But there are “select” brands of canned soups which are substantive enough with meat, potatoes, and vegetables to be more stew that soup and constitute a solid meal. Further, there is a wide selection of such soups so Grandpa wouldn’t have to eat the same thing over and over again. My suspicion turned out to be correct–Grandpa could eat these soups and they now make up his supper for about half the week. The rest of time he can still (for now) eat what we eat.

    Bathroom

    I have long chronicled Grandpa’s continuing problems with the bathroom. There has been no drastic change, only the continuing slow progression. It is striking how similar Grandpa’s bathroom competence (in some ways) is to a toddler. When he needs to go to the bathroom now he will usually say, “I need to go to the bathroom” or something similar, to get someone to take him there. That is, if he can recognize and articulate his need to go to the bathroom. Sometimes he will become agitated, or speak in an incomprehensible manner when he needs to go to the bathroom. You ask, “Do you need to go to the bathroom?” and he will then say, “Yes! I have to go bad!” . . . but somehow he was unable to articulate it without being asked, or perhaps unable to recognize the source of his agitation without being asked. Because of this, I’ve become something of a broken record, constantly asking him, “Do you need to go to the bathroom?” If you fail to ask him, and he fails to recognize and articulate his need, something drastic will happen. Such as walking to the end of the hall and peeing in a corner, or grabbing the nearest garbage can and peeing in that.

    Another development is that I now set him on the toilet whenever he wants to go to the bathroom. Before he would always want to pee standing up–and that was more and more often ending in some form of disaster. About a month ago I somehow managed to convince him that sitting down was acceptable. The operation is thus: When he needs to use the bathroom I guide him to the bathroom, position him in front of the toilet, pull down his pants, and lower him onto the toilet much as you would a little child just learning how to use the bathroom. This basically eliminates all decision making from Grandpa and eliminates the opportunity for disaster. Obviously it also requires that I be much more involved in his bathroom usage. Middle of the night trips he still mostly manages (or fails to manage, as the case may be) himself. This means about half the time he comes back either without his diaper or completely naked and I must wake myself up, dress him, and check the bathroom for any necessary cleanup. Ideally, I would take him every time he needed to go to the bathroom, but during the night it is exceptionally difficult, and even during the day I don’t catch him every time.

    Some notable incidents:

    –Grandpa undressing and climbing into the shower to take a leak.

    –Grandpa washing his hands in the toilet.

    –Grandpa peeing in the bathroom sink.

    –Grandpa washing his soiled bottom with the hand-drying towel (and on various occasions with a washcloth)

    The next great milestones are (1) I really need to start wiping his bottom and (2) I really need to start being the one to bathe him. On matters of both dignity and practicality these are troublesome. On dignity, having someone else spoon feed you and someone else wipe your bottom are probably the two most undignified things that can be done. Having someone else bathe you probably comes close behind and I’m not eager to confront Grandpa with either of these. Then, doing those things will probably double or triple the amount of time I must spend helping Grandpa with those tasks. Presently, I will put Grandpa on the toilet and then leave him be or get his shower water ready and then leave him be until he wants to get out. But if I must stay around until Grandpa finishes his stay on the toilet, or bathe him in the tub myself–that takes a lot more time.

    Walking

    Grandpa’s walking ability has taken a noticeable decline, spurred on by his back and hip problems. Not only does he have trouble walking, but he has difficulty knowing where he is walking to. Often I end up “Driving” him, especially in the later portion of the day. This involves me standing behind him, putting my hands in his armpits, picking up his weight and propelling him forward. Again, much like you would help a toddler just learning how to walk . . . except Grandpa is about as tall as me and weighs 125 lbs.

    Normally, I’m just supporting a portion of his weight and giving him added stability and a sense of security as well as guidance as to where he should be going. But sometimes when he is feeling especially poorly I will support a lot of his weight. Once he simply picked up his feet and I carried him over to the couch. This is only going to become increasingly common, and fortunately I don’t find him too heavy.

    He also has taken to crawling around the house.

    Talking

    Grandpa, more often than not, is verbally incomprehensible. Maybe he is about 90% incomprehensible for most people. I have a hard time being a good judge of this because I’m pretty good at reading between the lines and contextualizing his attempted communication to get the gist of what he wants. So while his words often (in and of themselves) make no sense I often can still get the heart of what he wants. Someone else, on the other hand, would be entirely lost.

    Misc

    Grandpa is having increasing difficulty recognizing people or remembering their names. The real marker of decline in this regard are the few times Grandpa has been uncertain about Grandma’s name, or unable to remember it. These, so far, have been rare blips, but that they have occurred at all with Grandma’s name is indicative. It shows how far the fuzzy edges in Grandpa’s life are progressing.

    Recently, he has also started calling for his brother Gene who was his favorite brother growing up. He can do this incessantly without having any apparent reason (beyond a sense of agitation). I once asked him why he called for Gene. Grandpa said, “I don’t know. I know he isn’t here. I guess just because he is my favorite brother.” I think Grandpa is right on the cusp where, when he stops and thinks about it he knows his brother Gene isn’t here, but that he has deteriorated to the point that it feels like his brother should be present. Sooner or later, he won’t even be able to recall that Gene isn’t around.

  • Pain in The Back

    Grandpa managed to injure is back a week or so ago. The pain has been bad enough that he has been willing to take pain medication. Which is saying something for Grandpa. The worst times the pain can just about leave him breathless.

    I think it’s a pinched nerve, which he brought about by twisting his torso to reach for something. It effects him worst sitting down and getting up and lifting his feet. He has got a little better recently. On his worst night he couldn’t make it back to bed every time he came from the bathroom and I had to help him. I have taken the habit of sometimes walking behind him with my hands in his armpits to guide and stabilize him him, and, if necessary, take some of the weight off his feet if his back seizes up. I just about had to carry him to bed this way on the worst night.

    Grandpa appreciates the support, though he is a bit nervous at the same time that somehow the assistance might hurt his back more. Even when his back is not bothering him in particular the action is both helpful and supportive when he is simply having a hard time moving his feet and gets “stuck.” If I pick up removing some of the weight from his own feet and then propel him forward he can get unstuck and half walk while I half carry him.

    So now he has asked when he gets stuck on the way to the couch, “Will somebody come over here and give me a push.”