BATTLES, PART I

We who care for those who have been attacked are at war the Alzheimer’s demon 24/7 knowing full well that as we carry on the fight day after day, ultimately we will lose.   So we, the captains, have learned to select our battles.  To invest our time and energy in trivialities is a waste.  Does it matter if he decides on one pair of jeans over another, or that his socks don’t match, or that he wears his old running shoes with his suit to church, or that he has food stains from lunch down the front of his shirt and won’t change into a clean one?  No.  Not really.  I’m just grateful that he is willing to wear his suit and doesn’t insist on faded blue jeans and red suspenders to various events.  These are just some of the small disagreements which should never become battles — not even a skirmish.   However, the one issue which is always lying in wait for an all-out war is Ken’s personal hygiene and care for his private needs.  Actually, I have been very pleased throughout the onset of  the disease that he has been truly careful and conscientious in caring for himself.  I do find myself gently reminding him that “Today is shower day,” to which he complies without a word — until recently.

I believe that personal cleanliness is so high on my list of fearful challenges is because of Ken’s father, Nick,  who was also an Alzheimer’s victim.  An early Leatherneck well before WWI, cleanliness among the Marines was an absolute must, which they accomplished with a daily, but meager, supply of fresh water.   Later in life, he was so aware of  possibly getting soiled that when he reluctantly joined us on a family picnic,  he  complained about the surrounding  germs that lurked everywhere.  He  then lined the park benches with newspaper before sitting down, thus avoiding as much contamination as he could.   

However, after his brain became coated and tangled with disease,  all of that changed.  He became a scruffy, smelly old man; all because he was afraid of being cold.   Not only did he begin layering his clothing;  two pair of trousers and two flannel shirts  — over his long underwear —  he topped it all off with a sport coat and hat.  This ensemble he wore constantly, indoors and out, year round no matter what degree the summer’s temperature might reach.  Fearing the cold he would not bathe or shower.  Offering their help in keeping their grandfather secure and warm our sons , with Ken’s help, made every effort to get Nick into the bathroom.   He would not remove his clothes for any reason, including his need to bathe.   At first we thought some of his refusal might be part modesty, but the more the male members of the family coaxed the more adamant he became.  “No.  I don’t want to be cold,” he insisted.

Bi-weekly I took Nick to his barber with whom he had a long-time relationship, and with whom Nick still felt a large degree of comfort.  The barber would back the old man’s chair up to the wash station and and give his hair and scalp a good scrub, much to a loud and continuing protest from his reluctant customer.   Minutes later and realizing he had survived, Nick relaxed and allowed his friend to shave his face and cut his hair.  At least that part of him was clean from time to time, but the rest of him reeked and remained a problem.

At home, with the thermostat turned up beyond normal and armed with two pair of  trousers, two shirts and clean underwear we finally took matters into our own hands.  Catching him unaware we unbuckled his belt pulled down the triple layer of pants and slipped on the new.  The same with the shirts.  Clutching at his clothes, but over his fierce defiance and near hysteria we accomplished a portion of getting him “clean.”   Not the body, but at least the clothes.  The whole ordeal was so upsetting to him that we dared not even think about continuing the cleaning process by putting him into the shower. 

With no memory, rapidly failing health and faltering steps causing frequent falls,  Ken and his sister, Loretta, decided that the next time their father fell and was taken to the hospital — which was becoming more and more often — they would have him transferred to a full-care facility.  I agreed.  (Rose was also showing strong signs of Alzheimer’s.) 

It’s always such a soul-searing dilemma to make that decision and at first the three of us thought we may have waited longer than we should.   However, in retrospect we have all agreed that in spite of his inability to care for his personal needs, he was as happy as he could be living in the familiar surroundings of his own home with Rose.    When we went to visit Nick in his new surroundings,  he had been tubbed and scrubbed and was as clean as a whistle.  We knew that he had lost at least one battle of the bath.    He wasn’t there a full week when we received a call from the head nurse telling us that Nick had expired,  having suffered a fatal heart attach.   Knowing how hysterical he reacted to us in our efforts to bathe him I have always wondered if, perhaps, the attendants were preparing him for a bath when he succumbed.  He was 84.   If so, then I believe that once again Nick won his battle of the bath.