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Posts Tagged ‘holiday’

football game

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Halloween pumpkins

Carved pumpkins a sure sign of Halloween

I have often said the bonus part of being married to Ken is that he was a fun date. Not only was he a fun date before marriage he continued to be a fun date after marriage, but then many of our friends remained okay dates after marriage until the tube took over, turning them into the well-known couch potato. The difference between Ken, who did watch his share of ball games, and our friends was that he continued to be a fun date up until AD became a third wheel in our lives.

Our early neighborhood was mostly made up of young couples with small children, and all but a few budgets were pinched tighter than a size eight foot in a six shoe. Consequently, nights out on the town, or even a movie, were few and far between. However, to keep our social appetites fed, kids in tow, we entertained one another at our various homes taking turns hosting: we bar-b-cued, planned picnics in the parks, or at the beach, and enjoyed Sunday summer band concerts by our city’s Municipal Band – all without spending any money. In addition, a couple of nights a month the neighbors got together for a game of penny-ante with no one going home richer than he came. It was for fun not fortune as all of the winnings went into a kitty until there were enough accumulated funds for everyone’s dinner, plus a tip, which happened every year or so.

And there were parties and celebrations according to the calendar, but perhaps none so outlandish and memorable than Halloween, with costumes required. The 31st, of course, was kids’ night so the adult party was usually held on Friday or Saturday night before Trick Or Treat, but not every year. For those less willing than Ken to dress up as someone-something else was much too much to ask of some husbands on even a yearly basis.

Prior to our just-across-the-street friends Fred and Phyllis adding a family room, all parties were held in the host’s garage. Once we found their new room to be a warm and cozy place without a draft their home became the gathering place during the colder fall and winter months.

So it was that Phil donned in black shorts, black shirt, a cowboy hat and toy six shooters hanging from her hips became a female Paladin (Have Gun Will Travel, a popular TV series at the time). Laughing, she opened the door to let in the party revelers. Fred put on two arm bands, a bow tie and took his place behind his bar as the in-house bartender, which was the costume for many of the men. Ken wasn’t much different that first year matching my Roaring 20s flapper dress with gangster-looking attire, including arm bands.

Other years, and good sport that he was, he agreed twice to wear the other half of Raggedy Anne: Andy with a sailor hat and sprouting red yarn hair. Our faces matched with cherry-circled cheeks, smiling mouths and exaggerated eyes. We wore it to Fred and Phil’s second party and a few years later our duo costumes appeared at other events. There were times when I couldn’t believe he was still such a fun guy and so willing to throw caution to the wind and be just plain silly.

Several years later we had occasion to attend a fund-raiser for a local community service organization. I made Ken a white sports coat out of a piece of left-over polyester knit from years gone by, painted a black mustache on his upper lip and handed him a baton. As Xavier Cugat, he matched my Carman Miranda outfit topped off with a turban headpiece filled with an assortment of fake fruit, including a cluster of purple plastic grapes. We were a hit with friends, but didn’t win the grand prize – not even runner up – which was all right. It was a good time because I had a special evening out with my fun-date husband. I sure miss him.

Even as Ken succumbed to Alzheimer’s, I continued to decorate for the holiday, and the second year of Ken’s illness he remembered about the little ones coming for Trick or Treat. Together we put out decorations making our house look spooky without being scary. Every morning, though, I would find the pumpkins, scarecrows and the friendly, smiling ghosts on the kitchen table. More of a morning person than I wanted to be, Ken busied himself getting the house in order while I slept. “Why did you bring in all of the decorations,” I asked him. “Halloween is over,” he replied. “Let’s put this stuff away.” Explaining that the holiday wouldn’t be over for two more weeks, I asked him if he wanted to help me put the things outside. “Of course I’ll help,” he said, ready and willing to have it all in place when the costumed children came for candy.

We went through the same routine every morning until November 1, when I agreed that we could put Halloween away for another year. It would have been easier for me to just give in the first time he brought the whole array into the kitchen. But I wanted our life to be as normal as possible even if it meant doing the same job over and over, and for several years it worked.

This year in front of our house there is a seven foot happy-faced ghost – possibly a distant cousin to Casper — hovering in the midst of our juniper bushes, surrounded by candy corn lights and spider webs. Ken no longer brings in the decorations during the early morning hours. Sleeping in a hospital bed with full rails his morning activity is limited, as is his walking ability.  He isn’t even aware that Halloween is fast approaching. Actually, I doubt he notices what’s outside, much less the passing of days, one being much the same as the last. Neither is he aware of the leaves turning gold and the hint of another year soon to pass. Alzheimer’s, like a thief in the night or a mysterious, ghostly intruder has stolen away my fun date, and the demon disease didn’t even ask, “Trick or Treat?”

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Haunted House

When an old house creaks, it may be haunted or not.

“Your house is spooky, Grandma.”  The statement did not come from one of our younger posterity but from our 23-year-old grandson Brian.  Several years ago, before Ken contracted Alzheimer’s we had asked Brian, recently returned after a four-year stint in the Marines, if he would stay in the house while we were on vacation; look after the dog, take in the mail, water and cut the grass and keep everything ship-shape until we returned.  We also agreed to pay him a tidy sum for his efforts.  He happily accepted.  When we arrived home we found that he had been more not here, than here.

“I just couldn’t stay in your house after the first night,” he explained, expounding on every creak and groan he heard or imagined. “I think it’s haunted!”  I turned to this brute of a man and asked, “How old are you, Brian?  How tall?  And how much do you weight?”  If he looked a bit chagrined, it didn’t change how he felt.  “You house is spooky,” he repeated “really spooky.”

He then proceeded to detail his night in our so-called chamber of horrors.  “This place has bumps in the night, stuff moving in the shed next to the house and in the wood pile and in the backyard,” he confided.

“Probably a cat,” I explained. “Or it could have been a rat – or a possum,” none of which eased his mind.

“The floor creaks,” he continued, “like someone is walking.  So do the walls and I can hear the roof in the family room going snap, crackle, pop, and I believe there is something living in the attic making a rasping sound.”

Reliving his night of terror seemed to add to his vivid and out-of-control imagination.  He had verbally tagged everything except the foundation and windows, but I couldn’t really remember any of the strange sounds except the time when we did have mice in the attic.  Explaining to this gentle giant that our house was an older home and no doubt had settling noises, I also acknowledged that after a hot day the flat roof on the family room addition contracted making it sound like the bowl of Rice Crispies he described.   That wasn’t enough.  Unconvinced, Brian insisted the house was haunted even though I pooh-poohed the whole idea.  He did, though, express regret for abandoning his house duty, but assured me that the dog had been cared for as were the yards and mail – all accomplished during the safety of daylight.

Perhaps the sounds were there and Ken and I had just grown used to them so we didn’t notice, but our conversation reminded me of another dark night and an unexpected noise from long ago when our children were young, the house was fairly new and there was no Emergency 911.

I believe both Ken and I were awakened at the exact same moment by the click of a door latch as it snapped into its slot, and then nothing.  That one sound had brought me into wide-eyed wakefulness.  Lying in our bed I could feel that he too had heard the noise and was no longer sleeping – hardly even breathing – yet I managed to murmur, “Did you hear that?”

“Someone just closed the kitchen door,” he whispered back.  “We have a burglar in the house.”

“Call the police,” I uttered.

Quietly, he reached over and picked up the phone setting it on the floor to muffle as much sound as possible.  Feeling the rotary wheel he placed his forefinger into the “O” and pulled it to near full circle until it stopped, and then he let it go. The clicking as the dial returned to its place almost matched the thumping of our hearts.  “Operator,” a woman answered.  “Someone is in our house.  Call the sheriff,” Ken said, barely audible.  Within seconds a man’s voice was heard, “Sheriff.”  Ken quietly explained our situation and gave him our address.   We were assured that a squad car was on its way even as we spoke.  Ken hung up the phone and we lay there staring at the shadowed ceiling.

On the clock possibly a minute and a half had lapsed since the kitchen latch had pulled us both from our slumber when suddenly I exclaimed, “The children?”  Leaping silently from my bed I rushed to the boy’s room.  From the light cascading through their window I could see that all was well.  Slipping down the hall with Ken close behind I opened the door where our girls slept.  One bed was empty.  “Julie is not here,” I declared.  Adrenalin pumping and as quiet as the proverbial mouse Ken cautiously opened the kitchen door and tiptoed into the darkness armed with a baseball bat which he had picked up from the boys’ room.  Bravely, he called, “Whose there?”

“Daddy?” a small voice returned.   “Julie?” Ken questioned, “Is that you Julie?” he repeated placing the whiffle-ball bat on the seat of an adjacent chair.

Snapping on the light we saw our frightened little girl, ghost-like in her nightgown, peeking around the darkened corner.  “I had to go to the bathroom,” she explained.  “Why didn’t you use this one?” Ken asked pointing to the one right across from the bedrooms.  “I didn’t want to wake you,” she continued, “so I used the one in the laundry room, and then I heard noises so I stayed in there.”

Tucked back into her bed with an extra kiss, we said goodnight to our sleepy child and returned to our bedroom.  Ken picked up the phone a second time and dialed the operator who connected us once again to the Sheriff’s department.  Apologizing and asking that the car racing to our house be canceled, Ken explained, “There is no intruder.  It was a child.”  “Whose child?” grumbled the officer.  “Ours,” said Ken sheepishly, “and she’s fine.”  With that I could visualize the sheriff smiling as he said to Ken, “Have a good night.”

As the fall of another year edges its way into earlier darkness causing the evenings to become longer and longer – especially after the caregivers leave –I find that it’s really a good time for me.  At the end of the day Ken is very tired.  Alzheimer’s seems to sap his energy so he is soon asleep and I have several hours of free, uninterrupted time.  I write, or catch up on bills, or do other busy work, or treat myself with a CD to watch.  Then it’s off to bed where I read until sleepiness blurs the print. I can lose myself in a good book.

The house is silent.  Every so often one of the cats will gallop down the hall before jumping up on the bed – a familiar thumping.  Turning the page I hear another sound.  Pausing to listen I ask myself about the bumping coming from the shed, a thud as a log tumbles onto the bricks from the woodpile.  “It’s probably a neighbor’s cat,” I say to me, “or a rat, or a possum.”  I listen to the relaxing of our half-century old house as it yawns and settles in for the night.  If Brian were here I would say, “No, Brian, the house isn’t haunted; like me, it’s just tired and our joints creak.”  But if I do see an apparition I will take the advice of psychic Silva Brown from one of her books, “Just tell the ghost to take the first door on the right and go home.”  Then I’ll add, “And on your way, please don’t let the latch click.  It might wake up Ken.”  That’s when I close my book, move the cat, turn off the lamp, snuggle under the covers and go to sleep.

Photo courtesy of  country-boy-shane http://www.flickr.com/photos/shanegorski/

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cloudy sky

Looking towards heaven we remember the miracle of Easter, and gain hope for other miracles.

“Then why do we have Easter bunnies?” asked Haley, a few years back when, as an extended family, we talked about the holiday and all of the traditions.  The little ones gathered with us that evening were the third and fourth generation of Ken’s and my progeny, but one doesn’t have to be very old to question rabbits, especially small bunnies, hopping around delivering Easter Baskets.

“Tradition,” they were told by one of the adults, who continued to explain how bunnies and chicks born in the spring represented new life to the ancients, many of whom converted from pagan idol worship to the teachings of Christ, but brought with them some of their pagan symbols.  Over the centuries those symbols became intermingled with the “new life” of the resurrection of Jesus on the third day following His crucifixion.  Succeeding years of symbolism and generations of adding glitter to old traditions, we as a majority Christian nation seem to be more caught up celebrating the season of new life with colored eggs, jelly beans, chocolate bunnies and marshmallow chicks than we do the resurrection and “new life” of our Lord Jesus Christ, which of all miracles is the miracle of miracles.

During His ministry, Jesus performed many miracles which are recorded in the New Testament for us to read, honor and ponder.  And today — miracles continue.  There are countless miracles, recorded and testified to in these modern times.  I am one of them.  Following last year’s automobile accident and being somewhat aware of my numerous injuries and the trauma encountered, I mumbled from my hospital bed, “I should be dead.”  My grown children made no comment, but I could see worry in their eyes, nor did the medical people who constantly surrounded me confirm – or even suggest to me that my condition was grave.  It was later that my young friend, Malena, a former member of an  EMT ambulance team agreed, having been present and an observer of similar accidents where the victims were pronounced dead at the scene.  I am here because of the prompt, efficient actions of another EMT crew, amazing doctors and nurses — and the absolute, undeniable healing power of prayer, the laying on of hands and God’s grace.

There are skeptics, of course, but as a woman of faith I choose not to be one of them, instead I give credit where credit is due.  I accept miracles and wonder how the doubters explain away that which is right before their eyes.  Many in the medical field have witnessed and have been a part of other miracles and some share the experience with the world.

From two different sources on the internet comes the account of Jeff Markin, an apparently healthy man of 53 who was on his way to work when he was overcome with feeling sick.  He called his boss saying he was sweating and suddenly felt ill, and that he may not make it to work.  Encouraged to go to the hospital Markin arrived at the emergency room of Palm Beach Gardens Hospital in Florida and collapsed on the floor with full cardiac arrest.  After 40 minutes of intense effort and being shocked with a defibrillator numerous times Dr. Chauncey W. Crandall, the supervising cardiologist was summoned.

Dr. Crandall said the room was like a war zone with everyone doing all they could to save the man’s life.  However, Markin showed all the signs of death: the heart rhythm flat lined across the screen, his pupils were dilated and it was determined he had been “down” too long for any hope.  The other doctors left, and time of death was determined and recorded.  Dr. Crandall signed his name to the report and turned to leave.  At the door he heard a voice telling him to pray for this man.  Busy with his work load and feeling rushed, he continued into the hall.  Again, he was stopped short and instructed a second time to pray for this man.

Returning to the patient’s bedside where a nurse was preparing the body for the morgue, he placed his hands on the man’s chest.  Markin’s fingers, toes and lips were literally turning black from lack of oxygen when Crandall honored the Lord’s command and began to pray, crying out for the man’s soul.  At the conclusion of the prayer, Crandall asked the ER doctor, who had returned — wondering what was going on — to shock the patient one more time.  Out of respect for his colleague, he complied.  The monitor showed a perfect heartbeat.  Jeff’s fingers and toes twitched, breathing resumed and he began to mumble.  Three days later with the patient still in ICU, Dr. Crandall found Markin sitting up and alert with no brain or organ damage and a healthy heart.

As with all miracles, there is no explanation, nor is there a reason for Jeff Markin’s healed heart. Furthermore, the good doctor makes no effort to provide one.  A Christian all of his life, he made it a policy not to mix his religious beliefs with his practice.  However, he began a search with prayer and the laying on of hands as another avenue to healing when his son was stricken with leukemia.  Dr. Crandall has written “Raising The Dead” chronicling his experiences.

He also commented about faith and its importance, quoting from scripture a portion of Matthew 17:20 when Jesus said, “If ye have faith of a mustard seed…………..nothing shall be impossible to you.”  On the video I watched, Dr. Crandall concluded Markin’s account with, “Miracles are real, and they are real today.”

I pray for Ken that he may be comforted in his affliction, and I pray for me that I may continue to cope, be patient and find joy in my service to him.  This is our assignment, and while it is an assignment I could do without I also understand its importance in a very broad sense.   Every reported case of AD presents to the medical community the urgency of escalating their research.  If Ken’s illness helps to spur that research, even one little bit, it may save future generations from this miserable disease.  I pray for our ability to manage what we are dealing with, not for the Lord to give us a miracle and remove our burden.

Ken and I have had our portion of miracles, including being blessed with full, rich lives — not without our share of other adversities — which have made us stronger.  Moreover, we take delight in our wonderful, ever-growing family – all of them miracles in their own right — and I am still here to care for my husband and be with him as he continues his lone journey home.  Ahead is the assurance for the most important of miracles: new life somewhere in the distant future — all because of that magnificent miracle which happened on a bright, spring morning nearly 2,000 years ago.

As fellow Christians do we really need to be reminded that there is more to Easter than baskets and candy?   The answers might be “more than likely,” “probably,” “I suppose,” and ultimately, “yes,” because we are human, and we become distracted getting caught up in the ways of the world, the pomp and pageantry we have created – and don’t forget — the good taste of chocolate bunnies.  Yes, we do cast a fleeting shadow on the simply stated – yet — majestic message of that long-ago Sabbath morning:  Jesus lives.

Hopefully, in celebration of this Holy Day we call Easter, let us all take the time to peek through the shimmer of cellophane grass, past the colorful, hard-boiled eggs and jelly beans, and gratefully look for and remember what’s important on this and every Easter Sunday: the miracle of the resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ and His extraordinary promise to all mankind.

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It’s a few days after Christmas and I have a terrible cold spending as much time in bed as possible.  Surprisingly, and considering where Ken’s mind is he has been somewhat cooperative, allowing me to remain in bed in an in-and-out sort of way.   It’s a rare time when I feel bad enough to stay in bed, and it feels really good.

Apparently, there is something remembered within Ken’s Alzheimer’s which allows him to be more responsible if he can grasp the situation:  my wife is sick, or that person is sick.  He then appears to rise to the necessity — and is Ken most of the day — well, somewhat Ken.  Too bad I’m not able to run my world, pay the bills, do the shopping, attend to all of Ken’s needs, and all of those other requirements of life from under the blankets.

We are still taking care of Julie and Tim’s dogs, and I’m concerned about Cody, a pretty Border Collie who likes to run away if she can get through an open door.  I suppose she would come back eventually, but not having street smarts a lot of bad things could happen during her stolen adventure.  How to solve that problem with Ken doing his constant patrol checking from the porch and leaving the door wide open as he surveys the neighborhood is a worry.   I have mentioned my concern to him repeatedly, but to no avail.  I remind him that it isn’t just about the dogs: an open door allows the cold air in — or the warm out — whichever it happens to be.  In any event he remembers none of the instructions as he opens wide the door allowing the house temperature to drop flipping on the furnace.

For Ken cold is good and he feels very comfortable when the gage reads 65 degrees.  I am comfortable at 70 degrees — and higher.  To solve the furnace problem, I have finally decided to just wear more clothes which will keep me warm and the furnace off.  This will make Ken very happy.  However it doesn’t help the escaping dog problem.

My first approach was to put our kitchen bench in the dining room barricading the folding doors in a closed position.  (That also helps keep any heat that may have accumulated in the family room in that section of the house.)  I put a big note on the doors advising Ken to use the “other door” adding, “Don’t let the dogs out.”  That seemed to work.

To make it totally secure so I could stay in bed for a while with absolute peace of mind it was prudent to lock the dead bolt, which is keyed both sides, keeping the key in my pocket.  Of course it troubled Ken that he wasn’t able to open the door until I explained Julie had the key, and when she and Tim picked up the dogs she would unlock the front door.  So far, so good.  He’s happy and I’m back in bed.

Lately, Ken is finding it difficult to understand about actually “going to bed.”  I give him Tylenol PM at 8:00 and by 9:00 he is usually tired and sleepy.  I switch on the TV, a nightlight, lay out his pajamas and turn down the bed.  When I come back he is still fully dressed, the pjs are folded neatly and placed under the pillow and the bed is remade.    I don’t understand his thinking, but then I don’t understand AD either.  Last night I went in to see if he was in bed, and found him unhooking all of the electrical stuff:  TV, lamps, taking out light bulbs and removing shades as if it were his chore to do before he could settle in.  It appears that’s where he is heading again tonight which means another midnight to somewhere near morning for the two of us.

I have noticed that the more active he is the more alert he becomes.  Moving around the house — looking into this and that — gets his juices going — stimulates what I am striving to subdue, and when he reaches  a certain stage of anxiety he isn’t about to go sleep.   I would really like to get back to bed and nurse my cold — and I’m sure it will happen — somewhere in the wee, small hours of the morning.  At least the house is warm and the dogs are asleep.

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Last year I put up lights along the roof of our house, but found that Ken would turn them off as quickly as I turned them on.  I couldn’t imagine why he wanted them off, especially when we would drive through the neighborhood where he admired the Christmas scenes on other people’s lawns and beautifully lite homes.  Yet, he insisted that our house remain dark.

Recalling how he felt, yet wanting our house to look a little festive, I strung lights around the posts on the front porch and let it go at that.  Still, we played the off and on game.  Tonight, after standing on the porch surveying the other houses nearby, he came in from the cold extremely annoyed because “those” people had their Christmas lights on and there was nothing he could do about.  I agreed with him saying,  “That’s right.  There is nothing you can do about other people having lights on their roof and Christmas scenes in their front yard.”  Then I asked, “Why does it bother you so much.”  He had a difficult time formulating why he was so annoyed, but finally he was able to express his fear — and it was fear.

Looking very troubled he said, “When all those lights are on along the street there are criminals who will take advantage of it and will rob the houses.”   Surprised at his reasoning, I asked, “What has happened in the past to make you believe that our neighbors, or us, have been robbed during Christmas?”

Glancing at me with a show of contempt and suspicion he continued, “You don’t live here all the time so you wouldn’t know what happens in this neighborhood.”  Then he laughed, a mocking kind of laugh and said, “Just you wait.” 

He had become Mr. Hyde in the blink of an eye and I was no longer his wife.  He followed with, “Ask my wife about it when she comes home.  She can tell you about all that goes on around here because of the lights.”  Then he gave me another look that said, “I know something you don’t know,” which is a match for the “Just-you-wait” laugh.

As I have previously mentioned, Ken’s Alzheimer’s has created three distinct personalities:  Mr. Hyde who can be charming, friendly and is married, can also be mean, ruling and combative.   Buddy, around 12. a good boy devoted to his parents and his sister, Loretta, is obedient to the rules of their home.    When Buddy believes he has been left in charge he too can become combative.  I make every effort to maintain a guest-like attitude,which keeps peace in the house.  Of course, Ken, even in his forgetting, is the remaining third personality.  When he is my husband, it’s  the bright spot of my day.

When Mr. Hyde appears, it’s often with some sort of  paranoid disagreement.  Anger shows on his face and he begins his conversation with an accusation or argument.  That’s when I know it’s time for me to take the low road.  “Our discussion is closed,” I reply.  He doesn’t want to let his mood go attempting to provoke me into a further argument while still embracing his fears and paranoia.  The fear is real and I never try to scoff it away, but coaxing him into the family room is a distraction which often works.   Watching TV, looking at the Christmas tree and hearing me prepare dinner is relaxing and seems to quiet the angry mood.

It’s good to discover why he doesn’t like the lights, and I’m grateful when I hold my tongue.  It’s far better to remember how my husband enjoyed the Holiday and how pleased he was the first time we hung lights along the edge of the roof when his only fear might have been falling off the ladder.    2008

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