Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘tears’

B movie Poster

The theatrics of a 'B' movie can be likened to Alzheimer's patients.

Ken and I are from the era of double features, short subjects, news reels and cartoons: the old Hollywood when studios had the last say about which mega star was contracted for the lead role in the latest “Big” movie.  Other hopefuls were sent down to the “B” studios.   Those were the days of block-buster pictures with Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn, or John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara, and the low budgets with – who remembers.

Not only were the unknown actors soon forgotten (unless they became STARS), but so were the “B” movies.  However, a few of the ploys in the plot, seen time and time again, were snickeringly remembered.   Actually, a few have become legendary. The one I recall most vividly, used by the good guys as well as the bad guys, was a scene where a captured person stood with his hands high above his head facing in the direction of a door – opened or closed – it didn’t matter.  The guy holding the gun was in charge, and could either shoot his captive (bad guy), or handcuff him and cart him off to jail (good guy) depending on the script.

Sometimes, though, just as the final chip was down the captive would say something like, “Look out behind you!”  and the gun holder would glance behind him – just long enough for the captive to reach forward grab the gun and take charge.  Or, there was someone actually there to relieve the gun from the gun holder. The scene was used so often in “B” movies it became laughable.  That must be the part Ken remembers.

Dear Ben is so faithful in his caregiving duties, and Ken is usually so unappreciative. “Ben is your friend,” I croon as the three of us head for the shower.  “Him? He doesn’t know anything,” Ken replies.  “And you, you don’t know anything either.”

Before long Ken will slip into the imagined scene.  He looks at Ben and threatens, “You’ll get yours.  Just wait till my friends get here.”  Then he calls out through the open door.  “Get him guys,” or, looking at Ben, “Watch out behind you.”  I can’t help but giggle a little, telling Ken that people don’t fall for that line any more, but I know in his limited mind it makes sense to him. He can also take on a military roll: standing near attention he glowers at Ben and says, “You are dismissed.”  Never an officer I ask myself, “Where’s that coming from?” Probably some old movie he had seen before he met me.  Other times he’ll look directly at me, nod his head toward Ben and say, “Call the police.”

Or he can be very angry with me wondering who I am and why I keep bouncing in and out of his mind, he’ll request, “Hand me that ax, I’m going to whack off her foot.”  “Ouch!” I tell him.  “That’s not very nice of you to say things like that.”  Puzzled he responds, “What did I say?”  Like pushing the wrong button on my hand-held calculator all kinds of jumbled and incorrect numbers appear on the screen.  His mind seems to break down information and then scrambles it, sending thoughts and words in every which direction.

Ken’s Alzheimer’s is now very advanced, but I can sometimes read him through his eyes or changes in his facial expressions.  He can also be very cunning – liked a frightened, trapped animal.  So he doesn’t hurt any of us during clean up and shower time, his hands are temporarily restrained, but it is amazing how quickly he can “throw” an elbow into Ben’s or my ribs, get a knee high enough to make a definite impression in someone’s groin area, or bring up a foot for a well-placed kick.  Whether it’s a calculated plan or an instinctive defense I’ll probably never know.  “Whaaaaattttt?” he questions when caught in the act, followed by “I didn’t do anything.”  “You punched Ben with your elbow,” I tell him.  “I didn’t do that,” he insists, his eyes looking innocent.

Yet, there are times when Ben is helping him and he’ll take on a new roll and say, “I appreciate everything you do for me.  Thank you.”  That could be from any of Jimmy Stewart’s movies. Ben responds with a smile and says, “You are welcome, Sir.”  Good manners don’t last long.  Other times when Ben turns his back Ken will scrunch up his nose and stick out his tongue.  I’m surprised he doesn’t give him a loud, spit-filled raspberry to go with it.  Instead he’ll look over at me and wink as if he knew exactly what he was doing.  With Ken’s threats coming from the “B” movies, the niceties spoken by STARS such as Cary Grant, and  those naughty mannerisms are probably coming from his watching too many “Our Gang” comedies when he was a kid.  That favorite was later adapted to TV and became a beloved half hour for our kids after being edited and relabeled as “The Little Rascals.”

Of course we don’t know how much memory Alzheimer’s is covering when we observe parts and pieces of the past sneaking out through the tangles and plaques covering his brain.  It’s all such a puzzle with impossible pieces to fit together, but moments like this can make an interesting and funny happening.  That’s why we take comfort in learning to laugh at some of Alzheimer’s silly situations — so much better to laugh than cry.

Read Full Post »

Assignments from God are there to help us grow.

I miss Erma Bombeck.

While sorting through files recently I found a scrap of newsprint which I had clipped from our local paper.  Turning it over my thoughts raced back nearly 20 years when her column “At Wit’s End” was a twice weekly must read.  For those who never had the chance to become acquainted with Erma’s charm and wit, she was known, and probably still is, as a great American humorist.  I’m not sure if that adequately describes her, but it’s a start.  No doubt she was a devoted wife and loving mother because her mainstay was poking fun at child rearing, homemaking and living in suburbia.  Much of what she wrote began with a good laugh and often ended with a few tears, or she could reverse all of it leaving the reader chuckling the whole day.  Or you could just be filled with the profound and clever wisdom of it all.

The column I had pulled and filed away was so very poignant.  I suppose that’s why I tore it out and kept it all of these years.  Erma loved to play God and she was very good at it.  Well, maybe not play God; she was more like a reporter standing next to an assistant angel watching them at work.  She wrote about humanity’s relationship with God fairly often, which made us think, ponder, smile and feel good.

Special motherhood was the subject matter of my yellowed copy as Erma visualized God hovering over the earth deliberating which mother would get which spirit child as God and an angel made notes in a giant ledger.  The day’s work also included assigning an exceptional patron saint selected because of his or her strengths.  “Give her Gerald,” God instructed the angel, after assigning twins — probably two adorable, rambunctious, high-spirited boys — “Gerald is used to profanity.”

Progressing nicely in their labors, God passed a name to the angel and said, “Send her a handicapped child.”  Puzzled, the angel asked, “Why this one God?  She’s so happy.”

Explaining, God said it wouldn’t be proper to give a handicapped child to a mother who didn’t know laughter.  “That would be cruel.”

Continuing, God listed the qualities this woman had:  Patience – but not so much that she would drown in despair feeling sorry for herself.  She won’t have time for a pity party.  “Once the shock and resentment wears off,” assured God, “she’ll be fine.”  Then he told the angel how He had noticed her feelings of independence and self-worth that He found rare, yet so necessary in a mother.  The special-needs child required a mother who could do for the child what was needed and still be her own person.

With caution the angel informed God that this independent woman didn’t even believe in Him.

God just smiled, assuring the angel that He would take care of that.  “She’s perfect, with just enough selfishness.”

Stunned, the angel asked, “Since when is selfishness a virtue?”

God nodded to the affirmative, explaining that she would have to separate herself from the child on occasion, or she would never survive.  Then He went on listing all of the blessings that would come with this child of need.  How the mother would never take for granted the growth of her child, how just hearing that first, “Mama” would be a miracle, and how generous these children are with their love.  “I know that she would teach the child of my creations, seeing and knowing them as she had never seen them before,” confiding in the angel that this child would be blind. The angel agreed, and God concluded, “She will never be alone, for I will be with her every minute of each day.”

Curious the angel asked about the patron saint.  “A mirror will suffice,” God smiled.

All of this, of course, gave me cause to wonder about His assigning caregivers to an ever-growing number of people with Alzheimer’s.  For sure, there are countless members of the human family with special needs even if that need doesn’t appear until later in life.  Previously, I have talked about my friend, Madalyn.  Light heartedly, we remind one another that we don’t remember signing up for this job.  And yet, the assignment was/is ours just as parents with children having special needs learn to accept and live with what’s given to them.

So what are some of the hoped-for character traits which God might have seen in us?  Wow!  I wonder if He remembered that most of us – whether caring for aging parents, other relatives or our spouse – aren’t young anymore.  We used most of what were the best parts of “Us” bringing up that batch of children He sent to us early on.  So, now we’re running on leftovers?  No matter though.  Let’s see what those leftovers might be and what worn-out qualities we’ll have to reorder.

  1.   Patience:  Not a lot left, but I’m slowly acquiring more.  I no longer plead, “Give me patience and I want it right now.
  2.   Strength and energy:  The tank is pretty near empty, but I’m surprised how much I can muster up when required.  However, I have been known to sneak away and take a few naps.
  3.   Wisdom:   I didn’t have all that much when I had our first baby, but I managed to gather some by the time they were grown.  Whether it was enough I’ll never know.  My mom used to say, “It’s a shame that age comes so quickly and wisdom so slow.”  But what I did learn applied to children and young adults.  Now I must begin all over again gathering applicable wisdom for an adult with special needs, and it’s different.  I can’t sit down and reason with Ken about his attitude and how it might have a negative effect on his future, and then remind him he should make every effort to change his thinking.  If he listened at all he would probably say something like, “YOU!  You don’t know anything!” Any new wisdom I might receive will have to be applied to me so I can become a better caregiver.
  4.  Sense of self and independence:  I believe I still have that.  Being my own person has always been a blessing.
  5.  Tears:  God didn’t list them in Erma’s column, but tears go along with empathy, sympathy and love.  Besides, living in a state of perpetual mourning tears are commonplace, and are necessary as part of venting.  I’m sure most women, including mothers of special-needs children have a goodly supply of tears.  Typed on the prescription bottle is, “Use tears as needed,” but they often spill out during unexpected splashes of joy, and random acts of kindness.
  6.  Selfishness:  Yes.  I have my share of selfishness too.  And God’s reasoning is so good.   It is prudent to have some kind of life away from our needy charges no matter what our age – without any guilt.  We do have to take care of “us,” or we can’t take care of them.  Just as the instructions on the plane tell us: “Place the oxygen mask on you first, then the child.”  “ME FIRST” is a must-have attitude.  That advice belongs to all mothers and caregivers alike, but never “Me first and only me.”
  7.  Vanity:  That wasn’t listed either.  I would say to the angel that in this case, like selfishness, it is a virtue, and one of dire importance.  Not a narcissistic kind of vanity; I’m referring to humble vanity.  (Now, isn’t that an oxymoron?)  Nevertheless, when we look our best, we feel and do our best – at least we do better while striving for best.  Motto of the day: comb hair, brush teeth, touch of makeup and put on a clean shirt.  Get dressed every day and no sloppin’ around the house in a bathrobe.
  8.  Laughter:  I believe a good hardy laugh shakes down the woes leaving room for joy and other good feelings.  I have always tried to be best friends with laughter.  If it has slipped away, renew the relationship. Find where it’s hiding and bring it into the living room so it becomes part of the family.
  9.  Acceptance:  It may take a while, but no one can fight “what is.”  This is where life has taken me, and many of you, and there is no escape for the dedicated.  Might as well sally forth into the tomorrows and make them as good as possible.  Besides, nobody knows how many tomorrows are left.
  10.  Call home often:  God was certain we could do the job, and whenever we need to talk, He’s there.  He said so in Erma’s column: that he would be there every minute of every day.  Not only because he loves us, but He so appreciates us for doing some of his work, and caregiving is God’s work — especially when it’s done with a glad heart.

Oh!  And by the way, I believe Patron Saint Gerald has been reassigned to me for those times when my patience tank is running on empty.

Read Full Post »

lost shoe

Like a long lost shoe, Alzheimer's patients often feel lonely, lost and abandoned.

“Good grief,” confessed my neighbor Ruth many years ago,  “I forgot Laurie at Mayfair’s.”  It was a few days after the fact that she mustered up enough courage to tell me she had forgotten her child while shopping at one of those supermarkets where there was a built-in Kiddie Korral, a special fenced-in corner of the store where you could leave your children for a few minutes, withour worry, while picking up groceries.  More often than not Ruth went shopping by herself, leaving the younger children with her oldest daughter, who was more than capable of keeping an eye on her younger siblings.  All of the little ones had enjoyed a few stays in the Korral, and if they caught mom heading out to buy groceries, they pleaded to go along.

“Oh please,” Laurie had begged, “Can I come with you – pleeeeease?”  How could Ruth resist such coaxing?   Laurie climbed into the car with her mother and off they went, the little girl being more excited about her visit to the Kiddie Korral than spending some one-on-one time with her mother.  Absorbed in the picture books and surrounding toys,  Laurie didn’t notice the time passing, nor did she notice her mother push the grocery cart past the fun-filled corner and out through the open glass doors of the supermarket.  Nor did Ruth remember she had brought one of her children.

“Where’s Laurie?” asked Jackie, helping her mother carry in the groceries. “Did you forget her at the store?” she joked.  That was the moment of truth.  Ruth leaped into the car and raced back to Mayfair’s. There was Laurie still looking at pictures from the pile of selected books next to her chair.  “Time to go,” said Ruth, relieved to find the little girl safe and sound just where she had left her.  For Laurie there was no trauma and no feeling she had been forgotten, much less abandoned, nor would she be scarred for life from the experience. However, Ruth wasn’t alone is losing a child.

One year we lost our three-year-old son, Kevin, at the county fair.  He didn’t want to be in the stroller, so I pushed his empty vehicle while he held his father’s hand.  Feeling independent, he soon insisted on walking alone, and when his sisters, Ken and I turned to go into an exhibit, Kevin kept going straight.  Within seconds we realized he was gone, and he was – disappeared from sight – and so quickly.  After minutes of searching and not finding any trace of him in the crowd, terrible visions began entering our minds.  Immediately we found the sheriff’s office and reported our missing son. “Wait here,” the deputy suggested, “We’ll find him.”

It wasn’t like Ruth leaving Laurie, she was pretty certain she knew where to find her little girl. We did not.  Our child was lost in a world filled with strangers – and they could be dangerous strangers.  My little boy was alone and frightened somewhere out there.  We were near panic.  It seemed like forever before another deputy appeared before us holding our crying and frightened child, his precious face streaked with smudged tears, his small arms stretching forward to me as we both sobbed; Kevin’s tears from being lost, my tears because he was found and safe in my arms.  “No need for positive identification,” said the sergeant in charge. “Looks like she’s the mother.”

Ruth, nor I, nor Ken, were bad parents, neither were the number of other friends we knew who had misplaced, lost or forgotten one of their children during those years of transition from toddler to an independent human being, especially in a large family. Fortunately, all of our lost children were found.

One couple we know drove 50 miles before they realized their small son was not in Uncle John’s car, but back at the dam.  The return trip was a little frantic, but Steven was safe  in the capable care of the park rangers even though he probably felt lost, abandoned and fearful.  Another family outing involving multiple cars arrived home, hours away from their excursion site, before they realized one little boy was still at the aquarium in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park.  A quick phone call and Uncle Gene who lived in the City came to his rescue, once again finding the lost child safe with aquarium staff.

Those desperate emotions are always within us and rise to the surface when we feel threatened; possibly in preparation for our own defense.   I suppose they belong to the “Fear Family,” often made worse when fear itself is mixed with believing you are alone and lost.  However, with a diseased mind, those same fears of emptiness and desperation can be a constant in addition to other instinctive feelings that bring unimagined misery to the mindless.  Is it any wonder they can rage, become angry and combative?  Occasionally, I look into Ken’s eyes and see fear and entrapment.  I understand how frightening life can be for AD victims when there is no reasoning power to comfort their own confused state.  Reassurance, however, can come from someone else or something: a familiar voice, a caring touch, pleasant music, soft words, company and many other soothing actions or words.

A few weeks ago I walked through our living room on my way to do a few quick errands.  Ken was sitting comfortably in a chair with Ben beside him.

“Where are you going,” Ken asked.

“I have to go to the bank, I’ll be back soon.”

“No, you won’t” he retorted.

Once again I pled my case, “I’ll be right back – really I will.”

“You’re just saying that,” he insisted.  “You won’t ever come back.”

I looked into his handsome face.  Written clearly was that look of abandonment.  Incredible sadness filled his eyes and demeanor.   I felt astonished to read him so well.  I could see the disappointment, the sorrow, the acceptance of my leaving forever as I moved toward the door.  He was convinced that I wouldn’t be coming back.  I was leaving him alone – abandoning him – in his immediate need for comfort and assurance.

“I can do this tomorrow,” I said to Ben, removing my coat and putting my purse aside.  Ken said nothing more as I sat down, but his face showed relief.  Did he know me?  Was he having a Ken moment?  I don’t know the answers.  What I do know is that for a brief period of time he wanted me nearby.  He wanted that feeling of security — to be with someone familiar — even vaguely familiar.  In much the same way as my three-year-old son had buried his wet face in my shoulder, his arms desperately clinging to my neck Ken too wanted to feel safe, knowing that he was found.  This I could give him with my presence.  Even if it lasted for only a little while, I wanted him to be comforted in that moment knowing he had not been abandoned.

Read Full Post »

Just after I finished my previous Blog, “Through The Storm,” I received a lovely email from my cousin, Penny, in Oregon.  I could see by the enormous block of addresses that she had, indeed, sent it to all of her friends and family.  It was one of those emails worth forwarding titled “I Pray For You Enough…..”  After reading it my thoughts were, “How nice.”  I had received a similar one a while back titled “I Wish You Enough……”  The contents were the same, the story line the same but a little different in that the prayer one involved a mother and her daughter, while the wish email was about a father and daughter.  I wondered if an original story had been written by the talented writer anonymous, and during the little email’s travels over the waves of the internet, the various recipients tweaked it just a bit to suit their own fancy, with change happening in small increments.  In any event I’ll briefly relate the story as if she were telling it:

“At the airport I was waiting for my flight when I noticed two women standing nearby.  So close, in fact, that I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.  As the daughter said goodbye before rushing to her flight she said, ‘I pray for you enough……’  The mother returned the phrase, ‘and I pray for you enough……’ Tearfully, the daughter scurried off to catch her plane as the forlorn mother watched.  I could tell she was near tears, but I didn’t want to intrude.  However, she caught my eye, knowing that I must have heard their conversation and asked, ‘Have you ever said goodbye for the last time?’  I answered that I had, many times.  Tears began to flow as she sat down next to me, her sad words revealing that she had a fatal health condition and her daughter’s next visit would be for her funeral.

“While her explanation allowed me to know she was dying, I wondered about the phrase used by both women.  Timidly, I asked, ‘What did you mean when you both said I pray for you enough?’  She went on to tell me of a family tradition which had been passed along for generations, praying that their loved ones would have enough to meet their needs and to bring  joy to their lives.  Then, as if memorized she said,

     ‘I pray for you enough sun to keep your attitude bright no matter how gray the day may appear.

     ‘I pray for you enough rain to appreciate the sun even more.

     ‘I pray for you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive and everlasting.

     ‘I pray for you enough pain so that even the smallest of joys in life may appear bigger.

     ‘I pray for you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.

     ‘I pray for you enough loss to appreciate all you possess.

     ‘I pray for you enough hellos to get you through the final goodbyes.'”

Seven simple prayers covering just about anything one would need, except when life changes dramatically as it does with illness.  The mother was ill.  What would she need in the way of, “I pray for you enough……” for her condition?  And I thought of AD and Ken, and myself as a caregiver.  Not only us and our needs, but the needs of caregivers all over the world who have accepted this awesome responsibility of caring for the dying no matter what the cause.   (Please note I am not including prayer for healing because I’m only considering terminal illness where there is no hope.)  So for the patient, these six are a beginning:

I pray for you enough peace of mind to get you through the day without — or at least with only a minimum — of anger, agitation and mood swings.

I pray for you enough memory so you can take care of your personal needs: a shave and a shower without help.

I pray for you enough friends and family so you can talk, even if it’s only ramblings.

I pray for you enough strength so you can walk a short distance with your caregiver, and get from one room to another without help.

I pray for you enough respect and love from others, that they remember who you were and not what you have become.

I pray for you enough medication to keep you free from pain, to calm your nerves and allow you to relax and sleep.

As a caregiver, the most often-asked question I hear is, “What can I do for you?”  I have “Ken sitters” a phone call away.  I have friends who drop by with a meal for two, cake, a plate of cookies, a book to read, Monday night dinner at Jayne’s house, phone calls so I can sit and chat, friends who invite us to social events even if Ken acts strange, notes in the mail telling me they are thinking of us.   How blessed I am, but even with such awesome support we caregivers need all the help we can get — including prayers.  I have listed a few for starters:

 I pray for you enough sleep and rest.

I pray for you enough knowledge, skills, support and help in handling stress.

I pray for you enough friends and family with soft shoulders to cry on.

I pray for you enough patience to get through the day.

I pray for you enough memories of the good times in life and enough erasers to dim some of the worst AD has to offer.

I pray for you enough love and devotion from all those who know you, and enough knowledge to know you are cherished.

I pray for you enough faith to remind you (thanks Lynne) that there is life after Alzheimer’s and all of those other disease horrors.

Read Full Post »