Activities of Daily Living, they're called

Sometimes daily activities are just too difficult. I awakened this morning to my husband’s call of “Where are you?’” I was in bed where I’d been all night. He wanted to know who the other “people” in the house were. No one.

Later we spent time trying to help him remember an old friend from college whom his sister had mentioned in a phone call yesterday – no luck.

We spent more time discussing why I was desired by many men and how that made him worry. I reminded him that most of my good male friends were either married or gay and he replied, “Oh yeah. That’s a good thing for me to remember.”

I suggested a walk. As we circled our cul-de-sac, he started right down our neighbor’s drive way – he tends to walk about 10 feet behind me; fortunately I keep looking over my shoulder to check on him or I would have lost him in the yard next door. I sped after him. He didn’t want to come back up to the street but finally agreed.

The walk went fairly well for a sweaty July day.

Back home I asked if he’d like to shower; he said yes and went to the great room. I suggested he come upstairs. He said he wanted to “wash.” I let him sit there for a few minutes and then came back and said “Come on upstairs.” He said ok and started to take off his socks and shoes. Next he stood up, holding his socks, and walked into the kitchen. He was so disoriented. I picked up his shoes and led him to the shower.
Sometimes daily activities are just too difficult.

Walking alone

This morning we drove down to Faust Park for our walk. I helped Bob out of the car and was trying to get him to see the building that houses a beautiful working carousel and where our oldest daughter and her husband had their wedding party.

Boom! I'm not watching where I'm going, trip over one of those cement parking dividers, and hit the ground hard. I felt a crunch in my right shoulder and side; for a minute I waited thinking I might have broken something. Fortunately I didn't; I don't think. I might have bruised one of those top ribs. No biggie; I'll be fine.

Funny / pathetic part of it? As I'm lying on the ground and trying to get up, feeling some pain and panic, Bob is standing above me looking all around toward the sky; he's still trying to see the building. "Bob, could you give me your hand?" He does, but it's like a wimp hand -- a hand to hold, not to lift; a fly wouldn't be helped.

By this time a young man (well, maybe 30) who'd been helping his wife get their little kid into a hiking harness comes running over and helps me up. "Are you ok?" Yes. "Are you sure? That was a hard fall." Thanks. I really am fine. I reassure him and he goes back to his family.

Meanwhile Bob is standing there trying to figure out what's going on. "Did I hear someone say 'Bob'?"
I told him there were lots of people around and we should have our walk.

I forgot about Alzheimers

Trying to catch up on a few posts:

One morning in March and I'm trying to get some errands done before dropping Bob off at daycare and getting to work myself. I know not to rush him, but he can sense when I'm watching the clock. He'd seemed especially slow moving in dressing and getting out to the car.

After we shopped at Target, he got confused about which car: he tried to get into a white pickup; I drive a blue Buick. Finally I got him to the right door, but while attempting to push the unlock button, I hit the danger/caution button and the car started honking! He stopped, looked up, and said angrily in the direction of the rest of the parking lot, "What an idiot!"
I explained it was my mistake and he continued grumbling as he got inside.

As we were driving away, Bob began, "Nancy, I'm not sure about us. We're not doing well."
I replied, "Bob, I think we're doing just fine."
Him: "No. We disagree and then people honk at us and everything goes wrong."
Me: "Don't you think it's just the Alzheimers?"
It was quiet for a minute and then he said, as if in awe or epiphany, "I forgot about the Alzheimers."

I wish I could just forget about the Alzheimers.

Not my fault

Most of what happens to us in life isn't to be blamed on anyone or anything; stuff happens. Accidents are accidents. Since the Alzheimer's victim is constantly losing skills and knowledge, he must always feel ... guilty.

Thursday we were getting ready for our day when I grabbed the brush to straighten up Bob's hair and found a blob of shampoo on top of his head. Thinking he'd forgotten to rinse, we headed to the kitchen sink where I saw that he'd put shampoo on but had forgotten to do anything else.

"Oh, you just forgot to wash your hair."
His response, "Sure, blame it on me."

Illogical thinking works!

We were on the plane from Newark Liberty Airport home to St. Louis on the last leg of our trip from Scotland. It had been a long and difficult traveling day for both of us, but especially for Bob.

I leaned over, patted his arm, and asked, "You OK?"
"No."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm worried about this plane."
"It'll be just fine. We're heading home. No problems."
"I'm still worried."

I let it drop and went back to reading. Sometimes all you can do is just worry.

A few minutes later, he leaned to me and asked, "Who's driving this plane?"
"What?"
"Who's driving this plane? Do we know him?"
I assured him that it was a good professional pilot (even though I'd noticed that when he made pa announcements, he sounded like one of my 17 year old students.)

Another few minutes, "I really mean it. Who is driving this plane?"
Don't ask me why, but I replied, "Not to worry. Remember, Bob, my dad was a pilot during WWII."
"Oh, OK."
He was fine the rest of the flight.
I have a feeling that my dad will have quite a career in a variety of professions :)

The Kindness of Strangers

We spent 10 days in Edinburgh, Scotland this holiday season 2009 with our two daughters and sons in law.

In Edinburgh because of the ice and snow we found ourselves often taking taxis for Bob’s safety. Early on the morning of January 1 we taxied to the airport. Our driver had to park a bit away from the door for various reasons. He insisted on walking us all the way inside so he could help with the luggage and Bob.

Checking in at Edinburgh airport for the flight home, we learned that our flight would be delayed enough that we’d miss the scheduled flight to St. Louis and they had already rebooked us on the two hour later plane. Nice, but it was a full plane and the reservation guy said they were not able to give us seat assignments. In despair I said, “But those are the people who get bumped; my husband has Alzheimer’s.” He studied his computer: “I’m sorry I can’t get you seats together.” Me: “I don’t think he can fly if he’s not next to me.” “Let me see what I can do. I’ll find a supervisor; I’m sure we can make this happen. I’ll catch up with you at the boarding gate.” He was as good as his word and found us there to give me seats together and wish us best of a 2010 and ask if I needed anything else.
Finally at Newark and waiting for our luggage after a long delay, the bags finally arrived. I had to push both of them plus pull our carry-on; I told Bob “Let’s go” only to look back and see him 40 feet behind me just standing bewildered; he did not respond to my calls to him. A woman near me stepped up and said “I’ll watch your bags; go on.” I gathered him up and was able to go off pushing our luggage.

As we moved toward customs, a man walking by fell into step with me. “Did you have a good trip? We saw you on the way over; we took the same flights.” “We had a great Christmas. Our daughter lives there. Thanks.” “You are a courageous couple to try this. Good luck to you in the new year.”
Clearing customs we took our reclaimed bags to recheck them for home. At the end of a loooong line and wait the airport guy looked at the tags and said, “St. Louis? Take them right over to the middle slot.” Seeing me try to gather all the bags and Bob up again, he said, “Oh wait. I can do that for you.” He took the two bags and sent them on their proper way.

Finally we had to take the airport shuttle from concourse C to concourse A. Of course, the cars were crowded and I had nothing to hold on to despite the recorded warning: “The train is about to begin. Be certain to stand securely and hold on.” I knew we’d go down but I held on to Bob’s arm to try to steady him. Off we went, a young man behind Bob immediately put up a supporting arm behind Bob’s back and a woman in front of me took my arm to help me. Just seconds later as the train steadied, a young couple gave us their seats.

Thanks to all of you, unknown folks; may the world pay you back for your kindnesses.

I talk therefore I am

Several months ago my husband would complain about a friend of his at adult day care, a former attorney, who used to talk for what seemed hours about his previous career. He had been involved in the civil rights movement integrating St. Louis schools, a proud moment in his life. Bob appreciates his contribution, but he would complain about how X talked and talked.
This morning, not for the first time, I found myself trying to do my breathing (one one thousand ... out, two one thousand ... in deeply now) while Bob talked; I timed him: 21 minutes without interruption or pause. He talked about whether Neal Diamond was from Carolina and about learning of a problem with bats in Missouri, on and on and on and on. He even now and then, when he couldn't think of a word or pronounce the word correctly, would say "I can't talk" in exasperation.
Talking about exasperation!! I found myself exploding inside. I listened to his stream of consciousness, rambling incoherent monologue. I couldn't help but think that in this way he stays in touch with some kind of thought. He clings to communicating and thinking.
When I consider his conversation from this angle, I hope to be more patient and to listen quietly.