Bitchy has not changed out of pajamas since the beginning of this month, when she spent a couple days zonked out from the cold and sleeping all day and night.
The sad fact was she also stopped showering. Which became noticeable to one of Hunk's caregivers recently. Who managed to successfully suggest that Bitchy might change to a fresh nightie and maybe even wash up a bit.
That led to a short afternoon shower, which, alas, was never her showering time of day. And she forgot to remove her hearing aids!
One of which has died, leaving Bitchy with even less functioning hearing.
But that might be a good thing, now that Hunk is spending hours and hours snoring and moaning in his bed, awaiting death... I'm not sure she can hear him well at all, or she probably would be more agitated herself. I know I'm not looking forward to that death rattle...
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Sliding into Home
OMG, it looks like today might be the day. And BITCHY is in rare form! Her bravado is being tested and is found wanting. Hunk is in the stage called "terminal restlessness," or perhaps in the nearly-comatose condition that immediately preceeds death.
She is finally seeing the details and has retreated to denial. That wouldn't be so bad (sad, yes, but not so bad), except that her larger response is to refuse to follow the sage advice of hospice caregivers and others with decades of experience really caring for people in the process of meeting death.
The hospital bed for dad is due to arrive in an hour or so. She insists it is not necessary! That he will be fine in his current bed, even though the mechanics of the other would allow us to make his end of life care more gentle and efficient, and ultimately easier on him. Less pushing and pulling from rougher methods made necessary by keeping him low and long and heavy.
The bed for her was planned so she could rest close beside him, holding hands and snuggling up to the end. Because her fantasy, no doubt, was that he would gaze adoringly into her eyes, murmur "I love you, my darling," and drift off silently and peacefully into the next realm, to await her arrival.
Following an interval of confrontation, trying to bring rational sense to her, and some tough love talk, I thought to get her favorite nurse involved. Thank goodness "Doozey" was available for a consult and her intervention inspired cooperation. She gently reminded Bitchy that "Hunk is a valued veteran of the armed services and he deserves the best bed in his last days! It will help his caregivers to provide him with their best care, and that is what we all want for him."
It worked. Other hospice helpers happened in when she needed to be distracted, so I could dismantle their marriage bed and bring most of it down cellar. The decades-old mattress was too big and heavy and fouled with dad's secretions (and other aged unmentionables) that I just tied a rope to it, dragging to the curb for trash day.
If Bitchy happens to recover after Hunk has passed, and she gets booted off hospice and wants her old king-sided bed back, I will just buy her a new mattress.
An unlikely scenario...
She is finally seeing the details and has retreated to denial. That wouldn't be so bad (sad, yes, but not so bad), except that her larger response is to refuse to follow the sage advice of hospice caregivers and others with decades of experience really caring for people in the process of meeting death.
The hospital bed for dad is due to arrive in an hour or so. She insists it is not necessary! That he will be fine in his current bed, even though the mechanics of the other would allow us to make his end of life care more gentle and efficient, and ultimately easier on him. Less pushing and pulling from rougher methods made necessary by keeping him low and long and heavy.
The bed for her was planned so she could rest close beside him, holding hands and snuggling up to the end. Because her fantasy, no doubt, was that he would gaze adoringly into her eyes, murmur "I love you, my darling," and drift off silently and peacefully into the next realm, to await her arrival.
Following an interval of confrontation, trying to bring rational sense to her, and some tough love talk, I thought to get her favorite nurse involved. Thank goodness "Doozey" was available for a consult and her intervention inspired cooperation. She gently reminded Bitchy that "Hunk is a valued veteran of the armed services and he deserves the best bed in his last days! It will help his caregivers to provide him with their best care, and that is what we all want for him."
It worked. Other hospice helpers happened in when she needed to be distracted, so I could dismantle their marriage bed and bring most of it down cellar. The decades-old mattress was too big and heavy and fouled with dad's secretions (and other aged unmentionables) that I just tied a rope to it, dragging to the curb for trash day.
If Bitchy happens to recover after Hunk has passed, and she gets booted off hospice and wants her old king-sided bed back, I will just buy her a new mattress.
An unlikely scenario...
Rounding Third
Hunk has taken a turn for the worse, to use an old cliche. I have a visceral understanding of it now. Whereas a week ago he was still getting up and about (with help), travelling out to his living room chair to sit in peace and quiet, and look around at the home he and Bitchy built (until her "enjoyment" of daytime news, Dr. Phil, Judge Judy, or some other annoyingly loud drivel drives him back to the bedroom), today he seems nearly comatose there.
To be honest, I haven't yet seen him today. Last night was the first ever when I had a helper stay over, to monitor him and administer his meds.
That sounds cold. She kept a kind watch over him all night long, as I did the night before, tracking his behavior and responding appropriately with sips of water, adjustments of bedding, eyedroppers full of sedatives authorized by the management of Hospice.
Even that sounds cold... Maybe I'm keeping my feelings controlled with the chill of February that surrounds their home and it seeps into my writing. Feelings that are bound to thaw, when this is all over, and I'm sifting through the leftovers of his --their-- lives.
It will probably start on my birthday, which is nearing, and usually causes emotional upheaval of one sort or another.
Last year, when I turned 60, after spending the daylight hours with my usual parental caregiving, I went to the movies alone. Any movie that happened to be starting when I got there was my goal. A rainy cold night, walking to the boxoffice, I stopped to pick up a shiny flat object from the soaking sidewalk... it was a foresaken, mylar Happy Birthday balloon! Waiting there just for me. I wiped it down and folded it up and tucked it in my pocket. And took it in to the theater to see Percy Jackson demonstrate to hundreds of little kids (and me) how to win against Olympic odds. Which was also fitting, as during the previews I received a text message from a friend whose daughter had beat the odds herself, and was just being released from a two-month stay in the hospital, fighting cancer.
Nothing to it for my gig. Chin up, etc. I kept plugging and here I am, nearly a year later, watching the end of the game unfold.
Hunk has been crying out for the game to be over lately... It's clear he will get his wish soon. I think I'll get him a Bon Voyage balloon before he goes.
To be honest, I haven't yet seen him today. Last night was the first ever when I had a helper stay over, to monitor him and administer his meds.
That sounds cold. She kept a kind watch over him all night long, as I did the night before, tracking his behavior and responding appropriately with sips of water, adjustments of bedding, eyedroppers full of sedatives authorized by the management of Hospice.
Even that sounds cold... Maybe I'm keeping my feelings controlled with the chill of February that surrounds their home and it seeps into my writing. Feelings that are bound to thaw, when this is all over, and I'm sifting through the leftovers of his --their-- lives.
It will probably start on my birthday, which is nearing, and usually causes emotional upheaval of one sort or another.
Last year, when I turned 60, after spending the daylight hours with my usual parental caregiving, I went to the movies alone. Any movie that happened to be starting when I got there was my goal. A rainy cold night, walking to the boxoffice, I stopped to pick up a shiny flat object from the soaking sidewalk... it was a foresaken, mylar Happy Birthday balloon! Waiting there just for me. I wiped it down and folded it up and tucked it in my pocket. And took it in to the theater to see Percy Jackson demonstrate to hundreds of little kids (and me) how to win against Olympic odds. Which was also fitting, as during the previews I received a text message from a friend whose daughter had beat the odds herself, and was just being released from a two-month stay in the hospital, fighting cancer.
Nothing to it for my gig. Chin up, etc. I kept plugging and here I am, nearly a year later, watching the end of the game unfold.
Hunk has been crying out for the game to be over lately... It's clear he will get his wish soon. I think I'll get him a Bon Voyage balloon before he goes.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Zeroing In...
Since my last post, both my parents caught my cold. So much for the miracle of honey. The germs in their midst defeated them. They were both hit hard, sleeping almost continually for several days, eating nearly nothing, coughing without end, and both lost weight. Hunk was admitted to the hospice program on Feb 7th. Yesterday, Bitchy was inducted as well...
Given the events of yesterday I more-than-half expected dad to pass away during the night. He was SO depleted in strength and energy, and sleeping so much during the day, even without those heavy cold symptoms of two weeks ago. He truly seemed like he might be on the way "out."
And of course, with my helper and mom sitting for hours talking about him, his condition, their lives together, etc., it had that storybook aura that would have made his passing perfect.
DingDong at 4:55AM and it seemed he needed to pee. :o) So I thought I'd try to walk him in, even though last night, at the end of the day, my helper had to bring the commode to him, and even then it was unsuccessful. I think he was trying to sit up when I got there, and he did stand, a little wobbly, but we inched into the bathroom and had a successful pee. I changed his depends (and added another extra pad to it) before inching him back to bed. Tucked him in and went back to my room to try and get the rest of my rest.
Another dingdong at 6:30 when I heard mom speaking angrily to him about getting up, forchrissake, and I got the gait belt around him to walk into the living room. Brought the transport chair along behind us with my foot so when he gave up halfway around the bed, I could just pop him in it for the rest of the trip.
Got him settled in his chair, turned on the heat, added a lap blanket, got him "breakfast" (which he asked for) -- a shake, of which he finished one glass. Then he started calling for Bitchy, and I told him that she wanted to stay asleep and I could get what he wanted. Of course, that was to "go home" and "stop playing this game" and "get dressed and get out of here." He said he wanted Daughter. Would not believe me when I told him I was Daughter. "I know Daughter and you're not her!" I told him I'd go find her, and went and got the ativan that I'd left in his room, dissolved in the spoon of water, about 10 minutes earlier, before his symptoms of agitation really started up.
Then he wanted to go back to bed. Wanted to walk... I helped him up minimally ("you gotta push with your legs dad, to stand up...") and walked holding the gait belt, back to the bedroom. When he said he had to sit or he'd faint I just encouraged him to walk a little faster, a little bigger, and we got around the end and to his spot. Got him settled, even with shoes off. Tucked in. And before I even got to leave again he was at it... "I want to go home!" "Where's Bitchy?!" "What the hell is this game. I'm sick of it." etc...
Now Bitchy was in no mood to comfort him. "Oh shut up!" "I want to go home, too!" "Why can't we just die??!!"
... more asking for Bitchy, more bitchy responses, to which I answered her, "what happened to that loving wife we saw last night?" "I'm not her! I have my own problems!!!"...
"Can't you do something? I just want all this to stop," he was saying, to me, to her, to the world. I want to get up, I want to go to sleep, I want to get dressed and go get some work done. It made me chuckle out loud.
Mom said "What's funny?!" I said "It's just comical, that's all. You have to see the comedy, you won't get out of here all bound up in anger." "Well, I don't see it," she insisted.
Well, try harder, I suggested. Or just meditate. Just breathe. In and out, breathe deeply and count your breaths. Close your eyes and focus your attention behind them and count your breaths. And relax your body, start at your eyes, feel the anxiety wash off you as you relax your shoulders, your arms, down through your belly, and breathe and count and settle into your center.
And dad said, "Please help me out of this." So I told him to just quiet, and breathe, and settle, and I held his shaky hand gently and closed his eyes delicately, and stroked his temple softly and breathed with him audibly. And stood there beside him doing this for 5-10 minutes until he was softly snoring and I was able to inch my hand out of his.
While doing this I focussed on him, but would glance at mom from time to time, as she glared out at the winter scene. Finally she met my eyes and I smiled softly, took my open hand, circled my center forehead and exaggerated my breathing for her to mimic. My eyes welled up so I closed them and stood beside dad, breathing for her. When I opened them, hers were closed, so to moved around the bed and took her hand. She was still on the surface because she asked me if anyone was coming today. I shook my head and leaned down to whisper she should close her eyes and breathe. And I gave her a minute to follow, which she did haltingly. Once I saw her eyes close, I breathed my way out of the room and back here.
It struck me that nobody else, in hospice or otherwise, has even suggested that they meditate...and even that I forgot how comforting it can be...
Given the events of yesterday I more-than-half expected dad to pass away during the night. He was SO depleted in strength and energy, and sleeping so much during the day, even without those heavy cold symptoms of two weeks ago. He truly seemed like he might be on the way "out."
And of course, with my helper and mom sitting for hours talking about him, his condition, their lives together, etc., it had that storybook aura that would have made his passing perfect.
DingDong at 4:55AM and it seemed he needed to pee. :o) So I thought I'd try to walk him in, even though last night, at the end of the day, my helper had to bring the commode to him, and even then it was unsuccessful. I think he was trying to sit up when I got there, and he did stand, a little wobbly, but we inched into the bathroom and had a successful pee. I changed his depends (and added another extra pad to it) before inching him back to bed. Tucked him in and went back to my room to try and get the rest of my rest.
Another dingdong at 6:30 when I heard mom speaking angrily to him about getting up, forchrissake, and I got the gait belt around him to walk into the living room. Brought the transport chair along behind us with my foot so when he gave up halfway around the bed, I could just pop him in it for the rest of the trip.
Got him settled in his chair, turned on the heat, added a lap blanket, got him "breakfast" (which he asked for) -- a shake, of which he finished one glass. Then he started calling for Bitchy, and I told him that she wanted to stay asleep and I could get what he wanted. Of course, that was to "go home" and "stop playing this game" and "get dressed and get out of here." He said he wanted Daughter. Would not believe me when I told him I was Daughter. "I know Daughter and you're not her!" I told him I'd go find her, and went and got the ativan that I'd left in his room, dissolved in the spoon of water, about 10 minutes earlier, before his symptoms of agitation really started up.
Then he wanted to go back to bed. Wanted to walk... I helped him up minimally ("you gotta push with your legs dad, to stand up...") and walked holding the gait belt, back to the bedroom. When he said he had to sit or he'd faint I just encouraged him to walk a little faster, a little bigger, and we got around the end and to his spot. Got him settled, even with shoes off. Tucked in. And before I even got to leave again he was at it... "I want to go home!" "Where's Bitchy?!" "What the hell is this game. I'm sick of it." etc...
Now Bitchy was in no mood to comfort him. "Oh shut up!" "I want to go home, too!" "Why can't we just die??!!"
... more asking for Bitchy, more bitchy responses, to which I answered her, "what happened to that loving wife we saw last night?" "I'm not her! I have my own problems!!!"...
"Can't you do something? I just want all this to stop," he was saying, to me, to her, to the world. I want to get up, I want to go to sleep, I want to get dressed and go get some work done. It made me chuckle out loud.
Mom said "What's funny?!" I said "It's just comical, that's all. You have to see the comedy, you won't get out of here all bound up in anger." "Well, I don't see it," she insisted.
Well, try harder, I suggested. Or just meditate. Just breathe. In and out, breathe deeply and count your breaths. Close your eyes and focus your attention behind them and count your breaths. And relax your body, start at your eyes, feel the anxiety wash off you as you relax your shoulders, your arms, down through your belly, and breathe and count and settle into your center.
And dad said, "Please help me out of this." So I told him to just quiet, and breathe, and settle, and I held his shaky hand gently and closed his eyes delicately, and stroked his temple softly and breathed with him audibly. And stood there beside him doing this for 5-10 minutes until he was softly snoring and I was able to inch my hand out of his.
While doing this I focussed on him, but would glance at mom from time to time, as she glared out at the winter scene. Finally she met my eyes and I smiled softly, took my open hand, circled my center forehead and exaggerated my breathing for her to mimic. My eyes welled up so I closed them and stood beside dad, breathing for her. When I opened them, hers were closed, so to moved around the bed and took her hand. She was still on the surface because she asked me if anyone was coming today. I shook my head and leaned down to whisper she should close her eyes and breathe. And I gave her a minute to follow, which she did haltingly. Once I saw her eyes close, I breathed my way out of the room and back here.
It struck me that nobody else, in hospice or otherwise, has even suggested that they meditate...and even that I forgot how comforting it can be...
Monday, January 31, 2011
Welcome to a New Year -- Oh, Yeah?
I haven't written since last October! Well, that's when the sh*t really started flying, and I've been busy dodging bullets, so-to-speak.
But in the meantime, the one remaining pair of age-related friends of Hunk and Bitchy have also become friends of mine. And they want to stay abreast of the news with my parents. Here is the text of a response letter I sent to them, which will bring our story up-to-date here as well:
...Dear Friends,
Happy to oblige with the fill-in, and grateful to be able to be candid. Even if my mom were to discover what I'm sharing (which I would prefer she did not), it either a) wouldn't be remembered for long, or b) wouldn't cause much more of an uproar than most of my errant steps over these last two years and five months. Or, if it did, I guess I'd just take my lumps and be grateful to get the boot back to California, if it came to that.
I will say though, if you believe in such things, you might put in a word to the "Big Guy" that fetching one of them "Home" sooner, rather than later, might not be a bad idea for any of us.
My dad continues to have a great sense of humor, and his primary goal in life seems to be to see "if there is anything I can get for you, my darling" [spoken to Bitchy]. He keeps plodding along in his slow, deliberate way, traversing the house with tiny steps on his unknown errands. (I am content to let him go about his business without distraction, though my mother will usually interrupt him, micro-managing his every move with demands of "what do you want, Hunk?" or "where are you going?" or "what are you doing, and why don't you just sit down!") He is not fully incontinent yet, though his use of Depends is essential to minimal hygiene. He has continuous trouble with his partial dentures which makes every meal a bothersome adventure, interrupted by trips (with me or one of my helpers...never mom) to the bathroom to remove the offending device and clean out the debris, before going back to the table to try again. He often abandons his meal mid-way, either because he's actually full after three or four bites, or just fed up with the garbage that collects under the bridge, or the pressure mom puts on him to eat another bite, or not to put his tissues there! or to pick up the sandwich with your hands, Hunky (who uses a fork to eat a sandwich??) or to change his expression because the one he's wearing makes her think there's something wrong!
His Parkinson's disease (which is partially responsible for that facial "mask") is also getting worse -- it accounts for a lot of his uneasy, slow, and halting gait, but it also impedes his digestive system, and the other day he was incredibly upset by a piece of macaroni stuck in his throat. He wanted (nearly) to go to the emergency room to find a doctor who could fix the problem. Well, it just had to work its way down, and getting him to drink water didn't happen easily and didn't help much. Time was all we could rely on. But later (after an inquiry) the nurse said he should pretty much be on a liquid and soft food diet now. (Try and get Bitchy to follow those guidelines!!!!)
On sleep, with him retiring to bed at the early hour of 6:30 most nights, it's almost to be expected he'll be up in the wee hours, wandering. Apparently, it's common among people with Alzheimer's. And since I've begun latching my door so he can't just burst right in while I'm fast asleep, he rarely knocks long or loud enough to wake me. So, no doubt, he is upsetting Binnie's sleep -- probably big-time. I'm not so far from child-rearing that I don't remember sleep deprivation. And I sympathize with her. But she is right in the same bed with him, and he is her "darling of 67 years" so I would expect her to be the one most willing to help him with his night-time needs. I don't know how she handles it, but the sound of her voice most mornings gives a hint of something sour.
And, alas, when she is trying to hold onto sleep in the morning, or later when she is watching her loud, bad-news or daytime talk shows, or if she's just in a rotten mood from receiving too much attention from him (and not enough from anyone else), or overwhelmed with impatience, being unable to understand what he wants or what he's trying to verbalize, and unwilling to wait for him to work it out, her responses can be downright mean! It's almost like she's bipolar, the switch from saccharine sweet, to "witchy" can happen in a nanosecond.
So, while all last year she was speculating and predicting that she would "be done" by November, that timeframe has come and gone! Now she's saying that by NEXT November she wants to be done... Just wants to enjoy one more spring with her gardens, one more summer enjoying the local corn, and one more colorful autumn. Frankly, I'm watching the clock with a hungry, though heavy, heart...
As dad's condition really deteriorates, she will be even less patient, if I can imagine that. And when her own dementia gets more intense, who knows how that will affect everyone. Not well, I think.
We'll see... For now, that's off my chest, I guess I'll go have some tea and try to loosen some of the mucus from my cold! (And yes, even though I take honey regularly, I caught a cold. Imagine!!!! -- Must be the stress.)
All the best,
(Daughter)...
So, stay tuned for more on our developing saga!
But in the meantime, the one remaining pair of age-related friends of Hunk and Bitchy have also become friends of mine. And they want to stay abreast of the news with my parents. Here is the text of a response letter I sent to them, which will bring our story up-to-date here as well:
...Dear Friends,
Happy to oblige with the fill-in, and grateful to be able to be candid. Even if my mom were to discover what I'm sharing (which I would prefer she did not), it either a) wouldn't be remembered for long, or b) wouldn't cause much more of an uproar than most of my errant steps over these last two years and five months. Or, if it did, I guess I'd just take my lumps and be grateful to get the boot back to California, if it came to that.
I will say though, if you believe in such things, you might put in a word to the "Big Guy" that fetching one of them "Home" sooner, rather than later, might not be a bad idea for any of us.
My dad continues to have a great sense of humor, and his primary goal in life seems to be to see "if there is anything I can get for you, my darling" [spoken to Bitchy]. He keeps plodding along in his slow, deliberate way, traversing the house with tiny steps on his unknown errands. (I am content to let him go about his business without distraction, though my mother will usually interrupt him, micro-managing his every move with demands of "what do you want, Hunk?" or "where are you going?" or "what are you doing, and why don't you just sit down!") He is not fully incontinent yet, though his use of Depends is essential to minimal hygiene. He has continuous trouble with his partial dentures which makes every meal a bothersome adventure, interrupted by trips (with me or one of my helpers...never mom) to the bathroom to remove the offending device and clean out the debris, before going back to the table to try again. He often abandons his meal mid-way, either because he's actually full after three or four bites, or just fed up with the garbage that collects under the bridge, or the pressure mom puts on him to eat another bite, or not to put his tissues there! or to pick up the sandwich with your hands, Hunky (who uses a fork to eat a sandwich??) or to change his expression because the one he's wearing makes her think there's something wrong!
His Parkinson's disease (which is partially responsible for that facial "mask") is also getting worse -- it accounts for a lot of his uneasy, slow, and halting gait, but it also impedes his digestive system, and the other day he was incredibly upset by a piece of macaroni stuck in his throat. He wanted (nearly) to go to the emergency room to find a doctor who could fix the problem. Well, it just had to work its way down, and getting him to drink water didn't happen easily and didn't help much. Time was all we could rely on. But later (after an inquiry) the nurse said he should pretty much be on a liquid and soft food diet now. (Try and get Bitchy to follow those guidelines!!!!)
On sleep, with him retiring to bed at the early hour of 6:30 most nights, it's almost to be expected he'll be up in the wee hours, wandering. Apparently, it's common among people with Alzheimer's. And since I've begun latching my door so he can't just burst right in while I'm fast asleep, he rarely knocks long or loud enough to wake me. So, no doubt, he is upsetting Binnie's sleep -- probably big-time. I'm not so far from child-rearing that I don't remember sleep deprivation. And I sympathize with her. But she is right in the same bed with him, and he is her "darling of 67 years" so I would expect her to be the one most willing to help him with his night-time needs. I don't know how she handles it, but the sound of her voice most mornings gives a hint of something sour.
And, alas, when she is trying to hold onto sleep in the morning, or later when she is watching her loud, bad-news or daytime talk shows, or if she's just in a rotten mood from receiving too much attention from him (and not enough from anyone else), or overwhelmed with impatience, being unable to understand what he wants or what he's trying to verbalize, and unwilling to wait for him to work it out, her responses can be downright mean! It's almost like she's bipolar, the switch from saccharine sweet, to "witchy" can happen in a nanosecond.
So, while all last year she was speculating and predicting that she would "be done" by November, that timeframe has come and gone! Now she's saying that by NEXT November she wants to be done... Just wants to enjoy one more spring with her gardens, one more summer enjoying the local corn, and one more colorful autumn. Frankly, I'm watching the clock with a hungry, though heavy, heart...
As dad's condition really deteriorates, she will be even less patient, if I can imagine that. And when her own dementia gets more intense, who knows how that will affect everyone. Not well, I think.
We'll see... For now, that's off my chest, I guess I'll go have some tea and try to loosen some of the mucus from my cold! (And yes, even though I take honey regularly, I caught a cold. Imagine!!!! -- Must be the stress.)
All the best,
(Daughter)...
So, stay tuned for more on our developing saga!
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