Just fine!

Dad went off to bed tonight at 8.30 p.m.  He's been a wee bit more tired today and I know he'll sleep until at least 8 a.m. tomorrow so I don't worry about it when he does this.  The last two nights he's been up til almost pumpkin hour so I'm a bit glad of the rest myself.  It means I can relax my antenna for a while.

Before he got dressed this morning I noticed him scratching the back of his left shoulder.  He asked, "Is there something on me there?"  It was the Transdermal Patch that I apply every morning to one of the variable places on his chest, back or arms.  I try to place them without him really feeling me do it...while drying the designated area and just patting him with the patch at the ready and not making a fuss of sticking the thing onto him.  Why?  Because he just takes it off again and leaves it laying on whatever surface is nearby at the time.  I usually have to look for the 'used' one in the mornings and am mostly successful to find them at the side of his bed.  But I've found them floating in the dish water having fallen out of the empty tea mug.  I now know to check the mugs and dishes before putting them into the sink for washing!  The patches should stay...I was going to write 'in situ' but had second thoughts...I'm writing this blog and suddenly I think I'm a literary genius!  Get real Duffy...the patches should be left on in the same place for 24 hours.  He gets a patch on EVERY day, and EVERY day he'll ask me what it's for.  I tell him, "They're to help your memory dad.  I think we should ask for a refund!"

He's chuffed to bits with the new clothes he's been getting recently.  Shoes that slip on?  He can't believe it.  They are much lighter on his feet and help a great deal with his 'shuffling'.  "Best shoes I've ever had", he states.  So far, the jumper...shirt...even the troosers are all "the best I've ever had."

I try and take my dad out for a little while every day, unless it's pouring rain.  The weather has been reasonably kind to afford us a few trips to browse the shops, do some food shopping and go for the compulsory coffee and a bun.  I sit him where he can people watch although I am wary of his inability to keep certain opinions to himself...quietly!  I dread when I see a child act up and a parent struggle to control the behaviour.  "Skelp it's arse!" is his usual statement. 'Skelp' - to hit/slap in Scottish.  He says it too loud...in any language!

I decided this afternoon to tackle the garden shed which has been filled with boxes, bags, bags inside boxes, boxes inside more boxes, filled with STUFF!  My parents moved to this house only two years ago and all the 'stuff' they brought from their previous house was shipped here without sorting and anything that couldn't fit into the house basically has been thrown into the shed.  (Thank you mother!)

Although most of the stuff wasn't anything I could or would use, I did come across a huge box filled with photographs.  Mostly albums from years ago and some of more recent events, like great grandchildren.  My dad used to play bowls.  When I say play, he didn't really enjoy the game much.  My mother was the champion bowler, my dad went under duress!

There were a lot of photos of the Bowling Club.  There was one of him on his own so I showed it to him, telling him it was him.  He recognised himself but he couldn't tell me where he was in the picture.  The next photo was of him and my mother.  I asked, "Who is that you are with?"  "I don't know," he replied.  I show him another of my mother on her own.  "Do you recognise her here dad?" I ask again.  "No," he replies, "I know the face, I just can't think of the name."  So I tell him her name is Anne...still no flicker of recognition.  "Your wife dad."

He looks at me as if I'm daft then looks back at the photo.  "Imagine forgetting that," he said.  I told him not to worry about it.  I made some lame joke about her not being here anymore to chastise him for it and he smiled.  He commented on the clouds gathering in the sky but how nice a day it still was.  The photos already forgotten and I suddenly felt overwhelmingly sad.  Not for him, but for my mother...and me.

Columbo Series One got another round this evening while he had his ("bloody good!") dinner.  At the start of the first one, the potential murderer was arguing with a woman and my dad pipes up, "She's gonnae get hit oan the heed the noo!"  (translation for all those who don't speak Scottish Dad: the lady is about to be hit over the head any moment now)  I ask once again for nothing more than my own amusement, "Have you seen this before?"  ...and here it comes.  "No!"  Oh Lord give me strength.

As we sit together on the two seater reclining sofa, both of us with our feet up, I turn to find him staring right at me.  He asks me, "How are you doing?"  I smile and say, "I'm doing just fine dad, and you?"  "Aye, I'm fine".

Well that's all we need to be...just fine.

First steps...

Well, the process has started of me claiming Guardianship of my dad as both of us went to see a Solicitor armed with every document known to man.  After going into the wrong office, I was directed to the one I should have turned up in which was a further 15 minutes drive.  "That was quick!" dad commented.  Not quite.  Finally we got to where we should be and he wasn't allowed to be part of the interview.  The receptionist said, "There's a café next door but one if he would like to go and have a coffee."  Eh....I don't think so.  I informed her that he has Dementia and would be grateful if she would make sure he didn't try to wander off while I was in the other room.  She made a cup of tea for him and I disappeared...for 45 minutes!  I didn't like that it took so long but I'm relieved to have taken the first step in getting the ball rolling as the end result can take as long as a year, perhaps longer.  It's not just a financial issue.  It's being able to make every single decision from what clothes he wears, what food he eats to where he will live in the future...  It's not something I will entertain my thoughts with right now but I have to be realistic and consider if anything should happen to ME.  What then would become of him?

My emotions have been sorely tested as the day progressed.  It has been more than two weeks since my mother's cremation and I haven't heard a word about her ashes.  I called the Funeral Directors who apologised for the delay.  By tea time I'd been called to say they now had them in their office just waiting for me to collect...as soon as I feel fit to do so.  For me it's not a case of feeling fit.  How does anyone feel fit for this task?  It's not 'click and collect' online shopping...but it sure feels like it.

I haven't mentioned it to my dad.  I'm not being cruel.  I'm trying to be considerate, of his feelings as much as my own.  Until my dad mentions my mother's death or includes her in any day to day event then I won't be including her in conversations.  I've said the occasional, "I wonder what my mother would make of this?" or "Do you think my mother would like this/that?" relating to the changes I've made in the home.  My dad just doesn't answer as one would expect...because he isn't sure what I'm talking about.  I don't question his confusion.  I just acknowledge it and move on.

As I write this he is sitting beside me with his feet up watching....Columbo!  This particular episode is pretty slapstick, set in London and includes British detectives with similar idiocies.  I hear him tut-tut and he turns to me and asks, "Do you think someone is really that stupid?"  I look at him square on and bat my eyes and tell him, "I'm saying nothing!"

I'm trying to think of other things I want to share and he's still going on, and although I write the words for you to understand, they aren't always as he says them...but they're what he meant.  I am realising that as the days progress and we get later into the night, his speech slows down and words are either muddled or simply wrong...when he eventually finds them that is.  But I don't interrupt, or finish his sentences.  He does know when he's not making sense sometimes and will comment with, "Whit a load o' rubbish!" before starting over, and still may not be able to perfect his intended sentence.  I find using a sweet term of endearment works to lighten his mood.  Something along the lines of "ya daft buggar!"

Still watching Columbo, he says, "I wish they'd give me the script to write.  I could do better than that rubbish.  He's meant to be a polis man.  Is anyone that stupid?"  Haha!  A fair wee rant right enough.  It's not finished yet.  There might be more to follow...

I took him out for lunch to make up for him sitting so long waiting on me today.  Then I took him to buy new trousers...a size bigger than he has been wearing.  In the short time I've been with him, his entire diet has had a leg up and tomorrow I hope when he gets the blood results from a few days ago they will show a great difference from those taken 8 weeks ago.

Back home again and it's the usual daily Easter egg hunt to find his slippers.  I wasn't in the room when he put them away.  They could be anywhere.  I've never found them in the fridge...yet.  You learn with Dementia, rule nothing out!

Another Columbo has just started.  I won't be in my bed any time soon.  My dad leaves the room to go to the bathroom.  Already I am gauging the time and listening with one ear to hear if he makes his way directly back to the living room or does a detour around cupboards, drawers or the bedroom.  Then I'd have to get up and casually move in his direction to investigate.  Thankfully, he has returned to his seat beside me.  Maybe he senses my tiredness tonight.  Maybe a pig will fly!

Another day in Paradise

It's Wednesday.  My dad goes to a Day Centre from 9.30 a.m. until 2 p.m.  It's only around the corner from the house but we take the car.  His mobility is poor but that message hasn't reached him yet.  He walks with a stick although it's purpose has often been to point at people or other things of interest...inside a shop for example.  My dad has no spacial awareness.  I'm not sure if this is really a Dementia trait or more of a "I can do what I want now that I'm in my 80's" thing.  Either way, you learn not to address the issue using a stern tone as him speaking his mind regardless of the audience may not be what you bargained for.  To be honest, the stick pointing is fairly rare these days due to the fact he uses a wheelchair when we go out for some hours.  His walking was always quite slow but as he began to stoop forward and shuffle more, it was time to give his legs and body a wee rest.  He likes being wheeled around in his chair.  He thinks it's a great invention although the same man stated "I wouldn't be seen dead in one!" some years ago.

I remind him on a Tuesday night that he will be going to the Day Centre in the morning.  Nine times out of ten he'll ask, "Where am I going?"  I tell him that it's where he meets his friends every week.  By morning I'm saying the same thing again...and he'll ask again, "Where?"

This morning after telling him he looked puzzled and stumbled on words as he said, "I'll need to write down my...my...I don't know."  "Take your time," I said.  "it'll come to you."  Moments later he said, "Address...I need to write my address so they know where I am."  Whatever was going through his head, I told him not to worry.  I was taking him and would be there to pick him up when he was finished.  Calm was restored.

Four and a bit hours fly by when you're doing your own thing.  I still haven't mastered any kind of routine yet but I'm hopeful by 2025 I'll have cracked it!

Back home again and it's off with his shoes.  I'm right there to pick them up and put them away immediately thus avoiding him bending down to do the same and fall over in the process.  He has only recently stopped going to visit the nurse every few days to have a dressing on his skint elbow refreshed.  I had just moved in with him two or three days when I watched him lose his balance and fall backwards while trying to pull his slipper on...from a standing position of course.  It was awful.  I felt so helpless...and guilty.  I had his slippers ready and waiting for him but I was too busy checking a message on my bloody phone to realise he'd started to put them on without waiting to be helped.  Lesson learned.  No matter what else I have to do my first priority is a 'safety check'.  He just tries to 'help' but can't foresee potential danger.  If he leaves the room I don't mither him.  I just watch, listen and eventually follow...usually to find him raking in a cupboard not knowing what he is looking for.  Gentle reassurance and guidance towards the living room once again usually fixes that...until the 4th or 5th time when inside my brain my speech cell is busy forming the word F**K in bold capitals while my mouth strains to stay shut and not allow it to escape with volume.

Tomorrow I have an appointment with a Solicitor to begin the process for Guardianship of my dad.  I wondered whether to tell about it or just wait until it's time to go and tell him then.  But as I was rustling around putting together all the documents required, I decided to make mention.  I didn't go into great detail.  All he needs to know is that I will be here to make the decisions that he can't and to ensure that his supply of crisps and lager are forever sufficient.  Happy days!

Today we have watched (me with one eye) copious 'Columbo' episodes..."whit a right scruffy buggar to be a polis man" is my father's description, loosely translates to the unkempt nature of the detective

and a couple of 'Cracker' episodes...to be resumed tomorrow I have no doubt.

I've yawned my head off since 10 p.m. tonight and he has asked me countless times if I am tired.  "Just a bit," I'd say but he still sat until 11 p.m. before making his way to bed.  Only when he toddles off I can set up my bed in the living room...and as I end this post, it's 2 a.m. already...and my bed still remains in chair form!  During my days I am like a hamster on a wheel, so a little (lot) 'down' time is required before I go to sleep and it all begins again tomorrow.

Dad:  "Did you have a good sleep?  I had a GREAT sleep!"  Me: (red eyed but smiling) "Me too!"  

This is how we roll..

As I write this post, my dad is sitting beside me with his feet up enjoying yet another (same) series of Columbo.  An episode which he states he has never seen before.  In fact, he tells me that every time he watches it.  He also points out that "that man always has a cigar in his mooth!" (translate: mooth - mouth.  There is going to be a lot of translating going on during the writing of this blog.  Some will even be printable!)

If I ask him the man's name he won't be able to tell me, so I don't ask.  Same as I don't ask him the name of my dog, Poppy.  It is more entertaining to hear him refer to her as "dug".  However, it is less entertaining knowing that he doesn't remember my name either.  I remind him only when he thinks I'm his wife...although he can't tell you her name other than it's "Mrs Duffy".  It's not that I look like my mother or remind him of her in that way, but only for the personal tasks that I undertake to make sure he is clean and fresh and above all safe.  As I assist him to dress he'll say "If I told the boys at work that my wife was helping me dress they'd laugh at me."  I don't remind him that he's long retired.  I tell him that they'd be pleased to know that I was helping him keep his balance and not fall on his arse while he tried to coordinate his feet into his pants and socks while standing up!  Then I ask, "...do you remember my name dad?"  "Aye," says he, "you're Mrs Duffy!"  I tell him, "no dad, I'm not your wife...I'm your daughter, Lorraine."  He looks at me with an "I knew that" expression and smiles, saying, "silly buggar!" referring to himself...I hope.

It has only been a few months since my dad began to need help with showering and changing his clothes...not to mention putting them on in the right order.  Sometimes he doesn't recognise clothes that aren't his and emerged from the bedroom one morning wearing my cardigan.  I stifled a giggle when I asked him what happened to his housecoat.  He told me he couldn't find it.  There are 3 places where he'll attempt to put it and I have learned to be a step ahead of him when he's on the move, especially if he has something in his hand that he wants to "put away" otherwise the item may never be seen again...or found in some obscure location not fitting of the item in question.  It's pretty difficult to lose a housecoat mind you, but I go to fetch it from the place it has always been and still was and he tells me not to bother, pointing to the (my) cardigan stating, "this'll dae!" (trans: do!)

The house has a small hallway and a front door with a frosted glass panel.  Alongside the front door is a window which is not frosted.  It is crystal clear with a vertical blind which is always more open than closed.  My dad's routine (normally) in the morning is to go to the bedroom and remove his pyjama top and vest and then go to the bathroom and remove the rest while I hold the shower head and give him instructions on where to stand, how to stand, where to wash and how to wash.  Yes.  Every day the same instruction and every day he waits to be told, otherwise he'd still be standing not knowing what to do.  But yesterday...for some reason known only to him, he decided to strip off entirely in the hallway!  I was busy getting the water temperature right then I turned around to see him fold his pyjama trousers and place them on the floor....bending over with his arse at the letterbox and in full view through the bloody window!

"DAD!!!" I said (shouted) "Christ!  Move before the postman comes or you'll give him a heart attack, not to mention take delivery of the mail!"  Och well," he said, "he'll get a nice surprise!"  Not words that were appropriate for the situation, but that's the thing with Dementia.  Words can often be muddled, incoherent or in this case just wrong!  Dad got his shower and no postman was harmed in the process.

It is less than a month since my mother passed away.  I haven't had the time to grieve and wonder if I ever will.  There has been so many distractions and things to take care of, other than my dad that is, and I'm not done yet.  Everything isn't likely to settle for a few months.  I have to go to Court for Guardianship of my dad among other things.  I have only just handed in the keys to my own house which I rented for the last 4 years to move in with my dad.  The house has one bedroom.  For 7 weeks and 5 days (but who's counting) I've been sleeping on a leather two seater couch, often in my clothes instead of pyjamas.  In the beginning my dad would ask, "Are you staying here tonight?" It didn't take long before he stopped asking and adjusted to the new routine.  As of 3 days ago I now have a new chair bed in the living room.  I try not to think of what I once had.  It is what it is.  My dad is so settled now that he goes to bed later each night and emerges fully charged and bright and breezy in the morning, always asking "Did you have a good sleep?" followed by  "I had a GREAT sleep!"  I could tell him that my bum cheeks are numb and I have a crick in my neck but instead I tell him, "Me too."

While my mother was in hospital, I took him to visit every day and every day I watched him hold her hand and tell her he loves her.  As her health declined, she was more often sleeping when we arrived but we would sit with her anyway.  Five minutes into the visit I would see my dad trying to get eye contact with me.  I tried to avoid it as much as I could because I knew what was coming.  "I think we'll just go," he'd say, "she's sleeping!"  It wasn't fair to think he'd be able to sit quiet doing nothing for any length of time, but as soon as we left the ward his mood would pick up and it was soon forgotten that we'd even visited at all.  I always bought him an ice-lolly in the shop before leaving the hospital and I would watch him enjoy it without a care in the world...then roll the car window down and throw the stick out before I could stop him.  It was very difficult to watch my mother the way she was in the end and not react in front of my father.  She passed away just before midnight on the 31st July.  Two hours prior to that my dad went off to bed.  I already knew my mother hadn't long because the hospital had called.  I waited til the bedroom door closed and I sneaked out...leaving my dad behind...and drove to the hospital.  I couldn't console myself with the dilemma of not being able to stay with my mother for the necessity of having to return home for the sake of my dad.  I said all that was needed...all that I needed...to my mother.  The nurse sat with both of us and let's just say she made it okay for me to leave and take care of my dad.  I was glad to know that he hadn't gotten out of bed and all was as still as could be when I returned.  Less than an hour later the nurse called.  It was all over.  I told my dad the next morning but it didn't register.  He said "Oh well, it can't be helped." Then it was on with the day...and every day thereafter.

He has never mentioned my mother since.  I have pictures of her next to his bed.  He doesn't recognise her.  How sad...but how lucky, for him.  He is least affected and actually thriving because he now has the care he needs and the environment that Dementia requires to be able to live with it and to deal with it.

Every day is a new beginning.  I know the repetitions expected and the patience required to deal with them.  Every day is the same...but different.  There's a contradiction if ever there was one...but Dementia is one big feckin contradiction.  It's a planet of it's own, and my dad's on it...but so am I.  He'll be alright.  Me too.

What's my name again??