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??