Assisted Living

The term Assisted Living is a marketing tool, no doubt, designed to replace the more obvious and horrifying term, Nursing Home. These facilities ease seniors through the final stages of their lives, from independence to dependence and on to death. Most are comfortable, respectful facilities where active seniors can rely on others to do chores and cooking, while they enjoy activities and social lives. Many facilities set aside whole wings or buildings devoted solely to Alzheimer’s patients, providing secure accommodations, activities and care to support the declining minds of their residents. I found the names of these areas amusing. No one came out and called it an Alzheimer’s or Dementia wing. I could picture the marketing meeting on that issue.
“How can we refer to Alzheimer’s symptoms, without actually referencing them?” Coming from the CEO.
“How about Nostalgic Memories? Or, Remembrances Past?”
“Remembrances Past! That’s perfect. Use that.”
Apparently no one wanted to imagine his or her relatives living in lock down. Euphemisms were so much more comfortable.

“Do we have enough kibble? Don’t forget to get some kibble.” This from Dad as we were walking through the grocery store. In time, Mow, as he came to be known because of his loud distinctive cry, became Dad’s constant companion. Mow was pronounced the same as Mao Tse Tung; I found out much later that the word mau in Egyptian means cat or seer, both definitions being pretty appropriate. Dad went from pushing him away with his foot to cuddling him at every opportunity. Every morning I found Mow sitting on Dad’s lap at breakfast, sniffing the plate, making sure that Dad wasn’t keeping all the good bacon to himself. He had a passion for melon, and would climb us like a tree if he saw us holding a piece. Mow followed Dad everywhere: sitting on Dad’s lap in the sun; listening to classical music cranked on the stereo with apparent enjoyment.
. I considered Mow an angel sent to us, one last cat to keep Dad company. I realized just how far Dad had come as we were taking a walk one afternoon and he was trying to tell me something.
“It happened there, this thing I was telling you about,” he said, struggling to bring to mind the words he wanted.
“Where was it, exactly?” I asked, trying to pinpoint if he was talking about the house or the new facility he was living in.
“You know, that place. That place where Mow lives!” he said.
Oh yeah, that place.

Mow the Cat Part I

During my stay with Dad, we were adopted. It was out of the clear blue, and certainly not something we were expecting. A cat moved in, bringing with him very little baggage, but a very sweet and friendly purr and a taste for cantaloupe. I had two cats of my own that I didn’t get to see while I was with Dad and I missed having something furry around the house. At first, the orange cat appeared on the deck every day, peering in the sliding doors, meowing enticingly, sidling in when the doors were opened. I made a little bed for him on the deck, and left a bowl of food out.
“What are you doing?” Dad asked, coming upon me as I was making a little nest with old towels and blankets.
“I’m just making a little bed for that cat that’s been around,” I said. Just then, the orange cat jumped up on to the deck and began to wind himself enticingly around our ankles. Dad gave a little kick of disgust as the cat twined around his leg.
“Don’t do that, it’ll just encourage him.” He watched grumpily as the cat made its way into the kitchen, purring as it inspected the house. “Just don’t let it into my room.” he said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep him out of your room.” I said. “I just think he’s so sweet.”
For a few weeks, Dad continued to express disgust and indifference toward the cat. Gradually, insidiously, the cat began to work his way into Dad’s affections, while sleeping on me at night and keeping me company.

Caregiving

As a caregiver to my Father, I often had to put aside my role as his daughter and behave as a caregiver. Certain behavior that would trigger a child of the patient, would not trigger a neutral care-giver. Sometimes he repeated things over and over, or completely forgot what I had just said to him. I would get angry, wondering why he never listened to me, or tired of hearing the same thing over and over. Sometimes he acted unkindly or rudely, hurting me. Therapy helped me during those times I got confused and angry about legitimate dementia behavior and couldn’t differentiate between him as my father and as my patient.

Talking

“What are you doing these days for work?“ he asked.
“I’ve been working for the chiropractor, you remember? Doing insurance billing? And Christian and I have been going out for almost a year now,“ I told him. My throat was almost closing, I was so happy to actually be talking to him.
“Which one is Christian again?“ He asked, a little confused.
“He’s the one with the beard? The computer guy? Remember you guys talked about computers when I took you down to my house?“ Dad always remembered Christian’s beard for some reason. “My cats are doing well, too. You remember Angus, the big orange striped guy? And Barney, our big grey cat? They’re both happy.”
“Oh, right, right, you told me that. Well, good.“ He looked down at the newspaper in his hand while I sat for a minute, just looking at him. I used to rage about the fact that he never asked me how I was. When we sat and talked, I would bring up things I had been doing, anything new in my life. But what I longed for more than anything was for him to actually ask me about my life.
We sat for a little longer, talking when we felt like it; occasionally he would repeat the same question or offer the same advice. It felt so good to sit there with him and actually converse. His emotions were so much closer now to the surface, and I could tell from the way his eyes welled up that he was enjoying spending time with me. I knew he likely wouldn’t remember anything I told him, but at least I felt his interest. I heard the words I had yearned to hear for a long time, and I finally got to share myself with him - just a little bit.

Seeing the Truth

"I still needed him to be my parent. He was the last one I had and I was not ready to let go of that. I was completely unprepared to parent him. I was so angry with him, it felt as if he was escaping from his life, escaping from responsibility, and I was going to be forced to care for a man who had not cared for me at the times when I most needed it. I was bitter at the thought that I would be required to use my limited energy and time, perhaps exacerbate my chronic illness, to look after this evasive, exhausting man who wouldn’t even acknowledge that there was a problem. I was not yet ready to switch roles.
At the same time, it broke my heart to see the conditions in which he was living, and to see his genuine dismay and horror when he saw what was happening. How could you realize that your father was living on bread sandwiches cookies and pop every day and not be sad? I wanted things to be better for him, but I couldn’t see how to do it without giving up myself."

Personal Post

I'm still waiting to hear from the agent; I guess no news is good news! Let's hope she thinks my disorganization was endearing or momentary, I'd really love to publish this thing. I took Dad to the doctor today, thank god the toe seems to be healing up. Dad was in good spirits, but so frail. He mutters now, sentences start off strong and then trail off. He was never that chatty to begin with but now even less so.