Trump and the trash man on the same list

trumpman

Journal entry, August 15, 2016:


Got some amusing mail coming in today. From Donald Trump’s campaign staff, and I pitched it to Dad just to mess with him.

Dad has an almost irrational dislike for The Donald. Okay, I don’t like the guy either for reasons of my own, but Dad’s dislike is special. When I pull up the news and Trump’s face shows up, Dad has the same response:

“Who’s that? Dumbshit again?”

Never fails, and myself being the opinionated snarky type who always needs to make things interesting, you know I’m gonna yank his chain.

He has a few other people on that list of his: The trash man, who Dad calls Fatass. The next-door neighbors (although the one on the other side is probably worse, but she gets a pass because she’s attractive and friendly.) A few others.


See, Dad was never like this before dementia. I mean he wouldn’t like certain people, but not like that. I guess it’s just one of the changes that happens when dementia takes the brain over. The filter goes, along with everything else.

Maybe in a perverse way it’s fun to play with, but it’s still not fun to see.

All the news that fits, we engage

Engaging over the news is better than just reading it.
Engaging over the news is better than just reading it.
Dad’s always been a news buff. He always liked knowing what’s going on in the world, and that hasn’t changed much. The only change is in how he gets the news.

That’s become a favorite way for us to engage. Might even be the high point of his day.

Guaranteed, when I’m at the big screen computer Dad will come in and park himself in the chair behind me. I know what that means. Take a break from whatever I’m doing. Pull up Yahoo News and start sorting through stuff. Or go to my Twitter feeds and look for the hot news.

He especially likes the videos. Crank up the volume, go full screen, and he’s happy. If a story doesn’t have a video I’ll read it to him and interject my own commentary. Just like in the old days he gets into the political scene; the Trump/Clinton campaign is always good for a few laughs anyway.

Some of this gets pretty funny because we’re on different ends of the political spectrum. Admittedly, I’m just to the right of Genghis Khan. Dad isn’t. He’s already decided who he wants to vote for, while I favor lining them both against the wall and starting the whole mess over. Sometimes this sparks some pretty lively conversation.

It’s that engagement thing. I guess dementia is a pretty lonely disease; you’re just a prisoner of your own head. Anything to engage, to start conversation, to actually do things, is a big part of coping.

Watching the news on TV or reading it online is fine; it keeps the care recipient somewhat informed of what’s going on. But that doesn’t keep him engaged unless he cusses out the TV.


Lost abilities or not, it’s still a guy thing


Journal entry from Dec 17. A little dated, but relevant:

We had a late one last night. A Christmas party at Ella’s, and this was way beyond Dad’s stamina rating. He was a hot mess coming home. Okay, I was kinda sorta, but he needed a walker to get to the car. I think we’re going to start traveling with his in the trunk, just ’cause.


We got lucky here. Ella’s 92 and not always so steady on her feet. Though I’ve never seen her with it, she does have a walker she keeps around the house. Dad used it to the car and I brought it back right away.

His balance is shot. Falls over a lot. Part of it is aftereffects from his strokes, part of it from a bad leg, and also because he’s top-heavy. Still a tall guy, and he really does look like a busted construction crane tottering down the street when he walks.

He keeps his walker in the bedroom, where it holds extra blankets. He really needs to use it, but I’m not gonna make him. You gotta understand this. It’s a guy thing.

Mom would have pushed him, perhaps badgered him to use the walker. She was protective that way, and never would have understood how we guys think.

I still had to make the executive call. We have three walkers around the house. His blanket rack is one. Mom’s old one sits in the garage, and there’s no way he’ll want to use that one. The third was kicking around, and now sits in the trunk. Just in case he needs it.

I really expect him to bite the bullet and use his fairly soon. But he has to make the choice. He may have lost a lot of his faculties, but he still has some pride and dignity. Don’t want to take that from him.


Detachment: Can you do it?


Journal entry, January 8, 2016:

Was thinking a little about Debbie today. She was a girlfriend around 1999-2000, and today’s her 53rd birthday. How time flies when you’re having fun.

Debbie worked a lot of different jobs, from taxi driving to construction to working with special-needs kids. But she was in the nursing-home biz for a while. A CNA, I think. She loved it and she was a real people person, but there was a problem. She tended to get attached to her people.

Her mom told me about it. A problem with people in nursing homes is they tend to die, and when you’re attached to them a little bit of yourself dies. That’s what happened to Debbie. She finally got to where she couldn’t work any more.

Okay. Situation was different for her. She was a hireling, and she didn’t know her people before taking care of them. Not quite the same as taking care of a close family member, but some things remain the same.

I think it’s a thing of detachment. Maybe it’s my journo training, but I’ve always been able to suspend the feelings, step back from the situation and take care of business. When wiping Mom’s butt I never looked at her face. Made it easier to forget for a minute who I was taking care of.


Can everybody do that? Probably not. But it’s one of those things, like a sense of humor, that can keep you from going nutso on the job.


The making of a family caregiver


When I left California in 1990, I swore there was only one thing that would bring me back there to live.

On May 2, 2014, that thing happened and I came back from South Carolina.

I became caregiver to two aged parents. And I had no idea what the Sam Hill I was supposed to do.

There are not, like, college classes to teach you all this stuff. You’ll find courses through some nonprofits (think Alzheimers Association here), but you end up learning as you go.

But there I was, taking care of both parents. Dad’s now 87, a two-time stroke victim and easing into late-stage dementia. Mom was 85, immobile, incontinent, and determined to shut her business down. She did pass away six months after my arrival, hastening Dad’s decline somewhat.

Okay. I’m not the only one in this position. It’s a new occupation for the baby boom generation. People are living longer and many folks my age are acting as caregivers.

I’m not alone in this. But sometimes it feels like it. From the many I’ve talked to, almost every family caregiver feels alone in this.

Meanwhile I’m making the stuff up as I go along. Learning about the mechanics of dementia. Picking the brains of those who are in the same boat as I am. Keeping in touch with my friends from back home; they’re always an encouragement to me. Doing what I can to cope.

This blog gets a little personal sometimes. I’ll mine my journal for material and share an excerpt or two, but most of this is based on practicalities. Stuff I learned, most likely the quick-and-dirty way.

(Note: I will concentrate on coping mechanisms and various ways a caregiver can do the job without losing his sanity. Nothing here should be construed as medical advice, so don’t waste your time looking for it. I’m not qualified for that, I don’t want to risk the life of your loved one with crappy advice, and I don’t want to get my bee-hind sued.)