There's a fine line between keeping someone gainfully occupied and exploitation:-
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13 hours ago
Friday, December 30, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Sleepover Aftermath - where is everybody?
Sometimes you don't notice that someone's eyesight might be failing until you bump into the obvious.
The light was poor, but the body count was unmistakable.
The light was poor, but the body count was unmistakable.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Wearing your insides on the outside
In February I finally pick up where I left off and plop onto the sofa for a breather. With needles in hand I dive into the project with my bifocals in position when Nonna appears by my side.
“Wot you got dere den?”
“Knitting.”
“Knitting, knitting, knitting. Always you are with the knitting. I tink you are a tricoteuse.”
I refuse to rise to the bait, smile but make no comment; partly because I see the hearing aide is adrift and partly because I’ve not knitted a thing in months.
“Wot it is dis funny ting? A bag?”
“A scarf,” I bellow. About all I have time for these days. “It was supposed to be a Christmas present but I didn’t quite get around to it.”
“Good—dat way you are ready for next year. Wot color is dat den?”
“Green, her favorite.”
“It is an orrible green. Like something dat as gone bad. It’s a funny ting isn’t it,” she says patting the knobbly yarn. “I tink maybe it is like gangrenous intestines.”
.............. I'm sure it will catch on.
Monday, December 20, 2010
National Boundaries
They both demand attention at the same time. My son needs his Pikmin repaired forthwith and Nonna required her spectacles superglued, posthaste. She has no qualms jumping the queue.
"You ave to wait your turn," she says shooing him aside, "I need mummy more."
His mouth drops open, aghast, "But...you said...mummy."
"So wot? Wot it got to do wiv you den?"
I interject, dispute resolution and interpreter to the fore--put the fire out before it starts, "It's alright dear. Nonna just forgot for a moment. Maddy and mummy sound pretty much alike," I whisper as the hearing aides are still in the mail.
But he's not mollified for a moment, "no ... she is saying the English but Nonna is Italian."
"You ave to wait your turn," she says shooing him aside, "I need mummy more."
His mouth drops open, aghast, "But...you said...mummy."
"So wot? Wot it got to do wiv you den?"
I interject, dispute resolution and interpreter to the fore--put the fire out before it starts, "It's alright dear. Nonna just forgot for a moment. Maddy and mummy sound pretty much alike," I whisper as the hearing aides are still in the mail.
But he's not mollified for a moment, "no ... she is saying the English but Nonna is Italian."
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Melting moments
If you continuously search the same six inches of your very large suitcase at intermittent intervals, such behavior can become seriously distressing very quickly.
Emotions run on high octane and it can be difficult to break the cycle. Intervention requires sensitivity, a quality which seems to dissipate under stress. In addition, if English is your second language there is a tendency to revert to the mother tongue and small words become irretrievable. It’s a process of adjustment, a bit like laundry, spray the stains, soak and steep overnight in bleach for a brighter future.
Most of the time we cope well and remain on track, but every once in a while something hits home. The words may be off but the sentiment is sound.
It is indescribably sad.
“You know Maddy?”
“Hmm?”
“I used to be so proud of my head.”
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Pearls in unexpected places
It’s the pursuit of the day, looking for keys that aren’t there and are not needed.
It begins as a small speck of dust, a mild irritant that scratches away through the minutes that stretch into hours. It’s a familiar tale, which flickers between OCD, perseverance and Alzheimer’s. It does not respond to the usual remedies. Distraction is only a temporary lull in proceedings before she picks up where she left off, back on the hunt for the ever elusive keys.
We have many other keys available, which might work as a fob, but it’s a trick that’s unlikely to work, more likely to ignite anger, because she’s nobody’s fool. The keys belong to her home in England where she’s lived most of her adult life, the same keys to the same house, keys that are definitely stored in secure long term memory, not whispering in and out of the short term.
There is no respite or relief in sight as distress levels rise, and it’s not just me. I see her pause in the middle of her room deep in thought, furrowed brow and bitten nails. Her frustration is palpable. Power ‘off’ on the television – she means business. I try not to pry to closely, but it all jumps out at me: cat litter, pop-corn, shredded tissues, discarded clothes. It’s just like teenagers, I have to allow some slack, a trade off between independence and privacy, but I’m still tinkering with the balance.
It turns the day of rest into a race but the children chortle as they play, loudly. I complete another pointless circuit of ‘helping to find,’ before I step outside for a breather as I’m out of platitudes and placaters.
As I flop into a garden chair the air is filled with the noise of leaf blowers, the rhythmical rapping of the green woodpecker, the cawing of pet parrots from up the road and the pneumatic stapler of the house builder three doors down, when I hear the door behind me and the shuffled steps as Nonna arrives by my shoulder to hover. I try to relax my neck and arrange my face before she says it, because I know she surely will.
“So Maddy… you’re dah lucky one aren’t you!”
I exhale and turn because I really can do think when my head is on straight, “indeed I am.”
“Doh!” she puffs with annoyance as she cuffs my arm, “you’re no fun today.”
And there she is, right back where she should be, faculties in place, the right place.
“How do you mean?”
“You know I just do it to annoy you, don’t you?”
“Indeed… I certainly do.”
It begins as a small speck of dust, a mild irritant that scratches away through the minutes that stretch into hours. It’s a familiar tale, which flickers between OCD, perseverance and Alzheimer’s. It does not respond to the usual remedies. Distraction is only a temporary lull in proceedings before she picks up where she left off, back on the hunt for the ever elusive keys.
We have many other keys available, which might work as a fob, but it’s a trick that’s unlikely to work, more likely to ignite anger, because she’s nobody’s fool. The keys belong to her home in England where she’s lived most of her adult life, the same keys to the same house, keys that are definitely stored in secure long term memory, not whispering in and out of the short term.
There is no respite or relief in sight as distress levels rise, and it’s not just me. I see her pause in the middle of her room deep in thought, furrowed brow and bitten nails. Her frustration is palpable. Power ‘off’ on the television – she means business. I try not to pry to closely, but it all jumps out at me: cat litter, pop-corn, shredded tissues, discarded clothes. It’s just like teenagers, I have to allow some slack, a trade off between independence and privacy, but I’m still tinkering with the balance.
It turns the day of rest into a race but the children chortle as they play, loudly. I complete another pointless circuit of ‘helping to find,’ before I step outside for a breather as I’m out of platitudes and placaters.
As I flop into a garden chair the air is filled with the noise of leaf blowers, the rhythmical rapping of the green woodpecker, the cawing of pet parrots from up the road and the pneumatic stapler of the house builder three doors down, when I hear the door behind me and the shuffled steps as Nonna arrives by my shoulder to hover. I try to relax my neck and arrange my face before she says it, because I know she surely will.
“So Maddy… you’re dah lucky one aren’t you!”
I exhale and turn because I really can do think when my head is on straight, “indeed I am.”
“Doh!” she puffs with annoyance as she cuffs my arm, “you’re no fun today.”
And there she is, right back where she should be, faculties in place, the right place.
“How do you mean?”
“You know I just do it to annoy you, don’t you?”
“Indeed… I certainly do.”
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Who's Next?
People don’t talk about Alzheimer’s as a spectrum disorder.
I think we should.
Like a lot of disorders, there are good days and not so good days, we’re in the middle of one of the latter. Fortunately the children are at school and all other adults are otherwise occupied away from home, so it’s just me and Nonna.
She’s having a tough time so I scale down my ‘to do’ list to one single item – produce supper for 8 people. It proves to be a tall order as Nonna is restless, a condition exacerbated by several liters of espresso. It can be difficult to take charge in such situations but I decided to be ruthless at ten in the morning – when the last coffee bean was crushed and consumed, I lied boldly – ‘we’ve run out – no more until I’ve been to the shops.’ After that I’m in the dog-house, although I’m really in the kitchen.
I chop in the kitchen, onions, four pounds, in preparation for something or other, as I’ve not had a moment to formulate anything vaguely resembling a recipe.
We’re run through the usual list of repeats several times – the inventory of household members, the date, the whereabouts of pets, their names and ages, what I am doing currently, why I am doing it and how I am doing it. We’ve searched for all the usual suspects, glasses, sunglasses, reading glasses, handkerchief, book, remote control, pills – many and various, as well as a whole miscellany of other items too numerous to list. As I dump onion skins in the compost bin on the window sill, I feel a presence close by – you know who. I speed up and brace myself because if my productivity gives out today we’ll all starve. I chop faster as my shoulders rise to my ear lobes. Damn her rheumy eyes – go away and come back in five minutes – but bless her cotton socks. I don’t know how to play this game, a newbie, drowning, but I have to stay afloat, play it by ear, for both of us.
I wait for the question and wonder which one it will be? I can more or less guarantee it will be ‘wot about dis den?’ without any other clues. I try to swallow my ire and breathe deeply to find a tiny kernel of energy reserves, otherwise known as patience, but the silence endures.
I’m ready.
I turn to see her behind me and suddenly I see her – she’s at a distance of about six feet, a polite distance. I recognize that woman. It’s the woman on her best behavior, I’ve seen her many times before, mostly when we have guests or visitors. It’s her, ‘I’m a dear, sweet, innocent, old lady,’ act, the one she uses for strangers. I feel my face tighten and eyes prick. We all do it sometimes, pretend to be something we’re not – she’s had more practice than most, a magnificent master class graduate. She hovers with uncertainty, wearing a courteous half smile, standing demurely with one hand holding the other. It’s an affectation I’m all too familiar with. I try to think of something to say to the woman, something in code that won’t startle her. I smile at her cautiously and she flutters back, “ello.” I put down the knife gently on the board, as we have already said “good morning” approximately 50 times. I try and think of something neutral, “would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Ooo thank you. Dat would be nice.” She doesn’t advance or retreat, holds her ground, rallying, as she asks, “do you like coffee?”
“I do. I’ll make one for us both shall I?”
“Ooo lovely.”
Her diction is sharp as she fakes an English accent, copy cat to blend in.
As I move ten feet to the right she takes a tentative step forward to ask, “you like it ‘ere?”
“Oh yes. I do. Very much. Always sunny in California,” I add with a wave out the window. Her eyes follow as she mutters under her breath, ‘California.’
The espresso machine is noisy but I watch her floundering as I drown and I wrack my brain to ease the pain and hunt for the trip switch to get her back on track. Her finger tips dance on the edge of the kitchen counter, “so…I like it ‘ere,…I tink I ‘ave been ‘ere before?” she asks nervously and I see her eyes flick over my face to check, coz she’s sharp and if I give her a minute she’ll click into place.
“Yes, it’s a home from home really. After all, you’ve been coming here for twelve years,” I bellow. I see a little shudder rattle through her, nothing to do with the sound level as her eyes widen in disbelief. I need to give her a toe-hold, something not too obvious. While I back pedal, thinking, she’s pro-active, “it’s a lovely ‘ouse dis.”
“Yes, it is.”
“And big!”
“Very big, just right for all eight of us.”
If her eyes get any bigger they might just pop out. I skip the toe-hold and opt for the leg-up, “Mike will be home soon,” I lie.
“Mike…”
“Michael, your son, my husband.”
“So…you’re happily…married now…for ‘ow long?”
“Fifteen years.”
“As long as dat…”
“Long enough to have three children, your grandchildren.”
“Children…”
I point to the photo of her favorite grand-daughter, the one she hates because it makes her look older, a pre-teen instead of sweet innocent. The façade falls away as her face formulates a frown. Bingo!
“Ooo I ‘ate’ dat one, it’s an ‘orrible picture.”
I think we should.
Like a lot of disorders, there are good days and not so good days, we’re in the middle of one of the latter. Fortunately the children are at school and all other adults are otherwise occupied away from home, so it’s just me and Nonna.
She’s having a tough time so I scale down my ‘to do’ list to one single item – produce supper for 8 people. It proves to be a tall order as Nonna is restless, a condition exacerbated by several liters of espresso. It can be difficult to take charge in such situations but I decided to be ruthless at ten in the morning – when the last coffee bean was crushed and consumed, I lied boldly – ‘we’ve run out – no more until I’ve been to the shops.’ After that I’m in the dog-house, although I’m really in the kitchen.
I chop in the kitchen, onions, four pounds, in preparation for something or other, as I’ve not had a moment to formulate anything vaguely resembling a recipe.
We’re run through the usual list of repeats several times – the inventory of household members, the date, the whereabouts of pets, their names and ages, what I am doing currently, why I am doing it and how I am doing it. We’ve searched for all the usual suspects, glasses, sunglasses, reading glasses, handkerchief, book, remote control, pills – many and various, as well as a whole miscellany of other items too numerous to list. As I dump onion skins in the compost bin on the window sill, I feel a presence close by – you know who. I speed up and brace myself because if my productivity gives out today we’ll all starve. I chop faster as my shoulders rise to my ear lobes. Damn her rheumy eyes – go away and come back in five minutes – but bless her cotton socks. I don’t know how to play this game, a newbie, drowning, but I have to stay afloat, play it by ear, for both of us.
I wait for the question and wonder which one it will be? I can more or less guarantee it will be ‘wot about dis den?’ without any other clues. I try to swallow my ire and breathe deeply to find a tiny kernel of energy reserves, otherwise known as patience, but the silence endures.
I’m ready.
I turn to see her behind me and suddenly I see her – she’s at a distance of about six feet, a polite distance. I recognize that woman. It’s the woman on her best behavior, I’ve seen her many times before, mostly when we have guests or visitors. It’s her, ‘I’m a dear, sweet, innocent, old lady,’ act, the one she uses for strangers. I feel my face tighten and eyes prick. We all do it sometimes, pretend to be something we’re not – she’s had more practice than most, a magnificent master class graduate. She hovers with uncertainty, wearing a courteous half smile, standing demurely with one hand holding the other. It’s an affectation I’m all too familiar with. I try to think of something to say to the woman, something in code that won’t startle her. I smile at her cautiously and she flutters back, “ello.” I put down the knife gently on the board, as we have already said “good morning” approximately 50 times. I try and think of something neutral, “would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Ooo thank you. Dat would be nice.” She doesn’t advance or retreat, holds her ground, rallying, as she asks, “do you like coffee?”
“I do. I’ll make one for us both shall I?”
“Ooo lovely.”
Her diction is sharp as she fakes an English accent, copy cat to blend in.
As I move ten feet to the right she takes a tentative step forward to ask, “you like it ‘ere?”
“Oh yes. I do. Very much. Always sunny in California,” I add with a wave out the window. Her eyes follow as she mutters under her breath, ‘California.’
The espresso machine is noisy but I watch her floundering as I drown and I wrack my brain to ease the pain and hunt for the trip switch to get her back on track. Her finger tips dance on the edge of the kitchen counter, “so…I like it ‘ere,…I tink I ‘ave been ‘ere before?” she asks nervously and I see her eyes flick over my face to check, coz she’s sharp and if I give her a minute she’ll click into place.
“Yes, it’s a home from home really. After all, you’ve been coming here for twelve years,” I bellow. I see a little shudder rattle through her, nothing to do with the sound level as her eyes widen in disbelief. I need to give her a toe-hold, something not too obvious. While I back pedal, thinking, she’s pro-active, “it’s a lovely ‘ouse dis.”
“Yes, it is.”
“And big!”
“Very big, just right for all eight of us.”
If her eyes get any bigger they might just pop out. I skip the toe-hold and opt for the leg-up, “Mike will be home soon,” I lie.
“Mike…”
“Michael, your son, my husband.”
“So…you’re happily…married now…for ‘ow long?”
“Fifteen years.”
“As long as dat…”
“Long enough to have three children, your grandchildren.”
“Children…”
I point to the photo of her favorite grand-daughter, the one she hates because it makes her look older, a pre-teen instead of sweet innocent. The façade falls away as her face formulates a frown. Bingo!
“Ooo I ‘ate’ dat one, it’s an ‘orrible picture.”
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