Brilliant snoop

This is part of a series of essays about the time I spent with my 89-year-old father in November 2013.  My father is in late stage dementia.  At the time, he still was living at the home he shared with Shirley, 86, his wife of 65 years. 

Frank had a front row seat to all the action that horrible Saturday morning in November.  From his vantage, he was almost a participant.


The front row was his short couch in the tiny living room of a one-bedroom apartment.  The action was provided by multiple first responders preparing Shirley to be taken to the hospital.


On the periphery of this scene was a young woman who had watched all unfold.  She had heard Shirley on the phone with a nurse saying, "I should call 9-1-1?"  This young woman was one of Frank's in-home caregivers.  She described the event of the morning as follows:

Shirley had chest pain so she called a nurses' phone service.  Acting on their advice to get herself to the hospital ASAP, Shirley alerted the caregiver and then called 9-1-1.  Within minutes, the apartment became filled with bodies, all eyes on Shirley.

Frank watched with delight.  He loves people and he loves action.  He had no understanding that his beloved Shirley was in peril.  And worse, she would be taken from him for the next several weeks.  He saw young people who occasionally would smile in his direction.  This action beat playing a fourth game of dominoes with the caregiver.

It was agreed that family members would meet the ambulance at the hospital.  The caregiver was at the end of her shift and had another assignment.  Frank is not allowed to be left home alone.  So, the first responders offered him a lift.  Only in Missoula.

Frank was first to be put into the ambulance.  Passenger seat up front.  His escort belted him in and told him to sit tight, they would be back with Shirley.  The medic barely set foot back inside the apartment when the emergency vehicle's siren goes off.   Frank.

He returns to the vehicle, switches off the siren and asks Frank not to touch any buttons.  Frank is told to sit tight, almost done inside, and the medic returns once again to the apartment.

And once again, the siren goes off. 

I would give every cent I have to have been there and witness this display of inquisitiveness.  Or was it meddlesomeness.  Either way, it makes you cheer for Frank!  Flashes of curiosity and spontaneity and snoopiness all exposed in this one brilliant act. 
Make that two brilliant acts. 






 

Nothing to smell here

I was thinking about my late mother-in-law yesterday.  I often think of Lew.  She was a force.  Beloved by my husband and children.  And me.  Our relationship was at times complicated, as such relationships can be.


We were so lucky to have her in Arlington the last years of her life.  It was a privilege to take care of her.  Unhappily, this strong-willed and independent woman suffered her last days.  Alzheimer's did its number on her. 


She had the habit of forgetting she was boiling eggs and the rest of us had to suffer the consequence.  Fowl odor post explosion.  As soon as we stepped off the elevator in her building, the smell hit you.  We knew just what it was and where it came from.  Lew always acted as if nothing had happened.  Lew, were you cooking eggs?  No.  Then the look that told you to move on.


So I thought about all this yesterday because ... I forgot that I was cooking hard-boiled eggs and once the water had dissipated, an egg exploded. 


So the dogs look at me and I give them a stare that said move on.  I learn from the best!

Unthinkable

This is part of a series of essays about the time I spent with my father in November 2013.  My father is in late stage dementia.  At the time, he still was living at the home he shared with Shirley, his wife of 65 years. 


Finding a place to park at St. Patrick Hospital was easy.  The hospital sits just outside the downtown Missoula area.  Easy underground parking.  But, with my father, nothing anymore is really easy.

My father told me to take a left when I took a right and turn right when we needed to go left.  Not sure what that is about.  Maybe he was some kind of navigator in a previous life.  As I slid the compact rental into the parking space, I turned to Frank and said, “Let’s go find Shirley.”

The short walk from car to hospital entrance took way longer than usual.  My dad was slow moving.  And every few steps, I could hear him clearing his throat.  The sound that is pain driven.  The morning’s activities at the VA clinic had obviously taken their toll on the 89-year-old.  And he hadn’t eaten anything in hours.  Of course this didn’t prevent my father from trying to misguide us to the elevators.  I took that as a positive sign.

My mom was looking forward to seeing Frank.  She had been worried about him.  Wondered what he must be thinking.  Why had she left?  Where had she gone?   Without her, he unravels. 

The two greet each other with a kiss.  My dad is all smiles.  Geez, you would think he was some teenager on his first date.

My mom, at 86, has retained her natural beauty.  Her older sister tells me that men were always drawn to her good looks and that she hated the attention.  Norwegians, my mom once said, were uncomfortable with the spotlight.  My mom is a second generation Norwegian American and true to her heritage, she avoids attention.  Much of her life has been spent in my father’s shadow, who unlike my mother loves the spotlight.  Specifically, he likes people, and was and still is the type who never met a stranger.   He was the younger of two boys and was adored by his mother.   Adored.   His father was a Methodist minister, so add an entire congregation to that Frank Adoration Club. 

When my parents met, he was the college jock and my mother was the college brainiac.  My mother was studying English while my father was quarterback of the football team, or point guard on the basketball team or pole vaulting in a track and field event.  She had the brains and he had the brawn.   

Beats me how they ever found each other, but they did.  And now Frank was back in the pull of Shirley’s universe and all seemed well in that small private hospital room.   I left the two alone to find some lunch to bring back to the room.

Frank and Shirley sat near each other, eating off the same plate.  Sharing a sandwich and fruit.  My father offered Shirley his water bottle.  Declining, she kindly pointed to her own giant hospital grade water cup with gigantic flexible straw.   My father understood.   Their communication is like a dance with steps only they know, my mom leading.

The doctors came in to check on Shirley during our visit, which was a bonus for my father.  An opportunity to smile at people and to talk about his own heart bypass.  You never know how far to let Frank go in a conversation.  People who don’t know him don’t immediately catch on that this man has cognitive challenges.   These are the kinds of social situations that bother and even embarrass Shirley.  Puts her in the spotlight.   “They know, Frank,” she says trying to redirect the medical consult to the actual patient.

After the doctors leave, I can see that my mother has tired.  It’s time to go.  We have overstayed our welcome.   Turning to Shirley, I say we need to let her get some rest.  She does not argue.  Turning to Frank I say we have to go and let Shirley rest.  He does argue.   Not only does he not want to leave Shirley, he fully expects us to bring her home.  Today.

I did not think this through.   At all.

Poor Shirley.  She is the one who has to convince Frank to leave.  She is the only one who can, at this point.  She has all the authority as far as Frank is concerned. 

Frank reluctantly puts on coat, then hat, then gloves.  Shirley kisses him goodbye.  We are making progress toward the car when Frank stops.  He tells me he is going to stay with Shirley.  I have no idea who or how many people witness our exchange.  All I know is that I used a tone with my father I had never used before.   No. No. No.  Shirley is sick and needs rest.  The doctors say she has to stay here.  You have to go home.  He resists, I repeat.  He resists, I repeat.

In the end, I wear him down.  He is already beyond exhausted. 

Frank has become selfish in his dementia.   He is not capable of understanding circumstance.  His brain can no longer wrap around the idea that he has to leave Shirley.   It’s unthinkable for him.  

Understandably unthinkable. 

Next: Don’t touch the buttons

I'm being stalked

I'm being stalked.  I feel their eyes upon me, watching my every move.  Worst part is I know my stalkers and I am helpless to make them stop.

Since Paul left town on business 48 hours ago, his two border collies, Mika and Sam, won't leave me alone.


I sit, they sit.  I stand, they stand.  I move, they move.  Right now, as I write this, they are staring at me.  Sam is waiting for me to pick up a tennis ball, which I am about to do right now.  Be right back.

I chunked it in the pool so I can finish this blog.  Sam will not move from her position until the ball floats to within reach.  Then she will be back.  Mika has now split her time between watching me and Sam.  A welcome reprieve.


All this gives me insight into Paul's psyche.  He needs and loves attention.  And unconditional love and loyalty.  And throw in a little master worship.  Mika and Sam certainly give all that and, honestly, I should be flattered that I am proxy master in Paul's absence.  I guess I am.
Here comes Sam.  Gotta go throw some tennis balls. 

Do you know where Shirley is?

This is part of a series of essays about the time I spent with my father in November 2013.  My father is in late stage dementia.  At the time, he still was living at the home he shared with Shirley, his wife of 65 years. 

Do you know where Shirley is?   You have a car?  Can you take me to see Shirley and maybe we can bring her home?

Throughout our marathon visit to the VA Clinic, my 89-year-old father asked anyone and everyone about his wife's location, which was a hospital room recovering from a triple heart bypass.  In hindsight, it makes sense.  We did tell him we were going to see Shirley.  He definitely heard that part.  What he did not hear, we know now, is that it would be after his appointment at the local VA clinic.  

My brother, Jim, had made an appointment for our father to have a mental capacity assessment at the VA clinic.  Our father is one of those greatest generation folks.  He fought in Northern Africa and in Italy during WWII.  He was, in his words, "very lucky to have made it through."  His battalion won a division citation for their heroic efforts in Italy.  (That's another great story)  We were at the VA attempting to get long overdue benefits owed our father.   Benefits that would assist in getting him care he needed.  The first step was to get his mental capacity assessed.

The clinic door barely closed behind us when Frank began his search for Shirley.  "Do you know where Shirley is?"  He directed the question to everyone: To staff, to the doctor, to nurses, to all seated in the waiting room.   We kept reassuring him the Shirley visit was a sure thing, but only after he talked to the doctor.  To whom he asked, "Do you know where Shirley is?"

Once the exam was over, we set about getting information about our next move to get our father help.  About an hour later, we begin to painfully understand this benefit we were seeking was not going to come easy.  No matter that my father clearly was eligible.  We were hit that day with the rock hard reality that is the process of proving eligibility for VA benefits.   Our first clue this wouldn't be a cake walk came when the kindly VA staff began raining paperwork on us.  Do this first.  I don't know about that, see this person.  That person said talk to another person in a different VA division at a whole other  location.  Four months later, we  (our brother Andy took on the task) still are applying for what's called Aid and Attendance, or A&A. 

Back to the VA clinic visit.  It's going on almost 3 hours and Frank still hadn't seen Shirley.  He was done hearing excuses.   My brother and I were talking with the fourth person that day about this A&A program.  I had stopped telling my father not to worry we would be going soon.  He clearly saw me as a liar.  And I was.  So I let him loose, keeping one eye on him and one ear in the conversation.   I watched my father wonder into the waiting room and talk to people.  I knew absolutely what he was saying.  Man, he is persistence.  That's a nice word for stubborn.  I watched him leave the waiting room and head toward some stairs, stopping all along the way to ask people, "Do you know where Shirley is?"  As much as I wanted to stay and get information, clearly it was time to take Frank to see his Shirley. 

I said goodbye to my brother and Mr. VA person who, in the end, had nothing specific that would help our father.  "Hey Dad, I know where Shirley is."  And we were out the door!

Postscript:  As I write this, I don't like that I kept my father waiting.  It caused him anxiety.  I think I held on so long at the VA because my common sense told me we would get the simple answer from the next person.  And then the next person, and the next.  Right now my head is hurting just remembering that awful day.   I realize as difficult as it was for me and my brother, it was worse for our father.  That hurts. 

Next: No, Frank, Shirley cannot come home with us

Paul Ryan could use a new perspective

Wisconsin Sen. Paul Ryan got caught lying to his base and the world.  It involved the evil free school lunch program for children.  Last week at the annual CPAC convention, Ryan relates a story about a young boy ashamed that he has to get a free lunch.  A little boy whose only wish is that his parents would make him a brown bag lunch.  Ryan goes on about how the federal government has usurped parental responsibility for this very simple but profound task.  Ryan also was self-righteously justifying cuts to free food programs, such as SNAP, more commonly known as the food stamp program.


This same most touching story about a little boy wanting his parents to make him a brown bag lunch was presented to a congressional hearing by an educator from Wisconsin, Ryan's home state.  This woman told the story as though she personally had the conversation with this little boy who preferred that his parents make his lunch than suffer the humiliation of getting free food.  She said the boy believed a brown bag lunch would show others that someone cared about him.  Problem is, this educator never had such an encounter.  Never.  Ever.  It was not her experience (see Washington Post link below).  It was a good story, though, or so Ryan thought as he repeated it to his base last week.


The aggravation I feel about this whole charade from Ryan and the educator and countless others who have repeated this story and stories like it, is that it goes to how little they care for people who are struggling.  Why else would they not take the time to get real evidence and choose instead to repeat someone else's false story?  There are so many people who could and would share with them what free food for their children and grandchildren means for their families. Talk to my two daughters who are teachers.  Talk to principals and other parents and leaders at churches, synagogues and mosques.  Talk to the lunch ladies.


I like Paul Ryan and respect that he has shown to be remorseful about repeating this fairy tale.  I just wish he would do more, get his hands dirty.  Boots on the ground changes the landscape.  Might change Ryan's perspective.  I can see it now: Sen. Ryan in hair net serving children school lunches!  That would be a different view for him.


Truth is, Ryan has a lot of work to do in his own state of Wisconsin where 21 percent of children there struggle with hunger, according to the group No Kid Hungry in Wisconsin.  Talk to them, Mr. Ryan.  They can give you some real stories.




http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/fact-checker/wp/2014/03/06/a-story-too-good-to-check-paul-ryan-and-the-story-of-the-brown-paper-bag/

Method to his madness

This is a part of a series of essays about time I spent with my father, Frank, in November, 2013.  It was just before he was moved into a dementia facility.  (see 3/5/2014 post)

My father has always had a sweet tooth.  It appears his dementia has not erased this memory.  Not by a long shot.   Actually, left to his own discretion, my father can get quite creative about sweetening his food, be it a sweet or savory dish.  He invented putting strawberry jam on baked potato.  And, he proved - to himself - that vegetable soup is better with a little sliced banana added.  


Mostly it is a harmless flavoring.  Or so I thought until the morning my father got hold of the syrup bottle.  I had just placed a short stack of pancakes before him and walked away.  Novice mistake.  By the time I returned to the table, my father’s plate could no longer contain the syrup.  His plate runneth over.  My response was to first rescue the syrup bottle.  That part was easy, he wasn't expecting my move.  My next move wasn't as certain.  I hesitated for a moment, giving consideration to a do-over plate of clean pancakes or perhaps eliminating 90 percent of the syrup on the plate before him.  Whatever I decided, it would begin with retrieving his plate. 


Looking back, I wonder if my father was having a similar "what to do" moment, because it seemed as though we reached for the plate at the same time.  I pulled one way, he pulled another.    What got to me was my father's look of panic mixed with steely resolve.  A line - in the syrup - had been drawn.  Obviously he saw nothing wrong with what sat before him.  His breakfast pancakes were just as he wanted.  Smothered in sweetness - as was part of the table.  Most relevant, his look told me he could not understand why I was stealing his masterpiece.  So I gently released my grip on the plate.  This appeared to deescalate the growing tension.  My father was less panicked but clearly not fully trusting of the situation - rather, trusting me.  So I back away.  I couldn't do anything about the spill without disturbing my father's breakfast.  So I waited and watched from afar.   I watched my father consume every morsel with efficiency.  Methodically, even.  It struck me that I was seeing parts of the old Frank.  The boss parts.  The part that figures out how to do something and does it.   Work until the work is done.  Eat until the food is gone.  My father spent much of his adulthood running things, calling the shots.  For sure he called the shots that morning.  

Me and Frank: It's OK

My mother and father have been married 65 years.  They continue to count their years together, but they no longer live under the same roof.  Frank Lochridge was moved into a dementia care facility in Missoula, Montana, just before Thanksgiving 2013.  I had the privilege of taking care of my father before the move.  My mom, Shirley, was in the hospital and then rehab after triple bypass surgery.  During that time and after, I wrote about my and my father’s experiences together.   I feel just a little selfish writing about this.  I acknowledge that living 1600 miles away gives me the luxury of romanticizing the experience while those left behind, two of my brothers and my mother, deal with the daily reality. 

Before dementia, I think the word that best describes my father is leader.  Leader of a YMCA in Aberdeen, SD, for 25 years.  Leader of multiple businesses, including a campground less than a mile from Glacier National Park and sailboat rentals on Flathead Lake, both in Montana .  My father also was the boss of our family.  It didn’t matter how small the task, he knew the best course and was not shy about sharing his expertise.  I once observed him and one of my brothers “debate” how best to retrieve a cake from atop a cupboard.  It was tense, too.  Years later, I realize it had nothing to do with the cake.     

I can’t say that we had a terribly close relationship, me and my father.  But we had respect for one another.  And love.  He came from the school of raise your children and set them loose.  If they come back, send them back out asap.  My father had many sides.  On the other hand, he was a hugger.  He teased a lot.  Then again, he was strict.  I once thought he was kind of mean, especially to one of my brothers.  Never to me.   He worked long hours when I was coming up.  My poor dear mother was left to wrangle us six kids, five boys and one girl.  Pretty typical for the times.

Since 1975, I have lived thousands of miles from my parents.  It was OK when they were OK.  Now they are not OK and I suffer the guilt one does when one is not pitching in to help, not doing one’s fair share.  So when the opportunity arose for me to help my brothers care for our father, I jumped at it.  Wipe away some of that guilt.  I can’t express how lucky and grateful I feel for the 3 weeks I cared for my father and also my mother, to a lesser degree.  I slept on a blowup mattress in the living room of their small one-room apartment.  Every night I heard my father walk the short distance between bedroom and bathroom.  Multiple times every night.   One night I heard him detour into the kitchen.  Then I hear a crash.  I flew up crying, “Are you OK?”  My thoughts turn to worst case scenario.  It was OK.  My father had bumped into a picture on the wall and the picture fell.  He was so apologetic, like a child who did something horribly wrong.   It’s OK, Dad.   I could hear my heart.  It’s OK, Mary.

NEXT: Method to his madness