shredburt
A Visit
The decline in Jean's cognitive abilities is drastic. She cannot hold a thought, even through a single sentence. And yet, like many people who suffer from Alzheimer's she has replaced her anger with cheerfulness and I get the impression she is no longer suffering like she was.
We had lunch together today. From the time she ordered her food until the time it arrived she did not remember what she ordered. And when the food came, she did not want to eat it, begging the host for just a little ice cream. That made him smile and he reminded her of the rule: no ice cream for Jean until she eats a little something healthy. But he was not cruel. She had one bite of chicken and one bite of greens and he brought her a scoop of ice cream complete with chocolate sauce.
Today, she was in Minneapolis for the first part of our conversation. Later, she shifted to the bay area. She confided in me, in a whisper, that sometimes she cannot remember. "For instance," she said, "I am never sure if John is dead or alive."
She remembers her husband. She remembers her grandson. She remembers me, and a few select friends. But beyond that, it's difficult to say what she does and does not know.
She carries with her at all times two things: one is a book of photographs, largely of John, and a few friends. The other is her 1993 diary of her trip to Germany. It is the first thing she wants to talk about and if you allow her, she will take you on a journey through their entire trip.
She tells stories only she can understand. She begins with a thought, but 20 or so words into it, the story changes because she cannot remember what she said before. The last time I was with her I recorded her. Listening to her words when I got home, I was struck with the realization that she must sometimes feel both trapped and freed by this awful disease.
It is her one year anniversary at her new living community. I don't remember having any misgivings about moving her on that fateful (and quite awful) day, but if I did, I don't have them anymore. She is where she needs to be, with people who love her.
I'm sure the staff puts on a show when visitors arrive, but even so, people come up to me and tell me what a delight Jean is. This is no surprise to me or anyone who knows her: she is the consummate hostess. She is the erudite reader among her peers there. And now that something, some chemical, has changed in her brain, she gladly suffers fools.
Perhaps most interesting to me are the hours she keeps. The other day I stopped by at 7:30 PM after work and she was already sleeping. The staff told me that she often goes to bed early, and sometimes does not come down until 10 AM. I asked her whether this was what she wanted, whether she was keeping busy, and she told me that for the first time in her life she wanted just to relax.
Good on you mom.
A Visit
The decline in Jean's cognitive abilities is drastic. She cannot hold a thought, even through a single sentence. And yet, like many people who suffer from Alzheimer's she has replaced her anger with cheerfulness and I get the impression she is no longer suffering like she was.
We had lunch together today. From the time she ordered her food until the time it arrived she did not remember what she ordered. And when the food came, she did not want to eat it, begging the host for just a little ice cream. That made him smile and he reminded her of the rule: no ice cream for Jean until she eats a little something healthy. But he was not cruel. She had one bite of chicken and one bite of greens and he brought her a scoop of ice cream complete with chocolate sauce.
Today, she was in Minneapolis for the first part of our conversation. Later, she shifted to the bay area. She confided in me, in a whisper, that sometimes she cannot remember. "For instance," she said, "I am never sure if John is dead or alive."
She remembers her husband. She remembers her grandson. She remembers me, and a few select friends. But beyond that, it's difficult to say what she does and does not know.
She carries with her at all times two things: one is a book of photographs, largely of John, and a few friends. The other is her 1993 diary of her trip to Germany. It is the first thing she wants to talk about and if you allow her, she will take you on a journey through their entire trip.
She tells stories only she can understand. She begins with a thought, but 20 or so words into it, the story changes because she cannot remember what she said before. The last time I was with her I recorded her. Listening to her words when I got home, I was struck with the realization that she must sometimes feel both trapped and freed by this awful disease.
It is her one year anniversary at her new living community. I don't remember having any misgivings about moving her on that fateful (and quite awful) day, but if I did, I don't have them anymore. She is where she needs to be, with people who love her.
I'm sure the staff puts on a show when visitors arrive, but even so, people come up to me and tell me what a delight Jean is. This is no surprise to me or anyone who knows her: she is the consummate hostess. She is the erudite reader among her peers there. And now that something, some chemical, has changed in her brain, she gladly suffers fools.
Perhaps most interesting to me are the hours she keeps. The other day I stopped by at 7:30 PM after work and she was already sleeping. The staff told me that she often goes to bed early, and sometimes does not come down until 10 AM. I asked her whether this was what she wanted, whether she was keeping busy, and she told me that for the first time in her life she wanted just to relax.
Good on you mom.