Dementia Days

There are quite a few scenarios in life, when one becomes the target of a barrage of unsolicited advice. Motherhood, certainly, jumps to mind as the most prominent example. As we become parents, surviving the trials and errors of child rearing, we feel battle-hardened, involuntarily enlightened, full of lessons-learned and to be shared with newcomers to the universe of parenthood. And bursting with all this new information, one is often hard-pressed not to inundate the unsuspecting new mother or father with – well, that barrage of unsolicited advice.

Caring for a loved one with dementia also puts us into a unique group of battle-hardened people. People who want to share the “had I known this in advance” experiences in hopes that they may save somebody else a bit of trouble; or maybe, in order to tell somebody about the struggles we’ve undertaken to show our loved one just how much we truly love them – knowing full well, that the very person this love is meant for no longer understands.

So, with that, here’s my unstructured, unorganized, stream-of-consciousness laundry list of unsolicited advice about lessons learned from the journey through dementia:

1. Get a Durable General and Health Care Power-of-Attorney!

The most helpful piece of advice (and help – thanks, sweet family!) I have gotten in the course of this odyssey was to get a Durable General and Health Care Power-of-Attorney (POA) for my mother – while she was still able to sign one. Make sure the general POA includes wording for financial matters, as well.

The National Cancer Institute defines the durable power-of-attorney as follows:

A type of power of attorney. A power of attorney is a legal document that gives one person (such as a relative, lawyer, or friend) the authority to make legal, medical, or financial decisions for another person. It may go into effect right away, or when that person is no longer able to make decisions for himself or herself. A durable power of attorney remains in effect until the person who grants it dies or cancels it. It does not need to be renewed over time. Also called DPA.

(National Cancer Institute, U.S. National Institutes of Health, www.cancer.gov)

The Family Caregiving Alliance National Center on Caregiving has a great FAQ on durable POAs at: http://www.caregiver.org/caregiver/jsp/content_node.jsp?nodeid=434

Their website www.caregiver.org is filled to the brim with excellent information and advice.

I have had to use that power-of-attorney in so many situations that were logistically challenging as they were, but would have been bureaucratic nightmares without the power-of-attorney.

As wide-spread as dementia is, there still seems to be an indescribable ignorance to the handicaps demented people face.

Before I had the power-of-attorney, I almost got dizzy in some interminably circular conversations with credit card reps, bankers, even newspaper sales people:

“I speak for my mother, because my mother has dementia and can no longer make rational decisions about these matters. No, I don’t have a power-of-attorney. No, she can’t come to the phone to discuss this with you, because she has dementia. No, she no longer is able to read the newspaper (use a credit card, work her bank account), and no, she doesn’t want another subscription (credit card, banking services). No, she can’t come to the phone to explain that to you because she has dementia…”

Get that durable power-of-attorney as soon as you can! And get a living will with it, while you are at it!

2. If your loved one is still able to understand, talk with them about dementia. If possible, tell them they have dementia. There still are so many stigmas attached to dementia, that shame, embarrassment, and anger are ready companions to any discourse, even just thoughts about the disease. But pretending everything is just fine can add challenges that may not need to be there.

A long time before my mother was diagnosed, she used to make jokes about Alzheimer’s. Back then I thought that her humor was simply a bit inappropriate. In retrospect, I believe she was already struggling to keep up appearances, divert any suspicions, possibly even convince herself that dementia was nothing for her to worry about.

For many years, as a family, we came up with excuses, justifications, seemingly reasonable explanations for my mother’s scatterbrained behaviors. And many of them may have been true. After all, having three children within three and a half years, will drive anybody close to dementia.

Yet, when I think how much easier things became when we all acknowledged Mr. Alzheimer in our midst, I wish we had talked about it sooner. Instead of working hard to pretend that everything was ok, my mother felt free to rant at the disease for making her life more challenging. When something wasn’t going right, we could all jokingly blame that darn Mr. Alzheimer (to whom I, of course, apologize, since he’s not to blame).

As my mother’s care level increased and she needed to get help performing some of those tasks for which we need privacy or independence to maintain our dignity – such as bathing and eating – , we could always talk about the disease, and she didn’t need to worry that it was her who was somehow not smart enough, not capable enough, not independent enough. I realize that for some families to talk about dementia might not be an option, but don’t be too quick to think that is you. I never would have guessed that my mother would be able to accept the disease. Yet she did. And she has weathered the many many challenges much better for that acceptance.

3. Get in touch with your local Alzheimer’s Association chapter (www.alz.org)!

Not only do they have some of the kindest people who will listen to your sorrows, they also have a great newsletter with community events and updates on new research, as well as a plethora of information. The main website (www.alz.org) will let you search for contact information for your local chapter.

4. Be the squeaky wheel!

My mother lives at an assisted living facility. So I can’t talk about care giving at home. However, after three moves between assisted living facilities, and researching about a dozen or so on each move, I feel like I have a pretty good sense about what’s out there in terms of assisted living and reminiscence care units. First of all, no matter how much you pay (well, except for the $10,000 or more a month facilities) most assisted living facilities are understaffed, and the staff is underpaid. That, of course, means that turnover is high, and you may get to know many different dedicated, but overburdened caregivers during your loved ones stay at such a facility. On the upside, it also means that if you don’t like a caregiver, chances are, they won’t be around in a few months.

Because caregivers are stretched to the limit, things fall through the cracks. I have found myself becoming educated about medications and treatments, because I am my mother’s only advocate. She can’t say if something isn’t working or she doesn’t want something.

After a hip fracture, my mother had to live at a skilled nursing facility for a few months. She had a great nutritionist, a charming activities director, but a horrible director of nursing unable or unwilling to deal with the challenges of dementia, who, hence, was trying to “chemically restrain” my mother. And since skilled nursing facilities can easily write prescriptions, they bombarded my mother with heavy duty medications that were clearly inappropriate for dementia. I was not asked before my mother was medicated and soon had the added challenge of seroquel anger. (More on that in another blog post)

Note to all you wonderful caregivers out there: I hope you will comment on this blog and let us know about the many difficulties of your jobs and let us know how we as family members can make your life easier.

5. Take your loved one out for excursions while you still can.

My mother loved going out for meals, sunbathing, dressing up to go to the opera, or anything that made her feel like she wasn’t trapped at the assisted living facility. She no longer is able to easily leave, and, although we did a lot, I wish we could have done more.

I will add to the list as more things pop to mind. In the meantime, I hope anybody who reads this blog, will feel inspired to add their own tips and tricks.

It takes a village to raise a child. It takes that same community to care for the elderly.

Sigrun Posing for Photographer

A few days ago, on my way to visit my mother, one of her care managers approached me with a request: My mother’s closet is packed full of clothing, and it is difficult for the care managers to keep everything laundered and organized. Since Sigrun no longer wears most of those clothes, the (very nice and considerate) care manager suggested that I remove some of that clothing from my mother’s apartment.

It seemed like a very reasonable request; a request I agreed to without hesitation.

Then, I found myself standing in front of her closet – paralyzed, unable to remove much of anything. There were some blindingly bright pieces of 70s garb, some sheer blouses in all the colors of the rainbow, tight, form-fitting tops and sleek pants; most items clearly impractical for life in the reminiscence unit.

All of this may sound like the wardrobe of Peggy Bundy, but it is the tool chest of the couture magician I know as my mother. For as long as I can remember, Sigrun has been an impeccable dresser – no, more than an impeccable dresser, a woman with style; not a fashionista following every trend, but rather a connoisseur of elegance that lasts. Her favorite designer – Coco Chanel. Remember the pencil skirts with the tight short jackets? The high heels and the cute little hats? That was my mother, and, if she was still capable of picking out her clothes, it would still be her.

So, who am I to steal colors from the palette of Michelangelo? Sneak instruments out of Mozart’s compositions? So what if my Michelangelo started wearing 13 pairs of underwear at the same time? I’m sure they were carefully chosen and matched in color! So what if shoes didn’t always come from the same pair? I’m sure they, too, complemented each other in my mother’s creative mind!

In fact, Sigrun still holds strong opinions on anything that might compromise a perfect ensemble. When I visit my mother, I am always acutely aware of what I am wearing. As I stand in front of the entry to her assisted living place, I look myself over, regretfully discovering the snot stains on my jacket from my children’s runny noses. I rediscover the little hole that I’ve been meaning to fix in my sweater. And, oh yes, there’s the pimple that’s been forming on my forehead.

And, sure enough, as I then sit across from my mother, the lady who now is confined to a wheelchair and no longer is able to intelligibly utter a sentence, the lady whom I love so dearly, her outstretched finger comes across the table and finds its target infallibly, pointing out the hole in my sweater, or the snot on my jacket, or, unabashedly, the pimple on my forehead. Her facial expression seems to indicate a caring, but concerned recognition that I simply can’t measure up to her understanding of style.

Another Pose

And indeed, I can’t. As a member of the sandwich generation, juggling 2 kids, a mother in reminiscence care, and work, all the while trying to also be a reliable, loving partner to my wonderful husband, I feel I have plenty of excuses for the snot, the hole, maybe even the pimple! Then again, how did my mother do it? She had three kids, worked part-time, traveled, yet always looked impeccably groomed.

Drifting into the oblivion of dementia, my mother continues to set an example for me, not to let myself go, to take pride in my appearance, no matter what the setting, no matter what my mental state may be (and with sleep deprivation and toddler distraction, it often times resembles the early stages of dementia).

Mental note: fix that hole! (since I can’t do anything about the pimple or the snot)

For as long as I can remember, the humorous value of bodily functions has been deeply ingrained in my family. Whether someone starts to giggle uncontrollably as an odoriferous cloud spreads around them, or anything, anything at all, hints at the subject of farts, my family soon has tears of laughter running down their cheeks.

Strangely enough, we’ve always prided ourselves on our intellectual properties, our higher reasoning. Yet, relate a story involving someone passing gas, and all that brainpower disintegrates into a sobbing-with-laughter mess.

In the world of dementia, it can sometimes be a struggle to find things to talk about, let alone to laugh about. We lose so many ways to communicate with our loved ones, one after another, that it becomes more and more difficult to experience moments of closeness and understanding.

And so it was with unrestrained joy that I discovered that our family’s holy grail of humor not only survived in my mother, but flourishes. Sitting next to her as she lets one rip, and then breaks out in a cascade of laughter has me hugging and kissing her and laughing along with her.

In a way, dementia can be quite liberating. Tossing aside societal conventions for a roaring laugh about a fart that makes my mother’s wheelchair tremble is absolutely worth the multitude of offended stares it attracts; not to mention my 4-year old and 2-year old’s excitement to have a partner in crime in “stink-bombing” an entire room.

Over the course of the last year, my oldest sister has been working hard to clean out our parent’s storage unit. One day she found a cartoon of a little boy blowing with great effort into a trumpet; the only result of the efforts being a small music note hovering next to his behind. (I would have liked to post the image here. However, I couldn’t track down the copyrights, so thought better of it. If any of you know who holds the copyright, please, let me know, and I’ll see whether they let me post it.)

I have since taped that cartoon to my mother’s closet where she can see it from her bed. And, so many times when I’ve visited her, I’ve seen her studying the image with a smirk on her face and a twinkle in her eyes.

Dementia for me (in my mother) has been a journey of discovery, of unexpected twists and turns, many sad, but also a great many happy, enriching, and down-right funny. You never know where you might find a connection, some closeness, some shared memories; and it doesn’t pay to be picky and choosy. I intend to make every one of those moments count.

On December 17^th, 2005 my father died. He was a sharp witted man of the World War II generation, happy to tell many a fantastic tale (some quite fictional, I’m sure), generous in spirit most of the time, and a man who guarded his privacy as a treasure never to be touched.

He also protected the little unit he and my mother, his wife, had become after all three daughters had moved out.

I, the youngest of the three, will turn 40 this year, and I cannot claim that I was completely naïve to my mother’s dementia. Yet it felt easier knowing that my father, although in his eighties was standing watch, when there seemed something not quite right with my mother – something that hadn’t felt right for many years already.

When we came together as a family to mourn my father, we instantly knew that my mother would not be able to continue living in the apartment they had shared. We also knew that we needed to get my mother diagnosed, as the word “dementia” started to cross our lips more and more frequently. There were many things we knew, and oh so many more we had no idea about.

It took a few months to get the definitive diagnosis of Alzheimer Disease, and another few months to get my mother who could still be considered to be in the early stages into an assisted living facility with dementia care (the politically correct term these days seems to be “reminiscence care”).

That time now seems an eternity ago. Many tears have flown since, many long conversations between the sisters reminiscing about the past, speculating about when it all may have begun, have taken place; many (web-)pages have been perused to learn about this tragic disease, to understand beyond the stereotypes, what lay ahead.

So, now you’re saying, why the heck is your blog called “Dementia Days – The LIGHTER Side of Loss”? Nothing light so far. Well, you’re right, what I actually want to focus on in this blog are the moments of humor, the lighter side of the loss all of us encounter who have a loved one with dementia, who care for somebody with dementia, and also those who have dementia. The literature is filled with depressing facts and figures. Many moments around dementia are intensely sad. So to balance out all of the tears we have shed and frustrations we have encountered, I am writing to share the laughter, the smiles, and maybe even the sparkles in the eyes when smiling doesn’t come easily anymore.

The first entry simply served to give you a quick background on my experiences with dementia. I promise to delve into some of the fun my mother and I are still having now that she is in the late stages in my following blog posts.

And, of course, your comments, be they humorous or not, are gladly welcomed.

I’d also like this blog to be a place to share knowledge, wisdom, tips and tricks we have picked up along the way; information that travels better by word-of-mouth (or in this case “word-of-blog”).

I dedicate this blog to Sigrun, my mother, the woman who has lived such a full life that even Alzheimer Disease can’t stop her radiant person.