The Magic of the Written Word

Tags

Alzheimer's disease, Cursive Writing, The Power of the Written Word, writers, writing, Written Words

I witnessed the magic of the written word today.

Did the words end world hunger or bring peace in war-ravaged lands? No.

Did the sweet cooing of undying passion conveyed in a love letter win another’s hand in marriage? No.

Did a sincere and sorrowful note of apology mend a family torn apart? No.

So what happened, you ask?

It was the mysterious way that the reading of words transformed my mom’s state of confusion and agitation, to one of coherence and peace.

Let me explain.

For those of you who have stopped by here over the last few months, you probably caught wind that my hale and hearty 89-year-old dad became gravely ill in early September. He has been in and out of hospitals and nursing homes since then. He takes one step forward in his recovery and then gets cut off at the knees with a new and serious health condition. It has been a frustrating, scary, and all-consuming experience for my family and my sweet dad. We almost lost him countless times.

The aging process doesn’t deal an even hand. My dad’s body is failing, but his mind is sharp. My mom is healthy, but her mind is shot. She has Alzheimer’s.

So, while Dad has been convalescing, Mom has been living with my sister and her husband. They get, as my mom would say, “leather medals” for what they have done for her. I know my dad’s worry about mom has impeded his recovery. Dad agreed that the time had come for Mom to move to a place appropriate for her needs.

I’ve been in Portland for a week to find such a place. I found a charming apartment for her in a facility near my dad. The staff there deserves a “Do Not Pass Go, Collect a Million Dollars, and Go Straight to Heaven” card.

After many long and round-about conversations with Mom and showing her how cozy the apartment is, she agreed to live there. She loved the place.

Then . . . I moved her things in.

Then . . . I brought Mom to the apartment.

Then . . . all hell broke loose.

Mom became angry, bitter, and wanted to leave. She transformed to addled, disoriented, and incoherent. There was no reasoning with her. After physically stopping her at the door six times, I was near tears. Because I am prone to melodrama, I also saw my life flash before my eyes.

So what did I do?

I said, “Hey Mom, why don’t you sit here and read the welcome packet from the apartment manager?” Redirected, she plunked down and read every word of the packet out loud. At the end of the last page, she said, “Isn’t this place wonderful!? They thought of everything. I’m so lucky to live here.”

Phew.

I can hear you all saying, “Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . so get on with it Robin. Where is this so-called magic of the written word you were talking about?”

Bear with me. I’m getting to it.

Sure, the welcome packet included interesting things like the times meals are served and the activity schedule. But it also read chapter and verse from the state and federal regulations governing nursing home facilities such as staffing levels, posting of job titles, and nutrition standards. Pretty dry stuff.

Mom’s brain cells were rattling like the balls in a pinball machine until she read the packet. I am not a neurologist, although I play one on TV, but I know it wasn’t what was written in the packet that reassured her.  It was the process of reading the words that calmed her brain. Her synapses were misfiring and reading realigned her brain waves. Mom went from agitated, to almost catatonic, to functioning with appropriate responses and reactions.

Granted, the words Mom read today were not in beautiful cursive as we discussed in my famous (or should I say infamous) “Is Cursive Handwriting Dead?” post. But they were words.

Okay, okay, okay. My point is that I think reading helps us orient to life, brings us peace, and calms the savaged soul. At least it did today with my mom and her cruel companion named Alzheimer’s.

Mom settling in while I look for a bottle of scotch to sooth my nerves.

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• Is Cursive Handwriting Dead? (robincoyle.wordpress.com)

Parenting our Parents ~ Part 3

Tags

Alzheimer's disease, parenting our parents, writers, writing

Are you there world? It is me, Robin.

Robin is MIA from this photo too. I came along six years later.

I thought I should give you an update on why I am missing-in-blog-action.

I haven’t fallen off a cliff, but it feels like I did. My life is not my own right now, which means I am away from blogging, reading blogs, and about a million other things.

My dad is still in the hospital and his condition is serious, but I am happy to report he is making slow progress. His pneumonia led to a series of complications. It seemed that when he got over something, a new health concern reared its ugly and scary head.

I spent the last week with him, which was his fourth week in the hospital. We hope he will move to a nursing home for rehab next week. And from there, when he is strong enough, we want to move him to the nursing home in Portland where my sister works. Fingers crossed.

We moved my Alzheimer’s mom to Portland to live with one of my sisters. We did this for three reasons: it was emotionally and physically hard on her traveling back and forth to the hospital, it was trying for me and my sisters dealing with her and the worry about Dad, and it was tough on Dad to have Mom visit in her addled and agitated state.

I shared many sweet moments with my dad last week. Two of them are worth sharing as a testament to Dad’s love for my mom. I asked him, “Why didn’t you tell us how bad Mom’s Alzheimer’s progressed over the last four months.” He said, “Because I didn’t want to believe it was true.” And, I said, “I don’t know how you managed to take care of Mom.” He said, “I managed because it is my job.”

Between trips to be Dad’s health advocate and companion, a business jaunt with my husband, and the upcoming Writers Digest Conference in Los Angeles, I am likely to be away from blogging for several more weeks.

I miss you guys, your blogs, your humor, and your insight. I hope to be back soon.

Take care,

Robin

Related articles

• Parenting our Parents (robincoyle.wordpress.com)
• Parenting our Parents ~ Part 2 ~ So this is what feels like to die. (robincoyle.wordpress.com)

Parenting our Parents ~ Part 2 ~ So this is what feels like to die.

Tags

Alzheimer's disease, parenting our parents, writers, writing

Oh man. What a week and a half.

For those of you following along, you know what I mean. For those of you who don’t know, click here.

First of all, my sincere and tear-stained thanks to all of you who commented on my blog post about my 89-year-old dad going into the hospital. I will answer all of your comments soon.

I am sorry I haven’t been around to visit you. My time lately has been spent sitting bedside in ICU with my Dad. Writing and reading blogs was suddenly not important. Dad’s health was the concern. The past week was like a riding a roller coaster going 100 miles an hour at a standstill.

Mom and Dad have been married for 66 years and have know each other since sophomore year of high school. Look how cute and in love they look after all these years. This photo was from one year ago.

Dad’s early diagnosis of congestive heart failure was incorrect. He developed pneumonia, both lungs collapsed, and he was ensconced in ICU for 7 days. They inserted chest tubes to drain the blood/fluid from his lungs. He couldn’t feed himself, had a high fever, and he was an all around mess. He is likely to be in the hospital for another week or so.

On one of his bad days, Dad thought to himself,

“So this is what it feels like to die.”

His body is failing, but his mind is sound.

My mom, on the other hand, is of sound body, but her mind is shot.

She has Alzheimer’s Disease. This experience is too much for her to handle. She is lucid at times, bewildered most of the time, and rather nasty to be around all of the time. Her snarky comments to the nurses, doctors, Dad, and me make our blood pressure rise to dangerous levels.

She can’t help it.

My sister is the admissions director of a skilled nursing home in Portland, Oregon. We are hoping Dad can move there after he is discharged from the hospital. Mom can live with my sister or move to the assisted living portion of the nursing home. If not, I will be doing (willingly) every third week in San Jose with my folks. Difficult, but not impossible. As such, I will be in and out with checking on you.

Again, I ask, any words of wisdom for me? I’m fried. I need your help.

Related articles

• Parenting our Parents (robincoyle.wordpress.com)

Parenting our Parents

Tags

Alzheimer's disease, Cardiovascular Disorders, FailureHeart, Heart disease, parenting our parents, writers, writing

I won’t be around the blogosphere much for a while. Don’t know how long.

My dad called yesterday . . .  at 7 am.

As soon as his name popped up on my phone, I knew something was wrong.

Dad never calls that early.

“Robin, I’m in the Emergency Room. I fell.”

 And I got in my car.

Dad fell on Thursday while carrying groceries up the stairs to their house. He landed hard on his right side and the two jugs of milk he was toting exploded. Dad shook it off, bandaged his scraped arms, and took two ibuprofen. At 2 am, the pain in his ribcage was unbearable, and he called 911.  With early-stage Alzheimer’s Mom in tow, Dad went to the Emergency Room in an ambulance.

By the time I arrived at the hospital, Mom had been sitting in a stiff plastic chair by Dad’s side for 10 hours. How awful. When we finally got home tonight (Mom did a full 16 hours by his side in the hospital), she said, “I feel like I’ve been dragged through a knothole backwards.” Talk about showing, not telling.

After a battery of tests, the doctors discovered that while Dad didn’t break anything, he has congestive heart failure and his lungs are filled with fluid. He was admitted into the hospital and the doctors are addressing his heart failure, as well as the excruciating pain in his rib cage.

How lucky I am that I can be here to help.

Dad needs me.

Mom needs me.

And I need to be here.

P.S. For those of you who read my post about Mom’s early Alzheimer’s, I had a wonderful glimpse of my old mom tonight.

Mom and Dad live in a lovely senior community . . . tree–lined streets, manicured flower beds, golf course, etc. She said, “Living here, you can take the dog out for a walk at night and not worry about someone coming after you. Or, you can feel bad that someone ISN’T coming after you!”

Mom! You randy thing you!

Look how cute they are. Their wedding photo.

You Say It’s Your Birthday?

Tags

Alzheimer's disease, writers, writing

Photo credit: freakgirl

Today is my birthday and I am sad. Am I thrilled about being another year older? Nope, but as they say, it is better than the alternative. I’m not throwing myself a pity party here.

Why am I sad? No card or gift from my mom. Nothing. Not even a phone call. I don’t care about not getting a gift. I have everything I need.

So you ask again, “Why are you sad, Robin?” I am sad my mom forgot my birthday because she is in the early stages of Alzheimer’s Disease. She has good days and bad days, good moments and bad moments, but she is on a spiral of decline with no eject button.

Her condition is hard on my dad. She cares for herself, makes the bed, walks the dog, etc., but forgets something he told her within minutes. For example, he said, “ We need to leave for the theater now,” and they walked out the door. One minute later when she was seated in the car she said, “Where are we going?”

Mom and Dad have been married 66 years. Dad is a patient soul and loves my mom dearly, but her memory loss is trying. He gets mad at her, and then is mad at himself for losing his patience. My sister gave him the book Living with Alzheimer’s and other Dementias to help him cope and understand why this once spirited woman is a shell of her former self.

Again, I’m not sad Mom forgot my birthday. I’m sad because there isn’t a cure and I am losing my mom.

Why didn’t Dad send a card or call? That is a topic for another pity party.

Any words of wisdom for my family in this new phase of our lives?