Adventures in Alzheimers: I Have a Pimple on my Belly

“There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good, she was very good indeed, but when she was bad, she was horrid”

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The same thing could be said about Grampy...minus the curl, and the cute little girl.

Me and Grampy Sept. 2014. This was a good day.

Couple Wednesdays ago Mike was out of town and I had full time Grampy duty, so I made my dutiful trek over to his trailer park after a long day at work. In Grampy-land, some days are good days and some days...not so much. On good days, I find him in his recliner, watching a western movie on TV and he remembers that I'm there to give him his daily pills and watch a show with him. On those days he magnanimously offers me (cold) coffee from a (slightly used and stained) mug. On those days he pecks my cheek hello when I reach down to give him a hug.

This day was not one of those days.

I came in through the back door and found him standing at the sink in the kitchen waving a butter knife furiously around in the air and cursing like a frustrated sailor with Tourettes, at no one in particular. I loudly made my appearance known from a distance, keeping an eye on that knife, so as not to surprise him. He whirled around and began ranting at me. “I've been up since 5am cleaning up this !@#$%! kitchen! (the kitchen was clean, as usual) Some damn idiot broke in here last night and made a !@#$%! mess in my kitchen and left all this bread out (pointing the knife at three pieces of semi-stale bread on the counter) and now I have no bread! What kind of !@#$%! would do that!” ….and I'll leave out the rest of his rant.... He was agitated, disoriented, not happy and clearly in the middle of, what I call, an “episode”.

I quickly gave him a huge hug, held him for a minute to calm him down and asked, “Are you hungry dad? Are you wanting a sandwich?” He relaxed and replied “Hell yes I”m hungry!”. “OK”, I said “Let's go get us a sandwich at Arbys. How about that?” He brightened up. “Well OK I guess I'll go with you if you insist”. And off we went. He in his slippers and pajama bottoms which he refused to change. He did don his threadbare, plaid snap-button cowboy shirt though, so he wasn't totally ridiculous-looking.

This is NOT our Arbys...but looks just like it. 

We arrived at an empty (thank God) Arbys and Grampy was a happy camper by then. I walked briskly up to the counter, manned by a cute little gum-smacking teenage girl. I could tell she was new. She had that deer in a headlight look about her and in a small, rote voiced said “Welcome to Arby's can I help you?” At that point I turned around to see Grampy a few steps behind me with his right arm crooked high in the air and his left arm holding an imaginary dance partner, two-stepping it up to the counter and singing loudly to the poor girl “Si, si, si, I have a pimple on my belly”. Her eyes got wider still as she watched him and she nervously chuckled. I gave her an apologetic half-smile, saying, “He's not drunk, honey, he's just old”. But in the 4 seconds it took me to explain this, he had popped open his plaid shirt to reveal his belly...and the frighteningly large hernia that protrudes  from it. Honestly, this thing is as big as a fist and a sight to behold. It's like an alien being with a life all its own. The doctors say he's ok though and too old for surgery so they won't remove it...but I digress. Yes indeedy, he has a ginormous “pimple” on his belly and he's right proud of it. That must have been the last straw, though, because deer-in-the-headlights girl turned around and walked, nay sprinted, for the back— presumably the kitchen. My face bright red, I scolded Grampy as I buttoned him up again “Dad you CANNOT undress in public. You CAN”T do that! You scared that poor girl” He was laughing at me. “But I DO have a pimple on my belly, Cathy. See see see? Hahaha!”

This is before Rottenmeier tried to sell little Heidi to the gypsies

As I was re-dressing the old man, a middle-aged Arby's employee marched from the back (presumably the kitchen) and up to the counter. She was the clone of Fräulein Rottenmeier...the wicked woman from Heidi who tried to sell the poor child to the gypsies. You remember....but again, I digress. Her name tag told me she was the manager and I could tell immediately she was a no-nonsense type manager. She glanced briefly at Grampy then gave me the chastising, thin-lipped, one-eyebrow raised kinda look that you would give to a mother of a troop of unruly 5 year old soccer boys. In a surprisingly non-german accent she asked, unsmiling, “May I help you?” I was flustered. I was mortified. I was dumbfounded...I was hungry. Without asking Grampy what he wanted I told her “Can I have two number 1 combos and make his drink a coffee”. She rung us up. As I was paying, Grampy began to wander off, muttering “where do they keep the damn coffee around here." I quickly clutched his elbow and brought him back to me. “And when it's done would you mind bringing it to our table?” I asked sweetly. She nodded, still unsmiling, and watched us walk away— me looking for somewhere I could sit alone with my mortification...and with fun-time Grampy.

Next time we're going to the drive-through.

Adventures in Alzheimers: Over the Grapevine

Mike stopped by Grampy's single-wide in the Greenacres Senior Homes Trailer Park the other day for his daily visit to check on his dad, make sure the water faucets and stove were off and to dispense his medications. Grampy was huddled in front of Bonanza on the TV, shouting at Hoss and Little Joe to "Look behind you! Look behind you!"  Dragging his eyes away from the TV screen, he greeted his son (the only son/caretaker he has) with a frown and a glare and asked "Why the hell do you come over here everyday? Why don't you leave me alone?" Mike sighed and ignored the question. 

Imaginary Grampy on the Grapevine...

Grampy went on— "You're lucky you caught me at home, I just got back!" "Is that right?" Mike asked, knowing a good story was coming next. Grampy is home-bound with only Mike or me for transportation to anywhere. "Yup. I just got back from L.A. Took a trip there for a couple of days to visit friends." "Well" Mike asked "How did you get there?" Grampy was nonplussed and gave Mike a look like he was an idiot . "In my car of course". "But dad, you don't have a car.” Mike can't just leave it alone and go along with the fantasies. He has to egg his dad on. Grampy got up out of the recliner and looked out the window to the driveway and the absence of a car. "Oh. Yeah. Well I went on my scooter" he decided. His little motorized, glorified wheelchair is what that is. Mike pressed further, “How did that do over the Grapevine?” (mountain pass between here and L.A.) “Well” Grampy said “It was rough but I made it”.

They don't make shows like this anymore..sigh

Grampy really does think the stories he tells us happened. In his mind it did.  And I say, let him have his fantasies. Good Lord his life is reduced to trying to achieve regular bowel movements, the Western Channel and daily visits from Mike to give him pills. Let him take his imaginary trip to visit friends in imaginary L.A. ...no wait. L.A. Is real. It just SEEMS imaginary.

Mike decided it was time to change the subject and get back to reality. “So dad do you need anything from the store? Do you want to go down to the Save Mart with me and get groceries?” Grampy thought a moment. "No I don't think so. Mama will do that. Wait...where is mama? Have you seen her lately?” Oy vay. For the 100^th time Mike had to break the news to him. “Dad, mama died in 1997”. Everytime he hears this Grampy is surprised but not really disturbed by it. He always responds, “Well we had a good run of it. More than 60 years we were married and they were good years.” I think mama would have had a different take on that statement. They were married barely 50 years, he treated her horribly and they fought like cats and dogs the entire time.

But we let him have his fantasies. No harm, no foul. It's pretty much all he has left...well that and Bonanza.

#alzheimersimaginations #dementiaimaginations #grandpaadventures

Adventures in Alzheimers: Crickets Make Great Pets

When Mike has to go out of town on business it's usually for a week and it always means several things: 1. I have to remember to feed and water the animals. (God help me) . 2. I go to sleep with several lights on in the house all night, so any intruders will think the fully armed occupant inside is also an insomniac.  3. I  have full Grampy Duty. That means a daily visit to see him, taking him shopping, making sure he's taking his pills, listening to his same old stories again. And again.  Etc.

Grampy's Pet Cricket

So Friday I stopped by after work. He started in complaining about a cricket that had moved in. "Ever since you and Mike put in this new carpet, a cricket has been living here!  I've looked high and low and I can't find the damn thing!"  I'm used to his fantasies so I quickly changed the subject. I randomly inquired as to the date of one of the photos on the wall of mom. ". That's another thing " he went on complaining, "where the hell IS mom? I haven't seen her in years!" "Um. Yeah....." I said "dad she died". He  looked off into the distance for a minute then said " yeah, that's right. 1997 she died." Correct., dad. Then, rather excitedly he added "But she left me years before that and moved back into that house on Avenue A. Well, we had some good years together and I guess that's that. "  OK none of that is true but we don't quibble over the past. We let him believe whatever he wants. No harm, no foul. By tomorrow he'll believe she joined a Romanian circus and took up with the tattooed man. 

So we were talking and reminiscing about his delusional past and all of a sudden I heard it. The cricket!  "See?" He looked hard at me and ground his dentures for a second then whispered "There's my little cricket,"  Well I have been on the receiving end of this particular cricket before and it was clearly the chirp of a dying battery from a smoke alarm. I glanced at the alarm in the hallway (which was brand new) then decided to do what I usually do, tell Mike and make him fix it. Mike was out of town so my son Shane is next in line and always willing to help but he was working. My son in law Paul was in town and he came over to help. Kate my 14 year old granddaughter was with him. Grampy has known Paul for 20 years, nevertheless I introduced him to both Paul and Kate. He shook Paul's hand with a "pleased to meet ya", then, after a minute recognized him, but had no idea who Kate was. (He later asked me who that nice young married couple were that had come to visit. I told him they were the king and queen of Romania. No harm. No foul. )

Grampy told Paul all about the cricket. "yeah" he said " Ever since mama left, it's just me living in this little house. Me and that damn cricket. I yell at him to get out from time to time. I tell him he's not welcome here! But he's still here keeping me company. Just me and that cricket. "  By the time Grampy was done with his story, Paul had located and replaced the faulty battery. Problem solved. Chirping over. Cricket dead. So Now  it's just Grampy in that house. Just Grampy all alone again... 

I'm thinking about putting that battery back in.

#alzheimersfunny #dementiafunny #grandpaalzheimers

Adventures in Alzheimer's: Home Sweet? Home

Mom (Bernie) the bathing beauty in the 1950's

Bernadine Trepanier Berthiaume (known as Bernie), Grampy's late wife, was a 4' 10", red-headed spitfire of a woman who could cuss like a soldier, cook Italian food like there was no tomorrow, and throw a mean left hook—all at the same time. She was also a charter member of the "Function Over Form" home decorating movement. She was proud of her mismatched J.C Penneys furniture and dime store knick knacks, and because she and Grampy were both chain smokers, she attempted to protect her belongings from the constant yellow tar residue that would eventually settle on them.  Both of her orange glass living room lamps possessed, we assume, perfectly lovely lamp shades. But she fiercely preserved each shade by wrapping it in copious amounts of paper towel, then finishing it off with layers of Saran Wrap...to protect the paper towels of course. Eventually the Saran Wrap/Paper towel combo would yellow and crack, and she'd have to replace it. But by golly, 40 years later that lampshade underneath was still brand new and spanking clean...albeit never ever to be seen. Her avocado green sofa and orange/brown flowered love seat were the cats pajamas when she purchased them in 1950, and still looked fantastic in 1995 underneath the tattered, old multi-colored afghans and bath towels that permanently covered them up. I thought her decor was hilarious and laughed at her the first time she showed me around her home, only to be met with an icy scowl. She really thought she was normal.

Bernie and Tex 1969, Lancaster, CA

I will never forget her large maple knick knack shelf that always held a prominent place on the living room wall wherever she lived. Like all her living room furniture, it was Early American design, the only style she thought existed. On this three-shelfed spindle-edged wonder she displayed her treasures; a chipped ceramic bulldog, a small vase of dusty, plastic red roses, a photo of my husband at 19 in his Navy uniform, and other inexpensive tchotskes. But front and center on the middle shelf was her most prized objet d'art, her little fat brown ceramic Buddah. She soberly told me when she showed it to me that if you rub the Buddha's belly, good luck would surely come your way. I noticed that over the years she'd rubbed the paint right off that Buddah's belly. I started to chuckle at this, forgetting who I was talking to, only to once again be on the receiving end of her scornful stare. 

Bernie holding her first grandchild, Kevin 1970

Yes, Bernie was devoutly Superstitious with just enough Catholic in her to justify her playing Bingo at the local parish on Saturday nights. As odd as she was, I quickly learned to stifle any laughter aimed at her eccentricities for fear she'd cast some bad mojo on me. So I was careful to always mock her BEHIND her back. Don't rock an empty rocking chair, don't leave a hairbrush on the kitchen table, don't walk under a ladder or open an umbrella in the house and "for Gawds sake don't break a mirror". You remember the age-old adage, "Find a pin, pick it up and all the day you'll have good luck" Bernie translated that into "Find a penny, pick it up" and she left no found penny unturned. After she passed away we were packing up her belongings and I picked up her purse. It must have weighed 15 pounds. "Geez Louise!" I laughed,  "If the cancer hadn't killed her, the weight of this dang purse she carried everywhere would have," there were at least 500 pennies in a small bag inside that purse. Her entire life's findings, no doubt.  

She actually WAS lucky in at least one aspect of her life...gambling. It was her greatest passion, and moving to Laughlin, Nevada in her golden years was the fulfillment of her life's dream. She treated gambling like a full time job. She drove herself into town every morning, straight to her favorite casino, Sam's Town, where she played the quarter slots, Keno and Bingo. By 5pm she'd clock out and drive herself on home. She was a favorite of the management and staff at Sam's Town, who knew her by name and comped her all her meals and ever-present cups of coffee. Tex laughed at her and told her when they moved to the desert that they could NOT afford for her to gamble their retirement savings away and that there would be NO money from him for her addiction. She snapped her nicotine-stained fingers at that and never asked him for a dime.

She won enough on her own to keep going, but we never really knew how lucky she was till after she died. On her deathbed, weak as a bowl of hospital jello, she motioned for Mike to come near to her as she whispered into his ear, "Money. Money". We had no idea what she meant but would soon find out. As we were going through her closet after her death, Tex was gobsmacked to find a crumpled paper bag with more than $60,000 in cash inside. She was trying to tell Mike to take the money—her rainy day gambling winnings. God love her. Well Tex kept the money, but how like her that even from the grave she got the last laugh.

Adventures in Alzheimers - Stuck in a jam...

One of several points of contention between me and Tex for the last 3 years has been the tangerine tree in his back yard. Technically it's not in HIS backyard. Technically do you call a 15'x4' plot of dead grass behind your single-wide a backyard? You see, there are no fences in the Green Acres Senior Mobile Home Park. No delineation of property lines, so one can only estimate their boundaries. But Tex, as well as his neighbor, are comfortable with the tree's location and ownership is assumed to be on the latter's adjoining postage stamp yard.

The tangerine tree half-picked

Every year, come December, the tree bears copious amounts of fruit. And every year the holiday season is heralded in by the grocery bags full of tangerines that Mike brings home after every visit to see his dad. And every year I make a good supply of tangerine marmalade from which Grampy, (my #1 fan), gets several jars.

Year before last I asked him if his neighbor minds the fact that he picks all those tangerines off his tree. He just snorted at me and proclaimed "That colored fella that owns that tree? he said he wants nuthin' to do with the tangerines." Subject closed. Mike and I gave up years ago trying to bring his dad into a politically correct 21st century. He means no racial slur and actually he's best friends with his neighbor. To him calling a black man a colored fella is like calling a tomato a tomahto.

This last January I noticed a ladder leaning up against the tree one day when I went to visit Tex. I questioned him. "Dad are you climbing a ladder to get those tangerines?" For a minute he forgot there even was a tangerine tree and stared at me blankly. He snapped out of the fog shortly and barked" Well of course! How else am I gonna get the ones high up?" I replied "No, dad. Mike and I do NOT want you climbing up in that tree. Let me get some grandkids and we'll come over here and pick that tree for you". He didn't reply, just walked away. But shortly after I got home he called. "Cathy that colored fellow does NOT want you or the kids messing with his tree. Don't come over here to pick tangerines." Criminy Christmas I thought, is that colored guy even real? I said "dad I I don't give a rats patootie about those tangerines. I just don't want you climbing up there on that ladder. You just had surgery and got out of the hospital not three weeks ago". "Cathy I don't know what the hell you're talking about. I've never had surgery in my life." And he hung up the phone.

pile of leaves Grampy felt a need to cover up

The next day Mike and I joined forces and drove over to see Grampy. He met us at the back door. he had two more bags of tangerines to give us stashed under his back stoop, carefully covered up by towels. I asked him why he was hiding them under the stairs and, glancing surreptitiously up and down the trailer park street he mumbled, "You just can't trust these old people. They like to steal".

I pressed him for more information. "Dad are you certain your neighbor doesn't mind you taking his tangerines?" He frowned at me like I'd never brought it up before and said "Aw hell. I do it at midnight. he doesn't even know I'm up in his tree". Mike and I both rolled our eyes in frustration and I let go with "Dad it's bad enough you're climbing up a ladder but in the DARK!? He shushed me. "No I'm safe. I tie a rope around my waist then tie it to the ladder and loop it over a high tree branch so I won't fall". And with that he toddled back into the house. Hand to God I'm not embellishing here. With visions of a scrawny 5 foot-nuthin old man dangling from a fruit tree at midnight Mike and I marched into the house after him. "But dad. dad NO you really can't do that!" Mike implored. Again with the shushing and then a firm dismissal as he turned on the TV. "Bonanza's starting. Cathy why don't you and Mike take those tangerines home and make me some marmalade. I sure like it." Game over. It was time to leave and with a heavy sigh we headed toward the door, Grampy turned and yelled at my retreating back "And make some for that colored guy next door. He likes it too!"