Like everyone, I have been reeling from the surprising events of the last week. But in the midst of national mahem and fear, Ralph offered me a lovely surprise I didn’t expect. As I left the house Thursday morning to help with grandbabysitting, I mentioned that we would need to put the xmas tree outside later. Then the day got away from me. I periodically checked in on him ( I think although I was so tired from staying up most of Wednesday night glued to CSPAN, that I’m not sure), but didn’t get home until late afternoon. The sun was already setting and getting out of the car I consciously dreaded having to get Ralph to help me drag the tree out to the curb in near darkness. Instead I walked into the house and discovered an empty corner where the tree had been.
“Didn’t you tell me to take it out?” Ralph said looking up from his book.
“Yes, I guess I did but,” I didn’t finish the sentence. “I really, really appreciate this, “ I kept repeating instead. And I did. I made him an especially nice supper and made an effort to sit with him longer than usual afterwards. It was such a rare treat, to have a request followed. Not to have to repeat myself multiple times until I gave up and did it myself, or to have him sort of do what I asked but in a way that required me to step in and redo. I felt as if I had been given a rare, totally unexpected gift.
I also felt a bit sad, that Ralph performing such a basic task made me jubilant, at least for an hour or two.
It’s been over six weeks since I last reported on Ralph and me—the longest I’ve ever gone—not because so much is happening or so little, but because I have not been sure what there is to say. We are treading water though in separate pools. I find myself living increasingly my own life. The few friends I’ve made despite covid are single women. I care for my grandkids at their house. He’s not lost more ability
Ralph, now adjusted to his new meds and his docile covid self, spends most of his time sitting in a chair reading by the window in our sunroom. He seldom uses the phone and the conversations are shorter and shorter. He likes quiet, his diminished interest in listening to radio logical since he really hasn’t listened to what he hears for a while. Getting him to take walks is harder and harder. He rarely bothers to walk the extra steps to his “office.” Ralph still likes the almost-four-year-old’s almost daily visits, but pays him barely a moment’s attention before he’s back to his dogs and his books. He reads voraciously, anything I hand him, the longer the better. He says he truly enjoys the reading although he acknowledges that he retains nothing the moment he puts the book down. And he reads quickly—funny, since pre-diagnosis he was a slow reader who retained ever single word and nuance—so it is hard to keep him in books especially since going to the library is not something I’m doing during Covid.
So for Christmas Ralph received from me a mixed box set: War and Peace and The Brothers Karamazov. Should keep him until at least February. For Christmas I received from Ralph whatever I felt like buying myself, and I didn’t stint. I am wearing new pants, shirt, and sweater as I type.
The thing is, Christmas more or less brushed by Ralph this year. In the past, even and maybe especially since his diagnosis, he looked forward to our blow out Christmas celebrations with a childlike anticipation. But this year he was oblivious, which was just as well since there was no blow out happening anyway. I debated whether to bother decorating our not fully furnished house, but ended up pulling out my boxes of Santas. I bought a tree already on a stand so Ralph didn’t have to mess with it. He said it looked nice, once, and never glanced at the tree again. Which was fine with me. The almost-four-year-old grandson loved my Santas and also could stand for ages in front of the tree deciding which ornaments were his favorites. I spent evenings sipping tea in front of the tree alone with David Sedaris.
Xmas eve morning Ralph looked up from his reading to ask why I was carrying a pile of presents out to the car.
“I thought we did Christmas.
“No we did Thanksgiving last month. Now it’s Christmas.”
He nodded and returned to his book, no further questions asked. But he came along that afternoon to eat Chinese take out with our daughter’s family, our watered down version of our usual Xmas eve blowout. He was patient but bored and missing his dogs so I drove him home as soon as he finished eating, then returned alone to hang out finishing preparing for Santa’s visit.
The next morning I brought Ralph coffee early because I was dying to see the grandson’s reaction to receiving the present Santa was bringing, bright yellow digger.”
“Anything on our schedule today?”
“It’s Christmas morning.”
“I thought we did Christmas already.”
“Last night was Christmas Eve. We’re going over to open presents.”
The three-year-old’s Christmas joy was so infectious that it even perked up Ralph who parked in a chair where we brought him food and gifts to open.
The next morning, it was chilly when he got up. I suggested he wear his new flannel shirt and vest.
“The one you got for Christmas.”
“When was Christmas?”
I know someone reading this is thinking, how sad. But the thing is, Ralph is very content from moment to moment. And frankly, thanks to an increasing ability to compartmentalize and ignore, so am I. At least for now.
So between a hurricane which knocked out our power and the new grandbaby and an election that has yet to be settled, I have been adjusting to another new reality, less dramatic but personally profound concerning Ralph.
When we met with our new team at Ochsner’s brain health center, the neuropsychologist, Dr. S., was wonderfully tactful.
“You have been doing really well holding steady and now have shifted from mild to moderate.”
That was all he said about the day’s testing before moving on to discuss…well I kind of tuned out at that point. Ralph didn’t register anything of concern and I registered it all too well.
Basically we are at that tipping point I have been expecting. And yet now that the level of cognitive decline is officially changed, it feels less dramatic and specific than I thought.
Or it did.
A news alert on my phone bolted me awake early this morning.
“Biden is ahead in Georgia.” I shrieked to Ralph.
“Is that important.”
“Very,” I am quivering with excitement to share.
“Who was he running against?”
“Oh yeah. Who’s winning.”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Is this the primary?”
“No, it’s the election. You’ve been listening all about it on the radio.”
“I wasn’t really paying attention.”
“Well it’s up in the air. People are very nervous.”
“Remind me who’se running.”
“Biden and Trump.”
“Oh yeah. I don’t remember voting.”
“We mailed in.”
“Oh yeah.” And he’s back to sleep.
Living through this crazy election with Ralph really points up the oddness of living in a marriage with someone on the Alzheimer’s spectrum.
Ralph listens to NPR all day while sitting in his “office.” Ralph spent his first 64 years a deeply political animal, even as he veered from socialist to libertarian to Hillary fan. Many of our marital battles centered on political disagreements (masking perhaps deeper psychological/emotional issues we weren’t ready to face). Certainly family dinner conversation focused on Ralph’s take on the news of the day.
Yet now, as one of the most important elections of our lives unfolds from one excruciating moment to the next and my anxiety level has ratcheted up from eating everything in sight to losing my appetite all together, Ralph is oblivious. And the divide between us feels all more acute.
He knows the names. Biden Trump. “Is this Trump’s first or second term?” He likes to ask. But it matters to him no more than the weather. Actually the weather matters to him much more.
Over the last few days I have texted and spoken to friends and family in a constant sharing of mutual anxiety. I have certainly not felt alone. But increasingly, Ralph is although I’m not sure he notices.
Since moving to Nola in late March, the one worry I’ve continued to have has surrounded Ralph’s Alzheimer’s care. I feared that six years at Emory’s Brain Health Center, surrounded by physicians on the cutting edge of research, had spoiled us although. There were drawbacks to Emory: Neither Rick nor I will miss the three-hour round-trip trek from our farm every visit (a drive that kept Ralph and me from participating in support groups and activities Emory offered); and as Emory’s client load grew, I sometimes felt a little lost in the shuffle. But I knew Ralph was getting topnotch treatment, and it concerned me that while our providers in Atlanta encouraged our move to Nola, they knew of no similar providers in Nola to recommend.
Finally a friend with medical connections recommended one neurologist at Ochsner Hospital who specialized in dementia, but he ended up too busy to see us. Instead, the neurology department assigned us another doctor we knew nothing about. But we needed to see someone since almost 18 months had passed since Ralph’s last “annual” cognitive check up. I scheduled Ralph into a virtual appointment at the end of August—a mistake on my part since Virtual does not work for Ralph who has enough trouble with doctors in person and refuses to (can’t) use any newfangled phone or internet technology. The neurologist asked the right questions and was perfectly pleasant but did not make a real connection with Ralph (i.e. Ralph decided he didn’t like him). I had already silently accepted that Ralph’s Alzheimer’s care would be less extensive going forward; I told myself that, aside from the annual testing, I no longer needed lots of professional input since I was the one in the trenches monitoring Ralph’s daily functioning. So when the doctor said he would schedule Ralph’s cognitive testing, I assumed with equanimity that that’s all it was—testing.
I was pleasantly surprised yesterday to discover I was wrong. It turns out Ralph’s testing was actually the first step in becoming part of the “Care Ecosystem” for brain health at Ochsner. We met with a neuropsychologist who bonded with Rick over dogs, a nurse practitioner who came up with a change in Ralph’s prescriptions that sounds promising, and a Care Team Navigator who says she will be checking in by phone with me on a monthly basis or as needed. Wow! on that last one. I thought outreach support only happened in other countries with better health systems in place.
According to the handout I received, Ochsner’s goal is “to personalize the Care Ecosystem for each patient and caregiver.” I’m not sure why the program is not better known, but my guess, from the high level of enthusiasm on the staff, is that it may be relatively new.
I am going to do more research on exactly how the program works differently from what Emory offers and will be talking to our navigator more tomorrow. For now I am enjoying my relief that Ralph will be getting good care, and only a 15 minute drive away. And my relief tells me there is something else I was wrong about–for all my declaring that I didn’t need professional support, I did and do. I left the clinic feeling so much less weight on on my shoulders and in my heart.
As for the cognitive testing itself—I’ll need another post to digest the results.
PS A funny typo I caught just in time: The title almost read “Ralph’s New Support System, and Mind”
Waiting for a possible hurricane or tropical storm while also Waiting for the new grandbaby while Waiting for the election while Waiting for Ralph’s new cognitive testing while Waiting for the next news bombshell while Waiting for the insurance inspector who maybe forgot to call and cancel while Waiting for redelivery of a replacement for whatever was mis-delivered for the house(wrong rug, wrong couch!, wrong toilet seat, etc.)
Waiting has become my way of life as it has for so many others in America these days, especially as the election approaches.
But really, I’m a lot less anxious than I would expect. For better or worse I seem to be adjusting to living in a present that is also a waiting room for an uncertain future.
As for Ralph, he feels less uncertainty these days. He’s been reminding me of Winnie the Pooh lately, perhaps the result of too much grand-mothering on my part, but also because like Pooh, Ralph inhabits a limited, slightly unreal world. Yes he worries endlessly about small matters (Oh Dear Oh Dear says Winnie the Pooh) but basically Ralph and Pooh both assume they’ll be taken care of, by Robin and me. And as long as he stays put in his world, Ralph is not simply happy. He is completely functional because he faces no demands beyond his capacity. He feels competent because he’s not asked to test himself. In fact, since the move his life has simplified. There is no check list of what he must do. He drinks the coffee I bring him at seven am along with his pills. He wanders between his bedroom and his new “office five steps across the patio;” if anything life has become easier because at the farm he had to walk across a small field or drive a loop of dirt road to get to his office. He sits in the office with the radio or lie on his bed reading whatever book I’ve give him. Sometimes he reads the same book twice back to back with the same pleasure of vague, faded familiarity I feel when I begin a book I last read thirty years ago. He naps. While I cook dinner he drinks his two allowed beers in the sunroom off the kitchen sitting in his new favorite chair with a pleasant view of a garden. He eats his nightly nutty buddy after dinner with the same gusto Pooh has for honey. Then without fail, he puts the our dog Lola in her cage and locks the bedroom door to the patio—the two chores for which he maintains responsibility—and gets in bed. Sometimes he reads a little, sometimes he goes straight to sleep.
Each day includes, or is mostly, long empty spaces. But he doesn’t notice. And as long as I don’t ask for him to break the routine, he is easy in his mind. If I break his physical or mental routine, he gets rattled. His brain snags on a details he asks about over and over. That is most of our discourse these days, my re-explaining the answers to questions he can’t let go. But most of the time, when he is contentedly in his routine, we don’t talk. I wonder, what is he thinking and feeling but I don’t ask the way I used to because I sense he no longer wants to think or perhaps feel that hard. He doesn’t want to analyze or examine himself the way he used to enjoy. He certainly doesn’t want to analyze politics or world crises. He doesn’t want to know they exist.
So life between us is easier. At least as long as I stay within Ralph’s mental framework, as long as we talk about the weather and I don’t analyze or examine myself too much. It is tempting not to push myself, to relax into waiting room empty headedness (that lack of responsibility I used to luxuriate in until my name was called at the dentist’s office or my flight began boarding in the airport lounge). But then I talk to a friend about a problem she is facing, or I read an article about racism and my brain comes awake. I must enter back into the complexity of my world to stay mentally alive, while Ralph must stay in the simplicity of his own.
If I’ve been in a funk lately (and really, who in the United States, hasn’t), it’s been partly because I’ve had trouble adjusting to what I have been in the habit of calling “the new normal”. I see signs of his cognitive deterioration— not only deeper memory gaps but the shuffle in his walk, his disinterest in showering, his more frequent vacant frown—but what also continues to deteriorate is our caregiver/caregivee spouse relationship.
I am beginning to perceive the stages of my Alzheimer’s caregiving in a new light as I look back at each new normal.
Those months (years?) before the diagnosis when no one in the family wanted to takes his memory lapses seriously. How at first we teased and joked until it stopped being funny. How annoyed I’d get at him for not having paid attention to what I had just said. How sick I got of hearing him tell stories over and over. How angry it made me that every morning he worked up claiming no memory of screaming at me the night before for no good reason, certainly none he remembered.
My secret relief after his initial diagnosis that I hadn’t been imagining a problem. His heightened anxiety led to heavy smoking his doctors said to ignore for the time being. The diagnosis was all we could talk about. And it was still not something I was about to talk about with anyone but my most intimate friends. The future seemed scary but also unreal. Everything felt extreme, heightened. High anxiety but also high adrenaline rush.
Ralph’s new calm once the meds kicked in and the adrenaline rush that had been carry us subsided. His cognitive changes slowed. The problem was mostly memory. Stories told and retold immediately, questions asked over and over, names forgotten, his difficulty following the plots on TV or at the movies, a withdrawal from conversations that only I noticed—all were issues that I struggled with but they did not interrupt the flow of my daily life. Or his, since he still enjoyed puttering and painting class and walk. We adjusted to the altered dynamic in our marriage. He happily/passively went along with decision I made. I still felt resentment but I learned to manage it. His mood and personality softened. Although small changes occurred I thought of our life as the new normal, an ever so slightly slanted plateau. And since five years passed in this state, with small ups and downs—like we were on the kiddies’ rollercoaster of Alzheimer’s—it was easy to become complacent.
Late last fall, the roller coaster took a sharper angle, not so dramatically that I grabbed any handlebars, but enough that I knew my days of leaving Ralph alone more than a day or two were over. The list I kept for him to keep up with daily chores (take pills, feed dogs) grew to include more items (shower, eat lunch). He stopped watching TV. His smoking intensified. Our conversations were limited in private, but he was still charming around other people who found his lapses odd but almost endearing. He seemed sanguine about our coming move.
Then came his hospitalization. Another adrenaline jolt. From his initial severe disorientation that I first assumed was a total slip into Alzheimer’s to the day he came home weak and dazed through four more weeks of daily treatment I wasn’t sure how much of his disconnect, let alone physical weakness, was the result of his infection. I surprised myself, how patient I could be. Once we moved, he grew daily stronger, his appetite improved (at least he wanted his nuttybuddies again). By then Covid quarantine was in place. His isolation and the general isolation everyone was experiencing converge. And I was so busy with moving in, helping with my grandson, keeping up with editing clients who suddenly had time on their hands so were writing more, that I didn’t pay as much attention to Ralph as usual except when I asked him to do some small task, like taking out the garbage or moving boxes, that he then messed up to remind me each time that I should have known better.
So, here we are, post adrenaline surges–while I share in the national trauma, the result is closer to malaise than adrenaline. My energy, like Ralph’s, has been drained over time.
I suspect Ralph’s recent spurts of belligerence are partly in reaction to my emotional distance: Without that earlier adrenaline rush, I find it hard to generate genuine emotional interest in Ralph as he is, with so little we can share. Not only does a hard edge sometimes creep into my voice, but worse I can seldom generate more than a lukewarm, dutiful tone. Too often I think, why bother trying to explain what will immediately need to be explained again, why tell a joke?
But I also suspect he is also reacting to his own sense of his situation. The anger reared up when he went briefly off his anxiety medication. Now he’s back on a prescription, but he’s not back to the passive contentment that has served him well. I studied his face as he was eating dinner last night, the crease between his eyebrows, the grim set of his jaw, the vacant stare at his plate. He looked angry but was otherwise calm enough. As usual now, we ate in silence with NPR news in the background. He no longer articulates feelings he’s having, let alone thoughts or ideas and I no longer press him. And I am not finding it as easy to get used to the changes as I used to.
I’ve always told myself, Get used to the new normal. I’m dropping that refrain. It’s really just the for now normal. I I don’t think I’ll get used to, but I will adjust, and then adjust again.
If the idea of showing anger against someone cognitively impaired makes you uncomfortable, you might want to stop here.
I am not about to talk about the resentment and frustration all caregivers feel at times. I am about to describe the kind of red-hot “Drop Dead!” fury that used to wash over me in my pre-Alzheimer’s marriage, usually over seemingly small issues that represented bigger, unspoken rifts. Over our first 35 years of marriage that fury rose up a lot in both Ralph and me, whether expressed in his ugly shouting or my snide passive aggressiveness. He was unapologetic about his “my way or the highway” attitude. I fought for equal power in our relationship, usually without success (although he might disagree), and spent a lot of waking hours seething against him.
After Ralph’s diagnosis, his personality, perhaps even his character, changed. His enviable physical and mental energy dissipated. So did his unpleasant authoritarian belligerence. While I often bemoaned his post-diagnosis lack of interest in the world around us and my need to think for both us, not having an often-more-than-equal partner but also has its advantages. Yes, I miss his companionship, but I enjoy his current appreciation of my caregiving and my willingness to make choices for him. His passive disinterest has meant that after years of fighting his decisions and usually losing or resentfully accepting them, I have been learning to trust, even relish decision-making on my own.
That is, until THE COUCH.
Specifically our new living room couch.
In the past our furniture always had a somewhat masculine quality. Rustic. Practical. Brown, lots of brown (excepting the blue green chaise lounge I bought myself as a sixtieth b-day present but ended up sharing with the dogs). His choices made sense in our farmhouse, but the city house we’re in now, with its 19th century New Orleans architecture, calls for a different, dare I say feminine approach.
Or this was my rationale behind THE COUCH. Sick of brown and dark and masculine, I told myself that after all, Ralph and the dogs live in the kitchen/sunroom and our bedroom with occasional forays to Ralph’s “office” created just for him in the garage. Bedroom and office contain the very masculine, very brown furniture we brought with us, while the sunroom is currently a hodgepodge with one comfortable chair in which Ralph sits.
The kitchen/sunroom in one side of French door we keep closed. On the other side is the living room, a basically empty space although Ralph and I agreed to put in inexpensive bookcases and rug from Overstock. I also ordered the kind of probably impractical couch I’ve always wanted: slip-covered, off-white, soft cushioned (Ralph always ruled strongly against loose pillows on furniture). I actually think I talked to Ralph about the couch, but maybe not. I assumed he would not care. After all, he and the dogs never come through those French doors.
I ordered in April and after some minor drama—a dark gray couch with weird arms arrived initially by mistake and had to be returned—THE COUCH arrived at last two days ago.
Ralph let me know his opinion immediately. He began shouting in a voice I had not heard in years as he stomped between the kitchen and the living room and I responded, not shouting but with cold-blooded rage:
That couch looks like a white elephant in there.
I like it.
What did you pay for that thing? It looks cheap. Like it’s slip-covered.
It is slip-covered. I wanted slipcovers.
I can’t believe you spent that much.
You have no idea what anything costs.
What were you thinking choosing this?
This was what I wanted. You’ve chosen things lots of times against my wishes.
What did I ever choose?
(silence as I start counting up the much bigger decisions that he no longer remembers bullying me into but I suddenly do in stark relief)
Well, I hate it.
Well, I’m not sending it back.
Well it’s a piece of sh…
Ralph disappeared into his bedroom. I fumed my way through preparing dinner. He reappeared and started in again with pretty much the same refrain. By the third repetition, I knew what to expect but was still mad. I didn’t care that he was cognitively impaired. I just hated him and his way of letting me know I was an idiot, of making me doubt my judgment. The way he made me feel small.
I went to bed feeling more like a wife than I normally do these days. And guess what? I didn’t like it a bit.
Of course since then, Ralph has not mentioned The Couch. And my own anger is gone. I’m aware that his lingering low-grade crankiness comes from a combination of an earache and taking him off his anti-anxiety medicine. Ralph is still lethargic but more on edge. I’ve already contacted the doctor.
This little blow up was a reminder, though, not to sugarcoat what our marriage was before Ralph’s diagnosis. I am committed to caring for Ralph; but with or without Alzheimer’s, ours was always a difficult, imperfect relationship. Maybe all marriages are; just the specific problems differ.
I’d like to blame the thick New Orleans heat for my recent silence but that’s not why my fingers have stopped typing. Nor is it the Virus or even my obsession with the current political battle for America’s soul, although they are troubling realities. My malaise, while similar to what so many others are suffering these days, is less a reaction to current events and more a reflection of life with Ralph and the drip drip drip accumulation of Alzheimer’s impairment.
A life in which nothing changes. Everything keeps changing. Nothing changes. Everything keeps changing.
Hard to believe, but Ralph was officially diagnosed over seven years ago, in 2013, and, as my daughter recently pointed out, we had begun noticing lapses when she was a freshman in college three years earlier. So Ralph is already passing the ten-year mark usually held up as a fatal marker on the Alzheimer’s spectrum. And by Alzheimer’s standards he is doing remarkably well in all the ways I’ve described here so many times:
The short and long term memory problems with which he was originally diagnosed continue but are only incrementally worse. Now the repeated three or four discussions center around the tools he wants to get back from the farm (not possible), around whether our older dog Zeus is too thin, around where are savings are invested and if they are safe. He still comes across charming to strangers, not that he’s interacting with strangers or anyone else these days.
But there is something else going on, and I no longer believe strangers would miss noticing he has impairment. There is, if not a slight vacancy, a mental hesitation in his reactions. A disconnect between what I say to him and what he hears.
Trying to articulate Ralph’s current condition to a friend recently, I found myself stating that he has increasing difficulty “retaining information” which is different than his memory problems. I am not sure what I meant exactly in the moment but in intuitively it felt correct. Maybe retaining is not quite it either; maybe the problem is “intake of information.” What I have noticed is that when I make what seems to me a simple statement, he has sometimes has trouble taking in the meaning. He looks at me as if he can’t hear what I am saying—I have considered whether he has a hearing problem and plan to get him checked when it is viable although he seems to hear quite well. If I repeat myself more slowly I can almost see him struggling to get his head around the meaning. But the problem is that I tend to put too many ideas in a sentence.
This morning I said we had a doctor’s appoint with our new neurologist here and that it would be over the phone.
“I have a new doctor? Who was my old doctor?” (straightforward memory issue).
“Stephanie at Emory in Atlanta, but we’ve had to find a new doctor since we’ve moved.”
“So are we going to Emory today.” (not only memory but also comprehension confusion)
Or yesterday, I was on the computer he started asking me questions about his farm tools.
“I can’t really talk now, I’m doing Shipt.”
“What do you mean Shipt?”
“I’m doing a grocery order through Shipt because I realized we’re about to run out of milk.”
He looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. Shipt? I should have thought before I spoke because I had thrown three concepts at him, at least two concepts too many. Not only does he not remember why I don’t grocery shop in person these days and becomes anxious when I remind him about Covid (Am I going to get it? is his usual, understandable refrain?) but he has not noticed that our life has been altered by the virus, and he cannot grasp the concept or the steps involved in using a delivery service.
All I should have said was that I was making a grocery list. He doesn’t notice that the groceries come to the front door or that I go through a cleaning process. All he notices is whether there is milk, bread, peanut butter and beer.
These are tiny examples; the moments of disconnect are always tiny, and often much more subtle. But there are so many of them, each annoying and heartbreaking in equal measure.
Ralph usually has his annual cognitive check-up in July, but not this year. Because of Covid we have yet even to meet with our new neurologist. After several rescheduling, our telemed introductory appointment is now set for the end of August and obviously won’t include intensive testing (at least I hope not—Ralph testing by phone would be a nightmare; zoom is going to be challenge enough).
Gauging where Ralph sits on the continuum these days is not easy. Between his hospital stay and slow recuperation, the long preparation for our relocation, the actual move one day before Louisiana went into quarantine, our new home/life under Covid, and Ralph’s anxiety in adjusting, not to mention my own, I have lost perspective.
Last year’s check-up was uneventful, so uneventful that I wrote no more than a sentence about it in my journal. I had been concerned that Ralph seemed a little fuzzier in daily interactions but he scored pretty close to what he’d scored the previous years. We were assured he was maintaining a steady but unusually slow progression.
By then I was already house-hunting, and our practitioners felt we were moving at exactly the right time, with Ralph was still able to adapt and adjust to a new place. I remember discussing that I should teach him the route to the nearest stores and coffee shop, then make sure he carried good, explanatory ID and introduce him to storekeepers and others in the neighborhood so they’d know his situation in case he got lost on a cigarette run.
Fat chance. In the five months since we moved here, Ralph has taken one brief walk with me three blocks around the corner and back. Cigarette runs are unnecessary because he has forgotten smoking all together, thank goodness, and he has absolutely zero interest in leaving our porch. He has been to dinner at my daughter’s house once, seen his internist once and been to a hospital lab for blood tests once. Otherwise he has been in the house. We did spend a week away with my daughter’s family at a house with a pool to escape the heat, making no stops on the way and never leaving the house once we arrived saw how few others were wearing masks; Ralph enjoyed watching the rest of us splash around though he didn’t dip a toe in the pool himself, preferring to follow his usual routine of wake, eat, nap, eat, nap eat, bed.
But does his increased inactivity mean anything under the circumstances. He seems to function fairly well as long as he sticks to his rote routine, which is not that different than it used to be. The big change is swapping in BoyRalph visits for cigarettes, a clearly positive change.
The less positive changes are all in the gray, hard to decipher margins.
He has never returned to a life list. He had been getting sloppy about following it and then he was so out of it during his recuperation from the blood infection, and so helpless. Now I don’t trust him to mark thinks off. Or remember where the list is Or maybe the truth is that I find it easier to give him his pills myself, to tell him to shower, to track his meals that I would to nag him about the list plus the actual behaviors it tracks. He can still make a sandwich for himself at lunch but often asks me moments later if he’s eaten yet. I’ve also taken over feeding his dogs, a minor chore he used to like but never thinks about now. I worry that I’m coddling him, but then I try to stretch his world by asking him to do a minor chore like takeout the recycling and he gets slightly but noticeably befuddled.
He hasn’t paid attention to the world for a while, but now he seems to have lost his visual acuity a certain ability to react and judge. I’ve been filling bookcases the last few days and he doesn’t notice the difference between objects arranged on a shelf or placed there helter-skelter to get out of the way. In some ways those shelves are like his thought process, a random organization of discrete thoughts. He doesn’t always button his shirt correctly–true, neither do I on occasion, but then I am mortified; he could care less.
But I need to take into account that everyone’s memory is worse these days. Everyone is a little depressed and a little disconnected. A little spacier than usual. A little sloppier. Where does Covid Brain stop and Dementia begin?
Thinking about that way, I tell myself that nothing I’m describing here about Ralph sounds that much worse than a year ago. But it is worse. I just can’t articulate or even pinpoint the deeper shift–a letting go, a deterioration. Not only of remembering but in comprehending. Conversation is gone which is sad. More depressing, so is my trust in his reasoning, in his ability to care for himself, to think clearly. Less than a year ago, I was able to leave him with his life list for days at a time. Now I am afraid to leave him alone in the house for more than an hour or two. I’m afraid that is a marker more important than any test.
I’ve been away from the blogosphere lately. No crisis, thank goodness. It’s just that my caregiving has taken a not unexpected but time-consuming turn.
For the ten years my mother resided with us, I lived in the middle of that sandwich cookie analogy about middle-agers caught between aging parents and growing children. Now I find myself in a somewhat different care-sandwich between 74-year-old spouse on the Alzheimer’s spectrum and an intellectually curious about everything three-year-old grandson. Ralph and BabyRalph—oops BoyRalph or he’ll be affronted—are the two sides my life and increasingly the filling too.
I am not complaining, believe me. I’m just amazed that someone who as a girl never played with baby dolls or wanted to be a nurse let alone a mother, has ended up filling my hours competently nurturing.
One on hand, Ralph has been on a more needy plateau since his illness. I am personally handing him his daily pills and doing chores like dog feeding that he used to enjoy. I am learning to lower expectations of what I ask of him in general. On the other hand, the time and energy I expected to expend on grandmothering after our move to Nola has expanded because of Covid and will probably expand further when BoyRalph’s baby brother arrives in a few months. For now I am watching BoyRalph at least five mornings a week, through lunch until his nap. (When he wakes up, his teenage sister takes over until a parent is free.)
We spend most of our time at my house with Ralph and the dogs. At first both Ralph was a little standoffish around his grandson, or maybe shy, but bonding has occurred over their shared love of peanut butter sandwiches, nutty buddies and the dogs.
Although I can’t leave one with the other because I don’t trust either’s judgment, caring for BoyRalph has actually made caring for big Ralph much easier.
Now BoyRalph gives Ralph’s day structure, the way cigarettes used to; only this structure is positive. I leave our house every morning by 7:30 after bringing Ralph his coffee and pills. When I return an hour or so later with BoyRalph, Ralph is almost always up and eagerly waiting. And although he wanders back to his room at times, he is engaged. He’ll even join us for Candyland.
The Ralphs’ relationship is symbiotic. Ralph is the grown up, but he’s also childlike in a way that draws BoyRalph out, and BoyRalph has energized Ralph. Even when they argue, which they do, there are no hard feelings. BoyRalph is quick about wanting to make up while Ralph’s memory deletes BoyRalph’s misbehaviors anyway . Moments after BoyRalph has stormed off yelling “You’re not my best friend anymore” or spent time in time out for being too rough with the dog, Ralph will turn to me to say, “He’s such a good boy.”
Yesterday BoyRalph actually got Ralph to do participate in an activity that I feared he’d discarded. The two of them stood, or sat, at separate easels in Ralph’s new “office” in the garage working and humming for about an hour. And both finished works of art (before BoyRalph got mad that he couldn’t squeeze out all the red paint and hid behind the easel).
I’ve felt my share of resentment over the last few years about how Ralph’s cognitive impairment has affected my life. Now keeping a three-year-old drains my physical energy as well as limiting my time for everything else. But grandmothering BoyRalph has taken the edge off some of the loneliness I feel as Ralph’s caregiver spouse. No, it’s more than that. As I finally admitted to myself the other day, the joy I receive from my relationship with BoyRalph is what I want right now. And it’s a joy Ralph shares. The first real sharing we’ve experienced in a long while.