Tag Archives: anxiety accompanies cognitive impairment

Covid with Alzheimer’s–UGH

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Yep, Ralph got Covid. And luckily it has not been life threatening. But the last few weeks have been “interesting” to say the least. In part because Ralph was the last to fall from our family outbreak:

Several Thursdays ago (I’ve lost track of time) Granddaughter A had her high school graduation Ralph did NOT attend the ceremony or celebratory dinner. I did, along with her three parents and various other relatives. It was a lovely day. Over the weekend A attended graduation parties, then spent a special evening with my daughter and son-in-law 

That Monday A tested positive. Not terribly sick.  

On Tuesday my daughter tested positive. Very sick but went on anti-viral meds which helped

On Wednesday my son-in-law tested positive.  Very sick but went on anti-viral meds which helped

On Friday the one-and-a-half year-old tested positive. Not too sick, but he couldn’t really tell us.

On Saturday Ralph tested positive. Very sick. But like the baby, he really couldn’t articulate well.

Everyone but the baby is fully vaccinated. Everyone but the baby masks. The two left standing, five-year-old  mini-Ralph and I, are still wearing masks around each other; we’re basically not allowed to be around anyone else in the family until tomorrow. 

The thing is, Ralph had not been anywhere, and once A was positive, precautions wen into high gear—masks, washing, and quarantining. Over and over I told Ralph to stay in his room and never never to leave it without wearing his mask. The only people he came in contact with at all were me, Mini-Ralph and the baby since  they had to stay with us once their parents and sister got sick. And I don’t think he was ever around them for more than a few minutes at a time before I shewed him back to his lair. But Ralph did wonder out of his room unmasked occasionally. While I always caught him it was not always immediate and those few minutes mattered. That baby who was not masked was the innocent culprit. He is too hard to resist. I know I snuggled him. And Ralph must have too. But I was never unmasked. That might be the difference—or it might be pure luck.

In any case,  Ralph’s Covid has been difficult for him because he doesn’t understand exact and has complicated life in general for the rest of us, especially my daughter the nurse practitioner who has basically banished me and Mini-Ralph to the second floor (a bit of a problem given I’m still not quite as strong as I’d like on my new hip) and taken over Ralph’s care.

Fortunately over her Covid symptoms (but still masked), my daughter has been sleeping on the living room couch and caring for Ralph while her husband, also post symptoms, cares for the baby at night. They are also back to their jobs, taking turns keeping the baby during the day using up PTO. (A is fine by now, and back at her job.)

Ralph went on the anti-viral meds as soon as he tested positive, but whether they are helping or not is impossible to tell. I haven’t actually seen him, except from a half closed doorway. I do talk to him regularly but 

  1. He doesn’t remember how he felt the day, or hour, before so there is no point of reference. He knows he’s sick but keeps forgetting it is Covid and will ask me what is wrong with him.
  2. He always has a cold this time of year and has been stuffed up for weeks and weeks—I was testing him regularly even before the family outbreak just in case. He is if anything less cold-like than he was, but he is thoroughly listless.
  3. He embraces his listlessness, which breeds more listlessness. So even as other Covid symptoms abate, his lack of energy continues because it always is there. His favorite activity is sleep under the best of circumstances.
  4. The anti-Covid medication gave him stomach issues that others I know also suffered but could deal. Ralph had more issues because he is so passive about his personal habits under the same best circumstances as above. Or because he had to stop taking some of his normal drugs.

I am taking over Ralph from my daughter on Sunday—and sending Mini-Ralph home to his folks. Ralph will be past the infectious stage by then, although masks will be worn. I am a bit nervous but also ready. I am also thinking that barely over two years ago, just before our move to New Orleans, he had to be hospitalized with a blood infection; afterwards his cognitive skills declined sharply and never full returned to their pre-infection level.

I am a little worried.

Ralph’s Alzheimer’s Social Anxiety–or Mine?

Alzheimer's Spouse Issue, , , ,

Yesterday I held a garden party. A baby shower actually for a friend of my daughter. I had volunteered us as hosts after several glasses of wine at a dinner the three of us shared a few months back. We scheduled the shower, pre-omicron, for the first Saturday in January, but the virus messed up our plans so we rescheduled and started thinking outdoors if possible. Then threatening weather and heavier covid numbers forced us to reschedule again. And again. But the third time stuck. Beforehand Was very nervous how it would go. I didn’t know most of the guests and was worried the weather would force us either to cancel or move inside, not really an option under the circumstance.

By it turned out to be a lovely day, light sweater weather under clear blue skies. The scones and petit fours were tasty, the tea was hot, the Prosecco bubbly. As an added surprise, the mother of the mother-to-be who had arrived the night before from her home in Spain to stay for the next two months It was fun for both of us to hang out with a bunch of young women and each other. 

Ralph came outside for about five minutes to take a group picture and was absolutely charming. Otherwise he watched from his office window, a ghost no one but me and maybe my daughter even noticed. 

His reaction/behavior encapsulated much of his/our life over the last six weeks. Close friends rented a house near us for those six weeks. Except for the week I quarantined after my grandson tested positive, we spent a lot of time together, probably seeing each other at least every other day. Sometimes we cooked together here at my house. Ralph loved when they came by and after the first week of my repeating reminders that they were here for a long visit, he began expecting them to be here for dinner every night and asked me throughout the day what they were doing or where they were.

Around them he was fully engaged and extremely witty. But he did not come out to dinner with us even once. I would go through the motions of asking him to come, but he wasn’t interested and I never pushed. For one thing he hated the idea of eating outside, even with the gas heaters keeping diners perfectly warm, but mostly he just didn’t want the hassle. Even in the house, he wasn’t interested in sitting in our very comfortable, warm living room. To be with Ralph we had to sit near where he was enthroned in his chair. 

My friends enjoyed being with him at first, but the unequal footing on which Ralph and the husband in particular stood became difficult for them to navigate after a while. I could tell they began to find it a bit trying, or that Alzheimer’s mix of trying and funny, to spend longer periods of time with Ralph. And they never quite got used to (and why should they?) Ralph’s endless repetition of questions. (The truth is that their discomfort was kind of a comfort to me, and release valve. I also have to admit I enjoyed those dinners out without having to watch over Ralph.)

As the weeks past and there was talk of moving the baby shower, he became particularly obsessed and confused when any mention of it came up. He couldn’t remember knowing the mother-to-be, whom he has spent time with on several occasions. But more than that, he could not get his head around the idea that I was having a party at all. 

Why are you cleaning the yard?  

Why are you going to the bakery?

 Is it a birthday party?

 Who is coming? 

Who’s pregnant? 

Who is she? 

How do you know her?

Is it her birthday?

 And of course, Do I have to come? 

The conversational loop gathered momentum over time and became inescapable. And inevitably so did giggles and impatience to cut the evening short. Last night, post shower, he was still asking the same questions as our friends stopped in for their last evening before heading home this morning.

So here we are.  Ralph has taken to his bed to recover from his busy weekend although he has already forgotten there was a party. And I think he’s beginning to forget our friends were here too.

Alzheimer’s and Dementia-I Finally Erase the Line

Alzheimer's Spouse Issue, , , , , , ,

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I remember when I bridled at the interchangeable use of Dementia and Alzheimer’s. This was back when Ralph’s diagnosis was MCI, Mild Cognitive Impairment, or may even slipping over in Mild Alzheimer’s. I clung to narrow definitions back then. The plaque build up his tests showed signified Alzheimer’s and served as my point of gravity. I could tell people, i.e. myself, that he had a specific physiological condition. I did not want him lumped into the big vague world of dementia. No, really, I did not want to think of him as “demented” as in the pejorative taunt “You are so demented.” 

Now the boundaries between definitions matter less and less. While repetitive questions and conversations are annoying, Ralph’s memory loss feels routine except when a visitor comments and I recognize the behavior afresh through her eyes. As an echo to Ralph, or a habit I’ve picked up from him, I think I also repeat myself more.

As for Ralph’s general behavior, his passive has inertia has become, like the radio he listens to all day, the background noise of my own more active life. I come and go, I clean and cook, I talk on the phone and escape to my office, I mess with the grandkids. He sits and watches. We spend large swaths of time together in near silence. 

I find I don’t really want more from him: I find most of our longer conversations, which occur while he watches me prepare his meals, deadening. He usually wants me to clarify some fact from our past that I have clarified many times before. As he gets entangled in what seems simple logic to me, as he repeats the same questions or commentary, I sense his desire to connect on the only wavelengths he has available. But I often resist, am short and evasive. I don’t want to face that he might be lonely and I could make him less lonely if I engaged back, if I were a little more loving and patient. A little less wrapped up in my own anxieties.

As for his dependence on me, it is really just another part of our routine I don’t notice anymore, especially when we are alone and I’m not comparing our relationship to others’. 

Ralph’s condition is what it is, ever changing in small increments and this is the life we both lead, one I find myself adjusting to on a daily basis. I don’t have time or energy to worry about definitions now.

Love In the Time of Covid: A Marriage Milestone Passes Ralph By

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[Warning: this post is longer than usual but after all..

My son got married last Monday. 

I am elated. I am relieved. I am still anxious.

Marriage in the time of Covid is no picnic. In the weeks beforehand the wedding I struggled, wanting to be excited but worried about travel during Covid. I definitely botched how I expressed to my already nervous daughter my own concern about travel with unvaccinated grandsons. We had words. But once her pediatrician gave her a green light, I shut my mouth. We made it onto the plane as excited as we were tense, only to have the weekend get off to a rocky start once we arrived in NY.

The six of us traveling together from New Orleans, along with other family members and friends coming from elsewhere, had booked rooms in a well reviewed hotel in Brooklyn near my son JM’s home. Forget the reviews. As soon as we walked through the entrance, we knew we’d made a huge mistake. The place was a dump. Not only were the public spaces and bedrooms dirty, they stunk of stale cigarettes. And No One, including the desk clerk, was wearing a mask despite the prominently displayed sign stating that not to wear one was illegal.

Fortunately we checked out immediately, got our money back and moved into much better hotel—the clean and graciously run NU Hotel of Brooklyn (which I highly recommend). Everyone’s mood immediately improved. Of course, stress was inevitable. As more of our extended family gathered, family politics played out in small dramas —someone felt left out, someone became overly dramatic, someone behaved irresponsibly toward others, someone inadvertently stepped on someone else’s feelings. But by the brunch JM and his husband-to-be B held in their backyard Sunday everyone was getting along and I was enjoying myself, especially when I met B’s family, whom I immediately loved.  

As for the wedding itself…it was, as guests kept saying, “Magical.”

The perfect balmy weather helped. So did the beauty of Brooklyn’s Botanical Garden. 

Unlike at most weddings, a luxurious tea party reception occurred before the ceremony. A remarkably heterogeneous mix of multi-accented, multi-hued, multi-gendered  and multi-hatted guests mingled over tea sandwiches and sipped colorful fruity mocktails. Then ten or fifteen minutes before the ceremony guests began gravitating toward a long table lined with containers of dried flowers. 

The plan to have guests make bouquets had always sounded charming, but I worried ahead of time that few people would really take park. A waste of worry. Everyone, I mean every one present, did a bouquet. Suddenly we weren’t simply guests, we were participants, each of us carrying our flowers as we walked in pairs down a winding path toward the ceremony site to the strains of Leonard Cohen’s Halleluiah played by a string quartet of elderly Russians. Officiant Rabbi Gail continued our participation in the ceremony by calling for frequent group Amens. 

To to be honest, I don’t remember what we were Amening or many details from the service. I was too overwhelmed by the intensity of witnessing the joy and love emanating from my son and his beloved. I do recall the newlyweds led us back from the ceremony to  cake and dancing. But first came a series of toasts, heartfelt tributes to the love of the newlyweds and also their generosity toward others.  When my four-year-old grandson surprised everyone by quietly taking the microphone to make a final toast,  “I just want to say I love you guys,” there wasn’t a dry eye in the garden.

Also not in the garden was Ralph.

For months, Ralph had been in a loop of worrying.

“What if some yayhoo attacks the wedding and I have to defend JM and B,” he’d say several times a day as if he’d been ruminating on his own.

“Gay weddings are accepted now, especially in Brooklyn,” I’d remind him.

“Right, ,” he’d say, then add, “I hate flying, but I guess I’ll have to,”

“We’ll splurge and upgrade to first class for the flight.” 

“Ok,” he’d sigh relieved until the next time he brought it up.

I did book first class and arranged for close friends to be Ralph’s wingman and wingwoman in NY. Other friends also offered to help keep him occupied and happy. I told myself I had things well organized, that Ralph would do fine. 

But when my son visited two months ago, he and my daughter took me aside and made me face reality: Ralph might or might not be willing to get on a plane, but walking from the gate to baggage claim was beyond him physically as well as emotionally. He could sit at home and chat charmingly from his chair, but in public spaces he was unpredicatable at best. In restaurants he often became impatient and argumentative and embarrassingly inappropriate around wait staff. Being with more than two people at a time unnerved him; given he no longer enjoyed visiting our daughter’s house for casual family get togethers, how would he do around 70 people. Strangers would be a problem. A bigger problem, though, would be all those people Ralph knew he should remember but didn’t.

Recognizing the obvious, I still hesitated. Perhaps my shallow self worried what people would think, how I ‘d have to explain.  It definitely wasn’t because I wanted him there. I knew I’d have a better time on my own. Of course that made me feel guilty—perhaps the real reason I waffled.

But once I spoke to the experts at Ochsner’s brain clinic and a social worker at the Alzheimer’s Association, I faced reality.

I asked Ralph what he wanted.

“I don’t want to go.”

Usually I’d argue, but not this time. 

“Okay, you don’t have to go.”

“Can  you tell people it’s because I don’t fly anymore?”

“Yes, that’s what I’ll tell them. Because it’s true.” At least part of the truth.

While the wedding weekend swirled, Ralph had a lovely three days in the care of the wonderful Michelle. A nurse practitioner friend of my daughter, she brought her dog to play with Ralph’s dogs, she drank beer with Ralph and let him have an extra nutty buddy after dinner. 

“Where were you again?” He keeps asking looking at the mask I’ve been wearing while waiting to receive my post-travel Covid test results. 

“At the wedding.”

“What wedding?”

“JM’s.”

“Oh I thought that happened a long time ago. Did people ask where I was.”

“I said you don’t fly.”

“Well I don’t.” He nods. 

“It was a lovely wedding,” I add though he hasn’t asked. 

And so another page has turned.

My Car Is My Caregiver

Alzheimer's Spouse Issue, Caregiver/Spouse Issues, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

 

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Dear Red Prius,

My first car was a bright blue sedan that I drove to Atlanta when I was 22. I don’t remember the brand, only that I hated how visible it made me, especially since I was not the best driver.

I traded the blue bomber in for a used telephone “van” that had been refurbished by Ralph—his first entrepreneurial venture was buying and fixing  up used phone trucks, then selling them to counterculture types like me; the streets of Midtown Atlanta were full of Ralph’s trucks in the early 1970s.

The brakes went out on my van a week after I bought it. I was rounding a curve and ended up down an embankment. Fortunately I wasn’t hurt. Naturally Ralph felt terrible. He helped me fix the van and sell it.

(Actually, Ralph disputes my car history, says I got the blue bomber after the truck disaster, and he may be right. In any case I don’t remember what I drove next.)

We got married five years later, and for the next multiple decades I drove a series of practical, second-hand sedans (with baby seats), SUVs (for carpools and horse-trailering), and (once the kids were gone) compacts. They were all non-descript, aside from the dents I added, and I could care less.

A year and half ago, though, I got you,  Red Prius. I bought you for practical reasons like gas mileage and comfort, etc., and I admit that I chose your red color because you were cheaper than the silvery blue model.

The irony is that these days what I love most about you is your color. It makes you  So Visible, so easy to spot among the sea of tans, blacks, grays and whites on every road and in every parking lot.

I often find myself writing here about the difficulties, the frustrations, the borderline depression care-giving causes me. I think one of my secret worst fears is that my memory is going too. I said this to a friend recently and she laughed, “But Ralph isn’t contagious.”

Maybe not, yet I often feel as if my brain is clogged with the details of thinking for two. An adage of care-giving is that if we are tense or irritable, our cognitively impaired spouses (or parents) sense and react in kind. The flip side is that I am vulnerable to catching Ralph’s anxiety, and when I’m anxious my brain does not function at its best.

Lately I have an urge to simplify: the less I have to worry about the better. Less stuff means less stuff to keep organized and clean without Ralph’s help. Fewer commitments mean fewer complications to arrange for Ralph. But I also want to stay active and involved. Simplification can be a slippery slope that I don’t want to begin sliding down too fast.

Red Prius, you have been a godsend. It takes one item off my overloaded mental table—no more walking out of the supermarket or doctor’s office or bank or lawyer’s meeting or movie theater or restaurant or political meeting worried where I parked. One glance each way or a click of my key button and there you are, Red Prius, brightly reminding me that I am in control, at least to the best of my ability…A small comfort maybe, but it’s the small comforts that count.

So thanks for making my life better Red Prius. I promise to take care of you as well as I take care of Ralph.

Gratefully,

Alice

 

RALPH RUNS OFF THE CONTRACTOR

daily life with MCI/Alzheimer's, , , , , , , , ,

 

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Ralph ran off a contractor I was in the process of hiring this afternoon. It was almost funny, or will seem so in a week or two once I calm down.

Picture the scene: The sun beating down in 90 degree heat outside the house; my pen poised to sign the paperwork for repairs, Ralph appearing, fresh from his nap and barefoot; the contractor clutching his clipboard. Ralph asks Why can we just clean the system? The contractor explains. Ralph asks the same question again. And again. Why can’t we just clean the system? Each time a bit more belligerently.

The contractor tries to explain what he has already explained—that the system is past cleaning—and then tries again. He draws Ralph a diagram to show what he means. I can tell that the contractor doesn’t understand why Ralph is sticking so doggedly to an idea he has just explained won’t work and I can see and hear Ralph’s growing frustration. Both men become increasingly defensive. Meanwhile I stand there feeling helpless to diffuse the situation.

The irony is that the contractor was recommending exactly what Ralph had told me he thought needed to be done just yesterday.

Ultimately the contractor said he didn’t think he could do the job and Ralph said something less than gracious back (I have blocked what). As Ralph headed back into the house, I apologized under my breath to the contractor, explaining briefly that Ralph has Early Alzheimer’s.

Was that a betrayal to ease my embarrassment or an explanation that needed to be given? Should I even use the A word since Ralph actually officially still as MCI but no one knows what that is? I’m not sure.

The thing is that in his glory days, Ralph was not an easy man to work for—a demanding perfectionist who was also careful about every penny—and I sometimes had to run interference, a role I hated then. Evidently I still do, but Ralph was coming from a different place this afternoon. Locked into a narrow loop of one question he wanted answered over and over, Ralph was not processing the information he was receiving.

Although he is rarely aggressive in dealing with me or anyone else now, different versions of this problem have come up several times recently, usually related to business matters. I generally try to avoid involving him, but sometimes that isn’t possible. Sometimes the people Ralph is dealing with know he has a cognitive problem and give him leeway; sometimes they don’t and become puzzled if not belligerent.

A few minutes ago I received a call from the contractor’s wife apologizing profusely, saying that the contractor had no idea and would be glad to help us in any way. Meanwhile, I have already called someone else to by tomorrow. My guess is that a lot of conversation with Ralph for the next week or so will focus on this afternoon. What did the guy say? What did you say to him? Have you found someone to fix the filter? Who was the guy who came to fix the filter? Is the filter fixed? I will listen and nod, straining to be patient and silently kicking myself for not handling things better in the first place.

NO MORE MOPING

Caregiver/Spouse Issues, , , , , , , , ,

 

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I woke up this morning saying those words to myself. Which is a good thing.

The truth is lately Ralph has been getting on my last nerve. When he starts on one of his loops—lately his favorite has been the history of our dogs and the order in which they died—I tense up and cut him off saying I don’t want to talk about it. When he gets confused following simples directions or an explanation, I am dismissive. When he lights yet another smelly cigarette, I want to pull my hair out.

I could go on with a litany of complaints about Ralph and admissions about my behavior/attitude. But there’s no need, is there? Probably, hopefully, I am making myself sound worse here on the page than Ralph would say I am in real life. And if I am in a state of constant annoyance toward Ralph, I am in an even greater state of annoyance toward myself.

The thing is that sometimes I forget that living with MCI is a slog not a sprint. What I unfortunately don’t forget is that there is no end in sight, at least no good end.

The other thing I forget is that while we are in this together, we are also each in this alone. While I can try harder to empathize, I cannot know what Ralph is going through, and I can’t expect him to know what I am handling. I have to take responsibility for managing my frustrations and creating my joys. When I don’t, when I slip into blaming everything on the MCI, life goes downhill.

I am sure I will slip again, but for now, the sun is rising above the trees, the dog is chewing her fake bone, the coffee is brewing and all’s right, or at least okay, in this corner of the world.

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Travel With Ralph (or Not)

Caregiver/Spouse Issues, Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , , , ,

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For the last two weeks, Ralph and I have been discussing a trip scheduled for this Labor Day weekend to New Orleans to babysit our twelve-year-old granddaughter while my daughter and son-in-law take their “babymoon”.

I brought up the possibility to Ralph a month ago when they first asked me to help out. Since I was driving down there–Ralph has made it clear he never plans to step onto a plane again in his life–I suggested he might come along.

I suggested but assumed he would say no. Since the family moved to Louisiana a year ago, I have visited probably six times. Ralph has been once, for a family Thanksgiving, and he didn’t exactly enjoy himself. Staying in a hotel discombobulated him, and he missed his dogs.

But he must have been in a good mood when I asked, for to my surprise, he said sure he’d come. I started fantasizing (and I use that word purposely) about a pleasant weekend of good meals and maybe a visit to the WWII museum, which I told him he would love.

A week later I mentioned the trip in relation to something else going on and he didn’t remember our first discussion.

“Why are we going?” he asked.

I explained. He looked perplexed. “And I said I’d come?”

I nodded. He said, “Ok,” then promptly forgot all about the trip until the next time I brought it up. We’ve had the same conversation daily for weeks.

Each time Ralph sounded a little less enthusiastic. Meanwhile I was growing a little less enthusiastic too as the reality of what it might take to keep both him and my granddaughter happily occupied began to sink in. I’d been sort of bragging to friends that Ralph was actually coming with me this time, but I started hedging, saying that if he resisted I wasn’t going to force him.

The truth is that traveling with Ralph is no more fun for me these days than it is for him. He was never the most adventurous companion, but he was generally game. Now his anxiety and low energy makes every trip a complicated obstacle course of arrangements: limited activities, limited walking, no wandering, no spontaneous choices, a lot of naps. I hear how trivial these complaints are. All that’s required is patience and a willingness to slow down, but that’s the rub. A husband in his sixties with cognitive impairment is in many ways equivalent to a typical eighties something husband; I know I’m not being fair, but while I hang on to late middle age by my fingernails, I resent him dragging me into older age.

Yesterday we looked at the weather report for the weekend: thunderstorms. Now my granddaughter and I are perfectly able to occupy ourselves playing cards, watching movies and eating junk food. Ralph does none of the above. What he does when faced with free time, of which he has much, is smoke cigarettes outside on the porch. But my daughter’s apartment has no porch. He’d be sitting outside in the rain.

“You’re off the hook,” I told Ralph and breathed a guilty sigh of relief, thinking how much more fun I would have.

This morning I was starting to pack my single bag when the phone rang. My granddaughter has been invited by a friend’s family to spend Labor Day weekend at a beach resort. Evidently I’m “off the hook” too.

Cognitive Impairment and Contentment, An Odd Couple

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IMG_0255stress

Ralph and I have our best conversation while driving, the same way my kids and I did, and for the same reasons: we have each other’s undivided attention and we can’t escape.

So of course I was maneuvering my way through rush hour traffic the other day when he brought up his concern that his IQ has dropped seven points since what it was when he was a boy—this statistical tidbit from his first diagnostic testing lodged in his brain three years ago; he’s brought it up occasionally ever since but rarely so bluntly.

I responded that most people’s IQs probably drop as they get older, then added as an afterthought (how I tend to break bad news) that his memory loss has probably made his drop worse. He nodded. When I used the term Mild Cognitive Impairment, he flinched, but only slightly. (We don’t use the word Alzheimer’s aloud in our house.)

He brought up how well his medications Namenda and Donepezil have worked. He also said he was wasn’t worried that eventually they might stop working as well because his doctor had assured him that there will be new drugs in the process being discovered and he can take them when these stopped being effective—I don’t recall the doctor saying that exactly but I didn’t contradict him because, after all, who knows?

Then he took a puff of his e-cigarette and said, “Anyway, I’m content.”

“Did you say content?” I asked.

“Yes, I am very content these days.”

I could tell he meant what he was saying, not “fluffing the goods” as he likes to describe people whose stories he doesn’t believe. I felt glad for him, and definitely relieved.

But also, I have to admit, I was a bit jealous. Ok, a little resentful too.

Because I am not content with my life these days. It’s fine to be told what a good, caring wife I’ve become, but it’s kind of a backhanded compliment coming from friends with exciting careers going full steam ahead. Not that my career was ever that full of steam, but my ambitions have flagged. I find myself drifting along, adjusting my rhythm to Ralph’s, wondering if my own days of productivity are over along with his.

I’d rather blame the heat. Maybe once the temperature drops below ninety I’ll be full of focus and energy again, ready to care for Ralph and myself with equal vigor. I’m going to borrow from Ralph’s new playbook and assume the best….

When Our Light Bulbs Dim–The Literal Ones, Not The Metaphoric

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This was our big accomplishment of the last few days: changing ten light bulbs (embarrassing to admit how many and never mind for how long).

I realize how trivial changing light bulbs sounds, but that’s the thing. What used to be one trivial, mindless activity handled along with hundreds of other trivial activities in the course of a day has taken on a new distinct weight given Ralph’s memory loss.

Obviously I could have handled this chore mostly by myself but decided I’ve been letting Ralph slide. Knowing how much to ask of him is a delicate balance, but I haven’t been pushing him enough to participate in our daily life, too often accepting his plea that he’s tired, in part because not pushing is frankly easier for me too. So if he’s been sliding, I have too.

It took me five days to corral Ralph’s attention, but the other morning I got him to walk with me from room to room upstairs and down, noting which bulbs were out and what kind of bulbs were required while I took notes. He unscrewed a fluorescent rod in the kitchen and a decorative bulb from the bathroom vanity to make sure we got the correct replacement sizes. Over the weekend  we drove to the store–I let him drive while I rode shotgun.

In the parking lot he agreed to bring in the fluorescent but became adamant that he didn’t need to take the decorative bulb because he’d remember it. I acquiesced, but once we were on the bulb aisle, the bulb choices overwhelmed us both (evidently, according to a friend I was telling about our excursion, bulb buying has become more complicated  for everyone these days) . Ralph had no idea which decorative bulb matched what we had. Not 100% sure myself and sensing his rising anxiety, I ran back to the car for the example from home. When I got back, Ralph was still in the row where I’d left him and had found a matching fluorescent rod but misplaced the bulbs we’d already picked out (something I might have done myself if if truth be told).

By the time we got home, Ralph was exhausted. I changed the bulbs I could reach. He took a nap. The next morning when I mentioned changing the rest of the bulbs, he gave me a blank look. But once I reminded him that we’d been to the store and here were the bulbs, he happily changed the fluorescent bulb. Then he took a rest. In the afternoon I reminded him again and he willingly changed three bulbs n the kitchen. This morning, I reminded him again and he changed the last ones, including a light on the stairs that was admittedly difficult–especially since one of the new bulbs was a dud–and required a ladder as well as much turning on and off of the switch.

We are now a house of working lights. What a sense of accomplishment!lights kitch15

I’m giving Ralph the rest of the day off, but tomorrow I’m plan on reminding him to change the oil in the lawn mower. It’s been a year.