Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Requiem for a small kitchen appliance


Recently, I was in my room trying to write, waiting for the muse to move me when I was shaken out of my musings by a racket coming from the direction of the kitchen so I went to investigate.

It sounded like a car stuck in second gear as it ran back and forth over a body.

I walked in to see (and hear) Miss Cathy murdering (yet) another electric can opener.

I don’t know how she does it (actually I do; she presses down too hard on the handle, either in frustration or impatience, forcing the mechanism to grind to a halt) that is/was the fifth car opener to fail in three years.

Unplugging the machine; finally silencing the grinding and groaning, releasing the can of Bushes’ Baked Beans, hanging limp from the magnetic holder.

Freed from its gallows I could see that the top had been wrung a few times but never rotated enough so that the blade could do it’s job.

It was a sad sight, matched only by my mother’s perplexed face as she tried to comprehend ‘how’ it could possibly be her fault and not the machines when I told her she’d broken another can opener.

I wasn’t mad at her (for a change) so much as I was disappointed in myself because I broke my vow and hadn’t bought a second hand can opener online or one from a second hand shop as I’d done before (after wasting money on new ones the times before).

No, I was mad because I’d gone out and bought a brand new, top of the line stainless steel can opener from Macy’s at the unheard of price of  $95.00 (I think it was on sale for $69.99 but, still).

The last used can opener broke after Miss Cathy manhandled it (and before you ‘ask’….it was perfectly fine and ‘gently-used’ when I’d bought it so “not” being new wasn’t the reason it broke).

Miss Cathy promised she wouldn’t use the new Cuisinart and she’d ask for my help whenever she needed a can opened and (putz that I am) I believed her.

So, I was mad at myself for:
1)    Believing her and thinking she could change her behavior
b)  For wasting my time (and money)

The reality is that she’s not doing anything wrong. If anything her behavior; forgetting (or breaking) her promises, mood swings and impulsiveness (to name a few) are pretty damn consistent with her diagnosis.

I realized all this as I was opening the can the old-fashioned way with a ‘hand’ opener; luckily I’d kept one ‘on hand’ for occasions such as this.

I told Miss Cathy that after five, count’m… five broken can openers in three years that at some point she has to take some personal responsibility in the matter-they can’t have all been ‘faulty’ can openers.

As I unplugged the Cuisinart I tried not to scold her or make her feel worse than she already did but I wasn’t going to molly-coddle her or let her get away with blaming the (victim) ‘appliance’ either.


The murdered appliance deserved better than that, so, farewell small kitchen appliance, thanks for trying to be of service as go off to some landfill, rest in peace can opener as you as you lie in a heap.

Monday, October 28, 2013

Je Ne Regrette Rien (I Regret Nothing)


My purpose in these posts is not to kvetch about being a caregiver.

Telling my story (by writing it down as best I can) is my way of remembering before I forget the beginning, middle and in-between of Alzheimer's and it's affects on one family.

Sure, I complain, I’m the first admit that.

I rail against the day in/day out difficulties and vent my frustrations but that doesn’t mean I ‘want out’ or that I’m not committed to caring for my loved one, Miss Cathy, the best way I know how.

And let’s face it, I’ve fumbled a few times but I’ve never dropped the ball (which in this case would be my mother when I had to carry her once) so I admit I’m a work in progress.

But, like Maya Angleou says, “When you know better, you do better.”

I might learn to do better, but I doubt I’ll stop bitching along the way.

I remember the day years ago soon after my mother was diagnosed and I decided (without being asked) to become her caregiver (something I hadn’t done since the early days of the AIDS epidemic when it ravaged my gay community and I found myself caring for someone I loved for the first (but not the last) time).

So I knew the commitment I was taking on (even though it was a different disease, a different relationship and a different time) but nonetheless my decision was as easy to make then as it was before.

We all know how easy it is to say that we love, and it’s not often in life that we are given the opportunity to show how we love and show up for a loved one, and in those moments we get to see ourselves for who we really are.

Love means being there for someone else when they need you, not when you want to be there for them or when it’s convenient for you or your life.

Love, to me, between a person and their parent, spouse, sibling or friend is defined by the depth of their willingness to give, to receive and sometimes (maybe, more importantly) their capacity to forgive.

So, if I’ve sounded as if I'm complaining (and lets face it, sometimes I am, actually) that's okay as long as I show up each day for the commitment that I’ve made (not to Miss Cathy or anyone else so much as) to myself.

I'm just letting off steam, being vulnerable, and posting questions as I stumble through what is one of the hardest things l have ever done or will possibly ever do, finding answers and support from (sometimes) the unlikeliest of people and places.

When I made my decision to leave my life to join Miss Cathy's it was so that she could live out as much of her life in the home that she loves before the disease progressed to the point where there was no more there, there.

It’s been three years and three months since I moved in with her and so far, so there.

I’m happy to report that she’s not there yet so life goes on for now, just me and Miss Cathy.

To me it’s very simple, “when you care-you come”, the rest is just words.

So, when it comes to love and my loved ones, in the words sung by the late, great “Little Sparrow” Edith Piaf http://www.biography.com/people/edith-piaf-9439893, “I regret nothing”.

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

I'm late (we're late) for a very important date: Pt. ll


After checking Miss Cathy’s progress (she was so engrossed in her closet you’d think she was looking for a hat to meet the Queen of Hearts but all she usually wears is army fatigues and an oversized tee under a poly blend jacket topped with a red ball cap no matter where she’s going or who she’s to meet) I decided to “warm up the car” as we used to say in the old days when cars required such attention but nowadays it’s my euphemism for needing to get out of the house.

When it got to be ten minutes before we needed to be someplace that was less than five minutes away (but would require at least that much time for mom to get into and out of the car) I knew it was time to call the doctor’s office to let them know that we’d be late.

After an interminable period of “press one for this and nine for that” the receptionist finally came on the line and after pleasantries and me explaining the reason for the call she told me we’d have to reschedule because “the doctor is ‘on call’ today and would have to leave” if we weren’t there on time.

I told the young woman on the other end of the line (Why are receptionist usually young women? And why didn’t young men ever apply for these jobs? Is it suddenly the Madmen 60’s where clerical office work in doctor’s offices was concerned?)

Anyway, my reassurances that we’d only be ten minutes or less ‘late’ did nothing to assuage her position. She was a ‘verbal gatekeeper’ and I was being denied access, I would have liked to throw her down a rabbit hole.

“Well”, I said, “I’m calling as a courtesy really, which is more than I can say for the hour we had to wait the last time we were in to see the doctor and no one ever came out to tell us how long he’d be or apologize for his tardiness.”

“One, two, three…” I breathed, calculating how I could turn this conversation around, trying not to sound ‘too’ annoyed, lest I give away my fantasy of someone I’d never met free-falling down into endless darkness before hitting an unknown bottom which is where I felt this conversation was heading.

“Can I speak to the doctor?”

“The doctor is in with a patient now, can I take a message for him and he’ll get back to you later this afternoon?” she said. (Oh no she did-int’!)

How could he be both with a patient and getting ready to leave because we’re not there-at the same time?

I was used to putting up with Miss Cathy’s inconsistencies but I had no need to indulge this girl’s word play.

Rather than question the receptionist who was (after all) just doing her job (and apparently not being paid enough to keep track of her own contradictions).

I simply said, “Well then, be that as it may, we’re in the car and will be there in two minutes…see you soon” and hung up smiling a broad Cheshire cat grin, not having to worry about the power to disappear because unlike the cat and Alice (because of the power of technology and not magic) she could hear but could she see me.

Saturday, October 19, 2013

I'm late, (we're late) for a very important date: Pt. l


I can’t believe we were late for our first doctor’s appointment in over a month.

When we finally arrived at the Medical Center I looked at my watch to see that we were 20 minutes late for Miss Cathy’s appointment with Dr K, her (new) neurologist.

It’s not like we were rushing from another appointment because of some ‘full calendar’ of places to go and people to see, we only had the one place and he was the only ‘people’ she (we) had to see in an otherwise day free of obligations.

So, there really was no excuse for our tardiness and all the drama it caused (to me, anyway).

We were going to see him to discuss the addition of Namenda XR to her drug cocktail, up till this point she’d only been prescribed Aricept for her Alzheimer’s.

I first told mom about her three month neurological ‘check-up’ the night before so she’d have (some) time to get used to the idea but not so much that she’d obsess or drive me crazy asking, “When do I see the doctor?” over and over.

The next day I reminded her again about the appointment while she was eating her breakfast in front of the television in the living room then went about my morning.

I didn’t come back out to check on her till 12:30pm (the appointment was scheduled for 1:00pm) and there she was, sitting in the living room watching TV, still in her nightgown.

“My bad”, I thought to myself, “ no reason to be mad at her for something that was totally my fault.” As her caregiver I should have checked on her earlier to make sure she was dressed and ready so we’d be on time.

Luckily her condo is only about a five-minute drive to the doctor’s office but with less than a half hour for her to dress and get out the door (and in the car, out of the car, in an elevator and walk the short distance to the doctor’s door…all of which take more time than you can imagine) I knew there was a better chance of John Boehner controlling his Republican caucus than us being on time.

Frustrated (but, I had to admit that I was more angry at myself than her) I ‘suggested’ she go and get ready so we could leave as soon as possible. I’m usually more on top of things, time management wise, but, what can I say, sometimes I think that she’s having a good day and monitor her less or (heaven forbid) get absorbed in something I’m doing for myself.

You might be asking yourself “Why didn’t he just help her get ready?”….Well, I’ll tell you.

The answer is that I’m (still) making a conscious decision to let her be as independent as possible and not step in and take over (until it’s absolutely necessary) where matters of her autonomy are concerned.

Part of what I struggle with as her caregiver (in addition to time management obviously) is the knowledge that if/when I start to do more for her (even if it’s under the guise of ‘helping’) it will send a message to her that she can just sit back and be taken take of.

So if I do 'whatever’ it is that needs to be done for her then she’s absolved of any responsibility or culpability for her actions.

She may have Alzheimer’s but there is plenty she is still capable of doing for herself-dressing being one of those things.

So, we’d be late but I wouldn’t have to add the label ‘enabler’ to one of the many (mad) hats I wear as we prepared for this very important date.