One Week In A Care Home

I've blogged little this year. Time got away from me. Mainly because I was stuck in the mire of what else was happening in my life. I wasn't sure how to write about it or if I wanted to say anything at all. But what I've experienced this year and even last year, what's been creeping up slowly - was the return of dementia, Alzheimers, whatever you want to call it, into my life. Recently I decided that it's as much a part of my life as my writing is. It's time to fess up. After having lost my dad to this horrid disease I now face it with my mother in law.  Whether there was something that could have been done, less sugar, less stress or whether it was just a shitload of bad luck, it's crappy and there's nothing to be done to fix it, only manage it. Besides, Mum's not gone. We're figuring this thing out as we go along. And, there's still a whole lot of fun and laughter to be found. Crap happens and then we laugh. So let me share and tell you how the year began.

Ma D or Mum (my mother-in-law) moved into a care home shortly after the start of the year. This wasn't something she wanted to do or even believed she needed. In her mind she cooked for herself, cleaned her house and toodled around town in her little car. In reality, I had cooked the majority of her meals for over a year, chauffeured her to the majority of her appointments and with the rest of the family basically managed her life.  The car, well it sat in the garage with the keys tucked safely away. I'm not proud of the fact that we had to trick her into moving but it was the only way to keep her safe. When coffee was left on the burner for hours, when doors were left open in the midst of January on the prairie and with doors unlocked, and a friendly smile, she'd let anyone in - stranger or neighbour - it was time. So we began the arduous journey; wading through the options, readying her and her things for where she needed to go.

Mum fought through the early days of that first move in. It was tough for all of us but we'd found her the best place we could. Her own little suite where she could shut the door and call it her own, where staff checked on her and the meals are great. Except, problems came one after the other like a tsunami. Confusion at being moved doubled - a temporary occurrence thank goodness but one that had to be dealt with. So, week one I moved in for a few days to lend her the support it was clear she so desperately needed.

Day 1 in a Care Home

After a day of convincing her that this is her new home, after facing more failure than success - watching the 2018 Olympics seem to make everything right. But, night brings other troubles. Staff check on their latest resident throughout the night and each time she pops up on cue. On my end, the couch I sleep on is too short, even for me. It is too slippery too. The pillows shoot out from under my head and launch across the room. I just get them back in place when a sound has Mum sitting up in confusion. Settled once again and then it's the sheets that the staff so kindly lend me - they slip every time I move. So when Mum sits bolt upright in bed with a question as to where she is, the sheet slips off the couch as I sit up to answer every time, all half dozen times that she awakes through the night. I hunt down those pillows and remake that makeshift bed again - and again and... Morning takes a long time coming and finds me pre-breakfast sitting in a chair in the hallway wondering at six a.m. if the day that has only begun would ever end or if Mum will ever accept this place as home. It's the latter that has me worried. But Mum cheers up right after breakfast is served. Now, it is only the night that I dread. On the upside, the meals are great here and later in the day, for the first time ever, I actually enjoy pineapple on my pizza.

Day 2 in a Care Home
Mum's been the financial head of the household that once included the family farm, and she won't be fooled. So, when light is flooding under her door at midnight, she's concerned about what this might cost her. The issue comes up every hour on the hour through the night. I finally convince her that it is the hall light and the fact that the woman across the corridor has her light on and the door open. But, she's yet to believe that she's not going to be charged for the excessive use of power. And the next day, my short escape home for supper is interrupted as the care home calls - Mum is insisting on leaving and they fear they don't have the manpower to stop her.

I would laugh if it weren't so tragic. Mum used to be tall and strong. Now she is slightly shorter than me and when I take her hands in mine, she can't pull free. But she still gives the illusion of strength and her determination is legendary. So the night begins early as I head back to the home only to find Mum settled in her room with one of those fabulous staff members having taken charge and convincing her, for now, that this is home.

We go to bed early for I know the worst will come in the early hours of the morning starting from midnight on and there'll be no sleep after that. I'm sad as I tuck in those slippery sheets on that slick sofa thinking what has happened, how Mum's life has changed. But there's no choice, we need her safe.

Day 3 and 4 in a Care Home

The staff can make or break a place. Here, with welcoming smiles they've made Mum feel precariously comfortable. And, they make sure we're all watered, fed and happy, yes, even me who is planning an exit strategy soon. Meantime, I've stuffed a notepad and a pen in my overnight bag, just in case I have an idea or two for a story. Instead Mum believes it's time to go home and won't be convinced otherwise. I strike gold with the piano in the lounge and we both give it a go. It's the best therapy ever. Mum is a fabulous piano player - she can wing pretty near any piece with a combination of reading the music and playing by ear.

Fast forward a few months and we're celebrating Mother's Day. Except mum doesn't feel much like celebrating. We're playing bingo and she wants nothing to do with it. She shoves the bingo card at me
repeatedly and gets crankier each time she does it. I'm guessing she fears she may have forgotten how to play and doesn't want to embarrass herself. So I take charge of the card and gamely play. However, I miss one key fact - it's blackout bingo. So when I call bingo and they bring over the prize, the laughs on me when we realize that there is no win. On the upside, my embarrassment was worth Mum's smile.

And the journey goes on...

Ryshia
www.ryshiakennie.com

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An Absent Mind

An Absent Mind is a riveting new novel from Eric Rill, author of Pinnacle of Deceit and The Innocent Traitor, is about a race against time.    The ticking time bomb is Saul Reimer's sanity.  His Alheimer's is going to be the catalyst that will either bring his family together or tear it apart.

My review of An Absent Mind:

Alzheimer's is a difficult journey for any individual or family to take and there is no opt out.  In An Absent Mind, Eric Rill takes on a family's journey as their patriarch is diagnosed with Alzheimer's.  The story is told in a unique fashion, first person that swings from one family member to another, including occasionally, Saul's doctor.  I liked the easy back and forth of switching from one person's story to another.

As Saul's Alzheimer's progresses, his point of views becomes shorter and shorter until they are only one garbled sentence.  And as the story evolves, we see the effect Saul's condition has on each member of the family, how they cope and grow or how they don't cope.  Nothing is a given, nothing is for sure, as this family struggles to survive.

Rill tells a story that captures you and keeps you turning pages to the end--it is a journey through Alzheimer's and while it can't be called everyone's journey, it opens the door on the effect, both good and bad, that  the disease can have on a family and on the patient.  And despite all the pain and the inevitable end, this story has heart and gets to the pulse of what family is all about.

I gave it five stars.

An excerpt from An Absent Mind:

SAUL:  MY LAST PLACE ON EARTH

It's all unraveling.

Last night, I found myself somewhere on Monkland Avenue.  I had no idea how I got there.  I looked in a store window and saw my reflection.  It took me a bit to figure it all out --like that the person in the window was a man, and that the man was me.

I didn't know what to do.  I glanced down at the bracelet on my wrist and everything--well, not everything, but the gist of it all came back to me.  I am Saul Reimer, formerly a healthy, intelligent man, married to the same woman for many years, and the father of two children he loves more than anything in the world.

The key word is formerly, as I am sure you have already figured out.  Because today--and I have no idea what day it is, other than it is really cold and I wish I had a jacket on--I am nothing, not a real man, that's for sure.  I mean, how can you be a real man when you don't even know where you are half the time, and when you do know, more often than not, you can't grasp the concept of your surroundings?

I felt in my pocket for my wallet, but it wasn't there.  All I had was my bank card.  I spotted an ATM machine at the corner.  But when I got there, I couldn't figure out how to work it.  A woman walked up from behind.  I gestured for her to go in front of me.  She smiled and said that she was in no rush.  I looked at the machine with all the words flashing across the screen.  My hands were getting slimy, and beads of that wet stuff covered my forehead.  Why couldn't she just go first?  Then suddenly, it all made sense.  I followed the directions, but it took a few tries to get the card into the machine with the strip the right way.  I looked behind me again.  The woman was fidgeting with her purse strap.  Then the machine asked me for a personal identification number.  The bad news is, I had no idea what it was.  My brain is like a short-wave radio, mostly static that occasionally finds the station, but even then the sound isn't always clear.

In a way, it will be a blessing, when my mind is totally gone, when I am a vegetable, slouched in a wheelchair.  Like many Alzheimer's patients on Montreal's West Side, I'll probably make a pit stop at Manoir Laurier.  Then when Manoir Laurier can't cope with me, or we can't afford it anymore, they'll ship me off to Belfrage Hospital, my final stop on this beloved earth.  I'll be there incontinent, drooling, and incoherent--that is, if I can even manage to get a word through my blistered lips.  And when it's all over--when my heart finally gives out, or I contract pneumonia and my family says, "Let Saul go; he deserves some peace"--when that happens, they'll take me down to the autopsy room, cut my skull open and find the tangles and plaques on my brain.  Then they will be able to say with 100 percent certainty that Saul Reimer had Alzheimer's.


BIO:
Eric Rill was born in Montreal and graduated from Cornell University with a Bachelor of Arts and from UCLA with an MBA.  He held several executive positions in the hospitality industry, including president of a global hotel group.  His hobbies include trekking, scuba diving, and coll  Recting antique carpets.   Eric has two sons and divides his time between his residence in Panama and international travel.  You can reach him at his website:  www.ericrill.com

Absent Mind can be purchased at:
Barnes&Noble
Amazon


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Wear Purple And Kick The Devil Out of Alzheimer's

The call came yesterday.

"Your dad's wheelchair is ready."

I never thought I'd be picking something like this up for my dad.  Here's the qualifier, he wouldn't need one if he didn't have Alzheimer's.  I mentioned in an earlier post that he'd broken his hip.  Now he can't seem to remember how to lift himself up.  It's the first step he needs, if he is ever to walk again.  And with muscles atrophying daily, whether or not he will, that remains to be seen.  But that's the reality of Alzheimer's - it brings you down and eventually, it doesn't let you back up. 

101 failed research drugs lay strewn on pharmaceutical floors and after years of research few have made it to market and none change the outcome.  Alzheimers is a tough disease, tough on patients, tough on families, tough to find a cure.  But the fight doesn't end.  People like my dad and all those that made the march before him and those that are now beside him - they are the pioneers, the beacons that remind us that something must be done.

So what can we do?

Raise awareness for one.  And one of the best ways is remembering that this disease has a face and it has feelings - it's about people.  Acknowledge them - like the hospital volunteer that took the time to stop by my dad and talk to him, give him a big smile and a wave and then repeat the whole procedure not once, but three times until she got an answering smile.  And you know, that and a coke - I think pretty much made Dad's day.

This month is World Alzheimer's Month and Friday, September 21 is Alzheimer's Action Day.  Tomorrow is a day to draw notice to this disease and to do that, you can donate to the cause in any number of ways but for most of us it's as easy as doing one thing - wearing purple and telling at least one person why you're doing it.  Even if it's a dibble of purple.  Dig out those hideous purple socks or even a pair of purple underwear if you really have nothing else.  It's the thought that counts although I don't know if you want to mention about the underwear, you know, to strangers.  And no, I don't want to know about the lace trimmed, thong beauties you wore when... enough!!  No more, please... I'm covering my ears.

Friday, Sept. 21 - Purple for Alzheimer's.

Ryshia
www.ryshiakennie.com