Subhead: ‘Should you even care?’
http://www.economist.com/news/science-and-technology/21696651-more-confusion-over-health-benefits-alcohol-wine-good-you-or-it
Paul told Timothy to drink wine “for your stomach’s sake.”
Link at http://maggiesfarm.anotherdotcom.com/
Studies: Coffee is good for you because it delays the onset of Alzheimer's. No coffee is bad for you because it increases blood pressure and causes skittishness in some people.
Another study: Tobacco is good for you because it delays the onset of Alzheimer's. No, tobacco is bad for you because ... You know those reasons.
Read enough and there is something for everybody.
Showing posts with label alzheimer's. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alzheimer's. Show all posts
Monday, April 11, 2016
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Eating the napkin
Priscilla walked into the kitchen and said, “No more cloth napkins.”
She had wheeled Mrs. R. to the dining room table and lunch – Manwich, soft beans and french fries not crisply cooked. I was fixing my plate of the same.
“Is she trying to tear up her napkin?” I asked.
Priscilla nodded. “She’s trying to take out the stitches with a fork.”
Mrs. R. had recently done similar things – trying to pull napkin apart, using a fork to remove fringed edges of another napkin, a couple of times spreading her napkin on the table and trying to transfer her plate and glass from the place mat.
This time, Priscilla put Mrs. R.’s cloth napkin on the counter and tore off two paper towels from the roll on the counter.
I fixed my plate and went to the table. Mrs. R. had taken her sandwich apart and was scraping at the inside with her fork. Then she took a paper towel and tore off part of it and put the paper on her sandwich.
My reaction was the same as when our kids did that sort of thing at age 2 or 3. I took the paper from the sandwich and said, “This is not lettuce. This is paper. You will not eat paper.”
Mrs. R. just looked at me. She tore off another piece of paper towel. I took that piece and the other paper towel and put it all at the other end of the table. “You will not eat paper,” I said.
Janice, the CNA, arrived later. Priscilla told Janice of Mrs. R.’s trying to eat the paper towel. Janice said that is common among dementia patients. Janice also said we will have to watch Mrs. R., because she will try to eat her socks.
She had wheeled Mrs. R. to the dining room table and lunch – Manwich, soft beans and french fries not crisply cooked. I was fixing my plate of the same.
“Is she trying to tear up her napkin?” I asked.
Priscilla nodded. “She’s trying to take out the stitches with a fork.”
Mrs. R. had recently done similar things – trying to pull napkin apart, using a fork to remove fringed edges of another napkin, a couple of times spreading her napkin on the table and trying to transfer her plate and glass from the place mat.
This time, Priscilla put Mrs. R.’s cloth napkin on the counter and tore off two paper towels from the roll on the counter.
I fixed my plate and went to the table. Mrs. R. had taken her sandwich apart and was scraping at the inside with her fork. Then she took a paper towel and tore off part of it and put the paper on her sandwich.
My reaction was the same as when our kids did that sort of thing at age 2 or 3. I took the paper from the sandwich and said, “This is not lettuce. This is paper. You will not eat paper.”
Mrs. R. just looked at me. She tore off another piece of paper towel. I took that piece and the other paper towel and put it all at the other end of the table. “You will not eat paper,” I said.
Janice, the CNA, arrived later. Priscilla told Janice of Mrs. R.’s trying to eat the paper towel. Janice said that is common among dementia patients. Janice also said we will have to watch Mrs. R., because she will try to eat her socks.
Monday, April 21, 2014
'Is my momma dead yet?'
Priscilla and I drove to Texarkana Sunday and had Easter lunch with John. We were supposed to meet John at West Side Church of Christ, but people at the group home misunderstood advance voice communications and called the church and said the transportation van need not come by because we would get John before church. The CNA in charge Sunday was scheduled to take another resident to another church, so when we did not arrive, she arranged for John to attend services there.
All in all, everything worked out. John went to church, and he and we had lunch.
The CNA was helping two other residents from a car when Priscilla and I arrived. Those two men use wheel chairs to get around. One cannot stand.
John stood in the carport. Priscilla and I got out of our car.
John walked to Priscilla and asked, “Is my momma dead yet?”
Priscilla replied, “No, John. She might not die for another few weeks or months.”
John said, “She’s sick and she’s going to die.”
Priscilla said, “Yes, she is sick and she will die, but not just yet.”
We got in our car; John sat in the back passenger seat. After buckling his seat belt, he said, “When my momma dies, the funeral home will get her.”
“That’s right,” Priscilla said. “When she dies, I will call the funeral home and they’ll come get her.”
“They’ll put her in an ambulance,” John said. He sighed. “That’s a whole lot of miles to Little Rock.”
All in all, everything worked out. John went to church, and he and we had lunch.
The CNA was helping two other residents from a car when Priscilla and I arrived. Those two men use wheel chairs to get around. One cannot stand.
John stood in the carport. Priscilla and I got out of our car.
John walked to Priscilla and asked, “Is my momma dead yet?”
Priscilla replied, “No, John. She might not die for another few weeks or months.”
John said, “She’s sick and she’s going to die.”
Priscilla said, “Yes, she is sick and she will die, but not just yet.”
We got in our car; John sat in the back passenger seat. After buckling his seat belt, he said, “When my momma dies, the funeral home will get her.”
“That’s right,” Priscilla said. “When she dies, I will call the funeral home and they’ll come get her.”
“They’ll put her in an ambulance,” John said. He sighed. “That’s a whole lot of miles to Little Rock.”
Monday, April 14, 2014
'They ought to just let her die'
Saturday was John’s bowling day, so Priscilla and I drove to Texarkana and got John from the group home and took him to the bowling lanes. Afterwards, we all drove back home. A Certified Nuerses Aide cared for Mrs. R. while we were gone.
After bowling, but while still inside the building, John walked up and shook hands with one of the volunteers who oversees the bowlers. Like John, all the other bowlers have learning disabilities. The four or five volunteers are parents of bowlers.
John shook hands with the volunteer and then turned and waved at me. He put out his hand. I shook his hand. Grinning, John said, “My momma lives in Little Rock.” I was surprised. I said, “I know, John. She lives in my house.” John pointed at Priscilla, who was talking with another volunteer. John said, “That’s my sister.”
I thought, “Oh my gosh. Is he going, too? We can’t handle him and Mrs. R.”
I said, “I know who she is, John. She and I have been married almost 42 years.”
John, still grinning, said, “That’s my big sister.”
“I know,” I said. “We’ve been living together more than 40 years.”
In the car and leaving Texarkana, John said something about “still growing.” Priscilla said, “John, you are not still growing. You are a grown man.” I told her what John had said in the building.
“Oh lord,” Priscilla said. “We can’t handle both of them.”
“No, we can’t.”
“We just can’t,” she said.
At lunch Sunday, Mrs. R. ate at the table, an unusual event lately because she usually has neither the strength nor inclination to sit up, even in her high-back wheel chair. She ate almost all her tuna casserole and green salad, also unusual lately.
John said, out of nowhere, “My daddy’s dead.”
Mrs. R. said, “No, John, your daddy is not dead. He’s somewhere else.”
Priscilla said, “We’ll talk about that later, John.”
She talked about it Sunday evening when we were almost at John’s group home. “John,” she said, “when Mother said Daddy was not dead, she was confused. Daddy is dead. You know that.”
“Yeah,” John said.
“She was just confused. Her mind isn’t working right.”
“Yeah. My momma’s sick.”
“Yes she is.”
“She’s gonna die.”
“Yes, she is,” Priscilla said. “But she’s not going to die today. She might die in a week or two weeks or a month. We just don’t know. But right now, she is confused.”
John said, “They ought to just let her die.”
As I have mentioned before, John is 57 years old physically and 5 or 6 mentally and emotionally. He saw his father die and his uncle and his aunt die. He sees the difference in his mother from four months ago and now. When he said “They ought to just let her die,” he might have been repeating what someone said 20 years ago when Mrs. R.’s mother suffered through dementia and finally died at 97; or, he might have been giving his own thought. The sincerity and frankness with which he said the words … I think it was his own thought.
After bowling, but while still inside the building, John walked up and shook hands with one of the volunteers who oversees the bowlers. Like John, all the other bowlers have learning disabilities. The four or five volunteers are parents of bowlers.
John shook hands with the volunteer and then turned and waved at me. He put out his hand. I shook his hand. Grinning, John said, “My momma lives in Little Rock.” I was surprised. I said, “I know, John. She lives in my house.” John pointed at Priscilla, who was talking with another volunteer. John said, “That’s my sister.”
I thought, “Oh my gosh. Is he going, too? We can’t handle him and Mrs. R.”
I said, “I know who she is, John. She and I have been married almost 42 years.”
John, still grinning, said, “That’s my big sister.”
“I know,” I said. “We’ve been living together more than 40 years.”
In the car and leaving Texarkana, John said something about “still growing.” Priscilla said, “John, you are not still growing. You are a grown man.” I told her what John had said in the building.
“Oh lord,” Priscilla said. “We can’t handle both of them.”
“No, we can’t.”
“We just can’t,” she said.
At lunch Sunday, Mrs. R. ate at the table, an unusual event lately because she usually has neither the strength nor inclination to sit up, even in her high-back wheel chair. She ate almost all her tuna casserole and green salad, also unusual lately.
John said, out of nowhere, “My daddy’s dead.”
Mrs. R. said, “No, John, your daddy is not dead. He’s somewhere else.”
Priscilla said, “We’ll talk about that later, John.”
She talked about it Sunday evening when we were almost at John’s group home. “John,” she said, “when Mother said Daddy was not dead, she was confused. Daddy is dead. You know that.”
“Yeah,” John said.
“She was just confused. Her mind isn’t working right.”
“Yeah. My momma’s sick.”
“Yes she is.”
“She’s gonna die.”
“Yes, she is,” Priscilla said. “But she’s not going to die today. She might die in a week or two weeks or a month. We just don’t know. But right now, she is confused.”
John said, “They ought to just let her die.”
As I have mentioned before, John is 57 years old physically and 5 or 6 mentally and emotionally. He saw his father die and his uncle and his aunt die. He sees the difference in his mother from four months ago and now. When he said “They ought to just let her die,” he might have been repeating what someone said 20 years ago when Mrs. R.’s mother suffered through dementia and finally died at 97; or, he might have been giving his own thought. The sincerity and frankness with which he said the words … I think it was his own thought.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
With sundown comes confusion
Mrs. R. said, “Well, I guess I should get my things together and get in my car and go home.”
It was just after 8 p.m. or before 8 p.m., the sun down not for a long time, Monday or Tuesday, any day of the week. Mrs. R. was in her wheel chair in the living room.
Priscilla said, “Mother, you are home.”
“I am?”
“Yes. You are in our home, Bob’s and mine.”
“I’m not in my home.”
“This is your home,” Priscilla said. “You live here, with us, now.”
“Well … okay.”
Confusion in Alzheimer’s patients that time of day is called “Sundowner Syndrome,” Priscilla said a doctor told her. Not all dementia patients exhibit symptoms.
A few minutes after talking about driving to Texarkana, Mrs. R. said, “I don’t see John anywhere.” John is her physically 57-year-old, mentally 5- or 6-year-old son, for whom she gave daily care until he moved to a group home about four years ago.
Priscilla said, “Mother, John is at his home.”
“His home? How did he get home without me?”
Priscilla explained John’s group home and the care he gets there. “By now, he has had his shower and he is sitting in his recliner and watching TV.” She gives the same explanation every night.
A number of web sites address the syndrome.
http://sundownerfacts.com/sundowners-syndrome/ gives a short explanation, noting no one knows what causes the confusion. As with all things medical, there are several possibilities, garnered from guesses and studies, including sensory overload during the day, hormonal imbalances that occur at night, simple fatigue or inability to see well in the dark.
A few minutes after being informed of John’s whereabouts, Mrs. R. said, “I see John’s shoes by the couch, but I don’t see John.”
One night last week she thought the couch cushions were John.
After a time, Mrs. R. begins to stir in the wheel chair and say she needs to get up and get ready for bed. Priscilla and I put her in bed. The questions continue for a while, Mrs. R. asking which bed room we will sleep in, if we have fed the dogs and why is the door open behind her bed? There is no door behind her bed. One night last week when Priscilla went to the back door to let the dogs in, Mrs. Rodgers asked, “Are you going outside to the toilet?”
Do not get any idea of Poor Priscilla or Poor Bob. We are doing what needs doing. There are people who don’t want to know anything about Alzheimer’s and other forms of dementia, who do not want to admit they will be the old people in nursing homes. If you don’t get out early, you will be, though.
It was just after 8 p.m. or before 8 p.m., the sun down not for a long time, Monday or Tuesday, any day of the week. Mrs. R. was in her wheel chair in the living room.
Priscilla said, “Mother, you are home.”
“I am?”
“Yes. You are in our home, Bob’s and mine.”
“I’m not in my home.”
“This is your home,” Priscilla said. “You live here, with us, now.”
“Well … okay.”
Confusion in Alzheimer’s patients that time of day is called “Sundowner Syndrome,” Priscilla said a doctor told her. Not all dementia patients exhibit symptoms.
A few minutes after talking about driving to Texarkana, Mrs. R. said, “I don’t see John anywhere.” John is her physically 57-year-old, mentally 5- or 6-year-old son, for whom she gave daily care until he moved to a group home about four years ago.
Priscilla said, “Mother, John is at his home.”
“His home? How did he get home without me?”
Priscilla explained John’s group home and the care he gets there. “By now, he has had his shower and he is sitting in his recliner and watching TV.” She gives the same explanation every night.
A number of web sites address the syndrome.
http://sundownerfacts.com/sundowners-syndrome/ gives a short explanation, noting no one knows what causes the confusion. As with all things medical, there are several possibilities, garnered from guesses and studies, including sensory overload during the day, hormonal imbalances that occur at night, simple fatigue or inability to see well in the dark.
A few minutes after being informed of John’s whereabouts, Mrs. R. said, “I see John’s shoes by the couch, but I don’t see John.”
One night last week she thought the couch cushions were John.
After a time, Mrs. R. begins to stir in the wheel chair and say she needs to get up and get ready for bed. Priscilla and I put her in bed. The questions continue for a while, Mrs. R. asking which bed room we will sleep in, if we have fed the dogs and why is the door open behind her bed? There is no door behind her bed. One night last week when Priscilla went to the back door to let the dogs in, Mrs. Rodgers asked, “Are you going outside to the toilet?”
Do not get any idea of Poor Priscilla or Poor Bob. We are doing what needs doing. There are people who don’t want to know anything about Alzheimer’s and other forms of dementia, who do not want to admit they will be the old people in nursing homes. If you don’t get out early, you will be, though.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
What to do with the old folks
A neighbor in Sulphur Springs, Texas, told my wife about what happened to an older woman who had lived across the street from our house. One day her son came to visit and during the visit told his mother she should pack a suit case, she was going on a trip. The woman did as her son said, and the son put his mother and her suit case in his car and took her to a nursing home.
The son had power of attorney for his mother’s affairs, and within a short time sold her house.
How horrible, my wife and I said. What a terrible thing to do to your mother.
Sunday, my mother-in-law moved into an assisted living home. My wife and I know the diagnosed mental and physical deterioration. A doctor said my mother-in-law must not live alone. People at church several weeks ago said to my wife, “Take your mother’s car keys. Do not let her drive.” My wife and I know of illogical decisions, of not remembering what happened five minutes ago or the day before, times when she did not know who my wife was.
Thirty years ago it was easy to say “How terrible. How horrible.”
And, yes, my wife will soon put her mother’s home on the market.
The son had power of attorney for his mother’s affairs, and within a short time sold her house.
How horrible, my wife and I said. What a terrible thing to do to your mother.
Sunday, my mother-in-law moved into an assisted living home. My wife and I know the diagnosed mental and physical deterioration. A doctor said my mother-in-law must not live alone. People at church several weeks ago said to my wife, “Take your mother’s car keys. Do not let her drive.” My wife and I know of illogical decisions, of not remembering what happened five minutes ago or the day before, times when she did not know who my wife was.
Thirty years ago it was easy to say “How terrible. How horrible.”
And, yes, my wife will soon put her mother’s home on the market.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Everything has changed
Priscilla and I brought her mother here. We will go back to my mother-in-law’s house for the weekend and get John from the group home, too. (For brevity, I will call her R.)
Many have been through the dementia and Alzheimer’s with parents and other older relatives. R and her brother and sister are examples. R’s mother talked with people who were not visible, people whose names were unknown to her children. They almost always tried to correct her mistakes. “Now, Momma, that’s not what happened.” “Momma, we talked about that just a few minutes ago.” I figured, she is 94 years old. She has earned the right to talk to people who aren’t there. And if she forgets, well, she is 94. She was 97 when she died.
R is doing the same things. Saturday, she said to my wife, “You didn’t tell me you had moved to Little Rock.” She spent Thanksgiving here and a week in January. “I remember you lived southwest of here.”
Priscilla said, “We lived in Sulphur Springs for 25 years.”
“No,” R said. “You lived near Dallas.” (We lived in Grand Prairie from 1975-1981.)
Several times Saturday she mentioned her cardiologist appointment “this Monday at 3 p.m.” Each time, Priscilla said, “No, your appointment is on the 13th at 1 p.m.”
There were other things she repeated several times, other things she did not get right.
And tonight, at supper. I fixed ham, turnip greens and cornbread. R asked, “Are these greens frozen?” I said they were from a can. She said, “Well they sure are good. They’re as good as fresh greens.” And not five minutes later, “These are turnip greens, aren’t they.” I said they were. She said, “Well, they sure are good.”
Priscilla spent a week with R, taking her to two doctors and to an attorney. One morning R asked Priscilla if she had talked with her father the night before. “He always comes to visit when I have company,” R said. Priscilla’s father died in 2004.
R has not yet admitted that she will never again live in her house, nor will she drive again. Last week she drove her car into a ditch, nose first. She wasn’t hurt.
Everything has changed now. I do not see any of it for the better. Everybody’s routine is upset.
I don’t mind the extra cooking. Sometimes I would have a bowl of cereal with raisins and nuts for lunch. Perfectly satisfied with that. Now, I will make real lunches. That’s not a problem.
I am disappointed that things have changed. But, that’s life.
Many have been through the dementia and Alzheimer’s with parents and other older relatives. R and her brother and sister are examples. R’s mother talked with people who were not visible, people whose names were unknown to her children. They almost always tried to correct her mistakes. “Now, Momma, that’s not what happened.” “Momma, we talked about that just a few minutes ago.” I figured, she is 94 years old. She has earned the right to talk to people who aren’t there. And if she forgets, well, she is 94. She was 97 when she died.
R is doing the same things. Saturday, she said to my wife, “You didn’t tell me you had moved to Little Rock.” She spent Thanksgiving here and a week in January. “I remember you lived southwest of here.”
Priscilla said, “We lived in Sulphur Springs for 25 years.”
“No,” R said. “You lived near Dallas.” (We lived in Grand Prairie from 1975-1981.)
Several times Saturday she mentioned her cardiologist appointment “this Monday at 3 p.m.” Each time, Priscilla said, “No, your appointment is on the 13th at 1 p.m.”
There were other things she repeated several times, other things she did not get right.
And tonight, at supper. I fixed ham, turnip greens and cornbread. R asked, “Are these greens frozen?” I said they were from a can. She said, “Well they sure are good. They’re as good as fresh greens.” And not five minutes later, “These are turnip greens, aren’t they.” I said they were. She said, “Well, they sure are good.”
Priscilla spent a week with R, taking her to two doctors and to an attorney. One morning R asked Priscilla if she had talked with her father the night before. “He always comes to visit when I have company,” R said. Priscilla’s father died in 2004.
R has not yet admitted that she will never again live in her house, nor will she drive again. Last week she drove her car into a ditch, nose first. She wasn’t hurt.
Everything has changed now. I do not see any of it for the better. Everybody’s routine is upset.
I don’t mind the extra cooking. Sometimes I would have a bowl of cereal with raisins and nuts for lunch. Perfectly satisfied with that. Now, I will make real lunches. That’s not a problem.
I am disappointed that things have changed. But, that’s life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
