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.

'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.”

Not here any more

Mrs. R. fights every morning when Priscilla does diaper change and cleanup. Sometimes she hits Priscilla, sometimes she pushes, sometimes she pinches. She has hit and pinched the nurses aides who visit every weekday.

Friday night, Mrs. R. tried to eat her pajamas. Priscilla prepared a soft meal and fed her in bed, with Mrs. R. using her fork. Then Mrs. R. began poking her pajamas with the fork. Priscilla asked why she was doing that. “I’m going to eat it,” Mrs. R. replied. Priscilla said, “Mother, those are your pajamas. You cannot eat your pajamas.”

None of that computed. “Mother … pajamas … cannot eat.” Those words or combination of words were not or are not part of Mrs. R’s mental ability.

Other things are gone. Mrs. R. the other day referred to Priscilla as “that woman who visits.”

Priscilla often sits with her mother and discusses photographs from the 1940s through the 1980s. Mrs. R. recognizes herself, her husband, son John and her mother. She does not recognize Priscilla or our children or her brother or sister.

Maybe “recognize” is not the right word. More accurate might be no one but Mrs. R., Mr. R., John and Mrs. R.’s mother are part of her mind. We often think those with dementia forget things. Probably, most things simply are no longer there.

'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.

Spending too much money

Mrs. R. stopped cooking when Mr. R. died in 2004. She never enjoyed cooking, and without a husband to take care of after work, she saw no reason to do something she didn’t want to do in the first place.

Until temporarily staying with Priscilla and me last year and then going to an assisted living place and now living permanently here, Mrs. R. and her son John followed a routine for meals: Breakfast, cereal with milk; lunch, Wendy’s hamburger with fries and drink; dinner, Catfish King or Big Jake’s barbecue. She had canned food and frozen food, box dinners and pasta in cabinets and freezer, but she did not cook.

When she stayed with us Monday-Friday for six weeks last year, she gained six pounds. Her doctor was pleased.

Following breakfast this morning, Priscilla and I began making a grocery list. After a time of Priscilla writing and both her and me talking, Mrs. R. said, “That certainly sounds like an expensive list.”

Priscilla said, “It’s a grocery list.”

“Well, it certainly sounds expensive.”

Priscilla and I decided on more goods. Mrs. R. said, “That is a very expensive list.”

I said, “We don’t go to Wendy’s or Catfish King or Big Jake’s. For one thing, we would have to drive 25 or 30 miles.”

“One way,” Priscilla said.

“Well, it just sounds like a lot of expensive food.”

Beginning 6:30 a.m.

“Good morning,” I said to Mrs. R.

“Well, good morning,” she said in a surprised voice. She was in the hospital bed near the wide, curtained windows that faced west and southwest. She said, “I didn’t expect you all to be back so soon.”

“Back where?” I asked.

“At my house,” she said.

I explained she and Priscilla and I were at our house, near Little Rock.

“Near Little Rock?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Oh,” she said. “OK.”

Mrs. R. and Priscilla had been up since before 6:15. Priscilla had done the changing of diaper and dressing her mother in day clothes and now was loading the washer. She joined me in the kitchen. I said I would cook oatmeal. Priscilla said she would chop apples to go with the oatmeal.

Mrs. R. said, “I hear water running somewhere.” Priscilla explained she was doing laundry, and the sound was the washer filling. Mrs. R. said, “I need to do laundry, too.”

“We’ll take care of that,” Priscilla said.

“Oh. OK.”

Priscilla and I worked on breakfast. After around five minutes, Mrs. R. said, “I hear water running somewhere.” Priscilla again explained she was doing laundry. Mrs. R. said, “Well, my washing machine is in the kitchen and the dryer is in the storage room.” That is true, at her house in Texarkana. Priscilla said we had everything taken care of. Mrs. R. said, “I need to do laundry, too.”

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.

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.