Friday, May 25, 2007
A Few Words About Mom
Before I get too deep into this I want to say a few words about my mom. This is important to give you perspective. Mom is dad's primary caretaker. She is the one who is with him at home every day and night. She is the one who tends to his every need, makes sure he gets up in the morning, gets fed when he needs to, gets to his daycare group, and countless other things.
What I need to tell you is, my mom is an extraordinary human being. I don't say this just because she does all that she does to make my dad's life comfortable, but rather because she just is. She has been a caretaker her entire life. Not only did she bring up three exceptional children, but her chosen career is nursing in geriatrics. To this day, she continues to go to work at a nursing home twice a week and see to the proper care of hundreds of elderly patients, all the while knowing that each night when she gets home, her "job" starts all over again.
I say all this to give you the flavor for what she goes through as a primary caretaker, and what I see and experience every time I visit. You see, it is hard to imagine living with someone for almost 60 years, looking forward to the "golden years" and then finding yourself in the position of what seems like a nanny.
Every time I visit my heart bleeds for my mom. There is no greater manifestation of the adage "life is not fair" than seeing what my mom has to go through day in and day out. My visit is as much for her, maybe more, as it is for dad. When I (or my brother and sister) visit, we bring with us a much deserved escape from the intensity of 24-hour care. We distract him and allow her a moment of peace, and a real conversation.
I will confess that visiting my dad is emotionally draining, and for me it's just a few hours. Every time I leave I can't help thinking "how does she do it?" And I am filled with sadness that I can't do more to ease her pain. Yes, and I suffer from the Jewish child's guilt syndrome.
Sometimes even a phonecall helps make a difference. Dad can't communicate much on the phone, but I know hearing from his children makes his day just a little happier, which in turn makes mom's a little lighter.
I now plan my week around my visits so that I know at least once a week I can spend time with them, usually on weekends because my new line of work makes weekdays a little more difficult. Usually we go out, sometimes we stay in, but all the times it makes a difference.
Lenny
What I need to tell you is, my mom is an extraordinary human being. I don't say this just because she does all that she does to make my dad's life comfortable, but rather because she just is. She has been a caretaker her entire life. Not only did she bring up three exceptional children, but her chosen career is nursing in geriatrics. To this day, she continues to go to work at a nursing home twice a week and see to the proper care of hundreds of elderly patients, all the while knowing that each night when she gets home, her "job" starts all over again.
What I can say with some confidence is, even though she spent a career caring for the elderly and infirmed, nothing could have prepared her for the stress of caring for a husband with Alzheimer's.
For my entire life my mom has been the counter-balance that has kept my dad from going over the deep end. And let me tell you, that was no easy task. She was his alter-ego, his social planner, his medical advisor, his ground control and his touch with reality. Things are no different today except that her responsibilities are amplified.I say all this to give you the flavor for what she goes through as a primary caretaker, and what I see and experience every time I visit. You see, it is hard to imagine living with someone for almost 60 years, looking forward to the "golden years" and then finding yourself in the position of what seems like a nanny.
Every time I visit my heart bleeds for my mom. There is no greater manifestation of the adage "life is not fair" than seeing what my mom has to go through day in and day out. My visit is as much for her, maybe more, as it is for dad. When I (or my brother and sister) visit, we bring with us a much deserved escape from the intensity of 24-hour care. We distract him and allow her a moment of peace, and a real conversation.
I will confess that visiting my dad is emotionally draining, and for me it's just a few hours. Every time I leave I can't help thinking "how does she do it?" And I am filled with sadness that I can't do more to ease her pain. Yes, and I suffer from the Jewish child's guilt syndrome.
Sometimes even a phonecall helps make a difference. Dad can't communicate much on the phone, but I know hearing from his children makes his day just a little happier, which in turn makes mom's a little lighter.
I now plan my week around my visits so that I know at least once a week I can spend time with them, usually on weekends because my new line of work makes weekdays a little more difficult. Usually we go out, sometimes we stay in, but all the times it makes a difference.
Lenny
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Welcome to My Blog
Hi and welcome to my blog. I decided a long time ago that I would start this blog but it took me three years to get started, and get the courage to make some of my thoughts public. Here is my story...
My name is Lenny and this is about my dad. He is 80 years old and was diagnosed with Alzheimer's about 7 years ago. Of course, back then the best they could say was "we think it's Alzheimer's but there is no definitive test... except an autopsy." Whatever it was, we knew his memory was declining and we could hardly imagine what the future held.
You see, no matter how much you read and how much people tell you, there is no way to emotionally prepare yourself for the ravages of dimentia.
Michel, my dad, is, or should I say was, a brilliant man. He was an accomplished artist, an extraordinary creative director, an inventor, creator, orator, writer and humanitarian. He accomplished more in his life and career than most do in five lifetimes. And when this horrible disease struck he was far from completing his life works. He used to say he had to live to 120 just to do everything he wanted to do (and he was sure God would let him).
I was living in Chicago when we started seeing the symptons of dimentia such as forgetting events and names, getting lost while driving and difficulty following along in conversations. It was easy to say that these were normal signs of aging but over time it became obvious they were not "normal."
Three years ago I decided to move back to the NY area to spend more time with dad, and although I am grateful that I had two good years with him, I could not have predicted how much his illness would affect me personally. It has been the hardest three years of my life and I know the worst is yet to come.
For a long time after moving back I tried to see him on a very regular basis, mostly on Wednesdays, hence the title of my blog. I would do weekends with mom and dad, but Wednesdays were our day alone. I'd take him out to visit old friends, see movies, shop for art supplies, and of course, lunch, which he so much enjoyed. These were outings that I will always cherish, as they were the last that I will remember dad as himself, with so much to share and never a moment of silence.
I did my best to journal most of our days out, at least what I could remember when I returned home. I have over 100 pages of memories from those two years, September 2004 to July 2006, when dad suffered a minor stroke leaving him with aphasia (loss of his ability to produce language).
As I continue to blog my thoughts in the future, I will share "flashbacks" from my journal because I feel that there is so much to offer. For those who happen upon this blog and have similar experiences that you wish to share, I welcome your comments.
For now, I sign out with a final (not necessarily original) thought: Live every day to its fullest, and spend time with those who are important to you, because you never know when that time will run short.
Lenny
My name is Lenny and this is about my dad. He is 80 years old and was diagnosed with Alzheimer's about 7 years ago. Of course, back then the best they could say was "we think it's Alzheimer's but there is no definitive test... except an autopsy." Whatever it was, we knew his memory was declining and we could hardly imagine what the future held.
You see, no matter how much you read and how much people tell you, there is no way to emotionally prepare yourself for the ravages of dimentia.
Michel, my dad, is, or should I say was, a brilliant man. He was an accomplished artist, an extraordinary creative director, an inventor, creator, orator, writer and humanitarian. He accomplished more in his life and career than most do in five lifetimes. And when this horrible disease struck he was far from completing his life works. He used to say he had to live to 120 just to do everything he wanted to do (and he was sure God would let him).
I was living in Chicago when we started seeing the symptons of dimentia such as forgetting events and names, getting lost while driving and difficulty following along in conversations. It was easy to say that these were normal signs of aging but over time it became obvious they were not "normal."
Three years ago I decided to move back to the NY area to spend more time with dad, and although I am grateful that I had two good years with him, I could not have predicted how much his illness would affect me personally. It has been the hardest three years of my life and I know the worst is yet to come.
For a long time after moving back I tried to see him on a very regular basis, mostly on Wednesdays, hence the title of my blog. I would do weekends with mom and dad, but Wednesdays were our day alone. I'd take him out to visit old friends, see movies, shop for art supplies, and of course, lunch, which he so much enjoyed. These were outings that I will always cherish, as they were the last that I will remember dad as himself, with so much to share and never a moment of silence.
I did my best to journal most of our days out, at least what I could remember when I returned home. I have over 100 pages of memories from those two years, September 2004 to July 2006, when dad suffered a minor stroke leaving him with aphasia (loss of his ability to produce language).
As I continue to blog my thoughts in the future, I will share "flashbacks" from my journal because I feel that there is so much to offer. For those who happen upon this blog and have similar experiences that you wish to share, I welcome your comments.
For now, I sign out with a final (not necessarily original) thought: Live every day to its fullest, and spend time with those who are important to you, because you never know when that time will run short.
Lenny
