I missed my Daddy when Alzheimer’s erased me from his mind. When he questioned why I called him Daddy, I tried Dad and Father, but he was confused by those titles as well. He responded well to “Bill” but I couldn’t bring myself to call my own father by his first name. I came to call him “Mr. Bill.”
On October 25, 2011 Daddy died.

I missed Daddy.

I miss Mr. Bill.

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I found the cutest selection. They had pig and elephant and frog shaped watering cans as well as traditional types with handles and spouts. I chose an elephant shaped can with an agreement from the shop owner that if it didn’t fit in Mom’s sink, I could bring it back for a full refund.

When I presented the can to Mom, she said, “What a cute elephant!” I was so pleased that she recognized the animal and called it by name. She continues to call it an elephant now a few weeks later. I don’t know what I expected her to call it, but, for her to recognize and name correctly was a pleasant surprise.

Later that day, Mom had an appointment to have her port flushed. When we entered the waiting room, it was unusually full. There was a man with a mustache sitting in the chair nearest the door to the exam rooms, and a young child waiting for his mother to finish her paperwork at the reception window. Dad gravitated to the child, and it was all I could do to keep him from lifting the child into his arms. I body blocked him as much as I could, and held him off balance enough that he couldn’t pick up the child, but I had to enlist the help of the mother to get the child out of Dad’s reach. The presence of the child distracted Dad enough that he didn’t notice the man with the mustache.

Since the main waiting room was full, we were directed to sit in another waiting area – a room previously used as a hospital room. Mom was not disturbed by being sent to an unfamiliar room, but wondered why we had never gone in there before. I explained that we are usually seen so quickly, it’s not worth even finding a seat.

In this waiting room sat a rather large teenage boy with very long, unruly hair. Dad, of course, thought the kid was a girl. Before sitting down, Dad noticed the mirror over the sink and wondered if that guy over there could see the girl? That conversation continued until the kid was called away by his father. He looked relieved to be gone from Dad’s constant badgering of that guy in the mirror to turn and see that girl. I was thankful that the kid was polite and didn’t say anything unkind to, or about, Dad.

When Mom’s turn was called, we re-entered the main waiting area, where the mustachioed man still sat right next to the door back to the exam rooms. Before we got halfway across the room, I cautioned the man to, “Please cover your mustache. Dad will try to grab it. I am NOT kidding!” That elicited snickers from people sitting nearby, but very quickly turned into uncomfortable silence when Dad rushed at the man’s face, hands outstretched, grabbing. I threw myself in front of Dad and used my entire body to physically push him out of reach of the man and attempt to coral him through the door. Dad dodged and weaved and reached around and over me while I body blocked and finally hugged his arms to his sides. We made it through the door, finally, after the man turned his face away from Dad.
Out of sight, out of mind.

Mom’s exam went as usual, with one exception. Instead of her weight and temperature being the same, she was running a slight fever. Her blood pressure has been a bit elevated lately, also. I asked the nurse if she thought this blood pressure trend should be concerning enough to get Mom on some blood pressure medicine. She checked Mom’s 6 month history and noticed the same trend. Start of appointment, blood pressure a little high at 145/95-ish. End of appointment, blood pressure hovering just below 138/80. We decided that it would be a good idea to get Mom started on some blood pressure medicine as soon as possible. Mom had an appointment coming up with her general practitioner in a few days, so I asked the nurse to forward her last 6 month blood pressures to the doctor.

With the port flush done, we headed back to the waiting room. Me guiding Dad, instructing Mom which way to turn, coaching her to lead the way so Dad would follow. As the nurse opened the door to the waiting room, I saw the man with the mustache bolt from his chair and run down the hall, covering his face with his hands. I… lost it. Oh, my gosh, the laughter and giggles! His sudden explosion startled many of the people in the waiting room and caused the receptionists to burst into giggling fits. Neither of the receptionists, nor I, could gain our composure enough to even discuss future appointments for a full minute.
Then I noticed, standing down the hall, was the man with the mustache, and the mother with her small child. Mustache was pleading with the mother to just wait there with him until Dad had left the waiting room.

Well, there’s one room full of people who will not soon forget that incident. One room full of people who will absolutely understand the cautionary, “I am NOT kidding!” And, one man who will often remember how his mustache taught him to fly.

As we walked back to the car, we passed the petunias and other flowers in the flowerbeds and borders along the sidewalks of the hospital. Dad said he thought they were beautiful. When we got back to the facility, Dad took me straight to their window to point out the flowers hanging in the basket right outside. He called them pretty and beautiful and then said, “These are prettier than those other flowers.”
Well, that’s a pretty abstract thought for someone as advanced in Alzheimer’s as Dad is.
Mom, not to be outdone, got out her new watering can and said, “This will work like a real elephant with water coming out of its nose.” I suggested she give it a try before I left. I wanted to make sure she could carry it full of water and that it didn’t spring any leaks. I was also worried that as she walked she might swing it enough for water to slosh out of the spout. She filled it and carried it with no mishaps, and was able to use it to water her flowers.

As they walked me out to the car, Dad pointed to the flower beds in front of the facility and said, “Pretty. My wife is prettier. I love you. Thanks for driving.”

I decided to ask my cousins if they could recall any stories their parents may have told of someone they knew as kids who had mustaches or beards or both. No one could think of any stories, but, I had the unfortunate opportunity to follow that up myself at a funeral just a week later. Dad’s Aunt passed away from Alzheimer’s on May 20th. I chose not to tell Mom about Aunt passing away or about the funeral. The names of Dad’s Aunt and Mom’s Aunt are close enough that I feared it would cause confusion. I could see a future of phone calls with Mom… Her telling me that her Aunt was alive and well, that she’d just seen her at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and questioning just whose funeral did we go to? It wasn’t something I felt I needed to subject myself or Mom to, so, I left it unreported.

While we stood there listening to Dad, I very distinctly heard him say my name. I looked at him, and he said it again. Happy Mothers’ Day to me. Daddy said my name. First time in almost 2 years I have heard that. He got a great big hug from me, and a meaningful exchange of eye contact between hubby and I.

We finally made it down to the festivities. There were lots of treats set out on a table and Dad was starting to try to push his way to them. We decided to take Mom and Dad into the dining room and have them sit to wait while hubby and I got them each a plate of goodies. First, hubby brought back some glasses of punch, but Dad remembered seeing some cookies and thought that’s what he was going to get. Hubby had returned to hold our place in line, only to find out that the chef had decided to reverse the direction of the line. We would be first in the other direction. Apparently they’d set the sugar free choices at one end and people were choosing those selections because the came to them first rather than passing by to the regular desserts.

After we ate and chatted a bit, we returned to the main living room for some entertainment by a father son music team. Father sang and played guitar, son played the violin.
This was also the regular time for one of the local churches to visit, have a short service, and give communion. Their leader came to Mom to ask if she planned to attend.
Before we went in to eat, Mom’s brother and sister in law had been sitting in the living room. When we went back to listen to the program, they were no where to be found.
Mom decided she wanted to attend the service, so we delivered them to the chapel. Dad was tangled up in the leader’s dogs’ leashes, tethered to a table or chair leg, but free to wander about the room. When he made it past the dogs, hubby and I left to go work on Mom’s hanging basket.

In years past, we have built the basket while Mom and Dad watched from the comfort of their room, but this time we decided it would be much more efficient if we just presented it to her as a finished product.
It turned out so beautiful and fragrant!

Mom remembered that she couldn’t possibly over-water this type of hanging basket and wanted to get out to test that for the first time this spring.

I returned the next day with a new watering can, but that’s for another story.

In the weeks leading up to Easter, Mom’s brother had been diagnosed with cancer and undergone some chemo treatments that made him horribly sick. I had taken Mom and Dad to visit him once at the hospital, but when he was moved to a rehab facility, we would have to wear gloves and masks to visit him. I knew that there would be no way to get gloves on Dad, let alone a mask, and he would not stand outside of the room. I also knew that Mom would not be able to tolerate a mask, either. She would think there’d be no way her brother could understand her if he couldn’t see her mouth moving and would have to be continually restrained from pulling up or down the mask. So, visiting at that place was out.
Mom’s sister in law also had some serious health issues and underwent spinal surgery to repair some fractures. She was in the same rehabilitation facility just down the hall from her husband. Visiting her was out because there would be no way to keep Mom from finding out that her brother was just up the hall.
During their rehab, their children visited the facility where Mom and Dad live. They made arrangements to move them in as soon as there was a room available.
Mom was convinced of many things: 1. Her brother and sister in law would move in but would need to be in the special care unit. 2. Her brother and sister in law would not be moving in because they could not afford it and the other place was cheaper.
Then, her mind confused which nephew made a reservation for which brother and she became convinced that her other brother was going to be moving in because she was sure she’d seen his son there.
When that brother didn’t move in, she became convinced that his wife was keeping him hidden from the family. This was soon followed by believing that they had, instead, moved into a different facility that was cheaper.

So, hubby and I went up the hall to visit the brother and sister in law who actually do live there, in a regular room, not in special care.
Her brother informed us that Mom had been to their room 3 times that day to tell them about the family reunion and try to talk them into attending. When that failed, she tried to explain to them that she was not sure when we would return, so, they might miss dinner, but that was ok because there would be plenty of food at the reunion.

When we pulled out, Mom exclaimed that she had forgotten to tell her brother that they were leaving and wanted to go back in to tell him. I told her hubby and I had taken care of that when we went to visit them.

The drive was mostly quiet, which is rare with Dad in the car. Well, he was in the back seat this time, so, perhaps no real visual cues to spark conversation?

We finally arrived at my cousin’s house. All of Dad’s siblings were there, and about half of the cousins attended. Dad wanted to call one of his sisters, “My wife,” since she is the same size and shape as Mom, as well as having the same hair color and style. One of his sisters he didn’t seem to recognize at all. When his brother came to shake hands with Dad, Dad simply said, “Navy.” Twice, during the course of the day, however, Dad pointed to the other sister and said, “That’s my sister, Betty.” He knew her and he knew her name.

Mom had been convinced that we were attending a family reunion for her side of the family. No amount of reminding her that this was Dad’s side got her mind off thinking otherwise. She would say, “Oh, that’s right. I keep thinking…”
At one point, one of my cousins came over to say, “Hi!” to Mom. Mom said she couldn’t remember which one he was, but went on to say she was disappointed that her brother didn’t make it.

There were only 2 people there with facial hair. One of them, my cousin, I strongly warned about Dad’s penchant for grabbing facial hair. I followed it up by saying, “I warn people, and I tell them that I really mean it, but they for some reason don’t take me serious – until Dad gets a handful of beard and yanks. So, again, watch your facial hair when you are within arms reach of Dad. I am serious!” Minutes later, he understood exactly what I meant. At least he was prepared and dodged a full beard grab! It wasn’t the only attempt, and he got even better at dodging!

Hubby seated Mom and Dad while I started getting plates for them. There wasn’t really any place to sit away from the huge cake in the middle of the table, so it became a challenge to keep Dad from grabbing handfuls of cake, ruining it for future photos with the siblings. It took everything hubby and I could do to keep Dad out of the cake, but in the end, he barely grazed the icing, and no one noticed the smear.

When the Easter Egg Hunt for the children was done, everyone wanted to siblings to get around the cake for pictures. The cake had all of their names on it and a thank you for our great family. Up until this point, Dad had been wearing a light flannel shirt with a heavier flannel shirt over it. Mom insists that it’s a jacket and we let her believe it. Dad tries to button the shirts to each other.
As soon as intentions for pictures was announced, Mom started looking Dad over. When nearly everyone was in place, lined up, propped up, standing up behind the table, behind the cake, the cake mere inches from Dad, Mom decided that he had to take off his jacket, and started to strip it off Dad. A vision flashed before me… Mom struggling to tug and pull Dad’s sleeve off his arm, Dad grabbing the cuff of the sleeve to prevent it being removed from one hand while reaching out for the cake with the other hand. Siblings toppling in the melee to follow… Thankfully that didn’t come to fruition. Whew!
In the end, I was the proverbial deer in the headlights, stuck behind Dad trying to reign in his hands from behind by grasping his shirt cuffs and ducking down out of the picture while everyone snapped and snapped and snapped and snapped…

We had a wonderful time and got to visit with nearly everyone, but Dad started making like he was ready to leave. Once he’d eaten and got to have some of that cake, he figured it was time to go.
Hubby is so amazing with Dad. He can block his path without making him angry, redirect Dad’s attention to get him to do something like sit or stand when Dad wants to watch or touch something or someone, or go somewhere, or do something.
Most of the family pointed out to me just how wonderful my hubby is with Dad. I had to agree. He’s a keeper.

Hubby took Mom and Dad outside to walk around and admire the landscaping. I joined them as they stood at the back of the yard. As I approached, Dad said, “I love you.” I hugged him tight and said, “I love you, too, Dad.”

We got back just in time for their evening meal. I’m sure her brother was relieved to see that.

Mom and Dad had some things they needed from the store, but taking them to the store has become just too stressful for Dad. I decided to run those errands while Mom and Dad had their evening meal.
We headed down the hallway to the dining room, Mom chattering the whole way, Dad following behind, stopping to ‘talk’ to people on the way.
Suddenly, behind us, I heard the singing lady. She sang out a note and held it. She went up a note and added some vibrato. Mom angrily said, “Oh, that’s Ann!” I turned to see Ann standing in front of a gentleman, singing and motioning as if she were teaching vocal lessons – instructing, even.
Mom tried to pick up conversation where she’d left off.
Behind us, Ann hit an even higher note, and waved her hand in the air as if willing that gentleman to sing with all his heart.
Mom flinched as the notes went higher and got louder.

Then, Mom said, “Oh, shut up, Ann!”
I lost it and suffered a ridiculous case of the giggles.

While Dad is napping he moves his mouth. I wondered if he was talking in his sleep? I wondered when he talks in his sleep if he is clearly understood? I wondered how he could enter that deep of sleep so quickly?

I have been paying closer attention to what Dad does while he is napping. He starts by moving his mouth, then he appears to be stretching his lips out to meet something, and then his hand comes up to his mouth as if delivering food. He chews and smiles and goes back for another bite.
I don’t know what he dreams he’s eating, but he seems to enjoy it!

I smile as I think, “Visions of sugar plums danced in his head.”

So, what made you ready?

Perhaps I need to find a better way to impress upon others than by saying, “You absolutely must understand the importance of Dad being able to see Mom at all times. I simply can not stress that enough.”

Monday morning I try to get in my car, but we had freezing rain the night before, and my doors are frozen shut. I worked my way around the car trying each door. On the 3rd trip around, the driver’s door opened. Within moments of getting the door opened, the ice was clear from all windows, and I had managed to open the passenger side doors. I called Mom to make certain that she had not allowed Dad to eat anything and had not given him his medications. With that cleared up, I was on my way.
When I pulled up in front of the facility, I noticed another car in the front drive that was silver and wondered how many times Dad had tried to get out and to that car. He knows my car, but he also knows that coats on at the front entrance means they are going someplace. Sometimes any vehicle that pulls up triggers him to head for it. I hoped that this had not been the case this morning – Mom already has enough to deal with.
I parked a little back from the other car just as Mom and Dad started out the door and down the sidewalk. I jumped out and got their doors open, guiding Mom to the back seat and instructing her not to lock the door. When the door is locked, the seatbelt stops feeding freely and needs to be backed up a notch. She doesn’t understand this and gets agitated and frustrated while struggling to get fastened in.
Dad rode in the back seat until recently. When he showed signs of having difficulty figuring out how to maneuver his feet to get them back out of the car, I moved him to the front where there is more room. I have left the child proof lock on the back door to prevent Mom from opening the door which signals Dad to try to get out. Now, getting Dad into the front seat, away from his wife, takes some convincing. Making sure his fingers are out of harms way, if I can close the back door he is more likely to get into the front seat without further complaint. Sometimes he’ll even ask, “You want me to sit up here?” I smile and nod, gesturing to the front seat. He’ll look at me as if I have offered him the coveted and privileged shotgun seat, beaming with pride. I imagine he reacted the same way the first time he got to ride up front with his Dad, and I am connected to Grandpa and my aunts and uncles for a moment of rejuvenating peace.
I get behind Dad and bend my knees to form a lap that he can slide down into the seat. I hold my left arm across the top of the door frame while holding the door steady with my right because sometimes Dad hits his head, sometimes he uses the door to steady himself while he is on one leg. It must look strange as heck to observers, but it works.

We got to the dentist’s office with plenty of time to spare. Reaching over to unfasten Dad’s seatbelt, I instructed Mom and Dad to sit tight and I’d be around to let them out. Mom’s struggles had already begun – fidgeting with her seatbelt release, trying to pull the door lock up, reaching for her purse, distracted by the box of tissues on the floor, trying the door handle. Knowing she can do no harm, I get out and go around the car to open their doors. Having that handy clicker helps! The first click only unlocks the driver’s door. The second unlocks the rest of the doors. As I round the back of the car, I hit the unlock button and can reach both doors at once. Mom has usually worked out the belt clasp by then, and is ready to get out. It tickles me to recall that not so long ago, when Mom rode in the front seat and could open her own door, she would fidget until I was done getting Dad out as if to make her own grand entrance every time.
I hold her door steady so she can use it to pull herself to her feet, while reaching in to help Dad extract his arm from the seatbelt. Once that arm is free, he starts working on figuring out how to get his feet out of the car and onto the ground. Usually, by now, Mom is standing next to me waiting for Dad to get up, coaching from the sidelines.
Now it is time to watch where Dad has placed his hands. If they are near the door jamb, I can’t close Mom’s door and Dad can’t pull himself to his feet. I position my feet to best help anchor myself as Dad reaches for my hands to pull himself up. He often uses the door to pull with his left hand and my hand to pull with his right. Once he is standing, he takes a moment to steady on his feet. And, another few moments to clear the door’s arc so I can close it.
Out of the car, I hit the lock button on key fob. Nothing. Oh, swell, battery dead? It worked to unlock the doors. Click. Click. Nothing. Mental note, add battery to shopping list.

We stepped into the doctor’s waiting room. A quick scan of the other patients revealed 2 with facial hair. Dad spotted one immediately and made a beeline for him. I leapt in front of Dad and quickly cautioned the man to watch out that Dad didn’t grab his facial hair. Dad swerved around me and grabbed the mustache. The man was calm, cool, collected, and joked with Dad instantly, eyes sparkling the whole time.
God puts angles everywhere.
This all happened in the first 5 seconds after entering the office. It took 4 seconds for the receptionist to recognize that I was too distracted to answer her questions and would need a moment to get the situation under control.
Dad refused to give up his coat, but finally agreed to sit down, 2 chairs away from the nice man with facial hair… across from the other man with facial hair. Mentally I map out the distance from the reception desk and the space between Dad and the mustaches and beards.
I am not a ninja.
Deep breath.
Second caution to both men – watch your facial hair, he means no harm, he’s curious and doesn’t like hairy faces.
Return to reception desk, sign 2 places, read another place, and I hear, “Oh, Bill! Sometimes you embarrass me so much!” I turn to see the second mustachioed man smiling and laughing with Dad, while trying to protect against another mustache tug. I try to apologize, try to sympathize, and am again blessed by God’s angels – so patient, so kind, so understanding. Dad, innocent and bright eyed, full of curiosity and happiness, seems to bring out the nicest part of everyone he meets.

While I was filling out the paperwork and keeping Dad from pulling mustaches, Mom managed to remove her coat, wrap it around her shoulders, sit down, and pick up a pamphlet about diabetes and dental care.
The pamphlet emphasized flossing and brushing the tongue for proper oral hygiene and better health. Mom announced that she must be doing something right because she’s been doing this all along. I agree, and her dentist always compliments her on her good oral care habits. (If only he knew about the flossing obsession!) Mom says, “I am already doing it right. I don’t know if I knew that or if I heard it sometime long ago.”

The next few minutes either Dad is trying to grab a mustache or Mom is announcing that she is already doing the right thing by flossing and brushing her tongue. Him, then her. Back and forth until finally the first mustachioed victim is called back.
As we settle in to wait, Dad alternates between cat naps and looking around. He observes the painting on the wall and wonders if I have ever been on a boat. He watches the mailman pull up out front and come into the dentist office, confused and disappointed that he isn’t recognized like he is by other encounters with mailmen. And, Mom announces that she’s doing everything right by flossing and brushing her tongue.
Dad starts to watch the receptionists as they do their jobs. Every now and then, he’ll say something to the effect that he thinks they could speed things up and get him in soon. I suggest that he probably wouldn’t want either of them pulling his teeth. This makes him and other patients chuckle, which brings his attention back to… the mustache across the aisle.

I took advantage of these few moments of relative calm to jot down some notes and get some reminders entered into my phone calender. I had a note to ask Mom if Dad’s hearing aid batteries had come in yet. She’d sent in the order back in early January. They have never taken more than 2 weeks to arrive, so I started following the trail 2 weeks after she mailed the card. No one had called me back and I was exhausting the places I could call. When we visited the VA doctor in late February, I mentioned the battery problem and what I had done to chase down the order. He said he would put in an order to get them shipped ASAP. That had been 2 weeks prior; the batteries should have arrived by now.
“Mom, did you get the hearing aid batteries, yet?”
Mom said, “What?”
As I started to repeat the question, I was tickled by her completely unintentional play on an old joke. The chuckle came out in my voice which set off another patient, and made me laugh again.
Like I say, God’s angels are everywhere. No matter how stressful a time is, laughter can set your stress level back to 0 in a second.

Finally, the nurse came and called Dad back. As Mom started gathering up her things, the nurse assured her that she could leave her coat right where it was. Mom, of course, had to bring her purse. We led Dad to the procedure room and cautioned the doctor to watch his facial hair as Dad honed in on the mustache.
Once in the room, I guided Mom to stand in a spot where Dad could keep constant watch over her. She ended up at his side the instant he showed signs of distress. I had told the anesthesiologist that Dad finds blood pressure cuffs to be exceptionally painful and is very frightened of them. I reminded him of that the instant he tightened the cuff on Dad’s arm. An adjustment was immediately made, and I placed my hand on Dad’s chest to help hold him in place and keep him calm.
With Mom at Dad’s side holding his other hand, he stopped trying to reach across and remove the offending cuff. He hardly seemed to notice the IV go into the back of his hand, but there was a moment between swabbing the area and sticking the needle in that he tried once more to remove the cuff. I held his hand until the needle was inserted, then held his whole hand to keep him from bending his wrist.
Less than a minute later, Mom leaned in to give Dad a kiss. Dad was sound asleep.
I made eye contact with the anesthesiologist and repeated the caution, “When he wakes up, you will want Mom to be right there where he can see her. You absolutely must understand the importance of Dad being able to see Mom at all times. I simply can not stress that enough.” He nodded and said he understood.

Back in the waiting room, Mom picked up another copy of the diabetes and oral care pamphlet and read it again. She was again surprised to discover that she was going everything right.

Less than 20 minutes later, the nurse came into the waiting room to let us know that Dad was done, everything had gone very well, and he was on his way to recovery. I suggested that they have Mom in place before he awoke. The nurse said, “Well come get you as soon as he is ready to see you.”
I heard them taking Dad to the recovery room. I heard them maneuver him onto the recovery bed. I heard someone say, “He’s coming around.”
I heard Dad say, “MY WIFE!” followed by running footsteps coming down the hallway.
The nurse burst through the waiting room door and said, “He’s awake and asking for his wife.”
Yeah, I need something better than, “You absolutely must understand the importance of Dad being able to see Mom at all times. I simply can not stress that enough.”
Within a minute, Mom was entering the recovery room. As soon as Dad saw Mom, he stopped struggling to break free and relaxed. “My wife. I love her.”
I tried to keep the “I told you so” out of the smiles I gave the anesthesiologist and nurses. I hope they only saw the warmth and love that comes out in me when I see just how much that man loves that woman.
Dad was easily coaxed into sitting back down next to Mom. The nurse went over instructions and started to hand some paperwork to Mom. At first I tried to stop her form handing it to Mom, but knew that I would get it away from her as soon as we went to the drug store to fill Dad’s prescriptions.
Once instructions were complete, the nurse suggest that Mom and I go to the car and they would bring Dad out. I only had to say it once, “Let’s leave Mom in here with Dad. She can come out with you.”

I got the car doors opened and it was then that I thought to ask the nurse if the medication had been prescribed in liquid form. As soon as Dad was seated in the car, she went back in to consult with the doctor about rewriting the prescription for liquid. It took less than 3 minutes for her to return with new prescriptions. We were waved goodbye by nearly the entire staff. I could see just how deeply they were touched by their brief encounter with Dad, Mom, and Love.

At the pharmacy, I requested that the medication be flavored – cherry or some kind of berry if possible. We were told it could take half an hour to fill the order, so we went for a drive.
Earlier, I thought I heard the sound of popcorn coming from the front of my car. Dead battery in door clicker, something going on under the hood. Perhaps a drive in the country isn’t such a good idea with Mom and Dad in the car. So, we headed to the full service gas station to fill up.
The attendant asked me, “Did you know your back door isn’t shut completely?”
Well, I’ll be darned. All those trips around the car to pry open one door through the armor coating of ice, I must have tripped the back door just enough… Well, lookie there. My clicker works again, too. Yes! I told the attendant that the locking system in the car made it darn near idiot proof. It would be almost impossible to lock the keys in the car. The driver door simply will not lock if any door is open. Darn near idiot proof… Apparently I’d found the loophole.

We added a dosing spoon to the prescription order, but it proved to be too difficult for Mom to master. The child proof lids on the bottles were proving near impossible for Mom’s tiny, frail hands to operate. “Hello, CVS? Can I bring these bottles back for non-childproof lids?”
Before I left for the pharmacy, Mom insisted that I write down the instructions for the medications and tape them to the bathroom wall. She started reading the instructions and trying to understand. I mentioned that I was going to be taking the bottles with me so she might want to just take a few moments to get some rest, check on Dad, eat her sandwich, help Dad eat some applesauce, or something.
When I convinced Mom to go out and be with Dad, I left for the pharmacy. I not only took back the 2 new bottles, but another bottle that had not come from CVS pharmacy. They graciously replaced all 3 lids.
Back at the facility, I showed Mom the new lids and explained how they are much easier to work with. She tried them and agreed. I realized then that she had returned to reading the instructions before I got back, and was now confused because the bottles mentioned in the instructions were nowhere to be found.
I slowly re-introduced the new medications and the newly replaced lid on the old medication as she went through the instructions and mimed getting each medication ready for Dad. At stages along the way she would ask, “Now, when do I give this one?”
She went from reading the note, reading the bottles, back and forth between the bathroom and refrigerator, where one of the new meds was to be stored. Somewhere in the routine, she would ask, “Now, when do I give this one?”
I got involved in interacting with Dad, trying to sneak the icepack in on his cheek, trying to look to see if there was any swelling, noticing how his face became less and less slack as the numbness wore off. “Hey, Mom. Before all the numb wears off, let’s give Dad a dose of this pain killer medication.” He had eaten 2 servings of applesauce and it seemed like a good time to five him his first dose of antibiotic, too.
I walked Mom through the instructions and let her be the one to actually get each one ready. She handled the antibiotic with ease. Then came the pain reliever. She struggled and struggled with the lid. “Mom, it just twists off. Those aren’t childproof lids, they just twist.”
Mom handed me the bottle saying, “Here. You try.”

I could not budge the lid.
“Um, Mom? Did you try pushing this lid in to open it?”
“Yes. That’s how I always do it!”
I silently laughed to myself while I examined this non-childproof lid. My Mom, with her tiny, frail, arthritic hands had managed to push the lid down so hard that it had slipped the grooves. It was going to require someone much stronger than myself to get that lid back off. I pictured myself carrying that bottle back into CVS… “Help?”
The maintenance man managed to get the lid back off. Wow. I have no idea how that woman managed to get that lid on so tight. Absolutely no idea.

Dad was finally given the pain medicine and Mom was back to reading the instructions.
I divided my time between keeping Dad entertained and helping Mom work out some snag in her understanding of these new medications and where they fit into the day. At one point, while holding one of the bottles in her hand, Mom said her problem was knowing which one was which by the instructions I had written down. Each medication had the letters IC before the medicine name. Mom kept calling these letters, “Ice Cream,” and insisting that that was what was confusing her. I looked at my instructions and realized that I had only written the medicine name, not the prefix letters, “IC” and immediately corrected that.
Mom returned to trying to “Get it all into her head.” while I kept Dad occupied. Half an hour or so went by before she had another snag. This time the problem was that she wasn’t sure which bottle was which. I looked at the instructions again. They had to be simple enough, but have enough information for her to understand. I had written “IN FRIDGE” above the antibiotic. I had written the letters, “IC” before each medicine name. I had written when to take each: one as needed, one at each meal and bedtime. Where was the confusion?
Mom said, “Which one is this bottle?”
Divine inspiration: “How would you describe this bottle, Mom?”
She said, “The tall bottle. It’s taller than any of the others.”
I penned in the words, “Tall Bottle” on the instructions and wrote it again on the bottle itself.
We went back over everything. Mom was making the connection between the instructions and the words, “Tall Bottle,” but was still confused on the one in the fridge. When it finally started to stick, Mom went scurrying for the post-its. She was going to write it down so she wouldn’t forget.
“Um, Mom? Do you need to write something more than what is already on this note?” She carefully copied the entire note, adding nothing, and stuck it on the wall right next to the first.
Half an hour later, she was running through the routine flawlessly.

I hated to broach another subject on medications, but I had promised to make it easier for her to give Dad his Aricept. He started on the dissolvable tablets and Mom was having a heck of a time with them. I thought maybe Dad wasn’t letting them dissolve. Nope, Mom couldn’t get them out of the blister packs.
I think to myself, “Oh, hey, no problem! Me fix!”
I think to myself, “Well, I’ll just pop the pills out of the blister pack, put them in an Aricept bottle, and viola.”
Mom brought me the box containing the first months’ supply of Aricept dissolvable tablets in blister pack. When I opened the box, I stared in dismay. Mom had taken the scissors and cut around each pill. There was a hair’s breadth of the foil left clinging to the plastic of the blister with the pill rattling its safe little cocoon. I had to carefully trim away the foil to free each pill.
I got one of the other boxes down from the closet and popped every single pill out of the blisters. I started on the 3rd box, but had to quit before I made it all the way through because my fingers were so sore!

The last thing to address was the ice pack recommended by the dentist. He suggested half hour on, half hour off. I’d requested an ice pack when we first returned to the facility, but it had taken them some time to round something up. The aid returned with 2 fold over baggies full of ice to wrap in a towel. It was clear that Dad wasn’t going to be happy about having this towel on his cheek, but he soon saw it as a pillow – first miming sleep, then sleeping. It stayed in place for 15 minutes, the cold never making it through the towel. The melting ice, however, was starting to work its way through the towel, so I scrapped the ice in a bag idea and returned to the store to buy a reusable icepack.

I took the instruction booklet to the icepack along with the box it came in. I didn’t think it would help Mom in the least. The box had 2 different languages, each taking up 2 sides. One had the picture and grab lines, the other had the simple instructions for both hot and cold use. I don’t think Mom using the microwave to heat this pack would be a good idea.
The instruction booklet had instructions written out in 6-8 languages, complete with pictures, and included both hot and cold use as well. Again, far too much confusion, and I couldn’t find a place to simply tear off or cut out the English instructions for cold use without playing jigsaw.

When I left, I took my car to Auto Zone to find out what that popcorn sound was coming from under the hood. I popped the hood and looked – a belt, freely floating around pulleys, bouncing here and there, rattling about. I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to do that.
The helpful gentleman from Auto Zone assessed the situation. A belt had split right down the middle throwing one half of the belt off the pulley. The other half was still riding snuggly on the pulley, so I wasn’t in immediate danger, but the loose belt could break or tie up and cause major problems. He didn’t recommend that I drive it much more, but couldn’t fix the problem there, anyway. I hoped that I’d get another 200 miles or so out of it, not having time in the next day or so to give up my car for a whole day. He couldn’t say one way or the other, but wished me luck and sent me on my way.

Well, at least it doesn’t sound like I’m popping corn as I go down the road.

Dad didn’t seem to be chewing the food, so I looked him in the eye and made chewing motions with my own face. He imitated me and seemed surprised to discover that he had food in his mouth to chew. I was not able to get him to swallow the food, and he would stop chewing if I stopped miming chewing. I wondered if the chicken wasn’t a little dry and got him drink of pop from the fridge. He drank the pop, but wasn’t sure it was ok for him to keep the cup and kept trying to hand it back to me.
It actually took about 3 minutes for him to swallow the mouthful of food, and I was starting to suspect that he had squirreled away some of the food in his cheek. I gently poked at his cheek, hoping to remind him there was more food over there that he needed to finish. Instead, he winced. “Yikes, Dad. Does that hurt?” Dad rubbed his cheek and jaw where I had touched it. I got him to open up so I could check in his mouth and found that there was no food left. His cheek was swollen.

“Mom? How long has Dad’s face been swollen on this side?”
She seemed to think it had just happened that day, but couldn’t point to any event that may have caused the swelling. I inquired of the staff, but they couldn’t think of any fall or injury, either.
I wasn’t willing to stick my finger into Dad’s mouth. He’s a big tease and has always thought acting like biting someone’s finger was funny. With Alzheimer’s, Dad sometimes fails to pull his punch, so to speak. I did, however, get to look into his mouth again, and decided that he really needed to see the dentist. That was Thursday February 10. I called Dad’s dentist and took the earliest available appointment they had on Valentine’s Day, my next day off work.
Before I left Mom and Dad’s that Thursday evening, I was convinced that Monday was going to be too long of a wait. Dad needed help ASAP.
Friday morning, I called the dentist back to see if they couldn’t get Dad in that day, explaining that his cheek was swollen and he was in enough pain to turn down food. Dad. Refusing food.
The only thing they had available was 4pm that day. I wasn’t scheduled to get off work until 2:30 and it takes an hour and 40 minutes to get to Mom and Dad’s. I could get off work half an hour early, but that would still be cutting it very close. I explained that we might be a few minutes late, but that I would start working on getting Mom geared toward getting Dad ready and the 2 of them waiting out front for me.
We arrived at the office with 5 minutes to spare. I do not know how.

While we waited, Dad and Mom sat. But, Dad wouldn’t stay seated. No amount of coaxing would get him back into his chair. The other man in the waiting room got a lesson in how hard it is to convince an Alzheimer’s patient to do something other than what’s in their own head. I had lost the struggle to get Dad back into his chair. I was losing the struggle to prevent him from heading back into the visible exam room where he could see the dentist at work on another patient.

The receptionist said she could take us to the room where Dad would be seen. I agreed after verifying that Dad would not be able to see the dentist from the exam chair.
After getting Dad situated in the chair, I took our coats back to the waiting room to hang up. I discovered that the only other coat on the rack was exactly like mine. Exactly. Same size, same rubbed places. Um, oh my. I don’t want to hang my coat here and have the other owner take the wrong coat. The other man said the other coat was his wife’s. He came and took it from the rack and held it for her while she finished with the dentist. We laughed at how strange it was to find an identical coat, and held them up to compare.
When I got back to the exam room, Dad had turned sideways in the chair. I got him repositioned as the dentist came in.

The dentist looked at Dad’s teeth and said he wanted an XRay. We both knew that could be very difficult, very challenging. I announced that I preferred it not be my fingers in Dad’s mouth, pointing out that the dentist certainly made more money than I did, and had better training at avoiding finger loss in patients’ mouths…
He managed to get an XRay by physically holding in place the film while I went into the hall and pushed the button. Success on the first try!
The XRay revealed that Dad had 2 teeth with dead roots – his last 2 on the bottom of that side of his mouth. They were going to have to come out; we were going to have to see an oral surgeon. In the mean time, the dentist prescribed an antibiotic and Magic Mouthwash to help numb the pain. Magic Mouthwash wasn’t something he’d ever heard of, but he spent some time on the phone with the pharmacist learning about this wonderful product that would, in all likelihood, help in Dad’s case.

I called around to half a dozen or so oral surgeons to see about getting Dad an appointment. Some would take more than 2 months to get him in. Some were only taking new patients in out of town offices, or only able to schedule appointments within a 2 month window in an out of town office.

With each call I had to stress the importance of doing this as soon as possible. Dad was experiencing discomfort and avoiding eating because of it. A failure to thrive problem was imminent! I had to explain that there was no way to explain to Dad why his face hurt. It would very much be like trying to explain to a teething baby why their face hurt. I had 3 different receptionists try to give me advice on how to explain it.

Really? What part of explaining teething pain to a baby was lost on them? To one of them I said, “I’m not sure you understood the situation as I explained it. Teething baby. Infant. Less than toddler, nearly deaf, with a vocabulary of about 10 words. There really is absolutely no way to explain it to him. And, even if something actually got through for a moment, it would be lost on him the very next moment. Lost. Gone. Back to square one.”
She simply could not understand and followed up with a, “Why don’t you just…?” question.
As patiently as I could, I said, “Explaining to Dad why his face hurts is much like trying to explain to you why explaining is useless. Neither of you are able to understand – a baby doesn’t understand the why of pain and you don’t understand the how of dementia.”

With all the calls I made, most of them, of course, wanted Dad’s name. I gave his name and the name of his dentist upon request, but set no appointment in stone until that last oral surgeon I called, who had an opening within 2 weeks.
That appointment time came, and Dad was seen by the oral surgeon on February 21. He was distressed at not being able to see Mom, and kept trying to get out of the chair. I stood at his side and kept his legs blocked from swinging off the side of the table while the dentist looked around in his mouth.
A partial plate was mentioned, briefly. Very briefly. No, I don’t think we can expect Dad to wear a partial. We might see him try to eat it, or break other teeth on it, but to wear it as intended, I just don’t see that working out.

The oral surgeon explained the process – they would gently sedate Dad via gas before administering an IV to knock him out. I would learn more about that when the anesthesiologist calls.
We turned over insurance information and waited for the office to call with an appointment time to actually do the extractions.
And, waited.
And, waited.
I expected a call before the end of the week; when I had not heard from them by that Thursday, I called them. They said they were waiting on some information from Dad’s general practitioner.
I called Dad’s general practitioner and asked why there was a hold up on the information requested? They said they had sent everything they had been asked to send via FAX.
I called the oral surgeon’s office back and was told that they still needed more information than they had received. *sigh* So, I called the general practitioner’s office back and asked to speak to the nurse in charge of sending that information. Before she could get too far into her excuses for not sending absolutely everything requested by the oral surgeon, I explained to her that Dad’s situation is nearly critical and I would absolutely not stand for any more delays caused by this office deciding what that office really needs -vs- what they’ve requested. She promised to get the rest of the information FAXed right away.

Later that day, Mom called me to tell me she had received a letter in the mail to remind them of Dad’s upcoming oral surgeon appointment. It said March 2nd at 2:00 pm, Dad was scheduled to be seen by Dr such-n-such, gave a list of things to bring (medicines taken, picture ID, insurance information) and had a questionnaire to fill out and bring with us to the office. “It has a whole lot of questions to answer!” Mom said, and she insisted that I would have to be the one to fill it out because she no longer had access to any of the information they were requesting.
“Ok, Mom. You say you just got this in the mail today?”
Yes, she had just gotten it from the mail box after lunch. She had the date and time on her calendar and hoped that I could come down that afternoon to help fill out the papers.
“I’m at work, Mom. Let me call the doctors and find out what this is about.”
I called the oral surgeon’s office. “I spoke with you this morning? You said you were waiting on some information before you could schedule. She got the appointment notice in the mail this afternoon? The mail isn’t, and never has been, that fast.” She assured me that they do not mail appointments out, they never mail out patient information packets, and they were still waiting to hear from Dad’s GP. “Still? I spoke with them after speaking with you and they said they would FAX right away…” (grr)
Next I called Dad’s GP’s office to see if they had perhaps scheduled an appointment for Dad to come in before they would release the requested information to the oral surgeon?
Nope, they didn’t mail anything out, either.
“Ok. Well, while we are on the subject, can you tell me what all you FAXed this morning after we spoke?”
Oh, nothing, yet. Blah, blah, excuse, excuse.
I explained that, due to the tons of snow we had gotten over night, I would be unable to personally drive the 80 some miles to their office and personally extract the files from their office to personally hand deliver to the oral surgeon’s office. The weather report for Friday was less than promising, but if the oral surgeon’s office reported that they had still not received the information they required by Friday morning, I would not hesitate to get into my little Honda roller skate and slide to their office. If I had to resort to that, I would, understandably, not be very happy.

I called brother and asked him to go get those papers from Mom. I needed to know what they were really about, since neither the oral surgeon nor Dad’s GP had any idea and hadn’t sent anything via mail. I also asked him to remind Mom that Dad did not have an appointment on March 2nd, that there had been some mistake.
Brother got the papers from Mom over the weekend. He called me to let me know what they said – appointment with some oral surgeon in a town nearly 100 miles from where they live. I got the number for the office from brother and on Monday morning, at 5am, called to leave a message that we would not be attending an appointment on March 2nd at their office, that I had not made any appointment with them, and that they should not contact Mom in this matter as she, too, has Alzheimer’s and would only be further confused.

March 2nd was yesterday. Mom called, all worked up, because I still wasn’t there to pick them up. “I got your Dad ready and dressed. I made him let me brush his teeth because he is going to the dentist and needs clean teeth for them to work. When are you coming?”
“I’m not coming today, Mom. Dad doesn’t have an appointment. That was just a mistake, it wasn’t the right dentist’s office. It’s a different dentist and we are not going to go there.”
Mom went from frantic to confused to saying she understood it was all a mistake to laughing about it. She didn’t remember brother telling her there was no appointment, but she seemed to remember me telling her something to that effect.

Later that evening, I get a call from brother wanting to know why I didn’t take Dad to his appointment. *sigh* I explained to him that I had called many oral surgeons. Most wanted at least Dad’s name and dentist’s name. I had made no appointments with any except the one we had already seen and I had relayed that information to him as it happened. The papers he had confiscated from Mom were from one of the oral surgeons that I had called. They had apparently contacted Dad’s dentist and gotten the address from there, sending Mom the appointment information, bypassing me. I had canceled that appointment and asked him to tell Mom while he was there with her. I had already talked to Mom earlier in the day and explained to her that there was no appointment to go to.
She had called brother frantic and pissed off because I had not taken Dad to the appointment and Dad needed that appointment, very badly!

Today, March 3rd, I called the oral surgeon Dad has already seen. Did they have all the information they needed from Dad’s GP? Did they have an appointment scheduled? Could they get it done really soon?

Dad has an appointment to have 2 teeth pulled on Monday March 7th at 10am. I called Mom and walked her through getting the appointment time entered on her calendar. I also informed her that starting now, she needs to take the aspirin out of Dad’s medication until further notice. I stayed on the phone until I was sure she had at least some idea of what I was talking about, but will need to follow up with the staff at the facility in making certain she is not giving Dad aspirin.
And, I will call her often during each day between now and Monday to remind her as well. I will most likely be going down to see her one of those days, but I worry that Mom will follow her normal OCD routine doling out their pills on Sunday refilling the reminders. That would be the day she’s most likely to give Dad an aspirin, with no previous day’s pills to compare and a whole new week to fill in…
I’m going to have to impress on brother the importance of getting there sometime early Sunday, after she’s done doing the distribution, before she’s given Dad his pills.
Funny, with him on 3rd shift, he’s not a morning person anymore. With me on 1st shift, I am. But I can’t be there when it counts that day – I’m on 1st shift.
Hubby might be starting a new job in the morning and could have to work the weekend. He won’t be able to go monitor the medicine.

It looks like I really need to go do it myself, just for my own peace of mind. Ah, time away from everything, driving in the car, listening to a good book on the CD player, leading to peace of mind over the aspirin.
Aspirin, again. Those pesky aspirin. I swear, they are going to be what breaks that one tiny thread of sanity I have remaining.

Mom came out of the bathroom carrying Dad’s pants and put them with the dirty clothes. She started to go to the closet to get him a clean pair, but was distracted when she found her hair brush on the back of his chair. She picked up the brush and decided that she must have been fixing her hair when I arrived, and then forgot to finish.
“That’s not all you’re forgetting, Mom.”
Mom brushed her hair a few times then turned to me and asked, “What else am I forgetting?” But, before I could answer, she went to the dresser and picked up a couple of bobby pins saying, “These fell out earlier when I was brushing my hair.”
I said, “I can see how that might happen.”
Mom put the pins back in her hair and said, “I think they should make bobby pins curve to fit your head.”
I said, “I think that’s a brilliant idea!”
Mom brushed her hair and pulled one of the bobby pins out again, “Oh, shoot!”

After a few more brush strokes, Mom was finally satisfied that her hair was good enough, but she wanted to check in the mirror. Dad was still sitting on the toilet, waiting patiently for Mom.
Mom suddenly remembered she needed to get Dad some clean pants and came back out of the bathroom.
Mom futzed around a bit until I reminded her she was getting Dad some pants. She went to the closet to find some pants, and futzed around in the closet a bit.

Dad got tired of waiting for Mom to return. I’m not even sure he realized he had no pants on, he just wanted to see his wife.

I didn’t turn my head away in time…
All at once, these three images came into my head:
1. Scott Hamilton skating, “Walk This Way“
2. Clyde from “Every Which Way But Loose”
3. And, this picture of the light shining through an Orangutan’s hair:

Yeah, put those images together and that’s pretty much what seared into my brain.