SOMETIMES, ALL YOU CAN DO IS LAUGH

Caring for an Alzheimer’s patient

MAY 10, 2015

Oh, my, what a day. It started when my husband, instead of wishing me a Happy Mother’s Day, instead told me he wished I was a piece of poop. It ended with me discovering he now brings his wallet to bed with him. Inbetween he went for a bike ride only to be brought home, just as I was beginning to worry, by two nice men from our neighbourhood.

The first incident parallels what I have been feeling a lot of lately — that I am parenting a child. His comment to me sounded like what one three year old would say to another on the playground.

The second incident was bound to happen — that he would get lost in our neighbourhood. Up until now I have not been overly concerned about the possibility of this happening as he wears a medic alert bracelet.

As to him now bringing his wallet to bed — this is another expression of his continued anxiety over money. Lately we have been having our own version of the Bermuda Triangle in our bedroom. It exists between Chuck’s side of the bed, the chaise in the corner where he puts his clothes for the night and his bedside dresser where he keeps his glasses, wallet etc. For the past few months he has been getting “lost” in this triangle.

It goes something like this.

Get undressed for bed, put wallet on dresser, get in to bed. Get out of bed and stand and hold wallet, put it back on dresser, come back to bed.

Get out of bed, put on jeans, stand there for awhile, take off jeans, get wallet, put it in the pocket of the jeans, put jeans on, stand for awhile, put wallet back on dresser, take off jeans, get back in to bed. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

This can go on for upwards of an hour and I have learned to leave him to it.

That he has been able to (hopefully) come up with a solution to this anxiety over his wallet by now bringing it to bed with him is, to me, a good sign. Amid all the confusion he exhibits he is still able to access some of his old problem solving skills. For this I am grateful.

And even with the wish that I was a piece of poop, it was a good day.

JUNE 2, 2015

Well, more material for Monty Python. Last week my husband very neatly folded the shorts he had been wearing, put them on the floor and slid them under the bed. So I went to bed giggling over that one. I suppose he figured that under the bed was a safe spot for his wallet, the only problem being that, by morning, he would not remember he had put it there.

Yesterday morning, 6:00 a.m., he is waking me up. He is agitated, I think with me, but I cannot tell as he is unable to articulate his problem. But what set me off was that he standing there in our darkened bedroom, waving his arms about while wearing his briefs, his slippers and his sunglasses with his wallet in one hand. One look was all it took and I had to turn and bury my head in my pillow, not daring to look at him again for fear of losing myself in peals of laughter.

Today I am still giggling over that image of him.

Laughing at him is not polite or proper considering the circumstances. I know that.

But I am finding it hard to contain myself in instances like this because it is comical. And I do wonder how much of any inappropriate mirth on my part is related to my system trying to relieve some stress. I imagine a great deal.

But in order to spare Chuck some dignity I will try, try, try to bring myself more under control. Biting my lip helps. What would also help is to not have him show up so early in the morning, in his underwear, slippers and his sunglasses, wallet in hand, agitated and flapping his arms about, wanting me to wake up.