alternate universes, or the "maybe" game

For some reason I started thinking about alternate universes today.  Forgive my lack of scientific words, but there is a theory (not science fiction or fantasy, but a real actual scientific idea) called a Multiverse, that posits that everything that ever could have happened, did happen, just in some other world that lies parallel to ours.  That makes me wonder if that place (those places) are the afterlife we dream of and hope for.  In some of those worlds:

• My dad is still alive and clear-minded and we visit Aunt Bert every Friday because she is also alive and clear-minded at 94 years old.  
• My grandpa didn't die of cancer 25 years ago.
• My grandma didn't have a stroke a year ago.  
• I am thin.  
• I am a paleontologist with a dinosaur named after me and I have held the claw of a raptor and the tooth of a t-rex.
• I have run my fingers through a tiger's fur.  
• I have written best-selling novels and I hobnob with famous writers.  
• I am working with elephants so I can clone a mammoth.  

That is something that can sustain me.  Every once in a while, I get a hint of cross-over, I feel like just there, so close I can touch her, Another Bert has done something amazing, and I get an echo.   Maybe on days that I feel sad for no reason, something bad has happened to one of my Others.  My pet lived, but hers died.  She has lost something that I got to keep.  And I have lost so much, and perhaps they kept it.  (They can all keep the weight I've lost, that's for sure.)
I am reading Terry Pratchett's newest book, Dodger.  To think this came out of the mind of someone who was diagnosed with Alzheimer's 5 years ago is amazing.  I know he has some help writing now, but his voice is still strongly there.  And maybe, for this world, the trade-off was my dad died and Sir Terry got to live.  Maybe in another world, my dad lived and they lost Terry Pratchett. 
We should know all this, shouldn't we? We are living in the future, aren't we?  The original Cyberpunk game was set in 2013 (then moved to 2020 and now it's being reborn in 2077).  1984, 2001, they were all supposed to be amazing futures.   Cell phones are amazing, the internet is incredible, but where are the flying cars? Why don't we live on the moon?  Why don't I have a port in my head to connect my computer?  Why don't we have awesome cyborgs and laser weapons?
Why can't we see into those other universes?  Just to KNOW, not to communicate.  Even if he's dead now of a heart attack, to know that somewhere my father didn't suffer and die as a virtual vegetable.  That my garden is beautiful because my grandpa lived long enough to help me with it.  That maybe everyone I know who is boring and ordinary, like me, is extraordinary somewhere else, even if it's only on one world out of a million.
Maybe there are other worlds where dementia and cancer don't exist or have been cured.  (I imagine they are even more grossly overpopulated than this world, though.)  Where there are no Alzheimer's blogs or awards for them because they aren't needed.
And maybe in all of them, my dad is dead.  I don't know if I'll ever know.  But I like to think that it's possible he's still there, somewhere, even if it's just at the Elsewhere Bar.
(image source)

Losing Grandma, part 4

Last night I was not a good granddaughter.  I'm not perfect.  There was a flash mob at a local bar for my high school class and I went. I was only going to stay an hour and I didn't get home until midnight.  A lot of people knew about my grandma from Facebook and gave condolences.  I was still sick too.  But I missed the formal reunion in 2007 when my dad died; I didn't want to miss an informal one because of my grandmother.  Staying home wouldn't have made my grandma alive again.
I did write the eulogy before I left.  It was hard to sleep when I got home, I was keyed up from drinking a lot of ginger ale (sugar--I usually drink diet Pepsi) and from seeing so many old friends.  When I got up this morning I went to print the eulogy and my desktop computer had crashed and my laptop (where I wrote it) isn't connected to the printer.  It's still crashed; I had to print from my husband's desktop.  Another thing to deal with.
My husband has caught my illness and I feel really bad about that.  So he was home sick in bed while I was out with my old friends.  This morning he was dragging and had to deal with dressing up and driving me and my mom to the funeral home at 9 a.m.
Grandma looked great in the casket.  The funeral director had plumped out her cheeks a little and she actually had a smile on her face, like it was a big joke that instead of celebrating her birth we were celebrating her death.  I think she looked so nice because she didn't suffer.  She was basically dead at my mom's house and they just kept her body alive for another day.
The visitation/service was very nice.  A lot of people came, probably close to 50.  Only one of my friends, but I didn't expect anyone to take time off from work.  My mom's work friends and walking friends and best friend.  My mother in  law and my husband's sister and her fiance.  My mom's cousins and some of their kids.  A few of my grandma's surviving friends. One of my cousins is now a hair dresser and is going to do my hair--it's freaky because she was born when I was in high school or college, I could be her mom.  I think she's the youngest of our generation.
And one surprise.  My grandpa had one sibling left, his sister Elsie.  I wanted to find her.  I did find her online in North Branford but I don't have a North Branford phone book and my mom said not to pursue it because she wouldn't come.  My grandma had sent her a letter and never gotten a response.  I felt really bad about not calling her; I thought she'd want to know her sister-in-law had died.  Then toward the end of the viewing in walks this tiny ancient lady with a cane, being held up by her son, and my mom almost fell out of her chair.  It was Aunt Elsie.  I hadn't seen her in probably 20 years, if not longer.  Obviously she saw the obituary in the paper.
The priest knew my grandma and I was really expecting something great from him, but he read basically the exact same thing as the chaplain did on Tuesday--my father's house has many mansions and the new version of the 23d Psalm which hasn't got the resonance of the King James version. Nothing personal. We invited him for lunch but he declined.  I read my eulogy (below) and then her brother spoke extemporaneously, from the heart, about what a hard worker my grandma was, how his earliest memories are of her going off to work at a shirt factory where she was paid piecework to pin and iron shirts, standing up all day, to help support the family during the Depression.  He talked about special foods she used to make--icebox cake and fruitcake--and how he looked forward to eating both, as they both had to mature before being eaten.  He did choke up a few times but ultimately he was okay, as we all are.
The service at the grave site was very short, basically just a prayer of farewell.  She's with my grandpa again, body and soul.  There's one spot left in the plot for my mom (and my dad's ashes).
The food at the restaurant was very good, we had about 20 people at 4 tables and everyone enjoyed everything.  We stayed there about 2 hours.
Now I've got to bring my cats to the vet, and my mom's going to come along, and we're going to make a side trip back to the cemetery to take some of the roses.
Rest in peace, Grandma.  I love you.  Say hi to my dad and Grandpa and Aunt Bert and everyone.  Hug and kiss all the animals.  

~~~~Eulogy~~~~

The last time I talked with my grandma was Sunday night.  She seemed to be in a good mood.  We were playing a word game, and when my mom took the letter she wanted, my grandma sassed her, saying “Oh, why don’t you just go home!” and laughing.

We made plans for her 94th birthday next week.  She didn’t care that she was going to be 94—“It’s just another day” she said.  I asked her where she wanted to go eat on Friday—today—and she waved her hands and said “I’m happy to go anywhere” and we decided on Red Lobster because she likes the shrimp.  But then I guess she made other plans without telling me, and she’s having lunch somewhere else today, without us. 

My grandma was a generous woman.  She worked a Mike-Rowe-worthy dirty job at a cigar factory for almost 30 years (and because of my exposure to that cigar factory, I will always love the smell of raw tobacco) and never complained even when her hands turned yellow from handling the giant bales of leaves.  At night, with those same tired discolored hands, she would knit, crochet, sew, and tat the most incredible lace.  When she retired, she donated the skill of her hands to the North Haven Senior Center.  They would give her material and yarn and patterns and she’d make quilts and lap robes and bags and funny little dolls for them to give away or sell.  Some of the material and yarn was ugly and yet she put the same care into the finished product as she did with the prettier goods.  My hands look just like hers, but I was never able to pick up even rudimentary knitting skills, unfortunately. 

My grandma taught me not to be afraid of ghosts.  That sounds weird, I know.  But when I was little, my grandparents moved into a haunted house.  It was not an old creaky spooky mansion, just a regular ranch house where the previous owner had died, but not moved on.  Her name was Mrs. Winters.   Mrs. Winters would walk up and down the cellar stairs and rattle door knobs and that was about as menacing as she ever got.  In fact I believe she was a kindly ghost, because when I slept there, she would cover me up.  I was never afraid of her because my grandparents were so matter-of-fact about her presence. I suppose I thought everyone’s grandparents lived in a haunted house.  I believe that when my grandpa died there, he took Mrs. Winters with him, because I never felt or heard her again.

My grandma was quirky and generous.  When I was a teenager, she sat me down and said if I ever wanted to try a cigarette or to drink alcohol, she would buy it for me and share it with me.  She didn’t want me sneaking around and getting in trouble.  I think that’s exactly why I never did—because of her offer.  It might not have been “cool” to smoke or drink with Grandma, but I never felt the urge to sneak booze with friends either.

I had a bad cough every winter for most of my life, and she made me a bottle of homemade cough medicine.  She drew a label that looked like a pharmacy sticker, with infinite refills and the ingredients.  She liked everything to be hand-made when possible.  When my friend had a baby a few years ago, my grandmother crocheted a receiving blanket as a gift.  My friend entered it into the Durham Fair, and it won a prize, which she gave to my grandma, who was shocked that anyone would think her simple blanket was worth any honors.

If you know me well, you know I inherited something else from my grandma besides her hands.  She was stubborn.  When I was little, she had a fancy red coat.  When something happened that made her angry, she spoke up. She’d put on that coat and go to whatever place she was upset with, and speak her mind.  When we said Grandma was “putting on her red coat” we meant “going on the warpath.”  I don’t have a red coat, but I’ve been known to venture down that warpath a time or two!  My grandma’s red coat is long gone, but she never stopped speaking her mind or being stubborn.  When her doctors told her to take her blood pressure medicine or she would have a stroke, she said she didn’t care.  She made her choice.   She was ready to go.

She lived almost 94 years.  She had slowed down a bit toward the end, but she was still mentally agile—when I took her to the bank recently, her checkbook was only off by less than a dollar—and she didn’t need help with anything.  Only her very last day on Earth wasn’t a good one, and trust me, it was only a bad day for her body.  Her soul was already gone.  She had 34,324 good days and who can ask for more than that?

Lena Gresto Nana

February 23, 1918

February 15, 2012

Losing Grandma, part 3

You know your family has been using the same funeral home too long when you call and they know who you are.  "Oh honey you sound terrible, take care of yourself.  Go back to bed."  I'm still sick as a dog, this isn't right.
Went shopping with mom for funeral clothes and spent $30 at Wal-mart on ginger ale and various cold remedies. 
The obituary is in the paper and online at the funeral home.
Text (I left in the errors, I'm too sick to deal with them):

LENA G. NANA

February 23, 1918 - February 15, 2012

Lena Gresto Nana, 93, of 191 Pool Road, North Haven, passed away Wednesday, February 15, 2012 at MidState Medical Center, Meriden. She was the beloved wife of the late Louis A. Nana. Born in West Haven on February 23, 1918; daughter of the late Adelino Gresto, Sr. and Santina Petrucci Gresto. A resident of North Haven since 1922; Lena had worked at the former Uhl Cigar Company for 29 years until her retirement; was a very active member of the North Haven Senior Center where she did numerous charitable works including knitting and crocheting; was a volunteer exercise coordinator and a parishioner of St. Barnabas Church. Mother of Ann-Shirley Rizza of Wallingford. Grandmother of Roberta Piedmont and her husband William. Sister of Albert J. Gresto of Fullerton, CA and the late Andrew and Adelino “Joe” Gresto, Jr. Also survived by nieces, nephews, great nieces and great nephews. Predeceased by her son-in-law Robert Rizza Funeral services will be conducted in North Haven Funeral Home, 36 Washington Avenue, Friday morning at 11:00. Family and friends may call from 10:00 until time of service. Interment will follow in the North Haven Center Cemetery. Should friends desire memorial contributions may be made to the CT Hospice, Inc., 100 Double Beach Rd., Branford, CT 06405.

We don't know if she would have changed the hospice donation to Alzheimer's in honor of my dad, so we left it as is; the assumption is that she was thinking of my grandpa (who died of cancer and hospice came to the house and helped care for him as he died)--she designed her obituary in 1997.  Honestly, make a donation to either if you wish, they both do good things for sick people.
Tomorrow at this time we'll be at the restaurant eating and remembering Grandma and it will all be over.

Losing Grandma, Part 2

When we got to the hospital yesterday, my grandma was in ICU & they initially said only 2 people could visit her at a time, and then they allowed my husband in also.  My grandmother was totally unconscious, IVs in both arms, breathing tube in, monitors hooked to everything.  She actually didn't LOOK bad--she wasn't blue around the lips or nails, her face wasn't sunken in, her eyes were still prominent.  But she was completely unresponsive.  Her hands were very cold, not death cold but close, and stayed however I molded her fingers.  Although the doctor had called my cell phone earlier (while I was in Stop and Shop), saying he wanted a "family meeting" no such meeting really took place.  People in scrubs (doctors, nurses, PA, who knows) wandered in and out and some of them spoke to us.  The bottom line was that the bleed in my grandma's brain was pretty much total.  She wasn't quite brain dead, but only a step above.  There was absolutely no hope of recovery.  Even though all that was true, they had still brought in a neurosurgeon to consult on the case.  My mom put the kabosh on that, she's almost 94 and nearly brain-dead, don't go messing around in her head at this point.
I have a theory on what happened that night.  I think that she had the stroke early in the night, maybe midnight.  My mom said she was partway across the bed; perhaps she was getting up to use the bathroom (which she normally did between 11 and midnight) and had the stroke then, silently.  She lay there unconscious or unable to call for help until the bleed spread so far it impacted her breathing, which woke my mom up around 3:30.  Ironically, across town, I was awake too, sick as a dog, not even thinking of my grandma, just searching for medicine.  Perhaps if it had happened Sunday at the dinner table, we could have saved her.  We'll never know.
I thought that "pulling the plug" on someone would be an involved process involving paperwork and possibly lawyers or people in suits at any rate, lots of "are you sures" (like when you delete a file from your computer).  But my mom said, "We want to remove the breathing tube," and the (person in scrubs) only nodded and then immediately starting unhooking everything. Very nonchalant.  I kinda freaked out.  I found out they'd had no priest give her last rites and now they were unplugging her like she was a toaster.  I didn't like that.
They unplugged everything but the tube and found the hospital chaplain, a lovely little woman who told us that a priest had actually been there until 1:30 but due to the time my grandma came in she hadn't been on the list.  I have no idea if they got her a priest in time, but the chaplain said she had a prayer just for unhooking machines.  She brought her assistant and gave us copies and we all read it aloud.  It had the "my father's mansion has many rooms" Bible bit and the 23d Psalm, which I love, but it was the new-school version, which I don't like much.  Give me King James any day for that solemn stuff.  There was a part about "enlightening the pagans" which did make me grin and nudge my husband when I said it (being that we're pagans).
The person who brought in the respiratory therapist to actually unhook the breathing tube said her guess was that my grandmother wouldn't die instantly.  I tended to agree.  She was unhooked at 3:50 p.m.  Immediately her breathing became loud and labored, her shoulders were lifting with each breath.  Her oxygen saturation with the tube had only been around 70 so I can't imagine it was any better breathing on her own.
We stayed until 4:30 and there was no change.  But it was clear to me that my grandma wasn't there anymore.  She was actually even more gone than my dad had been--at least he would squeeze my hand once in a while, and when I brought the dog and put his hand on the dog, he'd pet him.
And of course it was awful for my mom.  Although my dad wasn't on machines, we did have to make decisions that were, in essence "kill him" and saying "take out the tube" is the same order.  It's only been 4 1/2 years since we went through all this with my dad.  My grandma's mother lived to be 99 and we kinda expected, in our hearts, for her to follow that path.
Then again, she refused to take her blood pressure medicine.  This summer the doctor told her right out that her next stroke would kill her or put her in a nursing home and my grandma said "I don't care" so she got her wish right?
We went to my mom's house.  My husband's mom came by with a bag of Chinese food (we couldn't go out to eat--it was Valentine's Day, remember!) and we sat around with cell phones and made calls, leaving the house phone open for call-backs.  My grandmother's last living brother was devastated.  I really think my mom should have called him at 6 a.m. when she originally got home from the hospital and not waited 12 hours.  Yes, he's in California with a time difference but maybe he would have wanted to hop a plane and get there before we pulled the plug?  That's one thing I don't agree with how my mom handled it.  He called back, begging my mom "Are you sure she can't get better?  Maybe she'll wake up."  No one wants their sister to die even if she's 93.  Since we couldn't tell him when she would die, or when the funeral would be, he decided to come Thursday through Tuesday.
We left my mom's house around 7 and I crashed.  I am so sick.  My ear infection has spread to my sinuses and the pressure and pain across my face is unreal.  I need about 2 days in bed with a bottle of Nyquil and it's not going to happen.
My mom had already taken a shower and gotten ready for bed when my grandmother's sister in law (her baby brother's wife) and her 3 daughters showed up after visiting the hospital.  My aunt was insistent that my grandmother "looked good and was breathing fine".  (She's a great one for denial, when her husband was dying of a brain tumor a few years ago she kept saying he was getting better.)  Her daughters contradicted her.
I woke up at 2:04 a.m. and unlike the night before, I knew.  I looked around, closed my eyes and felt around, but I couldn't feel her.  I took more medicine, went to sleep again, and wasn't surprised when my mom called at 6 a.m. to say the hospital  called her at 2:20.  But like me, she had already been awake.  I think 2:04 was when she actually passed.
We had an 11 a.m. appointment at the funeral home which went well because my grandma had paid for everything in 1997 and laid out exactly what she wanted.  All we had to do was update her obituary and pick out her prayer card.  Plus that funeral home has handled everyone in my mom's family forever; he's a friend of the family as well as the funeral director.  He made it very easy.  I had some pictures of my grandma on my cell phone and he picked which ones to use for make-up and agreed with our choice for her obituary (the one I used above).  The funeral is Friday, no wake the night before, no church, everything at the funeral home.  My grandma even paid for a limo.
We picked a local restaurant to host the after-funeral gathering (my mom's dog is too crazy and her house too small, as we found out when my dad died) and spent an hour there (and $800) planning that.  Another $800 on flowers and then we all went home until Friday, and I crashed again, and woke up to have some soup and write this.
I've always noticed that my grandma, my mom and I have (had) the same hands. I didn't have my phone with me on Sunday and I decided to take the "3 hands" picture on Friday when we all went out for grandma's birthday.  Well we're all going out on Friday for lunch, but it's nothing like we planned! (The chaplain suggested wryly when we told her about the Friday birthday lunch, "Obviously Lena made other plans for that day!")  I had to take the 3 hands picture with an essentially dead grandma.  But I got it.  I have no children.  Never again will these hands grace the world once my mom and I are gone.

losing grandma, part 1

I was awake at 3 a.m. and beyond this morning.  I was sick, I've got a cold and an ear infection.  First thing this morning I rescheduled the cats' vet appointment so I could stay home all day and just be sick in bed.  (And I called the doctor about my ear.)  Moments later, my mom called me.  She said she had "bad news" and I knew it was death but I thought it was the dog or cat or some distant relative (last summer, for instance, one of my second cousins went on a "vision quest" and was found dead under a tree three weeks later with an uneaten banana and a bottle of water, and a few years ago my mom's cousin was a Memorial Day weekend motorcycle fatality statistic).
But no, not so distant. Apparently around 3:30 (as I was lying awake plotting my sick day), my mom was woken up by "a god-awful noise" coming from my grandmother's room, like a rattling gasping for breath.  When she went in, my grandmother was unresponsive with fixed eyes.  She called 911 and the fire department intubated (sp?) her and brought her to the hospital.
Grandma had a "massive stroke"--the one the doctors had been warning her would happen if she didn't take her blood pressure medicine.  Of course she always laughed them off and went right on taking 1/4 of a pill instead of whatever her real dosage was.  She'd had a minor stroke a while back and my mom called me out of work and it ended up being nothing that serious (that was when she moved in with my mom, 4 1/2 years ago, right before my dad died).
But this one, yeah, this is it.  My mom told me right out at 8 this morning "she's not going to make it this time."  She's on a respirator.  If the EMTs hadn't put the tube in her she'd be dead already.  They did a  scan of her brain and it's massive bleeding everywhere (like my dad after he hit his head) no chance of recovery. I don't want a vegetable for a grandma.  I had one for a dad and I didn't like it one bit.
I called the funeral home and had them pull the paperwork for my grandma's prepaid funeral (from 1987 when her husband died)--why my mom couldn't think to do that, I don't know, but they appreciated the heads-up.  I don't know if my mom has called my grandma's brother or sister-in-law.  I told my godmother (my grandma's niece).
I just never know what to do while in death limbo.  Call everyone and say "she's gonna die" and then tomorrow or the next day call and say "she died"?  Wait until she's dead?  What if her brother wants to come from California to say goodbye?  What about the few friends she has left?  I'm not good with complex thinking when I'm sick with some kind of hideous flu.  I suppose I have to write the obituary too.  It's all I can do to compose this post, obit will have to wait.
My mom has grandma on a DNR, obviously--she's 93 (her 94th birthday is this weekend; the picture above is from last year's party).  But right now the ventilator is keeping her alive.  Her heart is strong and healthy but the doctors don't know if she'll keep breathing without the tubes or just die.  So that's what I get to do this afternoon, go and pull the plug on my grandma and watch her die. 
Happy Valentine's day to my family, right?  My dad died on Thanksgiving, and my grandpa, great grandpa and great grandma all died within days of my birthday.  My  husband's grandmas both died around his birthday (one actually ON the day).  So why not ruin Valentine's day with a death anniversary too? 
I need to think more positively, but right now I can't.  The doctors say she's not in pain.  She's simply  not there anymore.  Hopefully she won't linger and suffer like my dad did (and he suffered--there was no lying to me and saying "he's not in pain" even though he was a vegetable; he moaned and thrashed like an animal in a trap).  I didn't get to say goodbye to her properly but really, that's rare.  When someone is hanging on forever like my dad, you never know when the last time will be to say it, and the flip side is the immediate and quick death with no time for the last time.  If that makes any sense.  She lived to be, essentially, 94.  She had no dementia, no cancer, no ill-health other than arthritis and high blood pressure.  She could walk (slowly) and talk (just fine) until the end. Most people would be happy with that kind of life.
Sunday night, in fact, she was in a really good mood.  We were playing a word game and my mom took a spot where my grandmother wanted to put her word and my grandma was sassing her and we were all laughing.  We were planning on where to take her for her birthday (Red Lobster, for lunch, on Friday).  Now it's more likely that on Friday we'll be eating an after-funeral meal instead.
Bye, Grandma.  I love you.  I'll miss you.  Say hi to Dad & Grandpa for me when you get to the Elsewhere Bar.

death of an uncle, grandma is crazy

My grandmother's brother died on Monday. He had a brain tumor, similar to the one afflicting Senator Kennedy, and got it around the same time as the senator.
I'm not sure exactly what happened to my uncle. He had been in bad shape as the tumor progressed, and he was placed in a nursing home in the last few weeks. The nursing home moved him to hospice about a week before he died. But there is so much denial and misinformation floating around in the family--supposedly the hospice was temporary and he was getting better and about to be sent home? That makes no sense to me. And everyone seems so absolutely shocked that he died...a man in his 80's who had been fighting a brain tumor for over a year, maybe even two years.
Seeing my grandmother's reaction to her brother's death makes me really question her sanity and yet I can find no signs of dementia in her, unless she is progressing in a completely different fashion than my dad. She complained throughout the wake about "how hard" it was for her (to sit in the chair? To see her brother dead?) and as usual made it all about her. She refused to come to the funeral; my mom and I went as her emissaries. Nothing I loves better than a high Catholic funeral mass on a Friday afternoon to raise my spirits, followed by a military/Naval funeral rite at a windy cold grave site.
I wasn't at all close to my grandmother's brother--I maybe saw him once a year. His children are all 10-15 years older than me and their children 15-20 years younger than me, so I'm not close to them either. I wouldn't recognize his grandchildren if they were seated near me in a restaurant. I couldn't pick them out of the wake/funeral crowd for the most part. So I didn't grieve or anything, although I cried just because of all the emotion in the air, and being so damn empathic in situations like that.
The most noticeable symptom of my grandma's craziness (for lack of a better word) is an utter absence of hygiene. She doesn't change her clothes (including underwear) more than once a week unless my mom forcibly takes the clothes. She now only "washes" once a week. I use the term "washes" loosely as she doesn't take a bath or shower, just wipes the "dirty" parts of her body. I can't go more than 2 days without washing my hair/body because I feel disgusting, I know I smell disgusting, and it's physically uncomfortable. I don't know how she does it. She never, ever washes her hair, which is plastered to her head with grease and is enough to make a person want to vomit. My mom and I have said we'd wash her hair in the sink or take her to a hairdresser once a month to get it washed and she refuses. I said I'd get her dry shampoo (like powder) and she refuses to use it. How do you reason with a person who is filthy? I hate sitting next to her at meals.
I've spoken to some friends who are nurses and they've made suggestions to try to help my grandma. What would be ideal would be to have someone come in once a week and scrub her head to toe. But Medicare won't pay for that. She is utterly non compliant in all medications, so even if we can get her diagnosed with depression or something, she won't take the pills assigned to her. She refuses to take any medicine because it makes her "sick" and gives her "die rear" (how she insists diarrhea is pronounced) and makes her "dizzy".
Her other personal habits are just as annoying & gross. She makes herself coffee, pours milk into it, drinks a sip, then leaves the almost full cup on the counter. A few hours later she microwaves it, drinks another sip, leaves it on the counter. Eventually, after a day or so, she has finished the cup. She pours new coffee into the filthy cup and starts the cycle again. I want to gag when I see her doing it. If my mother dumps out the putrid coffee and washes the cup my grandma gets angry. She's got all these rules which she invented. The other day I was over there mid-afternoon, downstairs with my mom playing video games. My grandma said she wanted bread and cereal (the pantry is in the basement)--no hurry. An hour later she's at the top of the stairs yelling she needs her cereal and bread NOW! Why? So she can lay out her breakfast for the next day...at 4 p.m. the day before. I don't get that at all. My dad did it too, only he didn't lay his out until around 9 p.m. which isn't bad. But it's not like it takes forever to get out a spoon, bowl and box of cereal in the morning, esp. if you are retired and have no pressing engagements.
I went for a long walk yesterday with a friend whose mom is in a nursing home and getting dementia and we talked a lot about how hard it is to deal with loved ones who no longer have any logic to how they do things. My friend paid her mom's rent for 18 months because her mother insisted she was going to come home--even though the doctor said it wasn't happening. She took in her mother's pets and visits her mom daily, only to be showered with invectives for never visiting and not caring. Now her mother is demanding an expensive funeral spread over 2 states (she is no where near dying, just making her own plans). The mother has no money or life insurance policy to pay for a such a thing, and her daughter is already in debt from paying her mother's bills and partially paying for the nursing home for 2 years--and the nursing home is coming after her for MORE money, even though there is none.
These are the real stories of dementia--add in my friend whose grandpa has dementia and MRSA and there are 3 of us just in my very small social circle--we are approximately 30, 40 & 50 years old.
The government so far hasn't helped regular middle-class people like my friend and me (both of us unemployed). But they give AIG billions of dollars and AIG pays out hundreds of millions in bonuses to the people who ran their business into the ground.
I'm so bitter.

131 "he's not your father anymore"

I look back through this blog and smile sadly at some of my posts, where my dad did things that were kind of goofy and funny and we laughed a little at him, but in a loving way.
My dad is not funny anymore, not in the least.
He is incontinent, combative, possessive and completely inarticulate. And that's on a good day.
If he's not watched constantly, he goes in his pants. But now there's a twist. He won't take the dirty pants and underpants off. He won't shower. He sleeps fully dressed, in pee-soaked clothes. My mom is at her wits' end. Even if she could get him to wear diapers, how would she change him if she can't even get him to take off underwear soaked with pee or worse?
Sunday we had just gotten home from hiking at Sleeping Giant when my mom called for us to come over immediately. They were out in the yard and my dad attacked my mother, screaming at her that she'd stolen his money. (What money? Who knows?) Their neighbor saw or heard or somehow realized what was going on and rushed into their yard to pull my father away. In the melee the dog bit the neighbor (not badly), probably protecting my father.
We got there to find the kindly helpful neighbor with a slightly bloody leg, my father with his "mean face" on and fists clenched, ready to rumble and my mom in tears.
Typical Sunday.
My father turns to look at us as we walk up the sidewalk and demands to know, "Why are they here?" I finally do what I said I wouldn't do. I say, "I'm your daughter. Don't you know who I am?" Blank stare. My husband starts trying to talk to him and calm him down, but the mean face is getting worse and the fists come up. Remembering what several people have said to me about giving him things to hold, I take both his hands in mine and try to smooth out his fists. He yanks his hands back and fists them again like he' s going to go for me. I almost wish he would. My husband steps in, grabs my father, and starts saying emphatically that we're there because we love him and we want to help him but he can't hit people. Of course we have said this to him so many times and he won't learn. As Will is talking, my father is looking around him making the mean face at me and my mom is apologizing a million times to the neighbor for the dog. In return the neighbor apologizes for not realizing what was going on sooner and getting there quicker. Nothing is being accomplished.
The neighbor leaves. I sit on the steps. Will is still giving every version of his "do you want to live here with the cat and dog? Then stop hitting your wife" speech to my dad who is not listening. My mom explains that my father thought she stole his money. I give my father $3. He makes the mean face at everyone and then squirrels it away in his wallet.
The sad fact is that Sunday was my parents' 40th wedding anniversary. We should have gone out to a nice restaurant and celebrated. But there is no way.
My dad has my mom's engagement picture next to his bed. She saw him looking at it and asked who it was. He said, "my wife." And then he admitted knowing the picture was of her. So he knows that she's his wife. But he acts like she's his jailer.
I told my mom to leave, go anywhere, shopping, walk in the park, Sunday drive, just to get away. She went out shopping for about 90 minutes, leaving us to sit with my dad while he watched a ball game and pretended we weren't there.
In grandma news, we brought our new kitten Sputz over her house a few weeks ago to visit. She thought he was "very wild" but he was actually well-behaved. He ended up laying on the table sleeping while we did the puzzle. (At our house, the cats sleep on the kitchen table all the time--they have a bed there by the window--we never eat at our table.) Since all Grandma did was complain about the kitten, I won't bring him anymore. I thought that was the end of the story.
A few days later, something happened with my parents' cat. My dad let him outside without his leash and when my mom went to retrieve the cat, for whatever reason he freaked out and bit her hand pretty badly. It was swollen and infected. She took some antibiotics and it got better. End of story with that, too, right?
No. Grandma saw Mom's hand before it was healed and got it in her head that my fuzzy cuddly Sputz bit her, not crazy Jasper, and said she didn't want Sputz coming over again (which he already wasn't) since he'd bitten my mom so bad! My mom couldn't get her to understand that Sputz is a very good kitten and he did not bite her.
Back to dad.
So Sunday we have dinner as usual with grandma. My father leaned over and either karate chopped my mom's arm or pinched it (he does both, I didn't quite see which this time) and once again my husband explained IT IS NOT ACCEPTABLE TO HIT OR HURT PEOPLE.
Blank stare.
We get ready to leave. My mom collects most of the empty soda cans in a bag. My dad's can is empty. She tries to take it. He resists. She gives up for the moment. We all go outside. My husband and I get in our car and start to back out of the spot. My mom tries again to get the empty can and my dad whacks her. My husband stopped the car dead, rolled down the window and yelled at him, getting the mean face in return.
In the car on the way home, I said, "I hate being mean to my father." My husband replied, "he's not your father anymore."
His rages always about "his" things. You are trying to take something from him (his soda can, his filthy pee-stained underwear) and that makes you the enemy in his mind. Or he thinks you have taken something that either he never had or he just can't find or is confused about.
And it's not just my dad. This was in News of the Weird a few weeks ago. It's mainly meant to be a humorous column, but this section didn't strike me as funny:

At a Toronto nursing home in May, a 69-year-old resident angrily kicked a 79-year-old fellow resident, causing him to fall and fatally hit his head. The victim had taken up with a female resident, thinking she was his wife, but the jealous younger man thought the woman was his own wife. She was actually married to neither; all three had Alzheimer's disease. (No charges were filed.) [The Star (Toronto), 6-21-07]

"That's my wife." "No, that's my wife." Kick. Thump.
In other news, I somehow came across this on the web: Project Lifesaver. I am probably going to explain it badly, but it is a GPS project aimed at dementia/Alzheimers, autism and Down's Syndrome people. They get a wristband which looks like a watch that has a GPS beacon in it. If the person goes missing, they check that person's GPS beacon frequency, dial it into some special machines and go looking. They sent me a nice DVD for free with some written material and asked me to give it to the local police, which I did. Whether they will sign up for it, I don't know. No police station in Connecticut has yet, although the Project Lifesaver guy who sent it to me said Stamford might. They can network the GPS info with the Safe Return data.
If you haven't got this in your area, write to them, get the info package and bring it to your police station. The Wallingford police had never heard of it, although they knew about Safe Return. I also found that my dad is not flagged as a dementia patient in their computer so I had them do that. I'm not sure why, since they have his safe return info.

108 Thanksgiving, dad & grandma -style

We had Thanksgiving at my mom's house, as usual. My mother-in-law brought shrimp cocktail, stuffed mushrooms and a lovely cake. My dad loves shrimp cocktail. He would have eaten ONLY shrimp for his Thanksgiving meal if we hadn't taken the platter away. Then he didn't know what anything was. He would point. He said "I don't know what this is, but it's good" about the stuffing, but then he was picking it out of his mouth (and putting it into the stuffed mushrooms serving platter of all places). He also picked the mushrooms out of his mouth.
My grandmother was her obnoxious holiday self. She claims to be "sick" and that we "don't understand" how sick her medicines make her. My mother and I tell her constantly to just stop taking them them, but then she's "sick" in a different way. There's no winning. She actually drove herself, in spite of the rain, but then complained that she was tired, she was missing her nap, etc. She treats my dad like he's 5, she either talks down to him or around him, and I don't like that. (Not that I never talk around him, but I don't talk to him like he's a baby.)
The cake was to celebrate my husband getting a new job. My grandmother picked up a knife and hacked a random hunk of out it before Will even got to see it, and then got angry that it was chocolate, and went on a tirade about how she can't eat chocolate. Will just sat there in shock. "She ruined my cake," he said in disbelief. Funny that she eats chocolate éclairs every Sunday and never complains. But on Thanksgiving, chocolate makes her sick. Then she left. Apparently the next day she called my mom and was angry that she didn't get any of the dessert my mom made me ( graham cracker-pudding-chocolate yummy melange). We didn't offer it to her after her anti-chocolate rant. Why would we? She is getting so very rude, and she seems to think that's okay because she's 88. Ruining the cake is only part of it. On Sunday nights when we're over, she puts on this tape of country music (which Willy and I HATE) at full loud volume and does her "exercises" (simple stretches) totally ignoring us. She has ALL DAY to do this stupid tape, why does she wait until we're there? She sees me for 2 hours a week, and that's how she choses to spend that time? She knows we hate the music and basically sit there gritting our teeth until she's done. If I got up and left when she turned it on, then I would be the rude one. I don't get it. She also doesn't do the puzzle. She does her "exercises" while we do the puzzle for her. I don't even want to stay anymore and work on the puzzles anymore. She picks these ugly dark paintings and they aren't fun to work on.
Friday Will had off from work so the four of us went out for lunch at the Pacific Buffet. Where my dad had, of course, more shrimp cocktail. They didn't have his "shells" (clams). Will said he saw my dad get kind of lost, he went to the other side of the dining room where we sat last time instead of where we were this time. Dad was scooping ice cream with the little plastic eating spoon but he thought it was funny. He explained how he thought the spoon was going to break (in Bob-speak). My mom said he was in a terrible mood that morning and she almost left him home but that got him even madder.
Will and I went to a movie and that night I went back over to do a puzzle. I had seen some cheap puzzles at Big Lot and my mom braved the Black Friday crowd with my dad and they picked some up. He choose a Noah's Ark puzzle for the animals. As soon as we started putting it together he lost interest and wandered off. He pointed to the picture of Noah and said "He's the guy! look, he's got the little thing." (Meaning, baby sheep he was carrying).
He also did something VERY funny. I had been there about half an hour, and we were eating our tea and crumpets (water and the chocolate graham cracker dessert) and my dad says "I saw that girl today. They said they were coming later." I had no idea what she was talking about. Then my mom said, "That girl is your daughter and she's sitting across the table from you." He looks over, says "hi!" very cheerfully, shakes my hand, and then says to my mom "I told you." It was hilarious.
Some days you have to laugh, or you cry.