Please worry about me

The phone message from Dad is, "I'm in terrible shape. Please worry about me." I do worry. I have a black belt in worry.

Trouble is, I already spent two hours with Dad and another frustrating hour with his Medicare D prescription plan provider's phone menu today. I'm practicing balance, limits, and self-preservation now that Dad is just a few blocks down the street instead of 650 miles away.

Where can I get a WWYDIYWBIN wristband for Dad? Where can I get a WWIDIHWBIN bracelet for myself?

What would I do if Howie was back in Nebraska?

Dad, what would you do if you were back there?

How on earth do elderly people manage to find their way through the darn insurance phone menus? HOEDEPMTFTWTTDIPM would require a wristband as big as a hula hoop!

After a dismal noon mealtime with Dad Sunday, I needed a 1/3 lb. bacon cheeseburger with fries ASAP. Caregiving is going to make me a blimp in time for the Super Bowl! Got calls from a son and my sister while sitting in the booth. Knowing I have their emotional support is essential.

Still sitting and slurping my Barq's, I read Karen M. Thomas' essay in the Dallas Morning News instead of skipping to the Sudoku puzzle. This poignant feature had tears streaming down my cheeks right there in the burger joint. 

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Phone outside the box

This wouldn't be a major telecommunication breakthrough for most people, but Dad called me from out in the corridor tonight. Yes, he is out in the hall, and amazed the miracle of his cordless phone extends that far from its mothership.

Dad has lost the social filters that keep him from blurting out whatever he is thinking. He uses his nightly news hour phone calls as a megaphone for insulting his roommate, the roommate's visitors, and the care facility staff. I'm embarrassed 650 miles away. I'm often insult fodder myself. Tonight the dynamic was a bit better.

The time just before and after supper is difficult for elderly people. Dad usually feels compelled to call me during this time, and I am most likely to be able to talk with him then. Dad is irritable, anxious, and truly obnoxious. Unfortunately, people converge in his room at this time to watch "Wheel of Fortune" and coax his Alzheimer's roommate to eat supper. This is a powder keg situation.

Phoning from outside his room is a good step for Dad, even if he misses the tv news and weather report. Thanks to the trained staff for helping other residents and families understand the characteristics of Dad's dementia. Thanks to so many for kindness and patience.

Out in the hallway, Dad won't insult his roommate's family. He will still announce his uncanny estimates for the weight of every staff member who walks down the hall. "Hush, Dad," I say. "You don't need to say that out loud!" You won't win a giant teddy bear for guessing weight and fortune.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Life imitating Tom Robbins

Good grief! Dad is convinced that he's been invited to South America. He says his night aides won't let him leave. They want him to go back to sleep.

All this scenario needs is a parrot. It's been years since I read about Switters in his wheelchair. Dad is indeed a fierce invalid, and a recalcitrant dreamer.

I'm worn out trying to explain the use of a phone to Dad. He's lost the list of memory-dial numbers.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

Is there blood on the carpet?

Do you really need to call me at work? When my sons were adolescents and I was a working single mom we developed a useful guideline. I expected the boys to settle disputes and handle problems themselves up to the code level of blood on the carpet.

Tonight Dad has his undies in a bunch for no reason. Having left one phone message on my cell, he's calling and calling my home and cell phones so I can't even get a return call through to him. When I finally catch him he says he was about ready to call my brother to have him call me. What's the emergency? What's the problem? Is there blood on the carpet?!

Dad was just calling to tell me about his supper. This is our daily call. Sometimes it is the first of several evening calls. I remind him of the days when his grandsons had the blood-on-the-carpet rule. He remembers and laughs. For a second we are in the present remembering the past together in a relaxed way.

I love you. I'll call you tomorrow when I get home from work. Don't call me unless there's blood on the rug.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder