Silly Pleasures

I've heard of people with dementia having wandering behaviors, and I just naturally think of them taking a walk through the neighborhood...actually someone else's neighborhood by the time they get through. Police are often called to assist in these haphazard excursions of the elderly.

But I would like to declare another genre of wandering behavior. It might be called telephone wander lust. Every time Dean sees an 800-number lately he feels compelled to call it. I can't tell you how many times I have rescued him from being a scam target.

The nurse at his doctor's office even called me the other day, wondering if we had put in a request for a back brace. I timidly explained that it was the result of one of his calls, answering a TV ad. It's getting downright scary what he might get himself involved in. And I don't know how to reel him in from this silly and potentially harmful practice.

Most of the time he just gets them to mail us information, as if we don't get enough junk mail already. And speaking of mail. I've also had to be careful of his mailing in postcards and ordering "stuff" with any postage paid invitations that he happens to come across. It doesn't matter what it is, if the word "free" is on it, he wants it. I'm trying to be the first one to the mailbox these days, but it isn't always easy.

I'm not sure why these activities are so enjoyable to him. I think he just has a desire to reach out and feel like he's still a normal human being, who can conduct business on his own.

Perhaps I shouldn't be so harsh with him and allow him these pleasures as long as I can. My first instinct is to get rid of the television, toss out our landline phone, and get our mail delivered to a post office box. But then again, I'll probably just wait and see where it all goes.

After all, isn't God just as patient with some of my silly pleasures?

The Phone Call

There was a voice message on my phone I finally saw and listened to yesterday. Dean had already given me the number to call someone back the day before, but I had no idea how much labor went into the process of getting that number.

The recorded message told it all. Dean was so slow in answering the phone that it went to voicemail and recorded their conversation. The poor phone operator was so patient with him. It took him forever to get the pen and paper to write down her number. And she had to repeat it numerous times for him to get it right. He kept reversing digits, reading it back to her wrong, and she had to correct him. It was almost comical--I kept holding back laughter while listening to it. Why she didn't just hang up and try to contact someone else, I'll never know.

It seems to me that God must have just as hard a time getting through to us sometimes. We drag our feet about answering His call, about getting the message, and even mess up getting it right. But He's a patient operator. He wants us to succeed, no matter how sin has disabled us. I hope I can be a better listener from here on out.

Getting Over the Sleepover

Last night we kept our granddaughters for a "sleepover". It worked quite well until the sleep was over--about 3 a.m. Even though they obediently tried to go back to their makeshift bed of sofa cushions out in the living room and go back to sleep, it just didn't happen. They stayed in the living room, but it seems little sister was a jabbering fool, not allowing sleep to come for her five-year-old sister.

Grandpa couldn't wait to fix their Sunday morning pancakes though, so he went out at 4:30 to start their breakfast. I, of course, went out as needed for my mediation services. There were only a couple of outbursts (by Grandpa, of course), but none of us got any more sleep after that. (Good thing we had all retired shortly after nine the previous night.)

My daughter called to tell me she was coming to pick them up and offered to take Grandpa for an outing, just her and the girls, to give me a break this morning.

Just before they headed out the door, I mentioned that they hadn't had any sleep since 3 a.m. A temporary look of fear swept over her face, but she was locked in. So I have the house to myself. And she has, well, let's just say I hope she survives.

God gives mothers and grandmothers the patience of saints. Heaven knows we need it.

My Plank

Believe it or not, I went out on a date with Dean tonight at Misty's Restaurant (probably the most popular steakhouse in town). I wasn't thinking of it as a date until it was over though. I shouldn't have been so negative about it the last few days, because Dean was really looking forward to it. I'm sure I killed a lot of his joy with my skeptical remarks.

You see, last week we got one of those marketing offers in the mail. Come and hear "information" about something, in exchange for a free meal. We have done it occasionally in the past, when our finances weren't as tight. But now it's just a painful reminder that there's a room full of fifty or so people, all with more money than you have. You definitely are not going to buy whatever they have to sell. And it's just not a good feeling for me.

Dean insisted that I call and make the reservations though, so I did. Just to appease him. I made it known that I was not on board with his request and frequently voiced my unhappiness over his decision to attend the "free" dinner.

Now my regret is that I didn't try to make it a more positive experience for him from the start. After watching him spill his drink almost as soon as we sat down, some of the old compassion started coming back for me. I saw that he was having a hard time cutting his steak (let alone eating it with his eight lonely remaining teeth), so I cut my steak in bite-size pieces before transferring it to his plate (our agreed-upon arrangement since I'm vegetarian).

Thinking back on our day, I recognize now the negativity I've had inside me lately. I'm always worried about Dean watching his language and behavior in front of our granddaughters, but I definitely need to watch my own words and actions and make sure they are full of the same patience and respect we encourage the girls to show their grandpa.

Jesus knew what He was saying when He told us not to judge, lest we be judged. (Matthew 7:1). And we see His sense of humor as He further describes it as looking for the splinter in your brother's eye, when you have a plank in your own! I pray God will show me how to get the plank out of my eye, so I can see clearly enough to help Dean with his little splinters.

Escaped Pills

This morning when I was filling my own pill organizer, I noticed Dean's pill organizer had one of the little boxes open just a little. Much to my chagrin, Tuesday night's pill door was not only open, but there were three little "escapees" on the loose! Did they fall on the floor somewhere that only a curious dog or child would be able to locate and put in "solitaire" (i.e. their own mouth)?

Dean came into the kitchen at about that time and when I asked what he knew about the "pill break", he informed me that he had noticed that pills had dropped to the floor when he took his pills the night before. But not to worry, he found them and taken them along with his other pills. Well, there's a whole new thing to worry about...what pills were they?

They ended up being "significant" pills, but evidently Dean was able to weather the storm overdose, because, after all, here he was at five in the morning, wide awake and telling me about it with coherent speech and everything.

When bigger things start falling out of their prescribed places in our lives, we follow a similar pattern of wondering, worrying, questioning, and searching. How patient a God we have, who allows us to experience these very human responses. In the end, we often don't get our questions answered, we never find what we're looking for, and it's especially then that our worry can spin out of control.

But God has given us a special tool to help us weather these very real storms of life. It's called faith. Nothing gets the emotions under control better than a healthy dose of this worry-buster. When we turn the controls over to God, He never steers us into waters we can't handle. Things find their perspective in the bigger picture that God Himself controls.

I needed this little reminder this morning. God has the answers and He's in control.

Trapped

I've always wondered why I dread going places in the car with Dean. Nine times out of ten when I've lost patience with him, it's been while we are going someplace in a car. He may have been an excellent truck driver before his injury, but that also seems to qualify him as the worst "back seat driver" now.

Today was no exception, as I really came unglued just as we entered the parking lot of the eye doctor's office. This was our fourth time there in the past week, by the way. It's a long story, but needless to say, I wasn't calmed down enough to do anything but sit in the car while he went in and got the new lens for his glasses.

I got to thinking about why car trips were so difficult for us--especially for me. The thought came to me that in a car, we can't get away from each other. You can't go to another room, or take a walk around the block to cool off. You are stuck in the car with someone you can't deal with and don't want to deal with--and it isn't fun.

Satan loves us to feel trapped like this. He tries to arrange our lives so that we have no way out, so we have no where else to go but to be with him, to follow him, to be miserable with him. He wants to "take us for a ride".

God, on the other hand, bids us enter His house, where there is plenty of room to deal with our sin problems, whatever they are. We need this freedom to grow our patience, heal our anger, and understand our trials.

Next time Dean and I find ourselves in the car, I refuse to feel trapped. I'll just keep focused on the freedom that awaits us at home.

Toddler Behavior

This morning Dean was a bit of a "behavior problem child" (my new term for it, after observing the actions of my just-turned-three granddaughter). He flared up, just like a toddler would, when at one point he didn't get his way about something, and then resorted to pushing my buttons repeatedly in childish retaliation.

In my earlier days of parenthood, I probably wouldn't have been so patient. But I guess I'm just more mature now and have had LOTS of patience practice, so I was able to just ignore his silly antics. (Just in case you're wondering, he kept rolling his window all the way down while we were on the interstate, hoping I'd complain about all the hot air blowing on us.)

He apologized for it later in the day, for which I am fortunate. Not all caregivers are blessed with someone still capable of heartfelt remorse. It's nice to have his spoken requests for forgiveness, along with his often-expressed words of love. It makes caregiving so much more bearable.

I can understand God's patience a little better through this. He keeps His merciful forgiveness available to all who simply ask for it. And besides, He's had eons of patience practice under His belt. It pleasures Him to receive our repentance, but I'm sure it also pains Him immensely when we fail to reciprocate His love by neglecting to express our love and praise to Him for all He's done.

I still made him a special Fourth of July meal. Feeding him is my number one way to keep him happy and well-behaved!

About to Scream

This has to be almost the first time I have titled my post before writing it, but I just had to get "about to scream" off my chest. The feeling is overwhelmingly accurate, but I'm sure it will pass here soon.

I was just called into the living room for the second time this morning. The first time it was Dean announcing that he had spilled a whole plate of scrambled eggs on the floor next to his brand new lift recliner. I reminded him once again as I cleaned it up that is why I ask him to sit at the table to eat. (Keep in mind that he spilled a cup of root beer INTO the chair just yesterday.)

I turn my back and he goes into the kitchen and scrambles another egg, and I find him once again in the recliner to eat it. This on the back of his refusal to go to his adult day program again, even though he is awake and dressed and could conceivably go this time.

Maybe I should have titled this post "Once Again". How frustrating it must be for God to have His children disobey Him repeatedly. I have to consider the patience of God with all of us, or I would not have an ounce of patience myself to handle these events.

But I also consider the problems my brothers and sisters all over the world are struggling with. They make mine seem like nothing. So, as I put all this in perspective, I guess I don't have it so bad. What's a little scrambled egg on your carpet? Who's more important, my carpet or my husband? I told you the feeling would pass.

Caregiving Etiquette

Finally Dean got to use his Burger King gift card he got for Christmas. We went there for supper today and ate in the BK dining room. Not just drive-thru for this fast-food special occasion. It was a good time to be there, just before the supper rush, and it appeared we were the only customers for awhile at least.

We made our food choices, and Dean was trying to count out the exact change from a handful of coins in his hand. He was starting to get a bit frustrated with the effort it was taking. So I appealed to him to let me get the coins for the cashier, since there were now people behind us waiting in line. He relented and we then proceeded to find a table with our food.

Dean, of course, had his usual large Coke under control, I thought, until he set it down by the tray of food on the table and then knocked it over with his hand, spilling most of the contents, on the table, on the chair, on the floor, and on himself.

With a bit of embarrassment I informed the cashier that we had a rather major mishap, involving Coke spillage at our table. He was so polite and understanding about taking care of it. I hoped it wasn't just an outward showing of customer service etiquette he was forced to adhere to, but that it was evidence of a sincere compassion on two senior citizens, who were just doing the best they could.

I hope I can exemplify this in my life as well. I pray that my patient and loving behavior doesn't become just an outward showing of caregiving etiquette that I'm forced to adhere to, but that it stems from an overflow of loving patience that my heavenly Father has exhibited toward me, and continues to show each and every day of my life.

Cinnamon Factory

I am not a crafty person. Oh, I have creative juices flowing, and I think I have an eye for beauty, but my hands are not my friends when I work with just about anything. I try not to blame it on being left-handed. I just don't have much patience for material objects of any kind.

Case in point. Earlier this week, I thought on a whim that my daughter could use a break from motherhood so she could get her house cleaned for the holiday coming up. So I offered to take my two granddaughters for a few hours in the afternoon and work with making some little gifts to give to those coming for Thanksgiving.

We did ornamental, scented cookies made with applesauce and cinnamon. Someone had told me about them and they sounded easy enough for my handicraft-challenged hands. Plus I saw on the internet how you could make a heart with two candy canes and pour melted chocolate in them, and just let them harden in the refrigerator. Keep in mind, I wasn't just thinking of keeping it simple for two eager toddlers. It had to be easy for me too.

To make a long story short, I've spent hours this week tying tiny ribbons on these cookies and assembling some gift boxes to put them in, filling bags with the candy cane hearts, writing on tags and putting them on the bags. Not to mention having my house smell like a cinnamon factory all week as the cookies dry out.

I've come to the conclusion that my gift of patience comes easier with people than it does with things. So, this evening, as I labored over the finishing touches of this project, I have been conjuring up images of the smiles on my granddaughters' faces as they distribute the little boxes to their guests tomorrow. That will be reward enough for my madness.

Grandma's lil' workshop table

Miss Copycat

Today my granddaughters were over to visit for awhile. Jenna, 4, took out some crayons and a book and laid on the floor of the living room to color. Julia, 2, matched her sister's actions by lying on her stomach with another coloring book and some crayons. Everything Jenna said, Julia said, like an little echo. Jenna asked her to stop copying her, and told me she was tired of it. I tried to commiserate by saying I was tired of repeating everything for Grandpa too, because he doesn't hear very well.

We tell Jenna to be patient with her sister. She won't always be a copy cat. Hopefully, some day the copying will stop and they will be good friends.

I wish the same could be said about their grandpa. I must be patient with him too, but he will never stop asking me to repeat things. At least not in his or my lifetime here on earth. It does seem that I'm expected to have a heartier variety of patience than she does.

But this is obviously how our character grows. Jenna's learning to be patient now, because she will have bigger reasons to have patience in the future. By the time she's my age, she will have the patience to be married to a grandpa of her own.

There's still some justice in the world.

Miss Copycat and Miss Patience

Scrambled Eggs on the Floor

I was getting ready for church this morning when Dean asked me what I was fixing him for breakfast. When I said steel-cut oatmeal (which just needed heated up), he said he wanted to fix himself some scrambled eggs instead. Knowing I wouldn't be leaving for a little while, I said for him to go ahead then and do the eggs himself.

That's when disaster struck. As he was taking the eggs out of the refrigerator, the carton, almost full of eggs, made a nosedive out of his hands and onto the floor. What a mess! I don't know what he would have done, if I hadn't been there to clean up the gooey remains. I managed to salvage five or six cracked eggs, which I broke into a frying pan for him to start scrambling for us both to eat. Then I threw out or mopped up the rest of the eggs.

He felt bad enough already, so I refrained from yelling at him for his carelessness. (Wish I had that much patience when I was a young mother.) But then Dean, halfway serious, told me it was really MY fault, since I had told him to fix his own breakfast.

When trials come, do I tend to point my finger at God, even a little too? Even though God has given me freedom to choose, and all the basic necessities of life, I still want to throw the blame onto Him, because He's supposed to be in charge. I hope I can remember that it's our loving, patient God, after all, who cleans up the messes I've pretty much made on my own. Even the accidental ones.

Scrabble, Anyone?

I used to get so frustrated playing Scrabble with my husband. Before his accident, he could whip me every time in a game of chess, but he could never outshine me in a game of Scrabble. His creative vocabulary, along with fairly good phonic skills but very poor spelling ability, resulted in some pretty loud shouting matches, as we argued over what words were acceptable.

It's getting winter. And I felt like getting out the Scrabble game again today. Most every winter since Dean's accident I get it out and set it up on the kitchen table for family members or any passersby to think of words to add to the puzzle. No score is taken; the only goal is to make words using all the blocks. Some days I fill the board several times myself. It really is a challenge to use every block. I just leave it up for several days to help pass the time.

I'm really curious to see what words Dean will contribute this year. Will they be as recognizable as they have in the past? I guess we'll find out. But whatever the outcome, I'm going to try to be unemotional and patient. Perhaps sharing a chuckle with him when he tries to explain his word choices.

And while I'm at it, I'm going to try not to take the Game of Life so seriously either. Lord, help me handle the stress and drama in my life more leisurely. With more patience and chuckles.

Our Last Surviving Tomato

The Last Tomato

We stopped watering our garden over a month ago when the city started enforcing watering restrictions. The tomato plants were about through producing and were looking pretty sorry and soon were pitifully dried up, with just a few marble-sized green tomatoes clinging to the vines.

Then after all summer with no rain we got a whole inch last week and when I let the dog out a couple of days later, I noticed something red on one of the tomato plants. I was shocked to see this one little ripe tomato survivor, just waiting to be picked.

It reminded me of the last days of this earth's history. The Bible says there will be a "time of trouble" (Daniel 12:1). Amos says in ch. 8:11 that there will be a famine, but not of bread, and not a thirst of water, but of hearing the words of the Lord. But a remnant survives, those with the patience of the saints. Revelation 14:12

So, I honor my patient little "remnant" tomato. It gives me faith and courage that God will see us through to the end, even through enormous trials and persecutions.

What a Chore!

Today Dean and I were introduced to a new chore provider, the kind who provides you with a completed chore. The chore for which I requested assistance was taking Dean to his pool therapy twice a week. That doesn't sound like a particularly difficult assignment, unless you have ever had Dean as a passenger while you were driving.

Most of the patience I have developed with Dean, an ex-truck driver who hasn't been able to drive for thirteen years now, has originated in our automobile, listening to his never ending driving instructions. Just when I think I have mastered the patience test though, I find myself coming unglued again and yelling hysterically for him to shut up. Even saying the words "shut up" instead of "be quiet" will get his attention, but unfortunately I have spoken more graphically over the years, as I literally force myself not to do him or myself bodily harm. It's that bad.

There's a Bible verse that says, "God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able." This definitely has had fulfillment for me with the news that I qualify for this new service for Dean. God knows how much I can handle.

Now, I just pray this new chore provider can handle Dean. All I know already is that they aren't paying her enough.

Losing It Twice

I can't believe I lost something twice today. When I first lost my flash drive at home (a small memory device for your computer, no bigger than a small lipstick), it was only after Dean made me stop looking and pray about it that it was found. But then as I left the library, after using the flash drive, I wondered on the way out to the car where I had put it, not imagining that I could possibly have lost it again so soon after all my searching earlier.

It's so easy to lose your way on this Christian walk of ours. You'd think with something as important as our Christianity at stake we wouldn't lose it in the first place. But then we lose our patience, and a little while later we lose our temper. They're almost the same thing. When you lose one, you almost always lose the other.

I think the only solution to any losing problem is prayer. God will show us where to find patience. He'll even help us find our temper. Our sweet, loving one, that is. Thank you, God, for helping us find everything we really need.

P.S. I'd like to show you a picture of that flash drive, but I still haven't found it!!!

Longing to Belong

Our pastor had a great sermon this morning about three things every church must be careful about getting in the right order. First, people who attend must feel they belong. Then, we have the opportunity to share our beliefs with them. And finally, we will see behaviors and lifestyles change. He called them the three B's--belong, believe, and behave. And the order is important.

The pastor emphasized that belonging will happen only as we are accepting of everyone who walks in the church's door. No one should be turned away because of dress or demeanor. Everyone should be made to feel welcome.

As the church's disability awareness person and the wife of a man who has a brain injury and dementia, I pray that our acceptance and patience extends to ALL who worship with us, not just the new person attending the first time. I'm talking about anyone who doesn't fit into our mold of normalcy. Either because of a physically or mentally challenging condition, or someone without the finances or social standing that we are comfortable with.

As a matter of fact, the one sure way of making a visitor feel welcome in our midst is by his observing how we treat those individuals who are different from the norm. How do we measure up in our loving the unlovable, now matter how long they've been attending church? Let's make sure we've made ALL our members feel they belong, and then accepting the new ones will come easy.

Caregiver Woes

It has not been an easy day for this caregiver. My husband's appetite, although somewhat better since we lowered one of his meds, is still through the roof. He is asking me for something to eat repeatedly during the day, and it gets old. I'm still battling a chest cold myself, but that doesn't mean any lightening of my workload around here, including the constant worry about finances. And now he just got mad when I wouldn't give him one of my cough drops!

I'm tempted to think of him as a demanding, selfish old man, but then I remember all the hugs and "I love you"s he has also showered me with during the day and I'm reminded that this is just part of the dementia. He isn't trying to be a burden, and it would hurt him fiercely if I thought of him that way.

So I'll just try to take a deep breath, put it all in perspective, and pray for patience and strength to keep myself together for one more day. After all, look at what the good Lord puts up with in me.

Patience

This morning I told my husband not to forget his cane, which was by the door he was about to go out of to catch his ride to his adult day program. A couple of minutes later, he heads out the door when the van pulled up. As soon as they drive away, I notice the cane still where he left it.

There is very little I can count on him to remember these days. Consequently, I have to be constantly vigilant for both of us, not to forget even the simplest of things. I should be used to this responsibility after twelve years, but things are getting worse it seems. Aging is not friendly to those with brain injury, I've been told. And it isn't a bowl of cherries for the caregiver either.

I know that parents must be ever watchful for their children, especially when they are very young. But it's just not natural to be a parent to your spouse. If you think teenagers are difficult, because they are older, try managing a 60+ year-old. You will know real frustration. But you will also learn real patience.

Maybe that's what these elderly men and women are here for. To develop our patience. I thought I learned it all in raising our daughter, but I'm getting a refresher course. I think I'm at the graduate level courses by now.

I remember a quote that said, "Patience with others is love. Patience with self is hope. Patience with God is faith." If that's the case, pile it on, Lord! Give me patience.

My Own Kind of Dementia

Today was a waiting game. Waiting to hear from the radiologist about my foot injury. I hope tomorrow is the day I get some news on how bad the injury is and how they will treat it. I'm guessing a boot or cast for my foot is in my future, but time will tell how bad the fracture is.

Dean's caregiving for me is coming along fine. He loses his patience alot, but that is nothing new for him. It's harder for me though to keep mine, because my expectations are that he will care for me with no complaint. But I know deep down that just is not going to happen. I try not to take it personal.

His frustrations are mostly with himself. He can't hear me from another room (well, I'm sorry, but I can't leave the room I'm in). He forgets what I've asked him to do or the task seems too complicated for him to follow. Just simple things like not finding something in the refrigerator will set him off. But, hey, I'm used to it after twelve years. Just keep telling myself, it's not me. He's mad at himself because of his own limitations with brain injury and dementia.

I hope I'm not that way with God. I get frustrated when I mess up with Him too. We can be mighty hard on God, without even realizing it. Have you ever thought, "God, I can't hear you. You aren't speaking loud enough for me to get it." Or "God, why are your commandments so hard to follow?" Or "God, I can't find what it is you want me to do."

Please, God, don't take it personal. It's obviously me who just doesn't "get it"--I'm like an old lady with dementia, taking it out on her caregiver.