.. and less 'in' (as in intractable), is what we should all hope for with the auntie. When considering there is a possibility that her behavior cannot be moderated and she will no longer be a resident of the facility where she has been residing for a year. What would happen next? I have no idea, not even a shred of a thought as to what might be the solution if there are no medications that will help to moderate her outbursts.
Her family practice doctor became insistent that she should not live at home alone, as well as urging her to not drive a car. He is actually the person responsible for the state revoking her driving permit, probably at the insistence of his office staff who would see her driving erratically in the nearby streets. The Auntie continues to be convinced I am the responsible party for all her misfortunes, even though she is actually the source. It's all on the inside!
We should all be reconciled to the fact that at her age, there is no possibility of her becoming a different person. As well as accept that her behavior is compounded by anxiety, frustrations, agitation that are a result of confusion due to memory loss: packed into her DNA at birth. Her dad died in nursing care with dementia, long before it had a name, to be diagnosed/identified as such. Two of her siblings had the same problem, and died in assisted living. I cannot imagine how scare-y it must be to have such a dreadful problem - unable to remember something that you feel you should know.
She recently called me, less than a week ago. It happens fairly often. About half the time it is from her phone, installed in her room at the assisted living facility. The rest of the calls are from the number there at the home, from the nursing desk where I assume she gets someone to dial the number when she cannot manage/master the buttons on the phone. Wanting to know when I am coming to visit, hoping for someone to arrive who will rescue her from her present situation. Many times she will report being in the Holiday Inn, and having lost her car. Often the voice mail message will tell me she is stuck in Macon, or Perry, or some other Georgia town she is familiar with, but she knows she needs help getting home.
This recent call ended by her asking me about 'the folks'? I made the mistake of inquiring if she was referring to her parents or mine. She said she wanted to know about her parents, so I made a Big Mistake and said they were both dead. That her mom died in 1995 and her dad died in 1981. She was very upset, unaware, denied that to be true. Then asked about my parents, which would be her sister and her brother-in-law. I reported they were both dead too.
The conversation soon ended, but she was apparently inconsolable. A staffer called me a bit later, and told me she was going to give the phone to my aunt and I should just play along. She was still weepy, and very sad that both her mom and her dad had died and no one had told her about it. All I could do was tell her how sorry I was.
Dementia is a thief. But the worst part is it is there, embedded at conception in your DNA like a big black evil, hulking creature. Waiting. I recently read a short article about researchers saying that all those puzzles, Suduko, crosswords are not really helpful. I actually found that to be good news, as I do not even make the smallest effort to do puzzles involving numbers! And crossword puzzles are so tedious, it is not something I would put any effort into as a means of entertainment or even keeping my brain sharp.
Wednesday, June 6, 2018
the big hot mess...
... as related to the Auntie: who she is, is who she will always be. When I spoke to a social worker, or maybe therapist last summer as they were making an effort to evaluate and determine if prescriptions might be helpful in improving her status, I was told that her personality would not change with meds. There could possibly be a moderating of certain traits or behaviors that made her difficult to live with, but who she is and has been for over eighty years would always be the same. I said: "Oh, s#*t, is there no hope for a personality transplant? You can't make her into someone else?" Sadly, the answer will always be: No.
The latest episode in the saga is that she has been remanded to a senior treatment/evaluation center where we hope she can be provided with Rx that will be more effective at 'moderating'. When she was at a different location last June, with a similar plan, she spent nearly two weeks in a center that was located town small town hospital. There were a number of other residents there in a secured wing, devoted to mental health care of senior citizens in the area. Offering services to families who were struggling with providing assistance to aging family members, in need of guidance and advice for providing the support to help family members stay as independent as long as possible. This was in Cook County, about thirty miles north of Valdosta where the auntie has lived for many years.
The staff at the facility in Cook County reported she was 'difficult to re-direct', which I have learned is mental health speak for obstinate. Stubborn. Disagreeable. Highly Opinionated. Uncooperative. All the things I have known about my aunt for years. It is pretty obvious that being together in close quarters, living under one roof, it does not take long to become acquainted with an individuals' personality quirks.
The staff at the residential facility where she has been for a year feels like she is having problems they are not able to manage. Recommending that the Auntie would benefit from going to a different center, for evaluating, hoping to get a better result and make her more tractable. I would have to agree that a good word to describe her would be 'intractable'. Reports from the facility in recent weeks have been alarming: including striking employees, shouting, swearing, threatening workers, unreasonable demands, cursing at fellow residents.
My thought would be: they don't pay me well enough for that! Plus it has always been my goal to do whatever is necessary to help the staff, by making the Auntie easier to live with. I know she can be demanding, insistent on having her way, and unreasonable when that does not happen. Even with medications that might moderate undesirable behavior and traits, it is obvious that the Auntie will continue to be the Auntie.
Upon the advice of the head nurse, received reports of her activities, interactions and recent outbursts, she has been transported to a different location that provides senior citizens with evaluations and assistance. It is more than likely she is not a happy camper where she has been temporarily remanded. This alternative facility, still in south Georgia, is also about thirty minutes from Valdosta. It is almost a certainty that within minutes of her arrival on Tuesday morning, the staff found she is 'very difficult to re-direct'.
It is good to know that there are options, places where people can go for a short stay in dire circumstances. When families are close to the end of their tether, needing assistance, or just a brief respite from being on the front lines on a daily basis. A resource nearby that will give some breathing room, as well as hope for solutions to insurmountable problems. I am hopeful. The head nurse gave me that - with the idea that the staff has much experience specifically with geriatrics and the many complicating factors of aging. Hopeful for moderating extreme behavior that will not take away her personality or sense of humor, but make her easier to live with, even though she will always feel like she is being held hostage.
The latest episode in the saga is that she has been remanded to a senior treatment/evaluation center where we hope she can be provided with Rx that will be more effective at 'moderating'. When she was at a different location last June, with a similar plan, she spent nearly two weeks in a center that was located town small town hospital. There were a number of other residents there in a secured wing, devoted to mental health care of senior citizens in the area. Offering services to families who were struggling with providing assistance to aging family members, in need of guidance and advice for providing the support to help family members stay as independent as long as possible. This was in Cook County, about thirty miles north of Valdosta where the auntie has lived for many years.
The staff at the facility in Cook County reported she was 'difficult to re-direct', which I have learned is mental health speak for obstinate. Stubborn. Disagreeable. Highly Opinionated. Uncooperative. All the things I have known about my aunt for years. It is pretty obvious that being together in close quarters, living under one roof, it does not take long to become acquainted with an individuals' personality quirks.
The staff at the residential facility where she has been for a year feels like she is having problems they are not able to manage. Recommending that the Auntie would benefit from going to a different center, for evaluating, hoping to get a better result and make her more tractable. I would have to agree that a good word to describe her would be 'intractable'. Reports from the facility in recent weeks have been alarming: including striking employees, shouting, swearing, threatening workers, unreasonable demands, cursing at fellow residents.
My thought would be: they don't pay me well enough for that! Plus it has always been my goal to do whatever is necessary to help the staff, by making the Auntie easier to live with. I know she can be demanding, insistent on having her way, and unreasonable when that does not happen. Even with medications that might moderate undesirable behavior and traits, it is obvious that the Auntie will continue to be the Auntie.
Upon the advice of the head nurse, received reports of her activities, interactions and recent outbursts, she has been transported to a different location that provides senior citizens with evaluations and assistance. It is more than likely she is not a happy camper where she has been temporarily remanded. This alternative facility, still in south Georgia, is also about thirty minutes from Valdosta. It is almost a certainty that within minutes of her arrival on Tuesday morning, the staff found she is 'very difficult to re-direct'.
It is good to know that there are options, places where people can go for a short stay in dire circumstances. When families are close to the end of their tether, needing assistance, or just a brief respite from being on the front lines on a daily basis. A resource nearby that will give some breathing room, as well as hope for solutions to insurmountable problems. I am hopeful. The head nurse gave me that - with the idea that the staff has much experience specifically with geriatrics and the many complicating factors of aging. Hopeful for moderating extreme behavior that will not take away her personality or sense of humor, but make her easier to live with, even though she will always feel like she is being held hostage.
Tuesday, June 5, 2018
if you were to ask...
... one of my two favorite people to give a short definition of the present situation, I am fairly certain it would be described as a 'big hot mess.' I am sure there is some way to be more specific and possibly a better way to express the gravity of the small crisis (is 'small crisis' an oxymoron?), but under the circumstances, it seems to be fairly accurate. The Mess involves my auntie, and her lack of ability to make decisions about her life.
If she were able to self-determine, she would insist on going home, back to the house she has not inhabited in a year. Even though it would be sadly obvious to anyone who spent ten minutes talking with her than she cannot manage her life, and will not live independently. I don't know whether it is a good thing or a bad thing but she cannot remember much of anything: stuff from fifty years ago, yes, but five minutes ago: not so much, and certainly could not find her way home if she was out on the streets.
She was persuaded (and slightly deceived) about, almost, nearly a year ago, when she relocated and moved into an assisted living facility in south Georgia. At the time, it seemed like the best solution to the problem: she was unable to manage many facets of her life, and simply could not live independently. This sad fact is why I felt it was time to step in and find an attorney, apply for Guardianship and go to the Probate Court to get appointed as the person who would be responsible, 'take her on to raise' - even though she is considerably older than I. The Guardian can also petition the Court to become the Conservator, who would be the person appointed to manage finances, whereas the Guardian is primarily responsible for the care and well being of an individual who needs assistance, cannot live independently.
I am both of those things. Just put the paperwork in the mail today to send to Probate Court that reports on her status: physical, mental and financial. It has to be done once a year, which scares the stew out of me. Fearful I won't do something right, will miscalculate as I am prone to do as the terminally math-impaired person that I am. Creating a reason for me to be summoned to make an appearance before theProbate Judge, who will demand an explanation. Causing me to whine and grovel, beg and whimper, throw myself on the mercy of the court as I explain, exposing all my inadequacies, inabilities, failings, short-comings under oath.
If she were able to self-determine, she would insist on going home, back to the house she has not inhabited in a year. Even though it would be sadly obvious to anyone who spent ten minutes talking with her than she cannot manage her life, and will not live independently. I don't know whether it is a good thing or a bad thing but she cannot remember much of anything: stuff from fifty years ago, yes, but five minutes ago: not so much, and certainly could not find her way home if she was out on the streets.
She was persuaded (and slightly deceived) about, almost, nearly a year ago, when she relocated and moved into an assisted living facility in south Georgia. At the time, it seemed like the best solution to the problem: she was unable to manage many facets of her life, and simply could not live independently. This sad fact is why I felt it was time to step in and find an attorney, apply for Guardianship and go to the Probate Court to get appointed as the person who would be responsible, 'take her on to raise' - even though she is considerably older than I. The Guardian can also petition the Court to become the Conservator, who would be the person appointed to manage finances, whereas the Guardian is primarily responsible for the care and well being of an individual who needs assistance, cannot live independently.
I am both of those things. Just put the paperwork in the mail today to send to Probate Court that reports on her status: physical, mental and financial. It has to be done once a year, which scares the stew out of me. Fearful I won't do something right, will miscalculate as I am prone to do as the terminally math-impaired person that I am. Creating a reason for me to be summoned to make an appearance before theProbate Judge, who will demand an explanation. Causing me to whine and grovel, beg and whimper, throw myself on the mercy of the court as I explain, exposing all my inadequacies, inabilities, failings, short-comings under oath.
official invitation...
... well, not precisely 'invitation': actually a demand as it was a Summons to Jury Duty. My presence was requested to appear at the local government center precisely at 9:a.m. on Monday, July4 2018. I told the guys at work that I had received the notice a month ago, and should plan to make my self available for the requirements of participating in the democratic process. The guy who makes the schedule was apparently far more optimistic about the whole thing than I was, because he put me on the work schedule for Monday.
I had to be at work, clock in 7:00 and leave a hour later, in order to get downtown to the government center. Park in a lot two blocks away and go through the scanning device before being admitted to the building. I took a book, and some note cards I wanted to get written to mail as I expected to waste the morning. I also had available, mentally, a variety of excuses I planned to whip out should the opportunity arise to extract myself from this environment. My plan could be compared to holding a winning hand in a card game, sitting there with my cards fanned out, trying to keep a 'poker face', pondering which card to place on the table to confound your opponent. I felt I had a number of options, and had been mulling over which might prove most effective to plead my case, thereby avoiding being impaneled and spending the week serving on a case I did not want to hear.
The clerk arrived to get our attention: it was precisely nine o'clock. It is pretty telling that we had to prove our identification by bringing a bar code that was on the printed summons for scanning. Apparently things have slowly, incrementally arrived to the point that we are living in a state where every one is issued a UPC code for identification? Scary, huh?
After everyone checked in, standing in line to be scanned like so many mindless sheep, some few were eliminated, and invited to leave. The clerk reported only one judge was working this week, and his court would be hearing a criminal case, so anyone who was retired law enforcement, or active duty military was dismissed, allowed to leave. Guess the attorneys would automatically eliminate anyone who had experience with enforcement when there was someone who had already been incarcerated trying to prove innocence.
After weeding out the ones who would not be accepted, the clerk then asked if anyone wanted to come forward with 'hardship excuses'. I jumped right up to get in that line and offer my up to the legal machine again. I reported myself as a guardian and conservator of a disabled auntie who lives in Valdosta, explaining that I could be called and needed in south Georgia on short notice. I was immediately released.
Yay! I know it was helpful that only one judge was in session for the week, and there were probably 150 people in the pool who had showed up prepared to serve if needed. I am thankful to be set free and sent on my merry way. Irony of all ironies: all this time of trying to provide the much needed assistance for my auntie, and being so frustrated, aggravated as she declines mentally. She has been so opposed to anyone doing things that help, certain she can manage independently without anyone else interfering, which gets less true with each new day. And I have been often stymied at her resistance, annoyed to the hilt. And now: I am telling the court she is my first, best reason for avoiding serving on a jury! Finally this arduous, complicated process filled with extenuating circumstances has had some benefit....
I had to be at work, clock in 7:00 and leave a hour later, in order to get downtown to the government center. Park in a lot two blocks away and go through the scanning device before being admitted to the building. I took a book, and some note cards I wanted to get written to mail as I expected to waste the morning. I also had available, mentally, a variety of excuses I planned to whip out should the opportunity arise to extract myself from this environment. My plan could be compared to holding a winning hand in a card game, sitting there with my cards fanned out, trying to keep a 'poker face', pondering which card to place on the table to confound your opponent. I felt I had a number of options, and had been mulling over which might prove most effective to plead my case, thereby avoiding being impaneled and spending the week serving on a case I did not want to hear.
The clerk arrived to get our attention: it was precisely nine o'clock. It is pretty telling that we had to prove our identification by bringing a bar code that was on the printed summons for scanning. Apparently things have slowly, incrementally arrived to the point that we are living in a state where every one is issued a UPC code for identification? Scary, huh?
After everyone checked in, standing in line to be scanned like so many mindless sheep, some few were eliminated, and invited to leave. The clerk reported only one judge was working this week, and his court would be hearing a criminal case, so anyone who was retired law enforcement, or active duty military was dismissed, allowed to leave. Guess the attorneys would automatically eliminate anyone who had experience with enforcement when there was someone who had already been incarcerated trying to prove innocence.
After weeding out the ones who would not be accepted, the clerk then asked if anyone wanted to come forward with 'hardship excuses'. I jumped right up to get in that line and offer my up to the legal machine again. I reported myself as a guardian and conservator of a disabled auntie who lives in Valdosta, explaining that I could be called and needed in south Georgia on short notice. I was immediately released.
Yay! I know it was helpful that only one judge was in session for the week, and there were probably 150 people in the pool who had showed up prepared to serve if needed. I am thankful to be set free and sent on my merry way. Irony of all ironies: all this time of trying to provide the much needed assistance for my auntie, and being so frustrated, aggravated as she declines mentally. She has been so opposed to anyone doing things that help, certain she can manage independently without anyone else interfering, which gets less true with each new day. And I have been often stymied at her resistance, annoyed to the hilt. And now: I am telling the court she is my first, best reason for avoiding serving on a jury! Finally this arduous, complicated process filled with extenuating circumstances has had some benefit....
Sunday, June 3, 2018
it's pretty obvious...
... that I am not really related to The Man Who Lives Here. He is not as compulsive as he once was about going to the post office every single day to check in his box for bills that need attention. When he would receive something that required payment for service rendered, there was a compelling necessity that he would write a check and get it in the mail before the end of the day. I can't explain it. Do not understand why it could not simmer for a week, when anyone who works in accounts receivable will confirm 'you have thirty days to get the payment in'.
There was some desperate sense of urgency about getting that check written and in the mail before bedtime. We have all heard tales of little kids with a nickle in their pockets being itchy to get to the candy store and spend every red cent possible. The Man Who Lives Here has historically been just as 'itchy' to get checks written and bills squared away at the earliest possible minute after opening his post office box.
That's definitely not me. I left town last Sunday afternoon, and got back four days later on Wednesday. The mail piled up for an entire week. Just today, when I returned from a long nine-and-two-thirds hours work day, (after I plopped down in the couch and took a nap!) I am finally opening mail accumulated from the past week. Looking at all the bills that want someone's attention. Fortunately most belong to my auntie, so the funds will come out of her checkbook instead of mine!
Between offers of zero interest for eighteen months on a sparkling new credit card, to businesses urging her to get her hearing tested and take $500 off on hearing aids, she gets much more mail at my address than I do. If it is bills she needs to pay, that suits me perfectly. Home insurance, property taxes, mow-and-blow guy, accoutrements of the American Dream. Sadly, most of this stuff she no longer can enjoy, as a result of relocating to assisted living. But all still need attention and make demands on the (math-impaired) person who was appointed to mind her business for her.
There was some desperate sense of urgency about getting that check written and in the mail before bedtime. We have all heard tales of little kids with a nickle in their pockets being itchy to get to the candy store and spend every red cent possible. The Man Who Lives Here has historically been just as 'itchy' to get checks written and bills squared away at the earliest possible minute after opening his post office box.
That's definitely not me. I left town last Sunday afternoon, and got back four days later on Wednesday. The mail piled up for an entire week. Just today, when I returned from a long nine-and-two-thirds hours work day, (after I plopped down in the couch and took a nap!) I am finally opening mail accumulated from the past week. Looking at all the bills that want someone's attention. Fortunately most belong to my auntie, so the funds will come out of her checkbook instead of mine!
Between offers of zero interest for eighteen months on a sparkling new credit card, to businesses urging her to get her hearing tested and take $500 off on hearing aids, she gets much more mail at my address than I do. If it is bills she needs to pay, that suits me perfectly. Home insurance, property taxes, mow-and-blow guy, accoutrements of the American Dream. Sadly, most of this stuff she no longer can enjoy, as a result of relocating to assisted living. But all still need attention and make demands on the (math-impaired) person who was appointed to mind her business for her.
Saturday, June 2, 2018
day off from work...
... to donate to the local botanical gardens. For the Annual Day Lily Festival. Really amusing that I am giving my time to this, as I do not particularly care for the blooming hemoricallis flower. I have never been in love with day lilies. My dad really liked them, and had a number of unusual ones planted in his flowerbeds he acquired after he retired and had time to tend a garden. He shared several with me years ago, that I failed to tend, so they have all disappeared under the layers of leaf mulch due to neglect.
I think part of my day, as it is divided into 'shifts' for morning and afternoon, is being a greeter. Not being a type-A, outgoing, hail-fellow-well-met sort of person, this will be challenging. I can ask customers at work 'need some help?', but I am forcing that good cheer, as it is a necessity and requirement of a paying job. I am just not an extrovert and will have to really work at being cheery and chipper in order to present the proper attitude during my shift attending the welcome area, greeting, providing maps and info.
But when they let me get in the golf cart and whizzzzzz around the property: Nelly-bar-the-door! Even though the top speed is probably thirteen-and-a-half miles per hours, it feels really fast when you floor the acceleration pedal. This is the part where I help patrons and customers of the event with their purchases to return to the parking area. There will be vendors present selling plants and assorted crafts, so customers will be buying things and need assistance with getting their goods back up a fairly steep hill to the area where cars are sitting.
After checking the weather to be assured there is not rain in the forecast, I will now put on my shorts and volunteer shirt and get underway. I expect it will be a steamy, humid, sticky day, but thankful there is not going to be 110% humidity in the form of falling water in addition to heat. It's June in the South.
I think part of my day, as it is divided into 'shifts' for morning and afternoon, is being a greeter. Not being a type-A, outgoing, hail-fellow-well-met sort of person, this will be challenging. I can ask customers at work 'need some help?', but I am forcing that good cheer, as it is a necessity and requirement of a paying job. I am just not an extrovert and will have to really work at being cheery and chipper in order to present the proper attitude during my shift attending the welcome area, greeting, providing maps and info.
But when they let me get in the golf cart and whizzzzzz around the property: Nelly-bar-the-door! Even though the top speed is probably thirteen-and-a-half miles per hours, it feels really fast when you floor the acceleration pedal. This is the part where I help patrons and customers of the event with their purchases to return to the parking area. There will be vendors present selling plants and assorted crafts, so customers will be buying things and need assistance with getting their goods back up a fairly steep hill to the area where cars are sitting.
After checking the weather to be assured there is not rain in the forecast, I will now put on my shorts and volunteer shirt and get underway. I expect it will be a steamy, humid, sticky day, but thankful there is not going to be 110% humidity in the form of falling water in addition to heat. It's June in the South.
Friday, June 1, 2018
yesterday was...
...my dad's birthday. For years I have been sending my brother a gift card to go eat ice cream on May 31. Encouraging him to go to Dairy Queen, or Chic-fil-A or Wendy's, or any other place he might think of, especially if it meant taking little people with him who would enjoy licking an ice-cream cone. My dad did love ice cream, especially if it was home-made with lots of heavy cream, a thick delicious custard, after simmering on the stove all day long.
I think the recipe came from his mom, so you know there is a lot of bad stuff in it, from a time before any one thought to to give a flip about refined sugar or cholesterol. Whole milk, at least half a dozen eggs, cups and cups of granulated sugar. Put all in a double boiler, and cook on the back burner for hours and hours. The custard gets thicker and thicker as it cooks all day. Take it off, let it cool and add copious amounts of whole/heavy cream, strain into the canister that goes in the ice cream churn.
Chill overnight. Put it in the churn with ice and rock salt and plug the motor in. We are not going to do this by hand, cranking until it feels like your arm might fall off. Even though we might use a recipe that is a hundred years old, we do appreciate modern conveniences. Thankful for electricity, plugging in the motor that turns the dasher in the churn round and round until it is ready to eat.
He really liked it when it was strawberry season and there were ripe berries to put in it, after you put them in the blender to make them easy to stir in. Or fresh Georgia peaches. But was also perfectly happy with vanilla, as long as it was home-made with all those deadly ingredients that resulted in it tasting just like his mom used to make, when you had to crank and crank and crank until you could not crank any more.
No one left to take to get ice cream and reminisce about the man who loved it so. I thought about him all day yesterday and today - remembering how simple things made him so happy. So easy to please and readily delighted by something as easy to enjoy as Plain Old Vanilla.
I think the recipe came from his mom, so you know there is a lot of bad stuff in it, from a time before any one thought to to give a flip about refined sugar or cholesterol. Whole milk, at least half a dozen eggs, cups and cups of granulated sugar. Put all in a double boiler, and cook on the back burner for hours and hours. The custard gets thicker and thicker as it cooks all day. Take it off, let it cool and add copious amounts of whole/heavy cream, strain into the canister that goes in the ice cream churn.
Chill overnight. Put it in the churn with ice and rock salt and plug the motor in. We are not going to do this by hand, cranking until it feels like your arm might fall off. Even though we might use a recipe that is a hundred years old, we do appreciate modern conveniences. Thankful for electricity, plugging in the motor that turns the dasher in the churn round and round until it is ready to eat.
He really liked it when it was strawberry season and there were ripe berries to put in it, after you put them in the blender to make them easy to stir in. Or fresh Georgia peaches. But was also perfectly happy with vanilla, as long as it was home-made with all those deadly ingredients that resulted in it tasting just like his mom used to make, when you had to crank and crank and crank until you could not crank any more.
No one left to take to get ice cream and reminisce about the man who loved it so. I thought about him all day yesterday and today - remembering how simple things made him so happy. So easy to please and readily delighted by something as easy to enjoy as Plain Old Vanilla.
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