Guilty of Guilt

      Just what is guilt? Not guilt for a crime worthy of punishment, but that debilitating sense of being wrong for no reason. Freud had lots to say about guilt, discovering it was one of the most difficult patterns of self-recrimination to recover from. Guilt impressed on a young mind creates the capacity to respond to moral judgment with negative self-thought no different than taking a whip and wailing on your own skin. The tendency to suffer over what one should do and does not or what one did do and feels they should not have is certainly retained from our earliest years. Simply tapping two dishes together should not produce guilt. “Are you going to break every dish in the house?” feels remarkably different than, “Thanks for doing the dishes.” 

     Making other people feel guilty should be a crime. “God will get you for that”, for example. “Don’t mind me, I’m fine here all alone.” “Don’t I have a mouth?” Guilt producing sentiments have sharp pointy teeth and Canadians are particularly adept at these language patterns. We moved to the U.S. when we were young where we also learned the art of declaratives that get directly to the point. “Piss off.” “Drop dead.” And of course, “Fuck you.” Often these come to mind in the face of guilt producing statements. 

     I did not realize I’d picked up my parent’s habit of guilt speak until a perceptive twelve year old pointed out, “No matter what you say you’re always trying to make people feel bad.” I was twenty five then and have worked consistently to rid my dialog of guilt producing assertions ever since that valuable observation was made. Thirty years later I find myself taking care of my declining Mom who cannot remember much, but is unfailingly fluent in the language of guilt. 

     She was beating on the bathroom door one day, sadly because she is afraid to be alone. “Hello, are you in there?” “Yes Mom, I’m using the toilet, can you please wait.” I said it without emotion because she had no clue what door I was behind, only that there was a door in the way. “You’re sure taking your time? Are you going to leave me out here all day?” she fumed. “I’ll be out in a minute,” I said with less patience. I mean what the hell.  More pounding on the door followed. “Mom, I’m not opening the door, you have to stop that.” A blissful moment of silence preceded, “WELL YOU JUST KEEP GOING THEN!” 

      I’d love to have a knee slapping yuck with Freud about how right he was. Why do we talk to each other this way? I gave up the notion of God rewarding and punishing people for their behavior way back in Sunday school without turning into a sociopath.  Unfortunately Mom bested the fear of God with a lifetime of well-placed missives and I don’t think it made me a better person. It gave therapists a client. 

     My sister and I made calls to relatives after our father died. In response to the news I was told, “I never thought to hear from you again. We’ve had our share of deaths too. I suppose you’ve been painting so much you couldn’t answer my last email.”  I wish I’d had the nerve to say I simply forgot.  I bit my tongue before retaliating in kind since it is not a habit I’ve completely broken even after all this time. Guilt duels are wholly unappealing. I’ve tried a few with Mom just to see where they would go, but I never win. There is no winning when everyone walks away feeling less love instead of more.  

2013 American Samoa Scenic Calendar

      The 2013 calendar for Sadie’s Hotels in American Samoa is being printed this week. Here's a sneak preview of the front and back cover and a few sample pages. This year’s calendar is comprised of the best scenic photographs I’ve take of these stunning islands. Breath taking hikes (literally) over the mountains and through the jungles of Tutuila discovered many of the images. The September photograph of Pago Pago Harbor was taken from the top of Mount Alava in the National Park. A few trails are so steep that ladders and ropes have been installed to assist hikers and fortunately there are no snakes or man-eating predators in the region. Near the equator light plays off lush vegetation, vertical mountains and wild coastlines with an intensity that leaves a lasting impression on the soul. The full impact can only be experienced in person, while the photographs hopefully tempt you to visit.

     In upcoming posts I’ll reveal the best and goofiest of American Samoa. While the scenery is stunning, there are some things you might need to know before you travel. Or just go, if you like surprises you won’t be disappointed. I’ll also post a map that shows where the calendar images were taken. All travelers will find something of interest. Navigating the wilds of American Samoa requires fitness and diplomacy. Some areas require permission, but a few of the photographs were taken along the main road, easily visible from an air-conditioned vehicle.

 

Tom Drabble, the owner of The Sadie Thompson Inn and Sadie’s by the Sea produces a calendar each year. I'll post information about where to purchase 2013 calendars soon.

No Time for Scrutiny

      Hindsight is a bitch waving a flaming road flare. My brain is still running circles around Dad’s final weeks. Grief sneaks up on me when I least expect it setting off a torrent of tears. The cemetery where I picked up Dad’s ashes took me by surprise.  Heartfelt despair surfaced like a volcanic gas bubble in a tar pit. One stupid little sprinkler attached to a crusty hose spurted water into a clump of leaning headstones on the failing lawn. The futility of that sad little scene sparked a well of sorrow and I sobbed until I dripped snot. Stepping over broken pavement I got to my car hugging the metal box in a plastic shopping bag.   

     Dad was as frugal in life as in death. I don’t know what I expected, anything but derelict motor homes lined up outside a bent chain link fence. Maybe they hold swap meets on the weekend to make ends meet. Dad prepaid for the cremation plan and it should have been no surprise that he ferreted out the best deal. The gal behind the counter didn’t try to sell me on any of the dusty urns on the shelves in the lobby even though she looked like nothing would faze her. I liked her, she was genuine. No doubt she could wrestle a rabid bull to the ground, which may be a job requirement in a neighborhood of abandoned buildings, crack addicts and bus conversions unfit for one more trip to Burning Man. 

     Budget cremation outfits don’t hire handsome guys in Armani suits to fawn over weeping relatives. Tasteful buildings reminiscent of Swiss chalets were notably absent and maybe a total lack of charm was a good thing, although at the time I would have settled for garden gnomes. What better place to experience the overwhelming finality of losing my Dad. Nobody in the vicinity noticed one more person having a lousy day. The anonymous neighborhood, saturated with the misery of hard times, simply absorbed a little more.   

A Much Needed Break

       My sister and I took a surreal break from reality to visit her friend’s sculpture ranch in Suisun Valley. She’s part of an art show that takes place at the ranch in October, but you’d have to wrangle an invitation from her. The event is so popular they have to control the numbers and just to say, art buyers are given first dibs. Phillip was busy with yet another monumental project so he left us to our own devices, hence the photo op on the giant microscope. Thanks Mernie!  

Phil Glashoff with one of his creations

I want one!

sculptures of recycled metal junk line the paths on many acres

Liberty Bell

it really is freaking huge!

in the studio

along the driveway

and in the cow pasture, this guy must not have a real job :)

the donkey is the zebra's girlfriend

check out the car

they even spill over onto the roadside and line the valley in the way of mailboxes

this is a wind vain, the key keeps the grill into the wind

his and hers

I'll need this next time I live on an island with out of control dogs!

an acre of raw material

El Greco and stationary friend

Good-bye Dad, I sure loved you

Roy N. Buchanan, Canadian Air Force Veteran WWII

        My ninety year old father passed away on July 26, 2012 in his own home and it was my privilege to be with him as he departed. I have written personal tomes about my father over the years in therapy journals, more than one fourth step for those who know that process and on my blog in a lifelong attempt to reconcile loving such a difficult, brilliant and complicated person. I am the middle of three children born close together. We all grow up longing for our parents love and approval and have been rewarded or let down in our own ways, not always in equal measure. Our story from innocence to forgiveness, a journey fraught with obstacles, ended for my Dad with peace and grace.

      I believe Dad both loved and loathed us as he vacillated between the extremes of his emotions over the course of his life. He was not articulate in the language of feeling so it fell in our individual courts to interpret his confounding behavior. A person in a fit of rage sucks the air out of a room destabilizing everyone. On the brink of insanity anything goes. Love does not trifle with rage. In a room filled with anger fear is a new best friend. When the fever of wrath cools love does not exactly come rushing back. Over time each of those unexpected incidents becomes another stone placed unwittingly on a wall. With parents, there is no divorce. Sure we can walk away and never look back, but I did not. Every time I made the decision to ignore my parents a gaping dark chasm opened before me devoid of the resolve I so desperately needed. Ignoring them simply lacked courage. Dad tested all of us by scattering just enough clues of the love we craved to keep us coming back for more. Had I not suspected his brilliance, played out in a highly successful career as an engineer, or seen evidence that he could suspend his anger and judgment in acts of kindness and generosity to his wife, friends and neighbors I might not have had such an unshakeable compulsion to spend a lifetime examining each of the stones on the wall between us in search of forgiveness for and from him. And I had my good moments with him too.

Me and Dad fixing my truck

       In the last months of life Dad thanked me and told me he loved me and I believed him because those moments cut through stone like a laser. In the days he fell into delirium the marginal filters that had provided some air of decorum fell away completely. I experienced the full force of his hellish rage, judgment that would shrivel a hardened criminal and a lack of compassion so thorough that I compared it to a person with a conscience capable of slave trading. That might have been a tad harsh. After many difficult years of badgering him to stop moving heavy objects with double hernias, hiding the pick axes and sledge hammers he used to break up dirt clods and bashed his shins with and then getting up every two hours for months to stop him from making addled repairs to the house he told my brother to, “Get rid of that blonde woman”. I was the only caregiver with light colored hair and clearly a thorn in his side. There were times when I threw my hands up and walked away, wondering if I would be brought up on charges of elder abuse for leaving him bent over asleep on a hard chair with his legs crossed after he threatened to hit me, then being woken up hours later to a tirade for the pain it caused him. My Father was as complex as the monolithic feats of engineering he designed. Most days I could step outside of my feelings and care for him when he could no longer manage on his own. His medical problems involved complicated decisions and I listened to the advice of doctors, read his advance health care directive to interpret the directions for his care that he had drawn up with lawyers when he was still cognizant and I followed my heart when information was not forthcoming. I appealed to Hospice to insert a catheter but they insisted he merely suffered from gas, not the inability to pass urine and they left. I found someone who would do it because it was clearly inhumane not to and it turned out he had not been able to relieve himself for many days. I gave him morphine because Hospice advised me to, but I stopped because simply draining his bladder ended the moaning agony he was in. I did not know that the drugs they use, morphine for pain and haloperidol to calm people down also slow the respiratory system. Dad could have died from twisted intestines because he was too weak to undergo hernia surgery or from the runaway infection in his leg or from the contagious bacteria, clostridium difficile (CDF), in his intestines that caused a month of violent diarrhea, dehydration and massive weight loss, but in the end he simply stopped being able to breath. Complicated by dementia, fits of delirium and the self-abuse of a salmon swimming upstream to spawn his days were clearly numbered. I knew that, but it was no reason to give up on him. I rubbed his legs, moved him gently and carefully held him up so he could drink water. We hired many helpers over the years including one who spent lots of time on the couch channel changer in hand increasing her girth with the food my father purchased but could no longer eat. Finally we were fortunate enough to find a woman with the ability to care for difficult patients and another man who spent time with Dad in the weeks before his final decline. Larry J. Miller is a caregiver for the elderly with multiple layers of compassion and training and I mention his name because it is a recommendation. He gave our Father much peace and I thank him sincerely for the heartfelt conversations they had in the final weeks.    

     And Dad’s last moments were peaceful. In the end two loving women, myself and a kind caregiver each griped one of his hands. I asked him if he knew he was home and he blinked his eyes, the only way left for him to communicate. I asked if he knew his family loved him and a tear formed in the hollow eye socket of his emaciated face. The caregiver, who prefers to remain nameless, advised him to ask forgiveness so he would move on to heaven assuring him that Jesus loves him. He found the strength to squeeze our hands as we watched him take his last breath and leave this world. I felt the presence of his parents in the room and whether I made it up or not it gave me comfort to believe his soul was not alone.

     Hospice nurses showed up shortly after Dad died and I was not kind to them because they recited phony platitudes probably from a handbook for the recently bereft. In some ways I’m just as obstinate as Dad and I said what he would have. I called Larry to let him know he would not need to come over and told him why. He showed up anyway and I am glad he did. Shortly after I lost my Dad forever he said exactly what I needed to hear. Exhausted from lack of sleep and the burden of so many decisions that had either spared or contributed to my father’s demise I could have easily walked into the dark woods of self-incrimination. He told me that the mark of a true caregiver is meeting a person’s wishes whether you believe in what you are doing or not. In the past I had chosen treatment by a traditional Samoan healer instead of a doctor of Western medicine and he knew that about me. He took a picture of us, after Dad was dressed in the suit he wore so often to the job he was so proud of, and then Larry handed the camera to me. Two black suited men pushed the gurney with my shrouded Dad out through the garage that he spent half his life tinkering in. I raised the camera to take one final picture as the van drove away. The lens flared as it tried to adjust between the intense sunshine on the driveway and the dark garage. This is Dad going into the light. 

     Before he was taken away I had my Mother, who suffers with advanced Alzheimer’s, hold his hand to say good-bye one last time. For a moment, she understood and her grief after sixty five years of marriage and unflagging love for her husband was palpable. Then she closed her eyes and when she opened them again a minute later she asked who the person on the bed was. We will not revisit Dad’s death with Mom in her present state of mind as she would experience the grief again and again as if for the first time. Mom has several loving caregivers now and we will keep her in her home as long as possible. Dad was a good provider and she will be well cared for. We will not be having a memorial service at this time, but will save Dad’s ashes until we can take a boat on the open ocean and scatter our parents together when the time comes. It was their wish and also the kindest thing for Mom. She is not able to comprehend or process condolences. If you knew my Dad, please wish him well and remember him fondly no matter what I have written. The part I have left out is that he was selflessly polite, charming and an asset and friend to the people he worked with. He was respected and accomplished in his long career as a pipeline engineer with Bechtel Corporation.

     Dad, I wouldn’t have changed anything and I have no regrets even though I’m sure I could have done better and I apologize again for being such a crappy teenager. Please hold the door open for me, I’d love to see you again after I’ve had a few more adventures.

Simply Grateful

 

     Dad was transferred to Hospice. He’s slipping day by day. I can’t talk to him much. Never could really, but there is something about the end of life that makes all the mistakes and opportunities missed roar to the surface and glare like a parking lot full of pissed off teenagers. Dad can barely hear me. I holler “I love you”, before giving him a dose of morphine, before rolling him over, before walking out of the room to cry so he won’t know. I can’t believe anyone can look so wasted and still draw breath. I can’t tell if his mind is in the room or if mercy lets him wander to a better place. I see fear in his eyes but not recognition. He is no longer capable of helping himself. He told me in a voice so quiet I thought I made it up that he wants to die now. Mom stays beside him and they hold hands for hours. When I leave the room she tries to care for him. Every pillow, blanket and banana in the house is piled on him and he lies there motionless, roasting in fruit. I never catch her doing these things. I don’t know when she managed to pull the flowers out of their pots on the patio. It looked like rage and I understood the sentiment, although I have yet to rip up flowers myself. That is the part about this that is so surprising. I’m furious. Why the hell did Dad go crazy then lie in bed refusing to move? Why does this have to happen?  It is too hard to believe. I honestly think I’ll be able to walk in the room and see him vital again, just his usual pissed off, uncommunicative self. He said something a few days ago that made the ground under my feet less solid. I have been feeling selfish for wanting anything from someone in his condition and now I almost want him to take his words back. He looked me in the eye and said “Thank you,” over and over more slowly each time and I understood. He knows. Use words sparingly and their impact will move mountains. His gratitude simply drained the rage out of me, and then grief rushed in to fill the void. I didn’t know that anger functioned as such a powerful shield. Granted I tend to learn the hard way, but next time I think he is listening I’ll thank him too. 

Many, many thanks to Ruth and Larry, you are angels.

                                             

What A Care Giver Really Wants

1. Sleep.

       I don’t know what the odds are of having two parents suffering with massive memory loss at the same time. What I do know is that the stress of helping one parent with Alzheimer’s, going on ten years now with Mom, has not just doubled because my father more recently joined her. An inexplicable mathematical leap occurred. It has squared and I know this because I am exponentially so tired it could be written in scientific notation.  I choose to be here so it’s not a rant, but a warning to line up help before you get to this point. 

     I stumbled into a coffee shop this morning to OD on French Roast so I could go hiking in my few hours off. Now there’s a clue care-giving takes a toll, when you must have caffeine to exercise. The girl behind the counter was curt and a little nervous. When I stepped into the restroom I laughed out loud. High on the list of shit caregivers do wrong is neglecting themselves for others. I had taken a late shower and gone to bed with my hair wet. Between falling onto my bed for a few hours of sleep and waking early to another diarrhea mess I had not looked in a mirror or combed my hair. What a whack job. I couldn’t have created a lopsided jet wash duck-tail if I tried. My bent sunglasses sat sideways on my nose and a curly red spaghetti noodle stain graced my T-shirt. In the overall picture that actually looked planned. I smoothed my hair down with water and checked my teeth. 

     Chances are I won’t look presentable again until I lock myself in a motel room and sleep for a month. The woman in the mirror looked astonishingly sad. If I’m depressed I’m too tired to feel it. I walked out of the can to renewed barista glares and instinctively double checked my fly. Right, I probably shouldn’t have laughed quite so loud alone in the tiny bathroom then sauntered out looking like I bathed in the sink. Fortunately there are so many coffee shops in this area I will be able to frighten scads of superior teenagers before risking a repeat performance. 

2. Absolutely no drama.

       It’s probably necessary to inform friends that your undivided attention will go walk about, although that would require believing skinny old Alzheimer’s folks could actually knock the snot out of you in the first place. I sailed through a hurricane on a small boat and would never have imagined that care-giving on this level would be more exhausting. Friends with unfettered lives will ask questions that you cannot possibly answer. They will be loaded with emotion, require a response, desire a connection and you will search your soul and find salad in a sock drawer, a used diaper under a pillow, dirty dishes returned to the cupboards, a naked old man standing in the kitchen unaware he is taking a crap while scrubbing his wife’s dentures with a floor brush*…you get the point. Your best friends will be the ones who don’t make any effort to spend time with you. And another thing, you really don’t want to know what your ass is going to look like when you are ninety.   

My sincere apologies to friends I am neglecting. I’m also weeks behind on a graphic design project that should have gone to press already. 

*This was also a touching moment because Dad still cares so deeply for Mom that he remembered to clean her dentures.

3. More time.

      A friend sent me a book about care-giving called “The 36 Hour Day” (thank you Larry!) I’ve skimmed through it, but haven’t had time to read it. The title speaks volumes. I still don’t sufficiently understand why this makes me feel like there is a drain in my soul, a dripping faucet in my brain and a fire hose blasting my heart. The statistics for caregivers are alarming at best. Life expectancy is reduced. Many die before the people they care for. I do know from experience that Alzheimer’s patients, and please forgive me for not knowing the correct medical term, are brain leeches. You will have to do all their thinking for them, direct their moves, tell them where they are and answer the same tedious questions a million times without ever letting a tiny hint of annoyance creep into your voice. Otherwise they will call you names, even bite you, and still you must be psycho nice or put up with tantrums so vile that you would choose to run through town naked in a diaper before experiencing it again. And you will have to interrupt what they are doing, after the shock wears off, to remind them they not only forgot to get dressed but they happen to be taking a crap in the kitchen. All this gives you little time for your own thoughts. You know, waking up slowly and deciding what would go good with your coffee. You will more likely wonder if there are foods you can eat while taking a shower just to save time. 

4. A long term care insurance policy that does not require skills equivalent to snake charming and pushing a large rock uphill. Or I could just drive to Colorado and drop my parents off at corporate headquarters for the day. That would be infinitely clearer than the correct number of checked boxes on cryptic forms that are often mysteriously lost in the faxing process. If you think people with dementia are hard to get answers from, just wait until you’re dealing with their insurance company. But no worries, by then you will have your fake nice voice down pat when you hear, “That fax hasn’t come across my desk”, yet again.

  

5-10. Chocolate.

Dementia as a Second Language

     Dementia shows no mercy. There is no cure, little dignity and hope is about as thick as the atmosphere on the moon. I was given sage advice by a doctor. “Don’t attempt to bring them into your reality.” After many years of coping with my parent’s dementia I knew exactly what she meant, but I wonder if people new to Alzheimer’s recognize the depth and wisdom packed into that statement.   

      Dementia as a language is usually spoken in the afflicted person’s native tongue. Context and meaning often take a walk on the wild side. For the non-afflicted who live with Alzheimer’s patients, understanding this language involves listening intently to random strings of thought and a good deal of intuition. Patience is imperative and curiosity helps. Those not comfortable with the concept of make believe are in for a rocky ride.

The following are the rules of engagement as I’ve come to understand them;

Do not attempt to be right; you cannot and will not ever win an argument, 
give up right now

Seriously, so what? Even if you could possibly win, your victory will be forgotten faster than you will be able to gloat. If pride and intellectual superiority do not allow you to just let it go you better take a long hike and not look back. Remember; being right is not always smart. If you are able to say with sincere conviction “I’m sorry, I forgot you left your baby on the moon, my bad!” then don your gorilla suit and shake your booty. You have passed your first initiation into conversing with a deeply afflicted mind.   

Unburden yourself with the concept of truth

As Americans who read newspapers and watch TV we all know that truth is a highly malleable concept. Silly putty really, an invention of those who need to be right, possibly an idea forgotten before the Bible was even finished. Demented people don’t lie, they just make stuff up. The statement, “I don’t need to take a shower since the President is on his way to get me and I can’t be late,” does not need to be corrected. That would be the same as explaining to children that the books you read to them are blatant lies. Underscore that with a promise to punish them for believing in nonsense and you’ll be well on your way to comprehending the futility of verbally disagreeing with Alzheimer’s folks. “Oh come on, you don’t even know the President,” will be met with anger or tears. “That’s right, being clean is the American way so let’s hurry you into the shower before he gets here,” is far more likely to achieve positive results.

What you know will be adamantly ruled out; in fact you are the crazy person

It’s pretty clear when you become crazy to a demented person. A long, blank stare follows what you have just said, which means your words are not computing. “Nooooooo! Did you just go number two in your pants again???” can be met with a look so full of incomprehension that you will want to pull your own hair. Dinosaurs needed a second brain to control their tails but humans don’t have that luxury. When communication between the mind and nether regions breaks down you will be the first to know, but the person in diapers may be the last. “Okay Mom, its time to meet the President, let’s get you in the shower.”

   

Zen is perfected by the neurologically impaired; the sands of reality are ever shifting 

With no way to learn anything new the past and future are compressed into the seconds of the present. “Don’t touch that or you will burn yourself” is a logical attempt to explain an unpleasant consequence. Sadly instructions are forgotten between dropping something and the time it takes the object to hit the floor. Stay in the moment. Find your center. Something along the lines of “Please go find your baby before dinner,” is more likely to keep hands away from the stove than a thoughtful lesson on the subject. When they return holding a pillow and a banana all you need to say is, “You have a very pretty baby.”

Time travel is possible

A happy pink light fills the room and memories of swirling around a dance floor wrapped in a handsome soldiers arms take center stage… seconds later, shrieking is heard. “Who is that old man?” Dad, the man she imagined she was dancing with sixty years earlier had just walked in the room, now an old, unrecognizable stranger. Mom’s time machine is currently broken down somewhere in her twenties.

 Observe the spoken word as a highly flexible concept

See words as something that can be thrown in a blender then poured through a defective sieve before attempting to discern their meaning. When the language centers become damaged speech takes the quality of Dada poetry. When Mom first started babbling incoherent ideas and could still hear herself not making sense she looked at me with sincerity and said “I can’t believe a word I say anymore!” I hugged her and reassured her that she would always be my Mom. I promised to take care of her and that is the primary reason I’m still here. She is no longer aware that she doesn’t always make sense or that she even has kids, but hugs still work.

Have fun, conversations can be hilarious, relax and go with the flow

Endlessly repeated questions can drive the most level headed person to distraction. Try to give a different but honest answer each time. This exercise keeps your brain on its toes and helps ward off the fury of supreme annoyance that lurks on the horizon most days. It is exhausting to make yourself behave cordially when a tsunami of aggravation pounds your limits. Reward yourself often for making this astonishing effort, it is one of the hardest things you will ever learn to do well. Mom asks if she can help me about 5,000 times a day, although filling a glass of water is an impossible task. Once I asked if she could give me a million dollars because that would certainly help and she said she would check her pockets. After feeling around she informed me with genuine remorse, “Honey, I don’t have any pockets.”    

Words can be devastating over and over again

If you can’t say something nice cultivate painless ways to bite your tongue. Dad cannot stand that Mom believes her Mother is alive. He definitely has to be right. Her Mother died twenty years ago, but every evening my Mom is still convinced she is going to go home to her Mother. Referred to as ‘sundowning’ the term describes heightened strange behaviors as the sun sets. Dad spends a good deal of time correcting Mom by shrieking “YOUR MOTHER IS DEAD!” As if yelling will finally get through to her. Mom collapses in a tearful heap since her mind is hearing this news for the first time. I could not convince him to stop. Moments later, all was forgotten and the scene was repeated. I used to take her for a drive and promise that Granny was away for a little while and would come to visit us soon. I told myself that Granny was a ghost who hovered around when the spirit moved her, you know, to stay in touch with reality while I was fibbing to Mom. She has finally reached the stage where she believes that Dad is a big fat liar and the news is no longer devastating. The day she announced, “That old man doesn’t know anything!” I sighed with relief. Long live Granny!  

Tone of voice is crucial

A voice dripping with honey is most effective, where almost everything else is perceived as intentionally cruel. Demented people have no problems haranguing you with guilt to punish you for causing them pain. “I should just disappear and then what would you do?”, “I know how much I’m hurting you just to be alive!” and “Who wants me anymore?” are the answers I get for rolling my eyes in a moment of frustration. Do not take words at face value, avoid getting caught up in their emotion and refrain from believing that Alzheimer’s people are evil or it will just drive you crazy.

Give up all expectations

Let them go, the sooner you send those troublesome ideas to the vapors the easier your life among scrambled neurons will be. Do not expect to be understood, remembered or thanked. Be grateful for the opportunity to learn a new language, to rise above yourself and to give unselfishly every minute of your day. Oh, and don’t forget to have a life, get some sleep and take care of yourself. That part will be a lot harder to accomplish than you think.

     The following are my favorite pictures from a hike in Las Trampas Regional Park last week, a lovely place new to me and one I’ll return to soon for necessary moments of bliss. I love my new camera! With 42X zoom so much of the world is closer. There is much in life to be grateful for. I’m missing friends on Molokai this week (you know who you are!) While there are plenty of remote trails to explore, I don’t know anyone to go hiking, out to lunch or have coffee with in this town. Actually I do, but they no longer remember me. Talk about expecting too much. 

wild mistletoe

                                               Happy 4th of July!! Keep smiling :)