The swallowing reflex is something that many people with Parkinson’s disease eventually lose and recently it has become more and more difficult for Anthony to swallow food, drink and especially the many pills he has to take. This morning, after a lovely visit from members of the family who had to travel home today, he said his feet hurt, so I asked for panadol and the nurse brought the pills in just before lunch was delivered.
He was given the panadol inside a spoonful of custard and I told the nurse that I would make sure he swallowed them but 15 minutes later, while his lunch got cold, he kept trying to spit them out and, no matter how hard I tried, with little sips of water and gentle persuasion, he just wouldn’t/couldn’t swallow the pills.
I got so angry with him! Furious, and in tears of frustration, I kept saying, “Just swallow, Ants, SWALLOW!” But he just kept sort of munching on the pills and trying to get them out of his mouth. I kept pushing them back into his mouth and giving him sips of water and he kept resisting me and kind of trying to push me away. Afraid that he might choke, I fought back and yelled at him “Swallow it, for God’s sake!” and finally he did after which I fed him his lunch which he swallowed easily – ironic.
It is a long long time since I have expressed anger towards Anthony so I felt disgusted with myself for having done so when I know he can’t help this sort of thing.
Later, once I’d calmed down and he’d said “Sorry Jules,” I asked him why he wouldn’t swallow the pills and he just said, “I thought they might be poison.”
“Why the hell would I poison you? Don’t you trust me?” Yes, my voice was a little shrill.
So I guess we are now entering yet another phase: inability to swallow, paranoia, extreme confusion. I reported the incident to staff so they are aware, and the doctor is going to review Anthony’s meds in order to find something easier to swallow.
For the remainder of the day, after Anthony and I got over our tiff, he slept in his armchair and I held his hand. Every now and then he would drowsily reach out to hold my other hand and whisper, “Sorry, Jules” again.
This previously robust, macho, laughing man of mine – my hero – now reduced, diminished by this rotten disease, and yet still more concerned about me than himself.
jmgoyder 