jmgoyder

wings and things

Holiday

Ever since I began blogging, in November, 2011 (I had to go back to find this!) I have been amazed by the generosity of strangers, the friendships formed by commonalities, and the understanding when certain bloggers, like myself, just can’t keep up with those amazing, yet tenuous, friendships.

The fact that WordPress has gone a bit AWOL in terms of this blog (yes, I have contacted the Happiness engineer people) has actually given me time to reflect on what I really want to do here, on this blog:

1. Reading: Keep in better touch with blog friends, but don’t feel guilty if you can’t.
2. Writing: KISS (keep-it-simple-stupid!) – also, keep it short.
3. Photography: Learn from others.
4. Personal: If you are having a difficult time with the whole life thing, and you can’t blog, that is absolutely fine.

I so appreciate all of the blog support I have received from friends, relatives, bloggers and family, but I just cannot keep up at the moment and feeling bad not to have even answered comments! So yet another blog break is in order, so I can spend more time with Anthony and write my soon-to-be famous novel ha!

Nothing dramatic – just a little blog holiday.

25 Comments »

A bit like the weather

At the nursing home, Anthony was up and about this afternoon at about the same time he was in bed yesterday. He was lucid, mobile, vocal and quite jaunty.

To me, Dementia resembles the unpredictability of the weather, about which you can do nothing. The other day, a tree was uprooted and fell down during a storm; the next day it poured with rain; the next day it was bright sunshine; and today it is a bit of both.

There is nothing anyone can do about weather fluctuations – nothing. Forecasts can be wrong and often the weather will change drastically from what was expected to something totally different. A storm may shove a sunny day aside and vice versa. And there is nothing you can do about it. Nothing.

Dementia is like this in so many ways. One day, at exactly 10am, Anthony might be able to answer the phone and have a coherent conversation with me; the next day he might be unable to do either. Despite the careful timing of his PDD medications (just like I used to do at home), sometimes he has a huge appetite and other times he has forgotten how to eat. Sometimes he can almost run, using his walker and other times he can’t even take a single step and we have to get the wheelchair.

With over ten years of nursing experience up my sleeve, and a PhD about Alzheimer’s Disease, you would think that I’d have more understanding of the kind of nuances that occur when Dementia has climbed onto the back of another disease like Anthony’s Parkinson’s. And yet, every day is a surprise for me – sometime wonderful, sometimes awful, and sometimes in-between … a bit like the weather.

So what do you do when the weather isn’t what you expected?
You accept it of course, because you have no choice.

[Note to blogger friends: I am still not receiving email notifications of your posts so have been using the WP Reader. This is a much better way for me for the time being but I am not keeping up with you all and I apologize].

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Parkinson’s Disease Dementia and FEAR

I don’t think many people recognize, and acknowledge, the kind of fear that a person with any kind of dementia can experience. Anthony has PDD but can still vocalize his fears, especially after the sun goes down (Sundowner’s syndrome).

About 15 minutes ago, I rang him on his new phone and he actually picked up (doesn’t always remember how) and he was frightened and utterly delusional, thinking that he was at his brother’s house and that a storm had destroyed it, and asking me to come and rescue him. His words were garbled and frantic. I tried to calm him down, then told him I would ring the nurse but he said I wouldn’t be able to get hold of a nurse because of all the workmen were around and it was dangerous.

So then I rang the nurse and told her and she said she would go and check on him and get back to me. There is now an anti-anxiety drug that has been prescribed for these occasions so I reminded her of that.

Now I am waiting for her phone-call. As I wait, I think, with great distress, about how, from time to time, Anthony becomes absolutely terrified at night. PDD and, paradoxically, some of the medications used to treat it, can cause hallucinations, paranoia, confusion of space and time, and fear.

Anthony’s bouts of terror usually only last about half an hour which is the same amount of time it would take me to drive into town and ‘rescue’ him.

When is scared like this, he becomes more articulate despite the fact that what he describes isn’t real. Very soon, I think, he will not be able to talk at all, so it is very important for me that I understand his fear, and try to reassure him. I was in this afternoon, seeing him, and there was no indication he might have one of these ‘episodes’ despite the fact that he was very confused.

I am not just spilling my guts here – I am also saying that if your loved one has dementia but has ceased to speak, they might have the FEAR thing too so your voice on a phone, your visit, your touch, a hug, a cake, a blanket or a cup of tea might just alleviate that.

My heart breaks for those suffering this kind of fear in silence. I just spoke to the nurse and Anthony is apparently okay again and he is being put to bed but what if he is still really afraid? I am so worried, but I won’t be able to see Ants until tomorrow morning by which time he may have forgotten the fear. Oh I hope so.

He is, and always will be, my hero.

[ps. not keeping up with other blogs atm – sorry]

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Ten years ago!

I just found this email draft in my files. I wrote it to Anthony’s doctor and specialist at the time, but I never sent it because I was too shy to be this upfront and personal and, also, neither of them were emailable back then. It gave me a bit of a shock to read my perspective of what was happening to Anthony in 2004, from my new perspective in 2014, mainly because I had lost track of how long Parkinson’s Disease has been part of our lives:

Feb. 2004

[Notes for Drs re Anthony Goyder’s Parkinson’s]

Hello Mike and Robert,

I want to document Anthony’s “condition” before I get so used to it I think it’s normal, whatever the hell normal is. So I am writing to you without Anthony’s knowledge because, from past experience, I have learned that to say this sort of thing in front of him only makes things worse. So this is confidential between you and me. I would hate for him to know that I am this worried and this pissed off.

He presents fairly well to you guys (bravado and all that), then, when we get home and he is back to ‘normal’, he just slumps again. I am struggling with the dilemma of whether to push him to make more of an effort, or to just let him be – ie. I am not sure anymore whether his lassitude, lethargy, lack-lustreness etc. are symptomatic of the Parkinson’s in a physical sense, or if this is a psychological thing – or if this is a side effect of the sinemet.

THINGS I AM NOTICING ABOUT ANTHONY SINCE PARKINSON’S DIAGNOSIS

He has an increased stoop, so much so that he seems to fill more space than he did before and, from behind, he is so bent over that it looks as if he is headless;
His movements are slower – terribly slow; his ability to grasp, pour, reach for, use cutlery, walk etc. – all of these are drastically reduced.
He is exhausted most of the time. He does chores like emptying rubbish into incinerator and long hours of watering garden (switching hoses etc.) but has to sit down often in between all of this. Sometimes he stands for minutes on end outside, looking at the ground. I don’t know what he is thinking.
He seems badly depressed but I’m not sure about this because we still do have a few laughs and great conversations. The main reason I think he might be depressed to the point of needing medication is that he has no energy or incentive or excitement about anything and will not come to watch Ming (our 10 year old) play basketball etc. In fact, Anthony will not go anywhere anymore except extremely reluctantly.
He often doesn’t shave, even if visitors are coming. He wears raggy clothes and he can’t pull his shirts down or his shorts up and doesn’t seem to care. He lies down a lot. He appears morose a lot – I do realise this lack of facial expression is yet another symptom, but sometimes it seems like real moroseness.
He can’t keep up verbally or cognitively with what is going on when Ming and I are having a conversation and he often misses the point of something that is said. This is not terribly noticeable except to Ming and to me. Anthony kind of goes a bit blank or preoccupied and I sometimes have to “translate” what Ming says to him.
Sometimes I may be doing something really mundane like cutting up vegemite sandwiches and he says something bizarre like, “What’s that? Is it meat?” when I’ve only just told him what I’m doing. I do realise this could be an eyesight thing and he refuses to wear glasses, so maybe I’m overreacting – ha.
He has become extremely self-conscious about his appearance (old, bent over etc. – his words, not mine) and avoids all social events.
He will not/cannot drive anymore, except to take Ming to school and pick him up on the days I am at work. The weird and worrying thing about this for me is that he was always car crazy and loved driving but he doesn’t seem to care that he’s lost this. If this is acceptance, fine, but it seems to me that this is a kind of resignation thing. I am not criticizing him – I am worried.
He is ultra dependent on me – my company, my presence. Whenever I go out (except when I go to work), I feel guilty about leaving him.
The drooling thing has nearly stopped, but is still there occasionally. I have always pretended not to notice, of course.

I confronted Anthony about some of these things during our recent row (not really a row, just me upset and him defeated) and his attitude was a silence of sorts – an inability to voice what he must be suffering. Ok, fine, and – yes – I do have empathy and 99% of the time I’m fine with this whole situation. But….

Anthony is worse, in most of the above ways, than when he was diagnosed. To me, this indicates that the sinemet is not quite keeping up with the progression of the disease. He is terribly reluctant to take more pills so it would be great if there were a pill with a higher mg content so he wouldn’t feel as if he were taking heaps. Someone has scared him re the fact that eventually he will become resistant to the drugs.

Once again, I do not want him to know I have said all this to you. It is very important that I seem calm and cool to him and I very much regret being upset and nasty with him the other day. Anthony is not a fighter, once attacked. He is strong, he is resilient, but he seems to crumple in the face of adversity. I do not want him to know any of the bad stuff that may be coming, so please don’t tell him.

Thanks

Julie G

It just feels like yesterday….

31 Comments »

The UFO

It’s been a busy week, punctuated by strange occurrences. For example, as I rode my bicycle home the other day (from my incredibly long 2 kilometre challenge), I took a short-cut across the front lawn and saw this:

IMG_3800

I assumed that it was a cowpat (you know, the stuff that comes out of a cow’s bottom, ordinarily called cowshit but I am being polite), but none of our neighbours’ cattle usually visit, so then I thought maybe the alpacas, Okami and Uluru, had had a pooing competition, but the pile of whatever-it-was was too big to fit either of these possible scenarios, and, even though geese and ducks produce a lot of this kind of thing, they tend to do it all over the place and not in one spot.

Later in the day I told Ming about it:

Me: There’s this huge pile of shxx on the front lawn – have you seen it?
Ming: No, it’s probably your stupid birds.
Me: No this is massive and it looks really weird, like a UFO or something.
Ming: Don’t worry about it!
Me: Would you mind coming out and having a look?
Ming: Grrr – okay.

So I showed Ming and he started to laugh hysterically.

Me: What’s so funny?
Ming: Remember that pea soup you made and forgot to put in the frig and asked me to throw out?
Me: Oh.

41 Comments »

Parkinson’s disease dementia and life expectancy

Okay so I googled this today with a mixture of guilt and curiosity. In watching Anthony’s physical and mental abilities diminish over the last year, I have become increasingly concerned that (a) he will become very depressed; (b) his confusion will cause him anxiety; and (c) he will suffer physical pain.

Some of these things are already happening of course but, so far, he is not in physical pain and – remarkably, in my opinion, – is not depressed in any clinical sense. He is plagued by bouts of immobility and incontinence but we have both accepted these aspects of PD. Recently, however, the confusion of dementia has caused us both anxiety. For example, if he is home for the day, he will often talk to Ming and me even when we aren’t in the room. And sometimes, in the nursing home, he will think we are all home on the farm, and can’t understand where Ming and I are going when we leave him.

It is over seven years now since Antony’s PD diagnosis, and just over two years since he has lived in the nursing home. He is sad a lot of the time, mainly because he misses me, Ming and home, but mostly he is resigned and heroic in the way he has accepted now that he is too heavy for a single person to lift (in and out of bed etc.)

As much as possible, I have tried to inject a daily dose of joy into our equation but sometimes that isn’t enough and visiting him yesterday with my youngest brother and his youngest son, although wonderful, gutted me when we had to leave him, leaning on his walker, waving goodbye, with two nurses ready to take him back to his room.

How long will this go on? I catch myself wondering if sudden death would be better than this excruciatingly slow journey into an illness that has no cure, that ends with severe dementia, and that robs us of the energy we once had to adore each other. Of course the love is still there – maybe more than ever – but it is no longer a gleeful, adventurous, exciting love; it is more like a needy, obligatory, remembered love – not quite real in the here and now.

My grief and love for Anthony are in equal proportions and every single day it’s as if they draw straws to see which one will win – usually love, but not always….

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The littlest peachick

Yesterday morning, just outside the back door, you took bread from my hand for the first time,
even though you are the littlest peachick.
Surrounded by your peacock father and his brothers, surrounded by your peahen mother and her sisters,’
you raced all of them and won each piece of bread I tossed onto the ground,
even though you are the littlest peachick.

Your big sister didn’t stand a chance and you gobbled all of her bread bits until I gently brushed you aside,
littlest peachick.

This morning, just outside the back door, I saw you again, but this time you were all alone.
I thought you were a pile of leaves blown together by the wind,
until I saw your little legs pointing upwards like the bare, autumn branches of a bonsai.
I went outside and approached you cautiously, not wanting to see what I already saw, that you were very dead,
my littlest peachick.

Your mother, big sister, and all of the others, came over very quietly to look at your dead body.
Then, just as quietly, they all stepped back, turned around and went away,
my littlest peachick.

IMG_3666

This morning, the farm is strangely silent. Your family, usually so noisy and boisterous, has withdrawn from the vicinity of your death.
Out in the paddock, they nibble halfheartedly at the grass, looking up and around frequently, as if sensing danger, bewildered, as I am,
at your mysterious death,
our littlest peachick.

I see you now, from the corner of my heart’s eye,
high up in a tree that is so beautiful that it has no name.
You are no longer little; you are huge and your rainbow wings span the sky as you fly in and through the marshmallow clouds
of where you are now.

The littlest peachick.

34 Comments »

Anzac Day

Today is Anzac Day (fyi http://www.awm.gov.au/commemoration/anzac/anzac-tradition/) so I went into town this morning to join Anthony for the nursing home’s memorial ceremony. Many of his forbears fought in various wars and he has always become very emotional, as his mother used to, on this day of remembrance, so I wanted to make sure he was okay.

I was surprised to find that he wasn’t particularly interested. The ceremony was an abbreviation of those held elsewhere, probably due to having to fit it in between breakfast and lunch routines, and the usual under-staffing on a public holiday. I sat next to Ants with my hand on his arm during the service but now that he is so bowed over (partly due to Parkinson’s disease and partly due to his spinal condition) he no longer looks up so I had to kind of hold his head up when the flag was raised.

By 11am we were back in Anthony’s room and he was very wobbly (‘wobbly’ is the term we coined some years ago to describe what happens when PD is in full force; his eyes become glazed, he begins to dribble, and he can’t move, talk, focus without prompting). A nurse came in at 11.10am to give him his 11am pill but none of his meds seem to work like they used to so I had to feed him his lunch using a spoon. Like all of the residents in the high care wing of the nursing home, he has to wear a bib. We bantered a bit (well I did) about me having to feed him like a baby and that garnered a small smile from him.

By 1pm, I wanted to go home to my chores and said so. Anthony briefly rallied asking why he couldn’t come too and (for the zillionth time) I explained that, as it was already the afternoon, he would just get more wobbly and too heavy for me blah blah, and he gave me the usual stony look. I then reassured him that I would bring him home tomorrow morning because my youngest brother is visiting with his youngest son.

Tonight I rang Ants at about 6pm and he answered it (yay!) but I had to shout because he has forgotten that he has to hold the receiver to his ear, despite how many times I have showed him how. I could hear his voice saying ‘hello’ but as if from a great distance, so I yelled, “PUT THE PHONE NEXT TO YOUR EAR!” He finally did so and this was our conversation:

Me: It’s ME, Julie, your wife!
Anthony: I don’t know where Julie is.
Me: I’m Julie – it’s me, Ants!
Anthony: Oh, Jules ….
Me: I’m just ringing to say good night.
Anthony: Tonight?
Me: I’m ringing to say good night, Ants.
Anthony: Oh that’s very sweet of you.
Me: So I’ll see you tomorrow morning, okay?
Anthony: Where are you?
Me: I’m home.
Anthony: Is Mum with you? (He meant his own mother who died decades ago).
Me: No, but Ming is. So I’m saying good night and I love you.
Anthony: I … you … bye….

Next year will be the 100th anniversary of ANZAC day and I wonder if Anthony will still be here. If he is, I know for sure that he will not remember what the day commemorates because once dementia kicks in, it kicks hard and that is what is already happening.

The photo below was taken by Jane, one of Anthony’s nieces, at his 75th birthday party here, over three years ago. He doesn’t look like this anymore.

Anthony listening to speech

LEST WE FORGET.

22 Comments »

The delicious taste of laughter

If I were at a restaurant and was offered a choice of my favourite foods – oysters, fillet steak, pizza, Caesar salad, a cheese platter, a doner kebab, or laughter – I would choose the latter.

If I were at a pub and was offered a choice of my favourite drinks – beer, shiraz, a pink gin, or laughter – I would choose the latter.

If you were to ask me what I would rather do – go for a walk, sleep in, read a book, visit a friend, do a good day’s work, or five minutes of laughter – I would choose the latter.

And, if you were to ask me if I preferred love over laughter, I would have to say no.

Today Ming and I picked Anthony up at around 10am and then proceeded to do a few errands in town before getting burgers and fries and eating them at a park overlooking the beachfront. Ants was very wobbly so we had to eat in the car. I’d given him his 11am pill a bit late so he wasn’t able to eat very well and kept mistaking his fries for strawers (you know for a drink). In the end I had to pretty much feed him half of my burger, but he had a lot of trouble biting, chewing and swallowing, and was dribbling terribly (Parkinson’s disease often affects the swallowing reflex).

On the way home to the farm, as the pill kicked its magic in, Ants began to recover but everything he said was so incoherent, quiet or nonsensical, that Ming and I had to eventually just respond with ‘yes.’ Once home, Anthony became extremely mobile and walked around the farm with and without his walker and at one stage he somehow took his shirt off to get a bit of sun, before coming inside for a cup of tea. But, just as suddenly (about 2.30pm), he became totally immobile and it took me an age to get him from house to car, by which time he was panting from exhaustion (and so was I!)

By then Ming had left us and gone to his shed to do a cleanup so I drove Ants over to say goodbye (it was now 3pm with next pill due at 4pm) and Ming was surprised.

Ming: Are you going already, Dad?”
Anthony: Yes, she just wants to get rid of me.
Me: I don’t know why I bother!

I was very hurt by Ants’ remark (especially by the fact that it was the first coherent thing he’d said all day), and I told him so on the way back to the nursing home. We put the car radio on to drown out the mutual misery until Ants actually whispered something in his new, soft voice. I turned the radio off.

Ants: I’m sorry, Jules.
Me: I can’t believe you said I wanted to get rid of you!
Ants (taking my hand and kissing it): I didn’t mean it.
Me: What do you and Ming want – my blood? I am doing my best!
Ants: I know, beautiful girl. I love you.
Me: I love you too so don’t ever think I want to get rid of you – please!
Ants: Glad I got a bit of work done today and Ming was a great help.
Me: Me too – thank you – I don’t know what I’d do without you, baby cheeks!

[He thought that he and Ming had done some jobs around the farm].

By this time we had reached the nursing home and Ants was totally incapable of walking so I raced in and grabbed a wheelchair and eventually got him into his room, then grabbed two nurses to help him into the toilet, and said a much quicker goodbye than usual.

Why didn’t I just respond to Anthony’s “she wants to get rid of me” comment with laughter? Why did I let myself be hurt? I am such an idiot! He and I have always bantered, so why didn’t I just turn his comment into an excuse for laughter? Well, I will next time, for sure, because these hurtful comments are becoming more regular, so I have to find a way of transforming these faltering conversations into some coherent laughter – yes!

Laughter is a gift that everyone is capable of doing, giving and receiving and it is my favourite thing in the world so, from now on, no matter what, laughter will be my/our medicine.

Delicious!

26 Comments »

“I just don’t understand you!”

Ming and I had a couple of altercations today that were impossible to resolve. This is so frustrating and painful and yet it points to the fact that we all think and feel differently and trying to match someone else’s way of doing both is impossible.

So what on earth do you do with irreconcilable differences? How does a 20-year-old son understand a 55-year-old mother who is trying to understand a 78-year-old husband? The only way, I think, is to accept the different points of view about everything, to accept each other (despite these differences), and to develop a capacity for sympathy. Empathy would be better, of course, but if the other person just cannot fit their great big size 13 feet (Ming) into your shoes, then agreeing to disagree is your best option.

I have always loved the concept of difference but I have never had it thrust in my face as much as the last few years, with Anthony’s declining health and Ming’s growing up. Neither of them understand that, at the center of this dynamic (in terms of age alone), I struggle sometimes to give them both what they need or want. And neither of them even think, unless I remind them (rather vociferously sometimes), that I might actually want to be considered too.

Perhaps love doesn’t require understanding? I am not complaining here (well maybe a bit!), or posing a feminist argument (hell, no – most of the misunderstandings I’ve experienced have been with women); I am just observing that sometimes you just have to accept the fact that you will never agree with the other person.

But you can still hug them and keep your “you are wrong!” thoughts to yourself. Ask Godfrey the gander!

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