Pools

     One aunt and uncle had a couple of kids and a pool. It was a large above-the-ground in a square shape with a deck. The pool itself was surrounded by long timbers on the outside. I've never seen one like it before or since but I suppose other folks probably had one like it.

     They also had beds of flowers surrounded the house. I liked the pansies especially. "They seemed to be such happy flowers"-- a phrase I must have heard somewhere. I didn't think that then but it's what comes to mind now.

     Their downstairs bathroom also had fish wallpaper and a couple of fish figures on the walls.

     Later, the pool was traded out for an in-ground of the same size, shape, and depth. I preferred the old pool but never said so. Aunt and uncle seemed rather proud of the new one so I said nothing.

     I learned how to swim in a big army pool in the southern part of North Carolina. We'd gone visiting and a day at the base was a treat! I was never afraid of the water that I remember. I always could float well and swimming involved adding arm and leg movements to what I could already do.

     I was exposed to a pool at a Y during gym class in elementary school. We were bused there. I hated that. The locker rooms were not private enough. The kids were too loud. The instructor decided that I needed to learn how to breathe after every stroke of the front crawl rather than after every five or six stroked when I needed to. Because of that, I was put into the "beginner" swimmer class instead of into the more advanced class where my other classmates went and where I truly belonged. I was overly quiet and didn't advocate for myself then. Loud tears at the least, or a screaming tantrum may have gotten my message across better than my whispered short protest. My swimming did not improve during that class. I already knew how to do all sorts of things in the water contrary to what the Y staff thought. 

     Dad preferred apartment living to renting part or all of a house. [Later, he preferred owning a condo]. One of the apartments had a pool in the back. We had lots of fun there in the summer. Once my mother refused to let me take a bathing suit along. I don't know why. Dad allowed me to swim in my clothing [blue laws meant that swimsuits could not be purchased on Sundays] which was then washed and dried before I went back to my mother's. 

     At the apartment pool, I swam, floated, jumped or dove off the board, swam underwater, and perfected my side strokes. [I can swim on either side equally well]. I also learned to do headstands in the water. When not in the pool, we played Rummy 500. 

     Dad saved a little boy from drowning in the shallow section of the pool once. Even the lifeguard did not see that the toddler was in trouble. I learned that choking can be very quiet.

     Dad's days enjoying pools, lakes, and the ocean are over. His card-playing is over now too. When asked if he wanted to play Rummy 500, he shook his head and in a rare act of vulnerability acknowledged that the game would be too difficult for him now.

     Dad admitted recently to no longer being able to "keep up." 

     Dementia sucks.

                    sapphoq on life

Loss

     In his younger days, back before I was thought of, Dad was into motorcycles and motocross. He liked riding around with some buddies. He liked racing and he was good at it. I don't remember him ever riding a motorcycle. I knew he had no problems on the little mopeds in Bermuda. And I knew that he had gotten an International Driver's License. So I was surprised to find out [when watching motocross on television together one day] that he was into motocross. He was also in an organization of motorcyclists. The club had its own tracks to ride around on [in preparation for motocross races? I don't really know]. And the guys did go ramming around together on weekends to various dances and things. 

    I knew that Dad was good at dancing. He had been a dance studio instructor [before I was born I think] at one time for Arthur Murray Studios. Dad taught me how to dance some waltzes and swings in a large room in a club. I don't remember the name of the place now-- just that it was on the second floor of a very large building with big windows overlooking some water. Dad kept telling me that the guy was supposed to lead. That was something that I finally learned with difficulty. But dancing with Dad was great fun. I had and have a natural rhythm at it and am good enough for someone who is not a professional. I pick up dances easily. One of my most treasured memories was dancing with my father at my wedding.

     Dad and his wives entered and won dance contests at various clubs and cruises. He was that good. I was proud of that. I would have liked to have known Dad in his motorcycle days but I didn't. He did take me to some car races as a kid. I prefer things like tractor pulls and cars smashing into each other on a track to a straight race.

      Shortly after arriving at assisted living, Dad did teach a few of the old folks living with him some dance steps. His most successful pupil was a woman who had a bum leg. With his encouragement, she was soon dancing in spite of her leg.

     All of those things are gone now. Dad cannot drive. And the Lewey Body Dementia has now progressed to the point where ambulation is difficult and dancing is impossible.

sapphoq on life says: Appreciate what you and others can do today. None of us know when those abilities will be gone.

The Cellphone

Dad's had a cellphone for a number of years.  He was fluent in its' use and operation but like many other skills, his dementia has taken that away from him. 

     A few weeks ago, we went to the cellphone store to find out why his cellphone would not hold a charge as long as it used to.  After some fancy cellphone testing involving a machine and scary-looking probes, it was determined that "the battery is bad."  Not only was the battery "bad," said battery could not be replaced because it wasn't being manufactured anymore.  Almost everyone in the cellphone-speaking universe is quite enamored with "smart-phones."  My dad was barely able to operate his simple "dumb-phone."  The sales staff gave him the "only dumb phone left in the store" and a two year contract for it.  The staff claimed that the dumb phone was worth three hundred dollars.  Sorry dude, I wasn't born in a Luddite void.  I protested the contract.  I told the guy that Dad would be dead before the contract was up.  To no avail.  Dad wanted the use of a cellphone, his own cellphone.  So away we went with his newer dumb phone. 

     Dad pointed out right away that he had to maneuver the included charger into a hole [slot] located on the left side of the new dumb phone.  His old phone had a charger he could set it into and that was easier.  I knew there was going to be a bit of trouble when is dementia-affected vision could not distinguish the standard picture of a cornfield from-- whatever it was that Dad thought it was.  I couldn't quite make out what he meant there.  But he seemed to be able to associate the yellow in the picture with the word "corn."

     Two weeks passed.  Two weeks of, "Show me how to ______ ."  Dad could not find the location of his contacts.  Once I located the contacts for him, he appeared to be trying to memorize the order of the contacts rather than being able to read the names of the people.  Then he didn't know how to dial the numbers or the shortcuts [which had been transferred for him from the old dumb phone to the new dumb phone].  He also complained that he was missing calls because he couldn't answer the phone fast enough.  [Dad had not been able to understand or to access the voice mail feature for a couple of years now].  He could not remember how to find what calls he missed, even after I showed him a number of times.  I gave up.

     The house has several phones.  The folks who live there are able to use the phone as they wish to and all of their calls are free.  No charge.  The folks who live there are also able to receive phone calls from the outside.  Not only that, the staff will bring a portable phone to them when they do get a call.  Dad will have to get used to this arrangement.  I talked the phone company into cancelling Dad's contract without penalty on the basis that Lewey Body Dementia is progressive and fatal and that his deterioration has speeded up dramatically within the last two weeks.  I told Dad the new cell phone had to be "fixed."  I brought the new dumb phone back to the cell phone store.  End of story.  [N.B.:  It's called "therapeutic lying" and it is a necessity when dealing with Dad and things that must be done.  Therapeutic lying is not something that I condoned before I found that I had to use it with my dad because of what the dementia is doing to his brain].

     Guilt?  Yes.  Always guilt.  The guilt over pulling Dad's cellphone was mitigated by what he told me he had spent the morning doing [before I showed up to get the new cell phone].  Dad had spent the morning trying to get his old[er, disconnected] cellphone to work.

sapphoq on life says:  Don't ever doubt that dementia sucks.