Organization

Dad was always the organized one.  He had a place for everything and everything in his home had a place.  He carefully wiped the spots out of sinks when he was done with them-- all sinks, it mattered not what they were made of.  I always knew where to find something.  Things went in logical places, in the rooms that they were being used in.  Everything in Dad's home was clean, neat, and kept up.  Cared for.  Once after Dad had brought home a bunny and then rehomed it, he replaced the carpeting.  All of the carpeting.  Because in playing with the small dog, the bunny had pooed randomly as bunnies will.  But since the poo left tiny little stains to Dad's eyes, the carpet went and new carpet was brought in.  Dad had a housekeeper who came in twice a week to dust and vacuum.  I remember her.  She was an old lady, easily eighty years old or so, but cheerful.  I am not sure if she was a thorough housekeeper.  She did tilt the pictures hanging in the living room over the stereo to show that she had indeed dusted them.

And now we both struggle with organization.  I always had, although my brain damage subsequently made my disorganization much worse.  And Dad because of his dementia.  He spends a lot of time, an hour or two daily, fixing and straightening and organizing his stuff.  "I'm getting a new system," he tells me in all seriously as he moves the clothing around in his dresser or lines up the items he needs for his nail care on top of it.  Dad insists upon putting his own clothing away after they are laundered.  He has consented to allow the housekeeper to make his bed daily and to vacuum his carpet twice a week.

sapphoq on life

Headaches

Dad has been complaining about headaches again.  I feel miserable as I can't fix it.  I can't make it go away for him.  I can't force his brain into better functioning.  He continues his spiral downward.  He hates all of it.  He has moments where he recognizes that he cannot remember well-- what he wants from the store or whether or not he's eaten lunch or what day it is.


In my mother's house, in order to get her to recognize that I was feeling physically unwell I had to burst into tears.  I taught myself how to do this.  If I told her I wasn't feeling well without the tears, I was not heard.

After I moved in with Dad, the first time I got physically sick, I burst into tears.  I was amazed to discover that I no longer had to do this in order to get medicine or treatment.

The other thing I had taught myself as a young child was a form of pain management.  I am still able to "make myself dizzy" as a way of disassociating from physical pain and then stopping the dissociation at will in order to check on my pain.  The P.C. doc was astonished to find out that I could control that process.  As an adult I was astonished to find out that my experience was not typical.  I thought "everyone" could and did make and unmake themselves dizzy as a response to physical pain.

Disassociation is not relegated to those who have some form of D.I.D.  [D.I.D. used to be called M.P.D. or multiple personality disorder].  If you've ever zoned out while reading a captivating book or driving long distances on a highway in your car, you were disassociating.

I don't think Dad zones out on his his headache pain.  He looks and feels miserable.  Over the counter headache tablets do soften his pain.  But the real problem remains.  He is having more frequent headaches now and an increase in confusion.  He doesn't call it confusion.  But he does know his brain is failing.

And so there is the problem of getting the V.A. docs to respond to his concerns and maybe work him up to make sure that the bump on the back of his head is just a bump.

sapphoq on life

Tired and Demented

Anything with the brain can tire one out.  This has certainly been my experience with my traumatic brain injury.  And it has also been Dad's experience with his Lewey Body Dementia.  He falls asleep easily in his chair when watching television.  I don't mind so much.  When he does, I sit quietly.  When he wakes up, we continue talking about politics or cars or relatives.

I love my Dad and it is sad for me to watch the spiraling nature of his cognitive and physical decline.  I remember to love him in the ways that he wants to be loved.  I cherish every moment that we have together.  And I hope for him what I hope for all of us, that he will die in his sleep one night or peacefully napping in his chair.

sapphoq on life

(The pic is of my cat on a bedspread yawning with a caption that says, "I needz mai naptiem.  Go 'way."  I took the pic, I reserve all rights to the pic, and I own the cat too.  So copyright police, you can go away now).