Panic stations
By M on Wednesday 7 February 2007, 23:08 - Journal - Permalink
Dad returned from day care today to find the house locked. Then he was unable
to raise mum from her bed. Suddenly, panic set it. He called on the neighbour,
Emma, for help. She caught the bug and breathlessly telephoned me. When I heard
the explanation - part from her, part from dad - I sent dad back to the house
to keep banging on the door, then told Emma how to open the minisafe so that
she could get the key.
Within minutes dad called me back from inside the house. He'd managed to rouse mum. He was still in a panic, though.
'You've got to come over here, Mike. I'm still all worked up. We need you.'
As it happens, I have a social engagement this evening. And I can just imagine cancelling it at this stage, arriving at mum and dad's place and dad then saying 'to what do we owe this pleasure?' So, no. I drew the line. When people get panicky around me I tend to react in a contrary way.
'Dad, you have my friend Carol coming over at 4:30 to give you dinner tonight. She'll do a good job of looking after you.' She is not my 'friend' exactly, she is a careworker, but 'friend' needs no explanation.
By good fortune, our request for a third evening meal service has been answered, starting today. This didn't dispel the panic, though. Next minute, dad called Regan and complained to her that I wouldn't go over to see them when asked. Yes, Carol was arriving within the hour, but that wasn't going to be enough. He asked her to bring some chocolate over. I was not moved by this pathos. On the phone to Regan I suggested, only half-jokingly, that we ought to tell dad to 'grow up and act like a man'. But she, kind-hearted soul that she is, is taking over the Cadbury's.
Within minutes dad called me back from inside the house. He'd managed to rouse mum. He was still in a panic, though.
'You've got to come over here, Mike. I'm still all worked up. We need you.'
As it happens, I have a social engagement this evening. And I can just imagine cancelling it at this stage, arriving at mum and dad's place and dad then saying 'to what do we owe this pleasure?' So, no. I drew the line. When people get panicky around me I tend to react in a contrary way.
'Dad, you have my friend Carol coming over at 4:30 to give you dinner tonight. She'll do a good job of looking after you.' She is not my 'friend' exactly, she is a careworker, but 'friend' needs no explanation.
By good fortune, our request for a third evening meal service has been answered, starting today. This didn't dispel the panic, though. Next minute, dad called Regan and complained to her that I wouldn't go over to see them when asked. Yes, Carol was arriving within the hour, but that wasn't going to be enough. He asked her to bring some chocolate over. I was not moved by this pathos. On the phone to Regan I suggested, only half-jokingly, that we ought to tell dad to 'grow up and act like a man'. But she, kind-hearted soul that she is, is taking over the Cadbury's.
Comments
Back in the day, before I became a savvy hard-nosed caregiver, there were several incidents when I responded to a panicky phone call from my mother, only to arrive at the house and find both my parents happily sitting watching TV, reading the paper, and completely baffled by why in the world I was turning up at such an odd hour. And I would leave them wondering why in the world I seemed a bit MIFFED.
Since then I have developed a routine for dispelling panic by phone. This involves speaking with priest-like calm authority, and assigning my mother some simple task, after which (fifteen minutes later) I will call her back and find out how things are going. By that time whatever it was has passed. This works for her, but she has a docile personality and an unbridled passion for peace and quiet.
The important thing to remember about caregiving is to care out of who you are, not out of who society thinks caregivers should be. As far as I'm concerned, both you and Regan earned A's.
Cadbury chocolates! Your father has the BEST ideas, really. As a matter of fact, if we didn't have to work, feed the kids, pay the bills, iron the clothes, mow the lawn, walk the dog, chair the boards, build websites, and a miilion and one other stupid things, sitting down with a piece of chocolate would be the very best, most perfect thing to do.Or a glass of wine. Or a bottle of Scotch...
Instead I run around like a mad woman, entirely forgetting what is most important in life. The only thing I would add to the chocolate would be a comfortable chair under a shady tree with a view of the lake.
I find it interesting how he knows to call you. Or your sister. He doesn't wonder if he should or struggle with the choice. He doesn't hesitate or wait for the "best" time to call. He just reaches for you, and finds you. There doesn't seem to be a hesitancy on his part. Was it like that before he had Alzheimer's or is it a behavior he's developed since he's been ill?
My experience was quite different. My father NEVER called or asked for anything. He felt he was completely capable of everything, including driving. He had no idea there was anything wrong. Arggg.
He was always the boss when we were kids and felt he still was up until the day he died. We learned to find ways for him to be just that, I believe he always felt in control of his own space, perhaps that's why we were willing to figure out ways to keep him home. Alzeihmer's is a theif. He was a fiercely independent man and he lost everything to it. As a family, we rebelled, would not give up his head lying on his own pillow in his own bed in his own home, until the bitter end. Looking back, perhaps what we did, we did for us. Gail Rae says the exact truth. You can't be any other caregiver than the one you are. We all find our way. Thanks for writing about yours.
Patty