In a bit of a bad way
By M on Tuesday 12 August 2008, 02:04 - Journal - Permalink
Although dad has improved slowly since his disastrous encounter with Zyprexa,
he is, as they say, a shadow of his former self.
He doesn't sleep properly, but gets up several times during the night and wanders around. The staff have tried taking him back to bed over and over again, hoping that one night he will simply adopt the practice of sleeping when he is supposed to, but just recently they have been putting a blanket over him and letting him sleep in chairs in the common room since, this way, he apparently spends more time asleep. One consequence of this is that he has been developing fluid retention in the legs, as he is rarely sleeping in a horizontal position.
He has been dopy during the day. This may be another consequence of not sleeping properly, though he never did sleep that much at home. However, it has triggered what I think is a healthy reduction in his Risperidone dose. He had been getting 1 mg each evening in an attempt to get him to sleep. Since it wasn't working, it was halved, in an attempt to improve his daytime alertness. Since that initial reduction had no effect, the administration of Risperidone has been stopped altogether. Not a bad development, I say.
But everyone knows things are not right with dad. He is not content or adjusted to the centre. He has apparently lost a great deal of whatever limited hold he had on things around him, and has been shaky and weak, unsteady on his legs, and strangely confused. Last time I went to visit him he asked me how long I had been 'out here' (meaning Australia). He had the idea that I had come out from England to pick him up. Our conversation stumbled along with one of us using this idea as a premise, and one of us trying hard not to be too contradictory, but not too complicit in the delusion either.
We went to visit mum. They recognised each other, and grasped hands. But after sitting together for a few minutes and not talking, mum got up and wandered off to sit somewhere else, apparently having forgotten us completely. I took this as a cue to walk dad back to his area, obviating the need for goodbyes and explanations that mum couldn't come with us. Rachel thinks that mum no longer recognises herself in mirrors. She shows no interest in her reflection at all. The wardrobe in her room is fully mirrored, and Rachel says that she has seen mum try to step into it, as if it is a doorway.
This is, I guess, all part of the endless deterioration of Alzheimers. However, there is more. Yesterday dad was taken back to hospital. The staff have had blood tests done on him, which showed that in a purely physiological way, he is in remarkably good condition. They have also been measuring his blood pressure, and yesterday it had fluctuated so much that they called an ambulance. He went into Emergency at the same hospital he was in last time, after the Zyprexa episode. Greg went to investigate the situation and found the same lack of detail and communication as before. The hospital staff do not see any reason why dad is there, and want to send him back. The retirement village staff appear not to have been very specific about how much his blood pressure was fluctuating, over what time frame, and at what frequency. Moreover, we seem unable to determine just how often they were measureing his blood pressure, or why. Dad, meanwhile, is completely confused about what has been happening to him. He recognised Rachel when she went to see him later in the day, but she says that he appeared to be hallucinating again - grabbing at non-existent things in front of him.
I shall visit the retirement home tomorrow to see mum and find out whether dad has returned. If not, I shall then go over to the hospital and see how he is doing. This all seems so mechanical and unnecessarily disruptive, action on the slimmest of pretexts, and I just wonder how much dad can take of it.
It is tomorrow that the St Vincent de Paul's people are coming to take away the final vestiges of our parents' things. Rachel was at the house yesterday and finished the packing. All I have to do tomorrow is make sure that St Vincent de Paul's take everything, that whatever is left is thrown away, and that the last of the things we have set aside in the small bedroom are all brought back to my place.
According to Rachel quite a few of the items that we put out for people to take have indeed been removed. There were some things that nobody wanted, but which just could not be easily thrown away - like heaters, nearly complete sets of crockery, a VCR, a pair of headphones, and so on. But, given what we see of mum and dad, these things are as useless as a gudgeon without a pintle.
He doesn't sleep properly, but gets up several times during the night and wanders around. The staff have tried taking him back to bed over and over again, hoping that one night he will simply adopt the practice of sleeping when he is supposed to, but just recently they have been putting a blanket over him and letting him sleep in chairs in the common room since, this way, he apparently spends more time asleep. One consequence of this is that he has been developing fluid retention in the legs, as he is rarely sleeping in a horizontal position.
He has been dopy during the day. This may be another consequence of not sleeping properly, though he never did sleep that much at home. However, it has triggered what I think is a healthy reduction in his Risperidone dose. He had been getting 1 mg each evening in an attempt to get him to sleep. Since it wasn't working, it was halved, in an attempt to improve his daytime alertness. Since that initial reduction had no effect, the administration of Risperidone has been stopped altogether. Not a bad development, I say.
But everyone knows things are not right with dad. He is not content or adjusted to the centre. He has apparently lost a great deal of whatever limited hold he had on things around him, and has been shaky and weak, unsteady on his legs, and strangely confused. Last time I went to visit him he asked me how long I had been 'out here' (meaning Australia). He had the idea that I had come out from England to pick him up. Our conversation stumbled along with one of us using this idea as a premise, and one of us trying hard not to be too contradictory, but not too complicit in the delusion either.
We went to visit mum. They recognised each other, and grasped hands. But after sitting together for a few minutes and not talking, mum got up and wandered off to sit somewhere else, apparently having forgotten us completely. I took this as a cue to walk dad back to his area, obviating the need for goodbyes and explanations that mum couldn't come with us. Rachel thinks that mum no longer recognises herself in mirrors. She shows no interest in her reflection at all. The wardrobe in her room is fully mirrored, and Rachel says that she has seen mum try to step into it, as if it is a doorway.
This is, I guess, all part of the endless deterioration of Alzheimers. However, there is more. Yesterday dad was taken back to hospital. The staff have had blood tests done on him, which showed that in a purely physiological way, he is in remarkably good condition. They have also been measuring his blood pressure, and yesterday it had fluctuated so much that they called an ambulance. He went into Emergency at the same hospital he was in last time, after the Zyprexa episode. Greg went to investigate the situation and found the same lack of detail and communication as before. The hospital staff do not see any reason why dad is there, and want to send him back. The retirement village staff appear not to have been very specific about how much his blood pressure was fluctuating, over what time frame, and at what frequency. Moreover, we seem unable to determine just how often they were measureing his blood pressure, or why. Dad, meanwhile, is completely confused about what has been happening to him. He recognised Rachel when she went to see him later in the day, but she says that he appeared to be hallucinating again - grabbing at non-existent things in front of him.
I shall visit the retirement home tomorrow to see mum and find out whether dad has returned. If not, I shall then go over to the hospital and see how he is doing. This all seems so mechanical and unnecessarily disruptive, action on the slimmest of pretexts, and I just wonder how much dad can take of it.
It is tomorrow that the St Vincent de Paul's people are coming to take away the final vestiges of our parents' things. Rachel was at the house yesterday and finished the packing. All I have to do tomorrow is make sure that St Vincent de Paul's take everything, that whatever is left is thrown away, and that the last of the things we have set aside in the small bedroom are all brought back to my place.
According to Rachel quite a few of the items that we put out for people to take have indeed been removed. There were some things that nobody wanted, but which just could not be easily thrown away - like heaters, nearly complete sets of crockery, a VCR, a pair of headphones, and so on. But, given what we see of mum and dad, these things are as useless as a gudgeon without a pintle.
