Words: A Matter of Timing

As valuable as words may be in maintaining a calm attitude in those with Alzheimer’s, words can also make a bad situation worse.

In the beginning, I was certain I could make everything ok for Mom: explain away her fears, talk her down from imaginary ledges, even spin reality to suit her mercurial moods. It was a matter, I reckoned,buddy-birdsof being kind instead of threatening and accommodating instead of bossy.

 

But, to put it succinctly, I was wrong. My explaining and talking and spinning did little to help Mom find peace once she’d lost it. On the day she responded to my encouraging talk by throwing a chair in my direction, I learned that persuasion was not a caregiving strategy I should rely on.

As in many issues related to caregiving, when it comes to using words, timing is all-important. For example, quiet small talk about familiar things could distract Mom while we sat in a doctor’s waiting room. But on a difficult day, if Mom said no to leaving for an appointment, trying to persuade her did more harm than good. My words were very likely to turn her flat refusal into an all-out battle. A physical one. Mom couldn’t throw that chair hard enough to hurt me, but she did persuade me to leave her alone about going to the doctor.bluebird-fight

Another example: Sometimes Mom would sleep late, get up without our help, and skip the bathroom stop that was so critical to getting a good start on the day. I would gently take her elbow to lead her to the bathroom, but on some days she simply refused to go. She planted her feet, jerked her arm away from me, and said “No” in a voice that threatened to wilt the leaves on the ivy plants in the window.

So I’d try a different approach. In dread of a loud, angry day, I became too determined to make Mom happy. I’d offer juice, toast, a bath robe to keep her warm. Maybe a cup of tea?

In effect, I was only increasing her anger. My words-words-words, though meant to accommodate her wishes, were actually putting more pressure on her. Her confusion expressed itself in still more anger. Often Mom left the room to sit alone on the couch. And I was left to contemplate my failure.

bossy-bird2It took a while to shut me up, but gradually, as all caregivers do, I learned from experience. I found that using words to keep Mom comfortable was usually effective. But using words to make Mom happy when she wasn’t? No. To talk her into doing something she didn’t want to do? No. To make her believe I was doing what was best for her? No. At those times, words were worse than ineffective; they were fuel for Mom’s flame.

The solution turned out to be simple: I did the opposite of talking. When Mom said no, I backed off. I waited. And then I tried again. Beyond checking on her every few minutes with a smile but few words, I left her alone. I prayed she would find the kind of comfort she most craved, and I would sense any of her unspoken needs. When I went back to her, I always brought up the troublesome subject as if it were the first time we’d talked about it. Sometimes it took a while, but, with few exceptions, Mom eventually agreed to what we needed to do.

Yes, a lot of time could pass while I waited for Mom. Still, even if it made us late to an appointment, waiting was my only option. I would never use physical force, unless she was in danger. I did learn to make appointments later in the day. And I didn’t hesitate to reschedule if that became necessary.

Two more pieces of advice from one caregiver to another: In time, I ceased worrying about other people so much—their schedules, what they might think about how Mom looked or acted. And I gave up trying to keep everyone happy. It was never a good idea in the first place.

soaringDoing what was necessary to keep Mom in her life as long as possible became my major goal. With that goal in mind, I did my best to put my fear and dread away. We tend to create what we focus on; I made myself focus on peace and expect the best.

************************************************

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.  (John 1:14  NKJV)

Father, we thank you for sending Your Word, Jesus, to redeem us. Through Him, we accept Your constant companionship. May we use Your grace and Your truth to help our loved ones through this earthly life until they behold Your glory their heavenly home.

Advertisements

Christmas Remembered

The techno tree stood on a maple table in front of the windows in the den. An unlikely hero, it was less than two feet tall counting the motorized revolving base. Forest green branches stuck out from its black metal trunk, short and spikey at the top, longer toward the bottom, giving it the approximate shape of a fir tree. A Christmas tree, unadorned save for fiberoptic lights that, at the flip of a switch, glowed in changing colors from the tip of each branch.

My sister gave the tree to my parents in the hope it would brighten this holiday dimmed by Alzheimer’s. But my father had little faith anything could penetrate Mom’s darkness.  Thanksgiving had passed like any other day, and the weeks that followed carried no promises of Christmas cheer. As I made daily trips from my home to theirs to help him care for her, I saw no signs this year would be better than last.

A year ago Dad and I made cookies, wrapped gifts, lit lights and hung ornaments on a small, fragrant fir tree. I draped a white sheet over a side table and there, on 250 thread count snow, I arranged the old figures around the shaggy stable. Joseph, bound by human devotion to a task of divine magnitude, held a pottery lantern in his upraised hand. Mary, all fear erased from her scratched peach face, gazed upon her sleeping Son. Even the donkey and the sad-eyed cow looked to the manger where Jesus, Light of the world, dozed in the flickering rays of Joseph’s paint-chipped lantern.

But Mom had forgotten about the stable and the Baby, and though she ate most of the cookies, she professed to like “those regular ones” better. As for the gifts, they evoked so many questions, repeated hour after hour, day after day, eventually I put them out of sight.

So I understood Dad’s doubts. This year, until the gift of the funky little tree, we made no Christmas preparations. Twelve months had stolen so much more from Mom and filled the empty spaces with new fears, more confusion. The good days were rarer; the bad ones, worse.

Almost forgotten, the tree sat dark until late evening on one of the difficult days. As Mom sat at the kitchen table with Dad and me, her face still wore vestiges of the anger that had propelled her through the day. She perched crooked and stiff on the edge of the chair. Her feet shuffled like children who couldn’t be still. Our spirits were brittle with fatigue; the house, chill with despair.

Perhaps it was desperation that turned Dad’s gaze out of the kitchen, away from the heaviness that shrouded the table. Then his feet followed his eyes into the den.

“Where are you going?  What are you doing?” Mom’s voice was hoarse and hard.

christmas-treeI watched with her as Dad walked to the table where the metal tree with the bottle-brush boughs stood almost invisible against the heavy drapes behind it. He said nothing, only bent down and flipped the switch on the tree’s plastic base. From the fiberoptic branches tiny beams of color, delicate as starlight, shone on the curtains and ventured out across the room.

With a tiny hum, the tree turned ever so slowly. And ever so slowly, Mom relaxed. Her feet were still. Her shoulders sagged into the back of the chair.

“It’s a Christmas tree, honey.” Dad’s voice was low and soft, like the muted sound of church bells traveling over snow. “Do you like it?  It’s a Christmas tree.”

Just as softly, I began to sing.  “O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree, how lovely are thy branches….”

The old German carol. Mom’s favorite. In the time of my childhood when the first strains of Christmas music opened my heart like a jewelry box ready to receive all the bright treasures of the season, I waited each year with great anticipation for my mother to hear “her” carol playing on the radio. When she did, she would stop what she was doing and sing along. My sister and I watched her, smiling in wonder at the change in her face.  Every feature softened as she lifted her chin and raised her eyes to a long ago past. We could feel the room grow warmer as she sang. When the music ended, she always said the same words: “We learned that song in school.”

It was like a story to us, Mom’s singing and her words. Most of the story was told in the look on her face and the emotion in her voice, with the outcome always the same:  love for the fair fir tree.

Peace. Happiness. That was Christmas, she taught us, using only her memories and the words of her favorite carol.

Now, in the December of her life, all unaware, Mom reminded Dad and me what the season was about. Apparently not even Alzheimer’s could steal that remembrance from her. Somehow, evoked by the techno tree with its sweet hypnotic light, the melody of the old carol had survived in her memory, like a gift still wrapped in bright hope, the paper unwrinkled by age, the ribbons unfaded by the experiences of a lifetime.

“O fir tree dark, O fir tree fair…” I sang on to her. Then at the end, “You learned that song in school, right?”

And once again the gift unwrapped itself on Mom’s face. Anxious lines opened into softness and, subtle as candlelight, her eyes flickered in recognition of…what?

Peace, the heart of the Christmas story. A tree, a Gift. The sweetest story.  The oldest, the eternal carol.

“Glory in the highest!”

And she brought forth her firstborn Son, and wrapped Him in swaddling cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying: “Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!”  (Luke 2:7,13-14 NKJV)

Dear Jesus, help us to care for our loved ones in this joyful season. Send us Your joy, Your love, Your peace.

Tissues in Your Pocket

Most Alzheimer’s caregivers realize early on that we have little control over what any day will bring. Planning each day in advance may give us a sense of control, but so much of Alzheimer’s is unpredictable. Based on my experience, caregivers spend at least as much time reacting as acting.

are-you-ready

One of my mom’s major goals in life was to be prepared for anything that might happen to her or her family. I remember her purse was both tool box and first aid kit, containing a screwdriver, bandages, string, scissors, various nuts and bolts she had found on streets and sidewalks—once I even saw a fish stringer in there. But the things we used most often were the tissues she always carried. She stuffed her already bulging purse with them and stashed them in every pocket on any piece of clothing she wore, “just in case.”

“Just in case.” That phrase covers a lot of territory for caregivers. We can’t predict what might happen in the next few minutes, much less the next few hours. But…unpredictable doesn’t have to mean unprepared.

For caregivers, being prepared is a state of mind.

I wish I had seen that truth earlier. Instead, of all the emotions that rolled over me during my first weeks of caring for Mom, fear was predominant.

be-prepared1

Fear hung around long after shock left. I spent only a couple of weeks being surprised at things like Mom putting Dad’s shoes in the trash, or telling me how lovely the artificial flowers smelled at the grocery store, or accusing the neighbors of peeking into the windows. I soon learned such things were simply to be expected.

Anger lasted longer. I was angry at the disease, at my father for hiding it for so long, at myself for missing the signs, and, yes, sometimes at my mother who often seemed to enjoy the chaos she created. But after a while, anger became a motivator. My frustrations prodded me to look harder for cause and effect relationships I could use to smooth the rough road we traveled each day.

For example: I learned I didn’t always have to explain to Mom what I was going to do. Announcing I was about to brush her hair or help with her shoes often resulted in a barrage of “No’s,” maybe because she felt I was telling her what to do. So I began to say less and simply do what had to be done. When my actions were a surprise to Mom, it took a minute or two for her to puzzle them out. By that time the job was usually finished. Using the disease against itself lessened my anger and fueled my confidence.

Still, fear of catastrophe stuck around for a long time. I was afraid the time would come when I couldn’t control Mom’s anger and she or someone else would get hurt. Would I be able to get her to take her medications every day? What if I couldn’t make her get into the car? Or out of it?state-of-emergency

Adding to the pressure of my fear was the feeling I absolutely had to make things work. I had stepped into caregiving of my own accord. No one asked me to. Dad couldn’t do it alone, and he refused to allow a nurse or professional into their home. So, ignorant of what I would be facing, I just jumped in. But after only a few weeks, I began to question whether I could manage Alzheimer’s alone. I started each day with dread, praying for help, praying for a miracle.

And you know what? Miracles came. Not the sudden cure I hoped for, but miracles nonetheless. Little ones I almost didn’t notice at first, like a close-in parking space when we were running late to an appointment. There were big ones, too, huge ones like the doctor who finally found that Alzheimer’s wasn’t the only danger Mom faced: He diagnosed her severe depression and prescribed the medication that gave her, for a while, more good days than bad.

miracles-ahead

In fact, so many miracles came my way, I began to expect them. On some otherwise-impossible days, Mom would at least agree to take her meds. When we were out of the house, I realized people seemed to sense her instability. I learned how to steer her away from situations that, I knew from experience, might provoke her anger. If she refused to get in the car, I postponed the errands and rescheduled the doctor’s appointments. If she refused to get out, I sat with her until she got tired of saying no.

Although some of the solutions worked pretty reliably over time, I knew no amount of advance planning could ever address the daily challenges of Alzheimer’s. But I was freed from paralyzing fear because I began to expect an answer in difficult situations. And because my trust was based, not on my power, but on the power and faithfulness of God, I stopped imagining disaster. Because I believed  the Giver of all good gifts, the Maker of all miracles,was on my side, I could think more quickly and clearly, come up with a way, find one more miracle.

As the Alzheimer’s progressed, Mom continued to pick up her tissues and put them in the pockets of the old green cardigan she wore every day. I took a few out every now and then, secretly of course, so she’d have room to add more. The day came, though, when it no longer occurred to her to pick them up. So Dad and I did it for her. Putting a fresh tissue, carefully folded, into her sweater pocket made us feel a bit more powerful in the face of Alzheimer’s. “Now, Mama,” I’d say. “Now we’re ready for anything.”

ok-symbol

For me, the miracles that carried us down the rocky roads of Alzheimer’s are like tissues I saved in the pocket of my spirit. There were so many problems, but so many more miracles. And each problem solved was a promise of more solutions to come.

I pray you fill your own pockets with confidence. Begin to expect miracles. Watch for them. And in the hardest times, remember the ones God has already sent. Each one carries His assurance: He is with you, to help you. He will never leave you alone.

With a pocket full of faith, we’re ready for anything.

***********************

You will not need to fight in this battle. Position yourselves, stand still and see the salvation of the Lord, who is with you….Do not fear or be dismayed… for the Lord is with you.     (2 Chronicles 20:17   NKJV)

Loving Father, we know You are on our side. We know You can do all things. We know You want us to come to You with our fears and our needs. Thank You for fighting on our behalf. Even in the face of Alzheimer’s, Your constant love casts out our fear.

 

The Choices We Make

Some decisions are harder to make than others. And usually the most difficult decisions must be made in the most stressful circumstances. No wonder we don’t always choose the best solutions to the agonizing challenges of Alzheimer’s.

Drawing a line in the sand in the beginning of the caregiving journey isn’t a good idea. It leads us to believe we have no options. The truth is, we always have options. 

My father was losing his sight due to macular degeneration, but he refused to let “strangers” come into their home to help him care for my mother. He also vowed never to put her in a care facility.

lonely beachHe justified the first decision by saying “I don’t want someone else in this house. I’d feel invaded.” In other words, that choice was motivated by his personal preference for privacy.

The second choice he justified on the basis of his experience with his own mother many years earlier. When my grandmother was bedridden as a result of a stroke, one or another of my father’s siblings arranged for her to live in what was then called “a nursing home.” My father visited her one time, with me and my sister. We wandered the halls and finally found her room by the sound of her crying “Help me help me help me.” We entered to see Grandmother lying naked on top of the bedclothes. Dad’s first reaction was a shout at me and my sister: “Get out!” As we scuttled out the door, we heard him cursing at all the nurses and doctors who were nowhere close enough to hear him.  Years later, I wasn’t surprised to hear his promise to keep Mom out of a care facility. She was better off at home with him, he said, just the two of them.

storm beachSo I stepped in to help care for Mom.  Someone had to.  Untrained, inexperienced, and, yes, frightened of what the future might look like, I spent most of my days at their home, returning to my family after dinner. As grueling as the schedule was, as difficult as the challenges became, Dad and I managed. But only with the help of God. He alone could have helped me come up with the practical ideas I came to call miracles. I tried out first one and then another and then another until the problem of the day—or the hour—was addressed. With His help, we not only survived, but Mom was able to enjoy pleasures we thought were long past.picnic beachStill…I should have pushed Dad harder to get professional help. A trained aide would have added greatly to Mom’s safety, especially with bathing and other issues of hygiene. I was surprised to see that, when Mom did have to be hospitalized for a broken hip, she gave the nurses much more cooperation than Dad and I had enjoyed.  Later, because she couldn’t do the rehab necessary to walk again, the doctors said she must go to a care facility after all. We feared she’d fight the caregivers there, engage in the long term shouting matches we had experienced at home, or refuse to eat, drink, take her medications.  None of that happened. Mom was calmer and seemed much more comfortable at Golden Acres than she had at home. Dad visited every day. He made lots of new friends among the “strangers” at the home, and was free to enjoy more activities both at home and away than he had in years.

oler men at beachSo Dad’s decision to reject outside help worked out ok. But in hindsight, I see that everyone—Mom, Dad, and I—would have been better off with the additional expertise of a professional. No less important, Dad and I would have benefitted greatly from some time away from caregiving.  Three or four hours a week in the beginning, three or so days a week as the disease progressed—having that kind of help would have allowed all of us to enjoy more of Mom’s last years.

In addition, I see that, because the doctor overruled Dad’s decision to keep Mom out of a care facility, her last weeks were comfortable for both of them. Someone else, not Dad or I, talked her into eating and taking her medications.  Someone else took care of her hygiene.  Which left Dad with the opportunity to just spend time with her. He could see for himself she was not upset to be away from him. He could see her needs were met. And he could see in her eyes that, even in a place strange to her, she still knew him.

beach lineMy point is that lines drawn in the sand at the beginning of a caregiving journey may be erased. Tides such as additional information, progression of the disease, or just clearer thinking can wash away the logic or emotions of early decisions. What’s important to remember is that we always have options. If we can’t see them, someone less involved often can.  

We have to believe. Believing we have choices helps us find them.

********************************************

Save me, O God! For the waters have come up to my neck. I sink in deep mire, Where there is no standing; I have come into deep waters….

Hear me, O Lord, for Your lovingkindness is good;
Turn to me according to the multitude of Your tender mercies.   (Ps. 69:1-2,16  NKJV)

Father, please give us wisdom to care for our loved ones. When we struggle to help them, let us seek Your guidance. Remind us that You are always with us, and Your desire is to give us and our loved ones abundant life. Thank You, Lord.

 

Pure Pleasure

Fun is a commodity in short supply in homes where Alzheimer’s lives. Who can tell what will bring our loved ones pleasure? Well, if we pay close attention, sometimes they tell us themselves.

Searching for pleasant activities for our loved ones with Alzheimer’s is like seeking the end of the rainbow: you’re not even sure it’s out there to be found. One by one, the usual pastimes fall away. Reading a book, watching TV, sewing, crafts, even talking on the telephone—now these things bring more confusion than pleasure.

I tried working simple puzzles with Mom. I got out old photographs. I named farm animals and we (well, usually it was only I) made barnyard noises together, and at least once a week I heaped all the napkins and washcloths in a pile in front of her so she could  fold them, painstakingly, one by one by one.  All those activities were successful at some times, and decidedly not at others. So I spent lots of time searching my brain for rainbows I just couldn’t see.

And then, one particularly frazzled evening, I discovered that sometimes Mom could find her own entertainment.

It wasn’t unusual for Mom to be grumbling nonstop while Dad was trying to watch the evening news. The louder Dad turned the volume, the louder Mom talked. This night she was upset about illegal birds on the fence and dirty rats (squirrels, actually) on the lawn. I was preparing dinner as quickly as possible, when she called me out of the kitchen.  “Look, Child!” she said. I looked. She was staring at a closeup of the weatherman on TV.

talking teeth“Look, Child! Look at his teeth!”

I looked again and, since some comment was clearly in order, I said, “Oh my! What nice teeth!” As the weatherman bowed out and the news anchor returned, I had an inspiration. I said, “Look, Mama. Look at his teeth.”

Thus began an hour or so of dental reviews. Mom watched for people on TV to open their mouths; when they did, she had a prompt comment on their teeth. I chipped in my opinions a few times, and we were entertained ‘til almost bed time. I never knew when Mom might begin another tooth pageant, so on ragged evenings I learned to start them myself. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not, but it was another tool in the arsenal. And Mom discovered it.tooth examPlease know I’m not suggesting you try doing dental reviews to entertain the person you’re caring for. The point, of course, is that something caught Mom’s attention and I capitalized on it. She was alert and comfortable and calm for a while. That’s entertainment.

I noticed other pastimes Mom initiated. One day at the megamart, she stopped beside a display of artificial flowers. Leaning over to put her nose against the petals, she drew a deep breath. “Oh, they smell good,” she said. “Smell!” I did. From that day on, we often stopped to smell the flowers, real or artificial.

artificial flowersSometimes when Dad and I were talking, I could tell Mom wanted in on the conversation. She rocked forward and back in her chair, looking from me to Dad to me to Dad. When she was finally ready to say something, it was often a compliment. Maybe something like “Child, I like your hair.” One day, instead of simply saying “Thank you!” I returned the compliment. “I like your sweater today!” With another word to use, “sweater,” she commented on my sweater, whether I was wearing one or not.  Back and forth we found other things we liked about each other. Sometimes Dad joined in, too. If Mom ran out of words, we just started all over again. During times when she was anxious, I could often calm her with a compliment. And sometimes a whole conversation would ensue.

Did these diversions always work? No. But when they did, they were pleasurable to all of us. Mom was able to take off the blinders Alzheimer’s had thrust on her and look at the world around her. She wasn’t nervous or scared, searching for words or wondering what was going to happen next. And yes, I was willing to examine every tooth, smell every flower, and compliment her ‘til the cows came home just for the pleasure of seeing her that way: engaged, comfortable, with life in her eyes.

compliment quoteI spent much of my time as a caregiver protecting Mom. As I watched her, I was asking myself “Everything ok? Everything ok?”  Sometimes I’m sure my caution prompted some of her anxiety. But my close attention also helped me understand something miraculous: Mom could still find pleasure, and I could help her enjoy it.

I urge you to watch, too. The key, of course, is to notice what they notice, and mirror their reactions back to them. Take your pleasure wherever you and your loved one find it. Run with it and don’t look back to see if people are watching. If they are, they’re seeing miracles.

The Lord upholds all who fall, and raises up all who are bowed down. You open Your hand and satisfy the desire of every living thing.  (Ps.145:14,16  NKJV)

Father, we thank You for the miracles You give us every day. Please continue to open our eyes to the help and comfort You are faithful to send us as we walk the Alzheimer’s road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just the Facts, Please

The only way to look at Alzheimer’s Disease is straight on. Unblinking.

Face reality.

Not easy. Especially in the beginning, the disease lures us into false visions. The good days look just fine. “Normal.”  Difficult times? It’s easy to tell ourselves they’re caused by a misunderstanding of some kind, or the aches and pains of getting older.

realityBut the illusions last only so long—would that we could predict exactly how long!—before we can no longer ignore the reality of decline. At that point, we begin to feel as though we’re flying by the seat of our pants. Barely managing to keep the lifeboat afloat. Walking a tightrope in the dark…without a net. We navigate by instinct, bail as fast as we can, and slide ourselves across the chasm with a bravado born of blindness—the darkness hiding not only what lies below but also what looms ahead.

We hunger for information. Information is power; power gives us some level of control; and we long to gain control. But Alzheimer’s doesn’t come with a navigation system or weather forecasting or safety nets. There is no uniform set of symptoms, no universal timeline, no advance notice of sudden changes. Pinning down the facts, just the facts—the who, what, when, where, and why—of Alzheimer’s is a seemingly impossible task.

any questions First we look to science: What signs should we look for? Any treatments on the horizon? Any cures?

But eventually—and always too quickly—we’re just searching for ways to get through each day. We want to know more about how to help our loved ones feel safe, stay connected, and live at their best—today. Here, definitive answers are even harder to come by, because the challenges of living with Alzheimer’s are unique to each personas unique as his or her personality and experiences.

factIs there no answer then to the question of when to take away the car keys? No answer to what does sundowning look like or how to handle wandering? Well, if we look at Alzheimer’s and caregiving factually, no, there is no one answer to those questions.

Realistically speaking, though,  we know there ARE answers. There are helps. Some we’ve seen. Some we’ve read about. THE answer for everyone? No. But options, YES! Looking realistically means letting go of the idea that there’s only one right answer to each question. Looking realistically means we can look at the WHOs instead of the WHO; the WHATs instead of the WHAT; the WHENs and WHEREs and WHYs instead of expecting a single, uniquely correct, factual response to our questions.

And looking realistically means that even though none of us has all the facts, we can share the information we do have.Hands raisedOur next five posts on this blog will do just that. We’ll explore each of those five issues: the WHOs, WHATs, WHENs, WHEREs, and WHYs of Alzheimer’s. We’ll be looking at each of the topics subjectively, dealing not with statistics but with common experiences. So we can learn and share.

optionsMany questions and many answers make for many options.

Caring for a loved one with Alzheimer’s is a generous and loving but demanding and strenuous challenge. That’s a fact. But it’s also a fact that we need not face that challenge alone.

“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.” Matthew 7:7 (NKJV)

Lord, You are the source of our hope and our help. Please remind us that we belong to an army of caregivers, each of us fighting the same battle, all of us searching for the same answers. Help us help others as You help us all.

Are We Fighting FOR or AGAINST?

In the battle we wage for our loved ones with Alzheimer’s, we are not powerless.

No,  we can’t protect them from the disease.   We can’t slow it down.    We can’t stop it. If our battle is against Alzheimer’s, we cannot win.

But what if, instead of fighting against Alzheimer’s, we fight for our loved ones?     That’s a completely different war. We can win that war.

“Fighting for our loved ones.” What does that mean?  It means helping them live as long as possible.   So what does that look like?

TX winecupsbluebonnets prairie paintbrush

Dad wants to take Mom on an overnight trip, a drive down to the hill country to see the wildflowers. Bluebonnets, winecups, prairie paintbrushes! But I know spending a night in a hotel room would frighten and confuse Mom to the point of disaster. So I suggest a short drive to some nearby bluebonnet fields. We take sandwiches and eat in the car. It’s good: Mom is relaxed, looking out the car window, chewing her egg salbloomiing tomatoad with serene deliberation. In Dad’s opinion, though, the flowers are a bit sparse. So after we eat, I turn the car toward home. Once there, we take cold drinks out to the back yard and sit in the shade, where we admire Dad’s petunias and periwinkles and coneflowers and the little yellow blossoms on his tomato plants. Victory!

Christmas decorations and brightly wrapped packages cause Mom to ask endless questions. Her shuffling feet show us these sudden additions to the décor are making her nervous. So we back the tree into a corner and put the gifts in the closet for a while. But later we find a funny little motorized tree that we bring to the kitchen table. Only a few inches tall, it revolves, playing carols and shining with tiny multicolored lights. Mom’s not sure about it ’til Dad talks techno treeto her, very softly, telling her—the story of the first Christmas tree? No. He’s telling her about the technology that makes the lights glow and fade and glow and fade. And gradually she relaxes. She even smiles. Victory!

Mom has finally had to go to a nursing facility. She’s bedridden with a broken hip, unable—mentally or physically—to do enough rehab to keep the new hip joint in place. Mom’s not talking much, but I’m grateful she seems unfazed by the move from the hospital to yet another unfamiliar place. Dad, on the other hand, is heartbroken. His greatest wish remains unchanged and unfulfilled: he wants her with him. He expected to bring her home from the hospital; instead, she is in another “home.” He will never be happy, he thinks, without her. fRANK SINATRABut the next day, my sister arrives with a small lamp and a comfy chair and a radio, which she promptly tunes to the “oldies” station. And less than a week after the sadness of moving day, Frank Sinatra is serenading Mom while Dad drinks the coffee the lunch room ladies give him every day. Not home, but comfortable. And together. Victory!

Our weapons in the battle for the lives of our loved ones are not complicated to operate, but it does take some practice to learn to use them in this particular war.

Patience—to withstand the onslaught of questions and complaints. patiencePlanning—to ease transitions and nip difficulties in the bud. planCreativity—to find new substitutes for old habits and favorite activities. creativityGratitude—to encourage us to accept the help others offer. Determination—to keep us gratitudesteady in the face of constant change. optimismOptimism—to persuade us that, no matter what new pain Alzheimer’s inflicts, we will find a way to keep our loved ones OK.

And most effective of all, love—to convince us to fight, not simply for our loved ones’ survival, but for their lives.loveLord, we can accomplish nothing without You, but with You, we can do everything You call us to do. Thank You for helping us bring Your abundant Life to our loved ones.

“Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”      (Matthew 11:29-30  NIV)