Susan's Bedroom

I wonder whom Susan is talking to in her bedroom, or whom she thinks she is talking to. I can hear her through the wall as if she is having a conversation with somebody in there. I can’t make out the words that she is saying- only that it is her voice and that she seems calm with a matter- of -fact attitude about this conversation. I hear her clock chiming the music to the Beatle's song Yesterday. I find myself half singing the words from the song that seems so fitting right now:
“Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.
Love was such an easy game to play.
Now I need a place to hide away.
Oh, I believe in yesterday.”
.

Sometimes she talks about Deogracias visiting her when she sleeps. She says that he taps her on the shoulder to get her attention. They often discuss why one of them cannot go where the other one is: heaven and earth, dead and alive. Sometimes he kisses her and tells her he misses her. When she tells us about it the next day we can tell that she misses him too. It seems that her memories are mostly good ones of him and her; the ugly part has disappeared from her brain and is replace by kindness. That is as it should be, I suppose.

Susan may have forgotten, but the rest of us remember well their ups and downs. They now seem so long ago and far away. But the clearer memories of the past remind me of how she stood firm and staunch while they were together; until the day when he was gone and she was alone. Even then she tried to be strong; but looking back it is clear how much she needed him, she just never knew it. Any memory of their separation has mercifully erased itself from her mind. So it may well be that it is He whom she is speaking with in the bedroom. Maybe he has once again come to tell her that he misses her and to ask her to come to him. One day she will, but not today.

Crystal Commode (The Antics of my Alzheimer's mother-in-law)

Susan’s homemade potty has become a real source of tension around here. To her it may make some sort of sense I suppose, to pee in a makeshift pot in the corner of her bedroom , but the rest of us will likely never ‘get it’. The thing is, we have dealt with this pee pee pot in the bedroom issue over and over again, each time thinking we have solved the problem. We have tried banning containers from her room, not letting her take drinks in there and documenting every roll of toilet paper placed in her bathroom. We have tried no drinks before bed and all the other tricks you might think of to help a bed wetter, but she is not a bed wetter. Maybe it would be easier if she was. I think I am out of tricks and good ideas.

My logic struggles to find an explanation for this behavior; I mean, is this “out house” mentality a reversion back to her childhood back in the Philippines? Perhaps. Is she too lazy or weak or scared to make her way to the bathroom that is literally only five steps from her own bedroom? I doubt it. It is just as far for her to go to the corner of her bedroom where she has inevitably placed some sort of pee pee pot to use. Confronting her with the issue tends to evoke wide eyed denials with all sorts of verbal fantasies about what its purpose there is. The fact that she won't admit it is exactly what makes me know that she knows it is wrong and could help herself if she wanted to.

If I ever worried about not having a pot to piss in, Susan has put that to bed. At first it was cups and pots being lifted from the kitchen at night. What clued me in was when the missing piss pot would reappear in the morning. The suspicion of what they might have been used for compelling the mother in me to throw them out. Who wanted to use them again? Out they went one by one;all my good dishes were ending up out on the curbside. After an embarrassing lecture about hygiene and human dignity, the problem seemed to have disappeared. We were so thankful. But one day, the dreaded smell of urine reappeared. "Why does it smell like urine in here?” I would ask suspiciously, only to get an oblivious denial of any odd smells- let alone any wrong doing.

In searching out the origin of the stench, the culprit container always unveiled itself. I have learned to spot a pee pee pot right off, no matter what shape or material it may be lurking in. Once, it was the trash can, another time it was an adorable paper gift bag with tissue paper (and now toilet paper) sitting rather nonchalantly on the floor in the corner. She even used a lovely gold Estee Lauder make up box that had been a gift from her granddaughter, Kiara. I admit, that particular pee pee pot was rather hard to recognize and took me a while to catch on to. It was so cleverly masquerading; who would have thought? Today, just when I dared to hope that we again might have this under control, I spotted the crystal candy dish in the pee pee corner. My heart sunk into my chest at the thought of the crystal commode. I seriously do not want to deal with this whole thing again.

I lived in Japan for four years, so I totally get the whole squat and squirt idea. But it seems to me that the awkward ordeal of squatting and squirting at night into a small container on the floor would be as ridiculous as walking a tight rope handcuffed and blindfolded.

I must wonder, can this behavior be blamed entirely on the Alzheimer’s disease? In all my reading about the signs and symptoms of Alzheimer’s and while learning about the stages of the disease, I have not come across anything that specifically addresses this problem that Susan presents. Perhaps nobody wants to breech this dirty subject out loud. I don't. A chat with another Baby Boomer caring for their Alzheimer’s parent might prove enlightening.

( To see how caring for Susan started see my Blog post from May 1st called 'Never Say Never'.

Two Zombies

It is nearly midnight this Thursday night and I have finally settled into bed hoping to wind down after two wild and crazy days. With my pillows all fluffed up behind my back and the reading light beside my bed highlighting the latest stack of books waiting to be explored, I sit ready to write a blog. My mind struggles to let go of what I have seen and heard and experienced these past few days, hoping to concentrate on Susan and her life here with us. I think about her doctor’s visit yesterday, her bright orange outfit that she has worn since Tuesday, her desire to help in the kitchen in hopes of hurrying dinner along when she is hungry and I remember finding her in the kitchen drinking a cup of instant coffee before the sun was up this morning. My hands wait patiently on the computer waiting for my mind to begin to organize its thoughts and tell them what to type. My overtired brain struggles in my lighted corner of this otherwise dark room and I feel almost like I am floating in a sea of thoughts. Suddenly, the midnight silence is broken with the sound of my bedroom doorknob jiggling. “No,” I scream inside my head. “I am off duty now. Come back tomorrow- or the day after!" Jiggle. Jiggle. It is Susan wandering the house, checking for neighbors and seeing to it that we are all locking our doors. She can’t stand open doors, and unlocked ones don’t allow her to rest. Mine is locked. She doesn’t get in.

My dilemma begins. My tired back looses and my feet slip into their slippers and begin walking me toward my now silent door knob. I meet Susan in the hall headed toward another locked doorknob. Shake. Shake. “Susan,” I ask, “What are you wondering around for at midnight?” “I’m looking for the baby.” She states flatly, almost as if she is really asleep. I have heard the baby story before, in fact, she has been looking for this baby for over a week now. “There is no baby. Go to bed before the boogie man gets you.” I smile as I hear myself say that. But I have no energy to say anything else. She doesn’t argue with me tonight. We resemble two zombies of the night. She turns and heads toward her room, almost as though she is thankful not to have to worry about the baby tonight. I make sure she enters her room and as the door is closing I add, “I love you.” “I love you too.” She responds just before she disappears. As I walk back toward my cozy spot in my own bed I hope that the sound of her door locking really means this is it for the night. Tomorrow will surely begin early. When does she sleep? I wonder. When do I sleep? Myself wonders back. Good night.