This Thanksgiving and next: searching for the right decisions
Twice in the last month, overnight guests have asked me the same question. “So, have you thought about when Evelyn should be living in a care facility?”
I’m assuming they’re being gracious and careful when what they’re really thinking is, You should be planning for Evelyn to move to a care facility.
I told one friend, “Well, I haven’t drawn any red lines.”
“That’s probably wise,” he assured me. “You’ll know when it’s time.”
But I’m not sure I will. I’m something of a procrastinator. I don’t rush into change. It’s easy to go quickly to We had such a nice time when they visited. . . . She did really well at church Sunday. . . . She’s so pleasant first thing most mornings. . . . etc., etc., and so on without accurately assessing the toll of the times that range from difficult to impossible.
Untenable
One of those untenable times was Thursday night. Evelyn would not, could not settle down and relax and sleep. She moved constantly in the bed till 2:00 a.m. and then intermittently till after 3:00. Adusting the blankets. Lowering and raising her pajama pants. Getting out of bed to straighten the sheet. Wandering to the bathroom. Turning on the bedroom light.
“You’re taking my covers,” I’d remind her. I’d scoot away when her elbow landed on my hand resting beside her. “It’s time for you to settle down and just go to sleep,” I’d suggest.
“Okay,” she would say, before the thrashing resumed almost immediately. And all of this was made more difficult because an unknown something was causing me intestinal upset that sent me to the bathroom repeatedly from midnight till 3:00 when I caved in and took the Immodium. I know Hell will be worse, but. . . .
Disruptive
The evening agitation is lasting longer and becoming more disruptive. It was almost impossible for Evelyn to sit with our family after Thanksgiving and watch the Muppets Christmas movie. My daughter went with her to the bedroom the next night while the crowd watched the Grinch and Evelyn read out loud from a Christmas catalog. Sleep that night was a little better. Evelyn (and I) finally settled down about 1:00 or 1:30.
My son (not pictured) reflected on our Thanksgiving weekend with this warm assessment: “Although Alzheimer’s is a brutal, relentless thief, there are things it cannot steal. Our time together as a family is still meaningful. Our love and support for each other is unwavering. Sadness and grief are the elephants in the room, but there was also plenty of laughter.”
(I can only add, where would we be without our cell phones? See below.)
Gentle
My kids, here for the long weekend, were gentle with me.
“Talk with the doctor about medication for the agitation. You can’t live this way.” I’m making the contact.
“Maybe you could set a goal in the first quarter to investigate facilities.”
“Gathering information doesn’t commit you to acting on it. But then you’ll have what you need when you’re ready.” I’ll make myself accountable to follow through.
I tell myself I’ve adjusted to the reality that nothing, nothing is the same anymore and I need simply to act on the new realities. But I know I don’t readily embrace new realities.
I tell myself I’d relish the freedom that would come with being relieved of the caregiving that’s constant except when Evelyn’s asleep. But then I come back to all the times she’s OK while I’m busy with something around the house, and I know I’ll feel guilty if I make her leave her home before it’s absolutely necessary.
(She was quiet and engaged with a PBS Barbra Streisand concert on TV Monday evening. Was this due to an extra dose of CBD I decided to try? Was she tired out from all the interaction with our caregiver that afternoon? I don’t know. But I’m going to try adding a second CBD gummy again.)
Goodbye
“Just do the next right thing,” I’ve advised others in the throes of grief or crisis. And I’ve found myself with quite a list of those right things now that the holiday weekend is over.
Sunday morning our family left in two different waves. Evelyn did not stir, and their goodbye hugs were only for me. I put the first of many loads of laundry in the machine before treating myself with toasted cinnamon bread and coffee with half-and-half.
I watched the drizzle splashing onto my deck outside and wondered what Thanksgiving might be like next year.
Whatever it is will likely include dirty sheets and towels. The washing machine signal interrupted my reverie, and I moved the heap of wet to the dryer before piling in another load to be washed.
At noon I woke Evelyn. As she shuffled to the kitchen, I told her the kids had all already left. “We decided not to wake you to tell them goodbye,” I explained.
“Uh-huh,” she mumbled before finding her seat to eat her breakfast of morning meds crushed in applesauce.