A Normal Video Chat in an Oasis

Fun Activities

A caregiver and Lynne called Sunday night for no reason other than to video chat. No tears, no fears. Almost normal. 

I told her I had a scan scheduled for Tuesday and had to avoid chocolates for 24 hours beforehand, so I was going to have chocolate cake for breakfast. She laughed.

I asked if she was eating lunch in her bedroom or with other residents. She didn’t know. “I haven’t paid attention to that. They have places on the floor and the tables, so we’ll be safe.” 

She had the new book in her hands from her sister Pam. She took the flyleaf off and scanned it and scanned the book, hesitating as she read each word in the title. “I’m excited about it.

Ok, remember when you get a new book you have to return one for me. Return Bear Town because I hadn’t read it yet.”

The caregiver was still there so he looked for it in her shelves. She said, “No, it’s not there,”

She tugged back her blanket and sheet to rummaged through them until she found a couple of books and found it. She gave it to the caregiver to leave with the concierge.

We chatted for 18 minutes. I updated her on Pam suffering in wildfire smoke, her niece liking her visit to Lynne’s alma mater Oregon, and on an on. She responded with understanding to each one.  When I paused wondering what to say, she said, “Well, I should go.”

We told each other we loved each other.

Those oases of normalcy are normal with Alzheimer’s. They are abnormally wonderful to experience and share. And I believe her cognitive clarity was also helped by the major reduction in COVID inactive isolation.  She’s escorted outside daily, exercising regularly, walking her floor, helping fellow residents, getting video chats.

Whatever, we persist and give thanks for each oasis.      

COVID-19 Precautions Make Life Harder

Echo dot the only ink Wednesday

Aegis living reported COVID-19 invaded Lynne’ secure memory care floor. They are “managing four cases of Covid-19. Three of the residents are completely asymptomatic. One is showing mild symptoms and is recovering nicely. We have placed the four residents who tested positive under full droplet precaution,” [which requires the residents isolate in a room and everyone in the room wears a mask and PPE].
“Dedicated staff care for only those four residents. All caregivers who work in that comfort care unit only work in that unit.” Three caregivers were also infected and are quarantined at home.

I believe this partially explains her anxiety and inability to handle the video chats we tried yesterday. I dropped in on Lynne on her Echo dot which doesn’t allow me to see her.
Her first words were, “Dad, I’m not in my room. I’m supposed to be in my room.” I assured she was and phoned her Facebook Portal. It rang and rang.
“Answer it honey.”
“I’m afraid to touch it.”
“You can’t hurt it. Go ahead.”
“I guess I’m not doing it right.”
“Keep trying.” It didn’t connect. We talked briefly. Her flip flops are comfortable. They’re fancy. Pause …
“I’m afraid I’m going to be in trouble. I have to go.” She walked away.
My frustration skyrocketed. Why can’t she press the face of the Portal? She has before. It’s infuriating to be unable to visualize what she doing and give basic help like using her finger to touch the Portal.
Then I remembererd she was anxious, believing she wasn’t in her room and had to get back to it. She can’t be losing all her mental capabilities this rapidly. Or is she? I get torn by two impulses: the shorter her end stage, the better – get her suffering over; and, we must make her better now, somehow. It feels like it’s getting harder daily. Nothing works for very long. And nothing works when I can’t understand what is happening, when I can’t sit beside her.
After a while I dropped in again. She was there and seemed more cheerful.
I asked if she wanted a video chat. She paused.
“No, I better not. I got too anxious.”

Hopes and Fears in Moving Out of Isolation

Short Story 3086 words

Lynne waving from her new apartment

Two days after nothing could go wrong about moving Lynne to Life’s Neighborhood, Skylar, a caregiver on the night shift, called me at 9:00 pm because Schmitty the Kitty was out of cat food. She said, “Kim had noticed it a few days ago. Luna was going to call you, but I guess she forgot. I’ll go get some food.”

Continue reading