Yesterday afternoon as I sat at the computer writing an e-mail, Bob came into the room and asked, “Are you going away?”

I assured him that, no, I was not going away.

Then he said, “I’m here for you,” which at first seemed an odd response.

I asked if he was worried I might go away.

“Yes,” he said.”

Again I assured him that I would be with him. “I’m sticking with you,” I said.

How scary it must be to think that the one person upon whom you most depend might go away from you. He has become the little child who wants to make sure he’s not abandoned. Somehow he knows he can’t cope on his own anymore, that he will never be able to do so again.

“Are you going away?” is the same as “Don’t leave me.”

“I’m here for you,” is the same as “Be here for me.”

Of course I won’t leave you. Of course I’ll be here for you.

Alzheimer’s … it breaks your heart and warms your heart in one fell swoop.

Happy Merry New Christmas Year!

“Letting Go: The valuable lesson Sandra Day O’Connor has taught us about Alzheimer’s,” by Patti Davis
http://www.newsweek.com/id/70463

“Nursing Home Infidelity Bittersweet but Common” by Rebecca Dube
From GlobeLife at Globe and Mail, Nov 15, 07
http://tinyurl.com/2h62zc

For the past couple of weeks or so, Bob has been having echolalia. That’s where a person repeats a word or phrase over and over. For example, he’ll say, “Yeah” about once per second, five or six times. “Yeah … yeah … yeah … yeah … yeah … yeah,” and then stop for a while.

I did a net-search for the condition and found an excellent ARTICLE about how to handle repetitive behaviors.

After reading the advice given in the article, when Bob was again repeating “Yeah,” I talked to him reassuringly, letting him know that I know it’s hard for him now to get the words out, but that I’m always watching out for him and everything is being taken care of, that he’s in a safe place, and so on.

He struggled with some words and then said something about having botched something. I told him it’s okay, that I’ll help him get it done right, that we’ll do it together, that it’s okay if it’s not done perfectly. A look of relief relaxed his face, and he said, “Thank you.”

Caring for a person with severe AD requires that you anticipate their needs and meet those needs to the best of your ability without wearing yourself out. In our case, I’ve found that when I explain things to Bob, it reassures him, even though I know he can’t quite follow what I’m talking about.

All human beings crave caring, comfort and connection, even more so when we feel small, scared and unwell. Just knowing someone is on your side can make a big difference, even to a person with severe AD.

 F A D I N G 

A couple of evenings ago, Bob said, “Everything is fading away.” Then he said, “I don’t know how much longer I can take it.”

Moments of clarity like these are painful for him, of course. Those of us without
the disease can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to actually sense the deterioration of the brain. I sure hope I never have to know.