The family collected their favorite stories about the incidents during O. J.'s illness. We all were aware of hallucinations he'd experienced.
One evening as I was washing supper dishes, he called from the bedroom. He wanted me to see the show. Expecting to see a television show, I found him sitting upright in bed. The room was silent.
"It's Jimmy Rodgers' Band, " he said.
"I don't see anything"
"They are right there" he pointed to the double doors of the closet. " They are playing You are My Sunshine."
"My uncle Johnny is playing the banjo. Robert has a Jew's Harp".
I sat in the silence as he described a concert he had been to in Meridian, Mississippi when he was a teen. For almost an hour he described singer, songs, and instruments." His enjoyment was obvious as well as his annoyance at my not seeing it.
When it faded, he lay down and went to sleep. I never saw or heard anything, but had no doubt about the pleasure he had in reliving a memory.
The worse time was before he was wheelchair bound.
One night I wakened to find something uncomfortably hard at my side. I turned on the bedside lamp and found a very sharp 15 inch hunting knife. I reached over and shook O. J. and asked him about the knife.
He had wakened earlier he said and in the dim light from the bathroom saw a monster making a lot of noise. He found the knife and brought it to the bed only to find me sleeping. He put the knife there in case the monster came back.
The next morning I gave the knife to my son in law and purchased supplies to stop my snoring.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Which one has Alzheimer's?
During the time O. J. was in a wheelchair I was often rushed and disorganized. One Good Friday morning he had an appointment with the doctor at 8 am for tests and consultation later. Because it was a school holiday, Misty had five girls spending the night with us. We left them sleeping at home and drove to Tuscaloosa under threatening skies. The radio said there was a tornado watch for Pickens County less than 5 miles from our house.
A sprinkling rain began as we drove into the parking lot and thunder roared in the background. I jumped out of the car, pulled out the wheelchair, opened it, and rushed to O. J.’s passenger’s door. O. J. sat calmly in his freshly ironed shirt and dress slacks with his hat on his head. I had carefully shaved and dressed him and he was neat as he’d always been.
I scooted the chair as close to the opening as possible, bent down to help him out of the seat. His hat was in the way. He took the hat off and placed it on my head sidewise. I moved his legs around and put his feet on the ground. He put his arms around my neck and I reached around and clasped his belt from behind to lift him to a standing position. When he was upright, I hugged him and turned him so he could sit down in the wheelchair.
The rain was harder. I unlocked the wheel and we rolled through the door and to the reception desk where several nurses were standing. I greeted them, filled out the necessary forms, then rolled O. J. to a place he could wait to go to the lab.
I drew a relieved breath and went back to the west facing glass entrance door concerned about the teenagers 15 miles due west. The rolling clouds were so dark the door served as a mirror and I saw my reflection. A man’s hat sat sidewise on my head, my blouse was misbuttoned, my slip showed beneath my skirt, and I was wearing a brown pump and a black wedgie.
One of the nurses behind me said, “Which one did you say has Alzheimer’s?”
A sprinkling rain began as we drove into the parking lot and thunder roared in the background. I jumped out of the car, pulled out the wheelchair, opened it, and rushed to O. J.’s passenger’s door. O. J. sat calmly in his freshly ironed shirt and dress slacks with his hat on his head. I had carefully shaved and dressed him and he was neat as he’d always been.
I scooted the chair as close to the opening as possible, bent down to help him out of the seat. His hat was in the way. He took the hat off and placed it on my head sidewise. I moved his legs around and put his feet on the ground. He put his arms around my neck and I reached around and clasped his belt from behind to lift him to a standing position. When he was upright, I hugged him and turned him so he could sit down in the wheelchair.
The rain was harder. I unlocked the wheel and we rolled through the door and to the reception desk where several nurses were standing. I greeted them, filled out the necessary forms, then rolled O. J. to a place he could wait to go to the lab.
I drew a relieved breath and went back to the west facing glass entrance door concerned about the teenagers 15 miles due west. The rolling clouds were so dark the door served as a mirror and I saw my reflection. A man’s hat sat sidewise on my head, my blouse was misbuttoned, my slip showed beneath my skirt, and I was wearing a brown pump and a black wedgie.
One of the nurses behind me said, “Which one did you say has Alzheimer’s?”
Sunday, May 23, 2010
I stand here in the second row of our little country church looking at the gray steet casket heaped with beautiful flowers and my eyes are dry...
I cried when I saw my husband paralyzed by his first stroke when only his eyes could move, and the terror in them showed his horror at being entombed in uncooperative flesh.
I cried in the months he spent struggling to learn to walk and talk again and found profanity the all purpose language easiest to communicate.
I cried when his arthritic knees worn by 35 years of bending, stooping, and lifting in an industrial plant hurt him so much he could hardly walk.
I hid my tears when the man who could repair anything but a broken heart took a simple blender apart down to the smallest elements to fix a twisted belt, then realized he was too tired to put it back together again (as if anyone could by then).
I cried when he got lost coming home from Clanton and wandered 14 hours through Selma and Montgomery before finding his way home to Tuscaloosa, and Romulus and to me.
I cried when grown men remembering his strength turned their faces away from him.
I cried the Saturday he reached for his coffee cup and missed by 15 inches and we looked in each others’ eyes and knew he’d had another stroke.
I cried when the doctors agreed he probably would not live through the night and I begged the Lord to leave him just a little longer.
I cried when I knew he’d had a heart attack 24 hours before the lab confirmed it.
I cried that Thanksgiving evening when he hurt so bad we went to the emergency room and the MRI found a 4 centimeter aneurysm behind his belly and the prognosis was three to six months.
I cried two years later when the CAT scan said the aneurysm was 6 centimeters and you could watch it pulse in his belly from 20 feet away.
I cried when he sat in his old blue recliner in the house where we had lived for 30 years and begged to go home.
I cried the times he got lost in our own home and a three year old grandson helped him find his way.
I cried when he called “Dorothy “ 100 times an hour and did not recognise me when I answered.
I cried when he called me Mama and meant his mama.
I cried when he asked me who I was and I said “Dorothy”, and he said, ” I was married to Dorothy, but she was young and pretty.”
I cried when he lost all sight except the sliver of light you might glimpse between fingers standing tight together in front of your face.
I cried when I walked out of Walmart and found a circle of strangers where he had climbed out of the car and fallen in the parking lot with a broken hip.
I cried when he lay blind and crippled and confused and held on to my hand and smiled when he heard my voice.
I cried when the swallowing that had become so difficult stopped, and his food became formula I pumped through a tube into his stomach.
I cried when he begged for a drink of cold water and a few swallows would have drowned him..
I cried when I took him to the hospital because we both knew he was dying and I could no longer care for all his needs.
I cried when the doctors said advanced Parkinson’s Disease and no one had told us so we might treat it.
I cried in the hundreds of hours by his bed just talking so he could find peace in the sound of a familiar voice.
I cried the day while bathing him I noticed that his brown calloused hand that could fix anything but a broken heart had become soft and pink and smooth like an infant‘s.
I cried when his family gathered around his hospital bed and told him goodbye and how much they loved him and honored him and would miss him and the nurses came in and told us to go home and scolded us for overreacting,
but we knew and he knew....
I cried when his labored breathing stopped and his loved ones watched the pulse in the hollow of his throat slow to a stop as we each gently touched him and told him “Godspeed”.
In front of his grey steel coffin with the flowers there is a picture of him taken when his face was filled with pride and joy and love of life on his grandson’s wedding day .
His glasses rest half opened on his worn bible reminding, ”I once was blind...”
And I know sees us from a loftier post.
No longer bound by time and space, years and pounds, and serial numbers,
his existance is light, and beauty and life unfathomable to our human eyes.
Though my eyes are damp, my head is high in pride in the life my husband lived so well and joy that he is face to face with our Lord.
There is peace in knowing we shared life from its heights to the depth and there is hope when I regard the fine young people he fathered and know the world is a better place because he taught four generations about living.
Our children stand straight and true, solid reminders that a man passed this way and in his humble way loved and laughed and cried and-- sometimes cursed-.
and left a precious legacy to those touched by his presence.
I’m not crying anymore..
Besides, he never liked to see me cry.
I cried when I saw my husband paralyzed by his first stroke when only his eyes could move, and the terror in them showed his horror at being entombed in uncooperative flesh.
I cried in the months he spent struggling to learn to walk and talk again and found profanity the all purpose language easiest to communicate.
I cried when his arthritic knees worn by 35 years of bending, stooping, and lifting in an industrial plant hurt him so much he could hardly walk.
I hid my tears when the man who could repair anything but a broken heart took a simple blender apart down to the smallest elements to fix a twisted belt, then realized he was too tired to put it back together again (as if anyone could by then).
I cried when he got lost coming home from Clanton and wandered 14 hours through Selma and Montgomery before finding his way home to Tuscaloosa, and Romulus and to me.
I cried when grown men remembering his strength turned their faces away from him.
I cried the Saturday he reached for his coffee cup and missed by 15 inches and we looked in each others’ eyes and knew he’d had another stroke.
I cried when the doctors agreed he probably would not live through the night and I begged the Lord to leave him just a little longer.
I cried when I knew he’d had a heart attack 24 hours before the lab confirmed it.
I cried that Thanksgiving evening when he hurt so bad we went to the emergency room and the MRI found a 4 centimeter aneurysm behind his belly and the prognosis was three to six months.
I cried two years later when the CAT scan said the aneurysm was 6 centimeters and you could watch it pulse in his belly from 20 feet away.
I cried when he sat in his old blue recliner in the house where we had lived for 30 years and begged to go home.
I cried the times he got lost in our own home and a three year old grandson helped him find his way.
I cried when he called “Dorothy “ 100 times an hour and did not recognise me when I answered.
I cried when he called me Mama and meant his mama.
I cried when he asked me who I was and I said “Dorothy”, and he said, ” I was married to Dorothy, but she was young and pretty.”
I cried when he lost all sight except the sliver of light you might glimpse between fingers standing tight together in front of your face.
I cried when I walked out of Walmart and found a circle of strangers where he had climbed out of the car and fallen in the parking lot with a broken hip.
I cried when he lay blind and crippled and confused and held on to my hand and smiled when he heard my voice.
I cried when the swallowing that had become so difficult stopped, and his food became formula I pumped through a tube into his stomach.
I cried when he begged for a drink of cold water and a few swallows would have drowned him..
I cried when I took him to the hospital because we both knew he was dying and I could no longer care for all his needs.
I cried when the doctors said advanced Parkinson’s Disease and no one had told us so we might treat it.
I cried in the hundreds of hours by his bed just talking so he could find peace in the sound of a familiar voice.
I cried the day while bathing him I noticed that his brown calloused hand that could fix anything but a broken heart had become soft and pink and smooth like an infant‘s.
I cried when his family gathered around his hospital bed and told him goodbye and how much they loved him and honored him and would miss him and the nurses came in and told us to go home and scolded us for overreacting,
but we knew and he knew....
I cried when his labored breathing stopped and his loved ones watched the pulse in the hollow of his throat slow to a stop as we each gently touched him and told him “Godspeed”.
In front of his grey steel coffin with the flowers there is a picture of him taken when his face was filled with pride and joy and love of life on his grandson’s wedding day .
His glasses rest half opened on his worn bible reminding, ”I once was blind...”
And I know sees us from a loftier post.
No longer bound by time and space, years and pounds, and serial numbers,
his existance is light, and beauty and life unfathomable to our human eyes.
Though my eyes are damp, my head is high in pride in the life my husband lived so well and joy that he is face to face with our Lord.
There is peace in knowing we shared life from its heights to the depth and there is hope when I regard the fine young people he fathered and know the world is a better place because he taught four generations about living.
Our children stand straight and true, solid reminders that a man passed this way and in his humble way loved and laughed and cried and-- sometimes cursed-.
and left a precious legacy to those touched by his presence.
I’m not crying anymore..
Besides, he never liked to see me cry.
Ann's letter
The ice storm was over. After spending nearly 60 days in various hospitals, O. J. and I were home. In three years my husband had suffered major health threats; strokes that left him almost blind, surgery for cancer twice, a heart attack, and an aneurysm of the aorta so large his shirt moved with its pulsing. For months I had cared for him like an infant.
Worst than the physical problems was the loss of wisdom and humor . Tucking the shocking pink sheets around him, I found it hard to recognize the gaunt features. If only I could think of him as he used to be, The illness had robbed him of so much, but it had also robbed his family of the person we knew. We disputed the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s because of the brief glimpses of rational thought he occasionally displayed. Sometimes he would be lucid for almost an hour and could grasp new information and answer our questions. But it might be days before it happened again.
“Lord, please give us our memories back. We’re losing him, but we know that You will keep him safe. His children and I have lost the sense of who he is. This shrunken old man who seldom recognizes anyone has no resemblance to the solid, friendly man who could fix ‘anything but a broken heart’ as he often bragged.”
That morning I had written in my journal,
“Often I feel helpless about the continuing disintegration of personality and body of my beloved . My feelings cover a wide range of emotions from tender love, frustration, glimpses of hope, and sometimes bitterness. Sometimes I feel trapped in an unrelenting 24 hour schedule that means I am reminded of the hopelessness of the situation every waking moment. So where’s the fear? In my gut, in the lump in my throat, in the tightness around my chest when he has pain, I register the fact that he might die today.
There had been no mail for 5 days, so when we heard the mailman stop I hurried down the icy driveway to see what he had brought. In the stack of letters there was a hand addressed letter for O. J. Gast at an address about 20 years old. It was from London, England. As soon as I got back into the house handed it to him and let him feel it.
Did he want me to open and read it?.
The letter stated that the writer was the daughter of O. J. Gast, born in London, England in 1945, that she had tried to get in touch with him over the years through the U. S. Army, but had been told that he was dead.. A recent television program in England had given information about locating long lost family members so she had tried again, writing to the last address in the army file.
She stated that she had a twelve year old son that wanted information about his deceased American grandfather and asked if the family would just send a photograph or some information about him. The letter ended by stating that the writer did not wish to cause trouble, discord, or scandal and to disregard the request if it might do so.
When I finished reading the letter to O. J., tears were rolling down his checks, I asked if he were angry, no, upset, no. Then I asked him if I could read the letter to our children. He nodded. I called our son David and asked him to come down immediately. Within one minute he had ran the 200 yards to our house and was in the bedroom concerned that there was a medical emergency. He read the letter and looked at me quizzically.
‘What do you know about this?” he asked.
“Your dad told me about this before we married. He talked about going to England to find her years ago, but we did not know where to start” .
“O. J. Were you surprised to get this.?” David asked.. O. J. nodded. Talking had become increasingly difficult during the last weeks of hospitalization.
“Ma, have you told anyone else about this?
“Just got it. I’ll call Martha. Should be able to reach her at the office.”
When she answered “ What’s wrong? “
“I’ve got something to read to you.” I read the letter.
“Oh, my God, it’s Enda’s child. When did you get this?” my stepdaughter asked.
“Just about 10 minutes ago. What do you know about it?
“Mother had told me about a child born after he left London. The mother, Enda Curran, had written about 1946 when mother was pregnant with the son who was stillborn. They had a big blowup over it and evidently he agreed to have nothing to do with the child. Mother said it was a girl and her name was Ann and there had been trouble when he named me Martha Ann.”
“Does the letter sound authentic?” I asked.
“Sounds about like Mother described. Is there a phone number or information enough to place a phone call?”
I gave her all the information in the letter and she and David began trying to establish connection by phone on their phones while I called the other daughters.
O. J. had drifted off to sleep,wearied by the excitment. This was the most alert he had been in days. The confusion had lifted for a few minutes and he seemed to understand the letter and its import.
As I called each of the other three daughters and found much the same response. Surprise, then excitement and a wish to find out more. All expressed the thought that Ann needed to come immediately to see O. J. since his health was extremely fragile and the possibility of death eminent. All offered to help raise the money to pay her flight to the USA if she needed the money.
I immediately wrote a letter to Ann explaining that her father was still alive, but in precarious condition and that I had read the letter to him. The family was happy and could not wait to meet her. Enclosing photos and a brief family history, I explained that there were two half sisters, two step sisters, a half brother, various in-laws, 13 nieces and nephews, and 3 about to be 6 grand nieces and nephews. Also included a brief description of his strokes, dementia, and continuing medical emergencies.
A week later I answered the phone to a distinctive British voice. “ Hello, this is Ann. May I speak to Dorothy?’ After a brief talk I put the phone to O. J.’s ear and he listened. He tried to say a few words, but had to give up and hand the phone back to me and I talked for him.
I got Ann’s phone number and made arrangements to call back with conference calls so that other members of the family could share the calls. I set up the calls and each of us got to visit by phone. Evidently the pictures and letter had been studied carefully, for the questions were very apt. A flurry of letters and calls went back and forth over the Atlantic. Plans were made for Ann, her husband Reg, and their son, Steven to come to the states when school was out. They refused to accept financial help from their new relatives.
Before O. J. died on April 17, 1996, he signed legal documents acknowledging Ann, preparing the way for her to obtain dual citizenship in her father’s country.
The family celebrated his life with a upbeat funeral in accordance with his wishes. There was a celebration of his life filled with warm memories and funny stories. The congregation sang Amazing Grace and It is Well With My Soul and poems by members of his family were read. His picture, his bible, and his glasses were on a table beside the casket. After the service the family received friends and visited in the church fellowship hall with the country luncheon he had asked for.
Because of her teaching schedule, Ann could not be there, but was kept informed and sent clippings and documents. During school holidays, She, her husband Reg, and son Steven came to visit for two weeks. After a few minutes, it was as if we’d been family always. We keep in touch by phone and mail.
In sharing our memories with Ann, the rest of the family found our happy memories restored. . O. J.’s stories of his stay in England became more real to all as Ann identified Picadilly Circus, the Thames, and Big Ben. The double decker bus Reg drives now is like ones we’d heard described.
My prayer for renewal of my memories was abundantly answered as family members pored over photos and videos and told stories from their growing up years. The experiences became a collage of family life we all could share.
Worst than the physical problems was the loss of wisdom and humor . Tucking the shocking pink sheets around him, I found it hard to recognize the gaunt features. If only I could think of him as he used to be, The illness had robbed him of so much, but it had also robbed his family of the person we knew. We disputed the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s because of the brief glimpses of rational thought he occasionally displayed. Sometimes he would be lucid for almost an hour and could grasp new information and answer our questions. But it might be days before it happened again.
“Lord, please give us our memories back. We’re losing him, but we know that You will keep him safe. His children and I have lost the sense of who he is. This shrunken old man who seldom recognizes anyone has no resemblance to the solid, friendly man who could fix ‘anything but a broken heart’ as he often bragged.”
That morning I had written in my journal,
“Often I feel helpless about the continuing disintegration of personality and body of my beloved . My feelings cover a wide range of emotions from tender love, frustration, glimpses of hope, and sometimes bitterness. Sometimes I feel trapped in an unrelenting 24 hour schedule that means I am reminded of the hopelessness of the situation every waking moment. So where’s the fear? In my gut, in the lump in my throat, in the tightness around my chest when he has pain, I register the fact that he might die today.
There had been no mail for 5 days, so when we heard the mailman stop I hurried down the icy driveway to see what he had brought. In the stack of letters there was a hand addressed letter for O. J. Gast at an address about 20 years old. It was from London, England. As soon as I got back into the house handed it to him and let him feel it.
Did he want me to open and read it?.
The letter stated that the writer was the daughter of O. J. Gast, born in London, England in 1945, that she had tried to get in touch with him over the years through the U. S. Army, but had been told that he was dead.. A recent television program in England had given information about locating long lost family members so she had tried again, writing to the last address in the army file.
She stated that she had a twelve year old son that wanted information about his deceased American grandfather and asked if the family would just send a photograph or some information about him. The letter ended by stating that the writer did not wish to cause trouble, discord, or scandal and to disregard the request if it might do so.
When I finished reading the letter to O. J., tears were rolling down his checks, I asked if he were angry, no, upset, no. Then I asked him if I could read the letter to our children. He nodded. I called our son David and asked him to come down immediately. Within one minute he had ran the 200 yards to our house and was in the bedroom concerned that there was a medical emergency. He read the letter and looked at me quizzically.
‘What do you know about this?” he asked.
“Your dad told me about this before we married. He talked about going to England to find her years ago, but we did not know where to start” .
“O. J. Were you surprised to get this.?” David asked.. O. J. nodded. Talking had become increasingly difficult during the last weeks of hospitalization.
“Ma, have you told anyone else about this?
“Just got it. I’ll call Martha. Should be able to reach her at the office.”
When she answered “ What’s wrong? “
“I’ve got something to read to you.” I read the letter.
“Oh, my God, it’s Enda’s child. When did you get this?” my stepdaughter asked.
“Just about 10 minutes ago. What do you know about it?
“Mother had told me about a child born after he left London. The mother, Enda Curran, had written about 1946 when mother was pregnant with the son who was stillborn. They had a big blowup over it and evidently he agreed to have nothing to do with the child. Mother said it was a girl and her name was Ann and there had been trouble when he named me Martha Ann.”
“Does the letter sound authentic?” I asked.
“Sounds about like Mother described. Is there a phone number or information enough to place a phone call?”
I gave her all the information in the letter and she and David began trying to establish connection by phone on their phones while I called the other daughters.
O. J. had drifted off to sleep,wearied by the excitment. This was the most alert he had been in days. The confusion had lifted for a few minutes and he seemed to understand the letter and its import.
As I called each of the other three daughters and found much the same response. Surprise, then excitement and a wish to find out more. All expressed the thought that Ann needed to come immediately to see O. J. since his health was extremely fragile and the possibility of death eminent. All offered to help raise the money to pay her flight to the USA if she needed the money.
I immediately wrote a letter to Ann explaining that her father was still alive, but in precarious condition and that I had read the letter to him. The family was happy and could not wait to meet her. Enclosing photos and a brief family history, I explained that there were two half sisters, two step sisters, a half brother, various in-laws, 13 nieces and nephews, and 3 about to be 6 grand nieces and nephews. Also included a brief description of his strokes, dementia, and continuing medical emergencies.
A week later I answered the phone to a distinctive British voice. “ Hello, this is Ann. May I speak to Dorothy?’ After a brief talk I put the phone to O. J.’s ear and he listened. He tried to say a few words, but had to give up and hand the phone back to me and I talked for him.
I got Ann’s phone number and made arrangements to call back with conference calls so that other members of the family could share the calls. I set up the calls and each of us got to visit by phone. Evidently the pictures and letter had been studied carefully, for the questions were very apt. A flurry of letters and calls went back and forth over the Atlantic. Plans were made for Ann, her husband Reg, and their son, Steven to come to the states when school was out. They refused to accept financial help from their new relatives.
Before O. J. died on April 17, 1996, he signed legal documents acknowledging Ann, preparing the way for her to obtain dual citizenship in her father’s country.
The family celebrated his life with a upbeat funeral in accordance with his wishes. There was a celebration of his life filled with warm memories and funny stories. The congregation sang Amazing Grace and It is Well With My Soul and poems by members of his family were read. His picture, his bible, and his glasses were on a table beside the casket. After the service the family received friends and visited in the church fellowship hall with the country luncheon he had asked for.
Because of her teaching schedule, Ann could not be there, but was kept informed and sent clippings and documents. During school holidays, She, her husband Reg, and son Steven came to visit for two weeks. After a few minutes, it was as if we’d been family always. We keep in touch by phone and mail.
In sharing our memories with Ann, the rest of the family found our happy memories restored. . O. J.’s stories of his stay in England became more real to all as Ann identified Picadilly Circus, the Thames, and Big Ben. The double decker bus Reg drives now is like ones we’d heard described.
My prayer for renewal of my memories was abundantly answered as family members pored over photos and videos and told stories from their growing up years. The experiences became a collage of family life we all could share.
O. J. was very weak after we returned from the rehab for his hip. It was hard for him to swallow and when he did He choked and coughed. He was admitted to Northport Hospital. The doctors said he must be put on a feeding tube or he would starve or drown if we gave him liquids.
O. J. kept saying "No, let me die. I don't want a stomach tube. I'm not hurting now, I'm not hungry. Just let me die."
I was so frightened. It was an impossible choice. Did O. J. understand at that time what he was saying? Could we just watch him starve or was there a possibility that he might regain the ability to swallow? Even though he sounded lucid, the family over ruled his living will and gave permission for the feeding tube.
Voncile and Albert Styres came to visit while we were struggling with the decision. I knew the excellent care Voncile, Albert, and David had given Voncile's mother during the years she was bedridden. They assured me that it could be handled at home and gave me tips about handling it.
The next day after the insertion of the tube we were told his time was up and he would have to leave the hospital. The same hour warnings of a winter storm were on radio and television. The storm arrival would be before time for him to leave. How could I take him home with the possibility of no heat and no electricity? My pleas for him to stay until the storm was over was denied by the doctor and hospital.
I rented a vacant room to stay as a visitor, had him moved into the room and we rented equipment from JM drugstore to use in the rented hospital room. Some of the staff sympathic to our plight, would come on their breaks to check on him to see if I were handling the equipment properly.
The cafeteria was at the end of our hall, so I went down for my meals. Since the ice storm had staff locked in, too, the was a spirit of cooperation between staff and others. Finally the highays were open and an ambulance moved O. J. and his equipment to Romulus.
O. J. kept saying "No, let me die. I don't want a stomach tube. I'm not hurting now, I'm not hungry. Just let me die."
I was so frightened. It was an impossible choice. Did O. J. understand at that time what he was saying? Could we just watch him starve or was there a possibility that he might regain the ability to swallow? Even though he sounded lucid, the family over ruled his living will and gave permission for the feeding tube.
Voncile and Albert Styres came to visit while we were struggling with the decision. I knew the excellent care Voncile, Albert, and David had given Voncile's mother during the years she was bedridden. They assured me that it could be handled at home and gave me tips about handling it.
The next day after the insertion of the tube we were told his time was up and he would have to leave the hospital. The same hour warnings of a winter storm were on radio and television. The storm arrival would be before time for him to leave. How could I take him home with the possibility of no heat and no electricity? My pleas for him to stay until the storm was over was denied by the doctor and hospital.
I rented a vacant room to stay as a visitor, had him moved into the room and we rented equipment from JM drugstore to use in the rented hospital room. Some of the staff sympathic to our plight, would come on their breaks to check on him to see if I were handling the equipment properly.
The cafeteria was at the end of our hall, so I went down for my meals. Since the ice storm had staff locked in, too, the was a spirit of cooperation between staff and others. Finally the highays were open and an ambulance moved O. J. and his equipment to Romulus.
Broken Hip
On Sunday, December 3, I went to church while David stayed with O. J. After church we decided to go to Martha’s for lunch so we could mail the Christmas letters finished the night before. O. J. wanted fried chicken from Walmart so I parked between Walmart and Sam’s in the handicapped space, set the emergency brake, turned on the stereo on and left O. J. sitting in the car while I went in for chicken.
There was a line and I had to wait while more chicken was cooked. I picked up a pie and some salad and phoned Martha that we were bringing chicken for lunch with her family. The wait for chicken was longer than usual. After about 20 minutes I went through the check out line and through the front door. A crowd had circled in the area near my car. I hurried over. A man was lying across the striped lines marking handicapped parking. It was O. J.
I knelt beside him and asked what happened. “I was coming to find you,” he said. . A man said that an ambulance had been called. Because O. J. could not see he had not known where he was going. Wheelchair bound for months, he had opened the door, pulled himself to a standing position by the door, turned and tried to walk toward Walmart. Witnesses had seen him turn loose of the car, take two steps and fall.
A man had come at once putting his folded coat under O. J.’s head. Others had gathered and were watching over him until I arrived. He had not been able to tell them who he was or who I was. There was relief that I came before the ambulance.
While he was loaded into the ambulance, I made some phone calls to family and beat the ambulance to the hospital emergency room. Wewaited as usual for the doctors diagnosis. The x-rays showed a broken hip and surgery was scheduled for the next day. I slept in the recliner beside his bed as I always did when he was in the hospital.
The break in the hip was clean and the surgery was successful with less difficulty than expected. We were on seventh floor until being transferred to rehabilitation services in the next building. He was a patient there until the last of December. On Christmas he was given a 4 hour pass to go home with his family. He was so frail that the family knew he did not have much longer with us.
When he was finally released, Seton Home Health care came to care for him. There were nurses, LPNs, therapists, and chaplains. It was still a 24 hour battle, but there was help a couple of hours a day.
On January 3, toothache pain sent me to the dentist and David stayed with O. J. When I returned David showed me the song he had written and sang for his father. It was beautiful. As I heard it I thought of other words so I added them to make a poem. That night I included poem and song in letters to a first cousin and another to a friend. Within days letter and poem was published in two different publications. Since then I have given away thousands of copies and used them as basis for devotional talks.
There was a line and I had to wait while more chicken was cooked. I picked up a pie and some salad and phoned Martha that we were bringing chicken for lunch with her family. The wait for chicken was longer than usual. After about 20 minutes I went through the check out line and through the front door. A crowd had circled in the area near my car. I hurried over. A man was lying across the striped lines marking handicapped parking. It was O. J.
I knelt beside him and asked what happened. “I was coming to find you,” he said. . A man said that an ambulance had been called. Because O. J. could not see he had not known where he was going. Wheelchair bound for months, he had opened the door, pulled himself to a standing position by the door, turned and tried to walk toward Walmart. Witnesses had seen him turn loose of the car, take two steps and fall.
A man had come at once putting his folded coat under O. J.’s head. Others had gathered and were watching over him until I arrived. He had not been able to tell them who he was or who I was. There was relief that I came before the ambulance.
While he was loaded into the ambulance, I made some phone calls to family and beat the ambulance to the hospital emergency room. Wewaited as usual for the doctors diagnosis. The x-rays showed a broken hip and surgery was scheduled for the next day. I slept in the recliner beside his bed as I always did when he was in the hospital.
The break in the hip was clean and the surgery was successful with less difficulty than expected. We were on seventh floor until being transferred to rehabilitation services in the next building. He was a patient there until the last of December. On Christmas he was given a 4 hour pass to go home with his family. He was so frail that the family knew he did not have much longer with us.
When he was finally released, Seton Home Health care came to care for him. There were nurses, LPNs, therapists, and chaplains. It was still a 24 hour battle, but there was help a couple of hours a day.
On January 3, toothache pain sent me to the dentist and David stayed with O. J. When I returned David showed me the song he had written and sang for his father. It was beautiful. As I heard it I thought of other words so I added them to make a poem. That night I included poem and song in letters to a first cousin and another to a friend. Within days letter and poem was published in two different publications. Since then I have given away thousands of copies and used them as basis for devotional talks.
Friday, May 21, 2010
“Dorothy”
“Dorothy,”
“Dorothy, where are you?” O. J. ws calling me.
The thin hand above the hospital bed rail was reaching as if to catch someone rushing by.
“Here I am” I wiped my hands on the bottom of my faded oversized tee-shirt. The antibacterial hand cleaner I’d hurriedly squirted on before wringing my hands under running water was probably not enough to go from putting weeds in the overgrown beds to patient care, but maybe few toxic microbes remained.
The frail figure looked in my direction as I approached the shiny metal hospital bed raised to its maximum height. The cheekbones were like our youngest daughter who prided herself on maintaining her bridal weight of fifteen years before.
I said, “ Did you have a nice nap?
“Who are you?” my husband asked.
“You just called me, Do you want some breakfast now?’ It looks like one of those days. Yesterday he had been lucid much of the morning.
“ I don’t know you. Where’s Dorothy? I want to go home.” The thin fingers jerked at the brightly printed sheet chosen to help his distorted sight.
“I am Dorothy and this is home.” I left the rail down and lowered the bed
O. J.’s head turned slightly in my direction.. Obviously he was both unconvinced and annoyed at this intruder. This daily reorientation was not what one expects from the handbooks and instructions sheets. To the general population, Alzheimer’s is a byword for silly behavior or slight confusion. The grim reality is a juggernaut that grinds down patient and caregivers with its slow steady stealing of memory, of awareness, of sense of place and time. At least he knows my name today. I put my hand on his wrist to reassure him.
He pulled away. “You’re not Dorothy’” He twisted his head to the side and squinted at me. The ophthalmologist had explained that both eyes were good, just as they had been right after the cataract surgery. It was the receptors in the brain that had been damaged in the last stroke. The doctor had said, “He can only see a sliver of color and image, about what you’d see through spaces between you fingers if they were in front of your face.”
It seemed so terribly unfair. For eighteen years he had suffered stokes of varying intensity, much like the one that had killed two of his sisters and crippled a brother. When the confusion began, one neurologist had said multi-infarct dementia or “hardening of the arteries” another had scrawled “Alzheimer’s” across the top of the chart. The dozens of doctors, more tests, and many consultations simply meant ‘ live with it’.
Thank God and David Bronner for early retirement. O. J.’s BFGOODRICH/ UNIROYAL/MICHILIN pension and my teacher retirement benefits meant that we wouldn’t starve. His insurance had flipped over to Medicare when he turned 65. The move from the small frame house where we’d raised our children into a nearby mobile home provided an opportunity to create an intensive care facility near family and friends..
A door cut though the bedroom wall into the bathroom made a way to get the wheelchair near the tub, although it meant all privacy was gone. A bath bench inside the new larger steel bathtub had replaced the flimsy garden spa peculiar to mobile homes.. Bars had been installed vertically and horizontally so he could help pull himself into the tub and stay upright while someone lathered his shrunken limbs with baby soap on a large soft sponge.
Finally he located my face in his narrow range of vision. “ You’re not Dorothy . What are you doing here?”
“Honey, it is me” ‘or I or ... whatever’ I pressed the button raising his head. ‘Why argue, he’ll have forgotten in five minutes.’ Some days he would wake up alert and normal as if the 5 years of mental disintegration had been a horrible nightmare.
Once the fog had disappeared for almost a week and we’d celebrated a return to sanity.
I tried my cheerful nonsubjective nurse’s voice. “ How about some orange juice? We’ll have breakfast after the home health nurse comes.”
“Why can’t I go home? Why are you keeping me here? I don’t like this place.”
His hands moved over bed. frame. and pajamas in small jerky movements..
“O. J. we are home . Remember when we moved down to Missy’s trailer, so we could have a wheelchair ramp. There’s your chest of drawer that you’ve kept clothes in for fifty years. And your mirror is over there. All of your stuff’s here.” I patted the mahogany chest making a trail in the dust.
“Get Dorothy, take me home now.” Echoes of the drill sargeant fifty years ago were in his voice.
“ I am Dorothy and it’s time for you to get up .” I put my left arm around his bony shoulder and the right hand under his knees and pivoted him to a sitting position on the side of the bad. I placed his right hand on the bed rail to keep him safe until I could pull the wheelchair closer just enough space to move him.
“Are you ready for a ride in your wheelchair?” I placed my knees flanking his, reached under his arms, and hugged him into a semistanding position. His grip on the back of my shirt was surprisingly strong. Another pivot like a clumsy dance step, had him in front of the wheelchair. and I bent my knees slowly lowering him into the chair. He grabbed the armrests like a novice on a bumpy place ride. I pulled the footrests to the front, locked them in position and guided his feet in place.
As I straightened up it seemed that his eyes were a little brighter. Sometimes activity made him lucid . The face I’d known for 38 years was unfamiliar in its thin emptiness but the eyes were searching for something to focus on.
. O. J. tilted his head as his eyes focused on me.
“Are you somebody I know?’ Plaintively.
My image in the mirror grimaced back at me with the dirty smudge across my check from the flower I had just planted. Just keep it steady. He can’t help it.
“I am your wife, your best friend, and your housekeeper, and your cook and your private duty nurse and your own true love. I’m David’s mother and Missy’s mother and Ryan’s grandmother, and Zac’s great grandmother,” I sing-songed as I rolled him to the table and locked the wheel. “ We’ve have six kids, 13 grandchildren, and soon we’ll have 5 great grandsons. And David’s going to be a grandfather.” Just the sound of my voice seemed to stop the fidgeting, even if he didn’t understand all the words.
He turned toward the sound of my voice. “I know David. Where’s David?”
“He’s gone to work. He came by early this morning to help me change you before he went to the river. He’ll come back tonight after he sells the mussel shells. That trip to Clanton always makes him late.” The last time O. J. had made that trip alone to help David he lost his way and went to Selma, and Montgomery before finding his way up highway 82 to Tuscaloosa, then Romulus and me. It had taken 14 hours and I was frantic. After that I drove him wherever we had to go.
“How about some eggs and ham and biscuits with your orange juice?” I spread a bath towel over his chest and lap. He fingered the towel and explored the hard surface of the table above it. His eyes searched the sun warmed kitchen until they focused on me again like an anchor to his world.
“Are you kin to me or something?’
“No, this is not Mississippi. You couldn’t have married me if we were kin’”
“oh...”
Ding-dong...Ding-dong.
“Honey, your orange juice will have to wait. It’s the nurse who gives you your bath.”
“Come on in,” I said loud enough for the nurse to hear from outside.
The slender blonde in a brightly figured knit nurse uniform entered, put down her large navy medical bag and said, “Good morning, Miss Dorothy . How are you feeling, Mr. O. J.?”
The bald head turned toward the voice. A crooked grin spread across this face.
“How are you, Linda?”
“Dorothy,”
“Dorothy, where are you?” O. J. ws calling me.
The thin hand above the hospital bed rail was reaching as if to catch someone rushing by.
“Here I am” I wiped my hands on the bottom of my faded oversized tee-shirt. The antibacterial hand cleaner I’d hurriedly squirted on before wringing my hands under running water was probably not enough to go from putting weeds in the overgrown beds to patient care, but maybe few toxic microbes remained.
The frail figure looked in my direction as I approached the shiny metal hospital bed raised to its maximum height. The cheekbones were like our youngest daughter who prided herself on maintaining her bridal weight of fifteen years before.
I said, “ Did you have a nice nap?
“Who are you?” my husband asked.
“You just called me, Do you want some breakfast now?’ It looks like one of those days. Yesterday he had been lucid much of the morning.
“ I don’t know you. Where’s Dorothy? I want to go home.” The thin fingers jerked at the brightly printed sheet chosen to help his distorted sight.
“I am Dorothy and this is home.” I left the rail down and lowered the bed
O. J.’s head turned slightly in my direction.. Obviously he was both unconvinced and annoyed at this intruder. This daily reorientation was not what one expects from the handbooks and instructions sheets. To the general population, Alzheimer’s is a byword for silly behavior or slight confusion. The grim reality is a juggernaut that grinds down patient and caregivers with its slow steady stealing of memory, of awareness, of sense of place and time. At least he knows my name today. I put my hand on his wrist to reassure him.
He pulled away. “You’re not Dorothy’” He twisted his head to the side and squinted at me. The ophthalmologist had explained that both eyes were good, just as they had been right after the cataract surgery. It was the receptors in the brain that had been damaged in the last stroke. The doctor had said, “He can only see a sliver of color and image, about what you’d see through spaces between you fingers if they were in front of your face.”
It seemed so terribly unfair. For eighteen years he had suffered stokes of varying intensity, much like the one that had killed two of his sisters and crippled a brother. When the confusion began, one neurologist had said multi-infarct dementia or “hardening of the arteries” another had scrawled “Alzheimer’s” across the top of the chart. The dozens of doctors, more tests, and many consultations simply meant ‘ live with it’.
Thank God and David Bronner for early retirement. O. J.’s BFGOODRICH/ UNIROYAL/MICHILIN pension and my teacher retirement benefits meant that we wouldn’t starve. His insurance had flipped over to Medicare when he turned 65. The move from the small frame house where we’d raised our children into a nearby mobile home provided an opportunity to create an intensive care facility near family and friends..
A door cut though the bedroom wall into the bathroom made a way to get the wheelchair near the tub, although it meant all privacy was gone. A bath bench inside the new larger steel bathtub had replaced the flimsy garden spa peculiar to mobile homes.. Bars had been installed vertically and horizontally so he could help pull himself into the tub and stay upright while someone lathered his shrunken limbs with baby soap on a large soft sponge.
Finally he located my face in his narrow range of vision. “ You’re not Dorothy . What are you doing here?”
“Honey, it is me” ‘or I or ... whatever’ I pressed the button raising his head. ‘Why argue, he’ll have forgotten in five minutes.’ Some days he would wake up alert and normal as if the 5 years of mental disintegration had been a horrible nightmare.
Once the fog had disappeared for almost a week and we’d celebrated a return to sanity.
I tried my cheerful nonsubjective nurse’s voice. “ How about some orange juice? We’ll have breakfast after the home health nurse comes.”
“Why can’t I go home? Why are you keeping me here? I don’t like this place.”
His hands moved over bed. frame. and pajamas in small jerky movements..
“O. J. we are home . Remember when we moved down to Missy’s trailer, so we could have a wheelchair ramp. There’s your chest of drawer that you’ve kept clothes in for fifty years. And your mirror is over there. All of your stuff’s here.” I patted the mahogany chest making a trail in the dust.
“Get Dorothy, take me home now.” Echoes of the drill sargeant fifty years ago were in his voice.
“ I am Dorothy and it’s time for you to get up .” I put my left arm around his bony shoulder and the right hand under his knees and pivoted him to a sitting position on the side of the bad. I placed his right hand on the bed rail to keep him safe until I could pull the wheelchair closer just enough space to move him.
“Are you ready for a ride in your wheelchair?” I placed my knees flanking his, reached under his arms, and hugged him into a semistanding position. His grip on the back of my shirt was surprisingly strong. Another pivot like a clumsy dance step, had him in front of the wheelchair. and I bent my knees slowly lowering him into the chair. He grabbed the armrests like a novice on a bumpy place ride. I pulled the footrests to the front, locked them in position and guided his feet in place.
As I straightened up it seemed that his eyes were a little brighter. Sometimes activity made him lucid . The face I’d known for 38 years was unfamiliar in its thin emptiness but the eyes were searching for something to focus on.
. O. J. tilted his head as his eyes focused on me.
“Are you somebody I know?’ Plaintively.
My image in the mirror grimaced back at me with the dirty smudge across my check from the flower I had just planted. Just keep it steady. He can’t help it.
“I am your wife, your best friend, and your housekeeper, and your cook and your private duty nurse and your own true love. I’m David’s mother and Missy’s mother and Ryan’s grandmother, and Zac’s great grandmother,” I sing-songed as I rolled him to the table and locked the wheel. “ We’ve have six kids, 13 grandchildren, and soon we’ll have 5 great grandsons. And David’s going to be a grandfather.” Just the sound of my voice seemed to stop the fidgeting, even if he didn’t understand all the words.
He turned toward the sound of my voice. “I know David. Where’s David?”
“He’s gone to work. He came by early this morning to help me change you before he went to the river. He’ll come back tonight after he sells the mussel shells. That trip to Clanton always makes him late.” The last time O. J. had made that trip alone to help David he lost his way and went to Selma, and Montgomery before finding his way up highway 82 to Tuscaloosa, then Romulus and me. It had taken 14 hours and I was frantic. After that I drove him wherever we had to go.
“How about some eggs and ham and biscuits with your orange juice?” I spread a bath towel over his chest and lap. He fingered the towel and explored the hard surface of the table above it. His eyes searched the sun warmed kitchen until they focused on me again like an anchor to his world.
“Are you kin to me or something?’
“No, this is not Mississippi. You couldn’t have married me if we were kin’”
“oh...”
Ding-dong...Ding-dong.
“Honey, your orange juice will have to wait. It’s the nurse who gives you your bath.”
“Come on in,” I said loud enough for the nurse to hear from outside.
The slender blonde in a brightly figured knit nurse uniform entered, put down her large navy medical bag and said, “Good morning, Miss Dorothy . How are you feeling, Mr. O. J.?”
The bald head turned toward the voice. A crooked grin spread across this face.
“How are you, Linda?”
THE FALL
January 23, 1993
Today at O. J.’s regular physical, the doctor mentioned a recent weight gain and cautioned him that regular exercise was very important in maintaining his strength and coordination. He was very thoughtful on the way home. While I was cooking supper he disappeared.
I called family and neighbors to help find him. Twilight made searching more difficult. Then someone saw him staggering toward home on the gas well road that ran about a half mile long next to our house.
Blood covered his face and neck and stained the front of his jacket. There was a large bump on his head. His glasses were missing and skin was torn away from his left cheekbone and embedded with gravel and sand. Dirt covered him from the attempts to get up and his whole jacket was torn and bloody. He began to cry from relief as the outside lights from the house came on and family surrounded him.
Because he was on blood thinner, we did not attempt to clean him up, but took him directly to the Emergency Room. I sat in the trauma room while medical staff took vital signs and prepared to clean and stitch his wounds.
One of the nurses said, “This is an obvious case of elder abuse.”
Never has my fear and anxiety turned so quickly to outrage. Before I could speak the attending doctor saw my response and immediately responded, “Can’t you seen that he’s had a fall?” He sent the nurse out of the room before I could make a scene or threaten a libel suit.
Back at the farm my son in law had retraced O. J.’s steps and found where he had fallen. A large area of the loose crushed rock gravel had much blood where he had tried to get up; and his broken glasses few feet farther revealed where he had originally fallen then crawled along trying to find a way to pull himself up. In the deepening gloom he had panicked trying to find his way home.
The fears raised by the experience forced him to further limit his activity. For a few days O. J. stayed in his recliner or in the car and showed no wish to venture out even to territory that had been so familiar to him or to repeat the misadventure. His world was growing smaller and more dangerous.
Less active, his legs became stiff and painful. A wheelchair was a welcome relief when we went into stores or to the doctor’s office. He still grumbled when it was placed in the back of the chair, but it enabled him to go places and visit with people.
Dorothy Gast
Today at O. J.’s regular physical, the doctor mentioned a recent weight gain and cautioned him that regular exercise was very important in maintaining his strength and coordination. He was very thoughtful on the way home. While I was cooking supper he disappeared.
I called family and neighbors to help find him. Twilight made searching more difficult. Then someone saw him staggering toward home on the gas well road that ran about a half mile long next to our house.
Blood covered his face and neck and stained the front of his jacket. There was a large bump on his head. His glasses were missing and skin was torn away from his left cheekbone and embedded with gravel and sand. Dirt covered him from the attempts to get up and his whole jacket was torn and bloody. He began to cry from relief as the outside lights from the house came on and family surrounded him.
Because he was on blood thinner, we did not attempt to clean him up, but took him directly to the Emergency Room. I sat in the trauma room while medical staff took vital signs and prepared to clean and stitch his wounds.
One of the nurses said, “This is an obvious case of elder abuse.”
Never has my fear and anxiety turned so quickly to outrage. Before I could speak the attending doctor saw my response and immediately responded, “Can’t you seen that he’s had a fall?” He sent the nurse out of the room before I could make a scene or threaten a libel suit.
Back at the farm my son in law had retraced O. J.’s steps and found where he had fallen. A large area of the loose crushed rock gravel had much blood where he had tried to get up; and his broken glasses few feet farther revealed where he had originally fallen then crawled along trying to find a way to pull himself up. In the deepening gloom he had panicked trying to find his way home.
The fears raised by the experience forced him to further limit his activity. For a few days O. J. stayed in his recliner or in the car and showed no wish to venture out even to territory that had been so familiar to him or to repeat the misadventure. His world was growing smaller and more dangerous.
Less active, his legs became stiff and painful. A wheelchair was a welcome relief when we went into stores or to the doctor’s office. He still grumbled when it was placed in the back of the chair, but it enabled him to go places and visit with people.
Dorothy Gast
Kmart event
November 8, 1992
Today we went to K Mart to see bout some tennis shoes for O. J. He chose two pair and some house shoes. We picked packages of underwear and socks and he pushed the cart toward the front checkout stations. A Blue Light special caught my attention and I stopped to look at play clothes for grandchildren. When I missed him I looked around for him and the cart and saw him pushing it back into the front doors.
“Where are your shoes? “ I asked seeing the empty cart.
“I put them in the trunk.”
“Where did you get the money to pay for them? I thought you had no money.” It had been weeks since he had carried a billfold.
“I didn’t. You can pay for them.”
“They are not here. How can I pay for them? Are you teasing me?
“No.”
“Did you take them out of the store without paying ?”
“I knew you would pay for them.” His face was innocent as a 4 year old.
We rolled he cart to the car, opened the trunk, reloaded the cart, and pushed the cart through the double doors to the service desk. I had to explain to the greeter we were bringing the articles in to pay for them. No one seemed to have noticed O. J.’s taking the full basket of goods out unbagged, and loading them into the trunk of our car. without having paid.
Later he joked about as if it had been done as a prank, but it was obvious at the time he did not realize that he must pay.
”
Today we went to K Mart to see bout some tennis shoes for O. J. He chose two pair and some house shoes. We picked packages of underwear and socks and he pushed the cart toward the front checkout stations. A Blue Light special caught my attention and I stopped to look at play clothes for grandchildren. When I missed him I looked around for him and the cart and saw him pushing it back into the front doors.
“Where are your shoes? “ I asked seeing the empty cart.
“I put them in the trunk.”
“Where did you get the money to pay for them? I thought you had no money.” It had been weeks since he had carried a billfold.
“I didn’t. You can pay for them.”
“They are not here. How can I pay for them? Are you teasing me?
“No.”
“Did you take them out of the store without paying ?”
“I knew you would pay for them.” His face was innocent as a 4 year old.
We rolled he cart to the car, opened the trunk, reloaded the cart, and pushed the cart through the double doors to the service desk. I had to explain to the greeter we were bringing the articles in to pay for them. No one seemed to have noticed O. J.’s taking the full basket of goods out unbagged, and loading them into the trunk of our car. without having paid.
Later he joked about as if it had been done as a prank, but it was obvious at the time he did not realize that he must pay.
”
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Head Usher
Probably the place where O. J.’s condition was most accepted and forgiven was at our New Hope church For many years he had been head usher and took his job very seriously.
My biggest gripe when the family was young was his sleeping until I had breakfast prepared, then his eating a leisurely breakfast with the family and concentrating on dressing appropriately. He always smelled of Old Spice and was teased that at work the women would follow him with their noses when he passed by. But Sunday he was even more meticulous about his appearance.
While I cleared the breakfast table, washed little faces and tied sashes on frilly dresses he would get dressed. Twenty minutes before time for Sunday School while I was cooking dinner, teasing hair, and putting on lipstick in my underwear, he would sit in the car and blow the horn at intervals for us to hurry up so we’d be a church on time. What I would have done if I had known how to get to that horn.
All our pastors knew that O. J. never prayed aloud in church or at home. One Sunday a visiting speaker called on Mr. Gast to pray and I received a vigorous elbow jab in the ribs. I prayed.
My biggest gripe when the family was young was his sleeping until I had breakfast prepared, then his eating a leisurely breakfast with the family and concentrating on dressing appropriately. He always smelled of Old Spice and was teased that at work the women would follow him with their noses when he passed by. But Sunday he was even more meticulous about his appearance.
While I cleared the breakfast table, washed little faces and tied sashes on frilly dresses he would get dressed. Twenty minutes before time for Sunday School while I was cooking dinner, teasing hair, and putting on lipstick in my underwear, he would sit in the car and blow the horn at intervals for us to hurry up so we’d be a church on time. What I would have done if I had known how to get to that horn.
All our pastors knew that O. J. never prayed aloud in church or at home. One Sunday a visiting speaker called on Mr. Gast to pray and I received a vigorous elbow jab in the ribs. I prayed.
After each hospitalization he would return to his usher position. He stood at the entrance, greeted everyone, teased the smallest, and handed out bulletins. He selected the person to give the offertory prayer during the greeting process. If no one agreed, he would look at me in the choir and wink to ask me to pray before the collection. I guess why so many of our church petitions to bless our tithes and offerings came from me.
One Sunday after a stay in the hospital, he was well enough to return to services. The welcome back was hearty. The pastor reminded, “Don’t forget to ring the Sunday School closing bell at 10:45; the deaconcame by and said, “Ring the bell at 15 until 11.” No bell rang. At 11:00 I went out to him and asked why he didn’t ring the bell.
He said “these people can’t decide what time to ring it.”
One Sunday after a stay in the hospital, he was well enough to return to services. The welcome back was hearty. The pastor reminded, “Don’t forget to ring the Sunday School closing bell at 10:45; the deaconcame by and said, “Ring the bell at 15 until 11.” No bell rang. At 11:00 I went out to him and asked why he didn’t ring the bell.
He said “these people can’t decide what time to ring it.”
At offering he gravely made his way to the front with a partner to collect the money. Since most regular attendees placed checks in envelopes during the Sunday School, very little money went into the collection plates during the worship service when the pianist played, the plates were passed down each row, and the choir came down to sit with family for the sermon.
One Sunday morning when he was advanced into his confusion, he made his way to
the back of the church at the place we always sat,. breathed a long sigh as he sat down, and whispered loudly to me with disgust,“Not a G-- D---- S-- of a B----- put a G-- D---- dollar in the G-- D---- collection plate. The usual silence became more intense. Shaking shoulders and red ears showed that nearly everyone in the congregation heard him. The preacher still swears he didn’t. At the next service the plate was filled with $1s, and $5s. Later the collection returned to normal with a few coins and little green. No one ever confronted him except me and the story traveled all over the county among his friends and former employees at the tire plant. He never admitted doing it and seemed sincerely hurt to be falsely accused of being so irreverent and blasphemous.
RESPITE???
AUGUST 24, 1993
5 AM
My respite has come to an end. Last Friday I had my gall bladder removed and spent one night in a nice peaceful hospital room. Missy and Katherine stayed with O. J. until David’s family arrived then they brought him home. I wonder if they yet realize how fast he is losing it. It helped to have David there to amuse him and keep in occupied for the weekend.
Sometimes I think the hardest part of Alzheimer’s is the feeling of isolation, of not making contact with OJ as we talk. Today I woke at 4:30 to the sound of running water and the strong smell of unine. I turned the light on, and found OJ still lying on his side in bed peeing on the carpet.
When he saw me in the light, he said, “ I want to go home. I’m tired of this Goddamned place” His defiant reaction triggered the same in me. I reached under his side of the bed not 5 inches from the spreading puddle on the floor and pulled out the plastic urinal placed there for emergencies, that he had used many times. The flowered bed skirt was dripping and so were the sheets, the mattress, and the mattress bad.
So much for the post surgery restriction of my not lifting 5 pounds for 2 weeks. The sheets, pillow cases, and mattress pad had to be replaced with fresh linens. While he watched I sprayed with a disinfectant and sponged dry the mattress and the carpet. He sat at the end of the bed pouting like a defiantly guilty little boy, daring me to accuse him of wrongdoing.
He had to be helped out of bed and cleaned up and dressed in fresh pajamas, then led to the guest bedroom to sleep for the rest of the night.
I gathered his pajamas, the wet bedclothes, and mattress pad took them to the washing machine. Soap and disinfectant would make them fresh again, but what would help the straining stitches in my side? I’ll probably regret this tomorrow.
After I put the clothes in the washer and turned it on, I made a pot of coffee and went back to bed. As I lay there with my heart pounding with anger an frustration, self pity whispered, “You can’t even recover in peace and quiet. He doesn’t care that you are hurting. In fact he’s doing things not because he can’t control himself, but out of petulance that you haven’t been waiting on him the last few days.”
Too distraught to rest, I got up and through the dark to the lighted kitchen, poured a cup of coffee and turned on the computer.Better to take my anger out in pounding the keys than to smolder or try to pretend that it doesn’t matter. When he wakens I’ll be calm again.
“Why am I so mad?” I know that dementia is a physical and mental disability and that OJ is reacting at the level of his mental state, but his actions appear deliberate and spiteful as if he is saying ”you have not been caring for me these last few days, so I’m going to force you to clean up after me.”
Over my head hangs the knowledge that things will never be better for him and most likely become increasingly worse as he no longer relates to me as a wife, but as a bossy caregiver. There’s no appreciation of meals prepared or care given, just increasing criticism of life in general and frustration about his limitations.
OJ can be gentle and charmingly defenseless round others. When he can be persuaded to shower and get dressed, he can appear perfectly normal. Greeting old friends in public he appears unchanged from 20 years ago except for the wheelchair. When asked about his health he complains about his knee hurting. When they leave he asks, “Who was that? Do I know them?”
The day is coming when he probably will no longer be able to go out in public, as his sense of propriety fades. I dread that both for his sake and mine. Short trips out to eat or look around make him temporarily more alert and optimistic. Longer trips exhaust him and require days of rest to recover.
People often remarked on my patience as a teacher, yet anxiety and weariness use up patience quickly. I do not like the bossy, pushy woman I am becoming. The image is incompatible with my self image. I hate the thought of acting a martyr and I’m certainly not a saint. I resent the role thrust upon me as caregiver, nurse, housekeeper, groundskeeper, treasurer and scapegoat for all the things that cause OJ frustration.
Obviously the time OJ and I have together is limited, but already much of our relationship is lost. We can’t talk as two adults, or flirt, or share our feelings. To OJ I am the all powerful mother figure who has taken away his truck, his guns, and his freedom. The more he is dependent on me to protect and care for him, the stronger his frustration and resentment toward me.
He wants to go “home”. Back to the time he was strong and confident and in charge. He wants to get in his truck and drive and spend his own money and plow with his tractor. He doesn't realize he doesn't know the value of money in his hand, can't tell time on a clock, but can read the numbers, and can’t find his way to the bathroom 10 feet away.
My heart aches for him and I try to soften the realities as much as possible. He looks at me wistfully and wonders what is happening, knowing that things once were different, though he is not sure how.
5 AM
My respite has come to an end. Last Friday I had my gall bladder removed and spent one night in a nice peaceful hospital room. Missy and Katherine stayed with O. J. until David’s family arrived then they brought him home. I wonder if they yet realize how fast he is losing it. It helped to have David there to amuse him and keep in occupied for the weekend.
Sometimes I think the hardest part of Alzheimer’s is the feeling of isolation, of not making contact with OJ as we talk. Today I woke at 4:30 to the sound of running water and the strong smell of unine. I turned the light on, and found OJ still lying on his side in bed peeing on the carpet.
When he saw me in the light, he said, “ I want to go home. I’m tired of this Goddamned place” His defiant reaction triggered the same in me. I reached under his side of the bed not 5 inches from the spreading puddle on the floor and pulled out the plastic urinal placed there for emergencies, that he had used many times. The flowered bed skirt was dripping and so were the sheets, the mattress, and the mattress bad.
So much for the post surgery restriction of my not lifting 5 pounds for 2 weeks. The sheets, pillow cases, and mattress pad had to be replaced with fresh linens. While he watched I sprayed with a disinfectant and sponged dry the mattress and the carpet. He sat at the end of the bed pouting like a defiantly guilty little boy, daring me to accuse him of wrongdoing.
He had to be helped out of bed and cleaned up and dressed in fresh pajamas, then led to the guest bedroom to sleep for the rest of the night.
I gathered his pajamas, the wet bedclothes, and mattress pad took them to the washing machine. Soap and disinfectant would make them fresh again, but what would help the straining stitches in my side? I’ll probably regret this tomorrow.
After I put the clothes in the washer and turned it on, I made a pot of coffee and went back to bed. As I lay there with my heart pounding with anger an frustration, self pity whispered, “You can’t even recover in peace and quiet. He doesn’t care that you are hurting. In fact he’s doing things not because he can’t control himself, but out of petulance that you haven’t been waiting on him the last few days.”
Too distraught to rest, I got up and through the dark to the lighted kitchen, poured a cup of coffee and turned on the computer.Better to take my anger out in pounding the keys than to smolder or try to pretend that it doesn’t matter. When he wakens I’ll be calm again.
“Why am I so mad?” I know that dementia is a physical and mental disability and that OJ is reacting at the level of his mental state, but his actions appear deliberate and spiteful as if he is saying ”you have not been caring for me these last few days, so I’m going to force you to clean up after me.”
Over my head hangs the knowledge that things will never be better for him and most likely become increasingly worse as he no longer relates to me as a wife, but as a bossy caregiver. There’s no appreciation of meals prepared or care given, just increasing criticism of life in general and frustration about his limitations.
OJ can be gentle and charmingly defenseless round others. When he can be persuaded to shower and get dressed, he can appear perfectly normal. Greeting old friends in public he appears unchanged from 20 years ago except for the wheelchair. When asked about his health he complains about his knee hurting. When they leave he asks, “Who was that? Do I know them?”
The day is coming when he probably will no longer be able to go out in public, as his sense of propriety fades. I dread that both for his sake and mine. Short trips out to eat or look around make him temporarily more alert and optimistic. Longer trips exhaust him and require days of rest to recover.
People often remarked on my patience as a teacher, yet anxiety and weariness use up patience quickly. I do not like the bossy, pushy woman I am becoming. The image is incompatible with my self image. I hate the thought of acting a martyr and I’m certainly not a saint. I resent the role thrust upon me as caregiver, nurse, housekeeper, groundskeeper, treasurer and scapegoat for all the things that cause OJ frustration.
Obviously the time OJ and I have together is limited, but already much of our relationship is lost. We can’t talk as two adults, or flirt, or share our feelings. To OJ I am the all powerful mother figure who has taken away his truck, his guns, and his freedom. The more he is dependent on me to protect and care for him, the stronger his frustration and resentment toward me.
He wants to go “home”. Back to the time he was strong and confident and in charge. He wants to get in his truck and drive and spend his own money and plow with his tractor. He doesn't realize he doesn't know the value of money in his hand, can't tell time on a clock, but can read the numbers, and can’t find his way to the bathroom 10 feet away.
My heart aches for him and I try to soften the realities as much as possible. He looks at me wistfully and wonders what is happening, knowing that things once were different, though he is not sure how.
Sleepwalking
September 6, 1992
At 2 am I waked to find O. J. had not come back to bed after a trip to the bathroom.I turned on lights as I walked through the house. He was not there. I started calling without answer. Then I unlocked the front door and saw him sitting in the car. When I opened the car door I saw that he had been crying.
"What happened? Why are you in the car?"
"I don't know. I don't know where I am. I came out the door and it locked and I couldn't get in the house." he said.
"Are you alright" Are you sick?"
"Where am I? I want to go home." He was growing angry.
"Let's go back inside." I helped him up the steps and into the house.
He looked around puzzled."Where am I?'
"We're home You must have been sleepwalking?
He looked at me as if I were a stranger. O. J was the most confused than he’d been in several days.
I asked” “Do you know who I am?” “Yes!” Angrily. “What’s my name?”
“I don’t know right now but I know who you are.”
“I ‘m Dorothy and we’ve been married 34 years. Do you remember?"
“Yes...” in a bewildered wavering tone of voice as if he did not quite understand the question.
I led him back to the bed and he just sat there. “Lie down and I will straighten your sheets for you.”
“O. K.”
Even though he seemed unsure he was careful to place his head so that the blood flow not be impaired . Or maybe the scar from the carotidectomy caused him to position his head carefully to avoid discomfort.
“O. J. , do you feel all right?” ‘Yes” spoken softly as a sleepy child. “Do you need a cold glass of water?”
“No.” His voice was a whisper. In minutes he his sleeping soundly. Twenty four hours ago he was alert and estimating how much turnip seed it would take to plant a half acre patch.
I was up about seven am for coffee and television news.
I walked outside looking at fading flowers and the unevenly cut grass. My fault. I’m always cutting in circles to keep from backing up. It used to drive O. J. crazy. His military trained, go by the book mind never got accustomed to my short cuts. But I’d inherited the grasscutting job several years ago.There are a few scraggly peppers still bearing bright red and green fruit in the garden. I pour a cup of coffee and mix one creamer and one sugar before I take it to his bedside about 7:30 . I leave it there without disturbing him.. After forty years of getting up early to go to work at the tire factory, he enjoys staying in bed late. The coffee in bed bit is passed down from my parents. It is a good time to visit before things speed up. At 9:00 when I check on him again the coffee is cold. I try to waken him more energetically. His days and nights seem to be reversed. His night time wandering has begun to get out of hand. It’s not the usual sleepwalking. Each episode leaves him tired and more confused. I need to ask the doctor about it.
At 2 am I waked to find O. J. had not come back to bed after a trip to the bathroom.I turned on lights as I walked through the house. He was not there. I started calling without answer. Then I unlocked the front door and saw him sitting in the car. When I opened the car door I saw that he had been crying.
"What happened? Why are you in the car?"
"I don't know. I don't know where I am. I came out the door and it locked and I couldn't get in the house." he said.
"Are you alright" Are you sick?"
"Where am I? I want to go home." He was growing angry.
"Let's go back inside." I helped him up the steps and into the house.
He looked around puzzled."Where am I?'
"We're home You must have been sleepwalking?
He looked at me as if I were a stranger. O. J was the most confused than he’d been in several days.
I asked” “Do you know who I am?” “Yes!” Angrily. “What’s my name?”
“I don’t know right now but I know who you are.”
“I ‘m Dorothy and we’ve been married 34 years. Do you remember?"
“Yes...” in a bewildered wavering tone of voice as if he did not quite understand the question.
I led him back to the bed and he just sat there. “Lie down and I will straighten your sheets for you.”
“O. K.”
Even though he seemed unsure he was careful to place his head so that the blood flow not be impaired . Or maybe the scar from the carotidectomy caused him to position his head carefully to avoid discomfort.
“O. J. , do you feel all right?” ‘Yes” spoken softly as a sleepy child. “Do you need a cold glass of water?”
“No.” His voice was a whisper. In minutes he his sleeping soundly. Twenty four hours ago he was alert and estimating how much turnip seed it would take to plant a half acre patch.
I was up about seven am for coffee and television news.
I walked outside looking at fading flowers and the unevenly cut grass. My fault. I’m always cutting in circles to keep from backing up. It used to drive O. J. crazy. His military trained, go by the book mind never got accustomed to my short cuts. But I’d inherited the grasscutting job several years ago.There are a few scraggly peppers still bearing bright red and green fruit in the garden. I pour a cup of coffee and mix one creamer and one sugar before I take it to his bedside about 7:30 . I leave it there without disturbing him.. After forty years of getting up early to go to work at the tire factory, he enjoys staying in bed late. The coffee in bed bit is passed down from my parents. It is a good time to visit before things speed up. At 9:00 when I check on him again the coffee is cold. I try to waken him more energetically. His days and nights seem to be reversed. His night time wandering has begun to get out of hand. It’s not the usual sleepwalking. Each episode leaves him tired and more confused. I need to ask the doctor about it.
Lost
David and his family were living at Verbena, Alabama, south of Clanton, on Lake Miitchell. O. J. wanted to go down to visit and carry vegetables. I had plans for the day,so we separated about 8 am; he went to David's and I to my appointments . I returned home about 2:30 and began supper expecting him about 4:00. At 5:00 I wondered where O. J. was, but knew he enjoyed hanging around when the mussell divers came to shore to see their haul.
At 5:30 I called David and he said O. J. had been there but left about lunchtime. I called the family members concerned that there had been an accident. Calls went out to highway patrol, Tuscaloosa County Sheriff's Dept., Bibb County, and towns along highway 82. There was no news.
When Missy's husband got in from work, he offered to travel the reverse route to see if the truck was off the highway disabled or abandoned in the rural counties along the way.
Telephones were being worked by family members while I kept my line open in case he called. The occasional quick reports from those calling were all negative. No one had seen him at service stations along the route. By 9:00 pm we were convinced that he had been hijacked or robbed and his truck taken.
At 11:00 as I stared at my last cup of coffee, I heard his truck in the driveway. When I opened the door, O. J. was sitting in his truck, crying like a baby. I went to him and helped him shaking and trembling into the house. After he sat down I called family to assure them he was safe.
When more than 8 law enforcement agencies in 5 counties, no one had noticed the little white Toyota pickup on the highway. We called off the search, thanking people for their concern.
When he had calmed, he explained to the circle of family faces, that he had missed the turn onto highway 82 at Maplesville, gone to Selma searching for a familiar scene, and saw a sign pointing to Montgomery. He thought if he could get to Montgomery, he could find his way home. We still could not account for the missing time. From that time on he never went out of the community without another person in the truck and I began to do most of the driving.
He became increasingly irritable, complaining about things he had never mentioned before. He did not want to go places alone and wanted me within sight or hearing. Each morning he wanted to ride, to see things, but did not want to be away from me in a store or large gathering. Our lives were shrinking and he began the ignore friends when they came over in favor of watching television. In weeks our lives would be changed forever!
At 5:30 I called David and he said O. J. had been there but left about lunchtime. I called the family members concerned that there had been an accident. Calls went out to highway patrol, Tuscaloosa County Sheriff's Dept., Bibb County, and towns along highway 82. There was no news.
When Missy's husband got in from work, he offered to travel the reverse route to see if the truck was off the highway disabled or abandoned in the rural counties along the way.
Telephones were being worked by family members while I kept my line open in case he called. The occasional quick reports from those calling were all negative. No one had seen him at service stations along the route. By 9:00 pm we were convinced that he had been hijacked or robbed and his truck taken.
At 11:00 as I stared at my last cup of coffee, I heard his truck in the driveway. When I opened the door, O. J. was sitting in his truck, crying like a baby. I went to him and helped him shaking and trembling into the house. After he sat down I called family to assure them he was safe.
When more than 8 law enforcement agencies in 5 counties, no one had noticed the little white Toyota pickup on the highway. We called off the search, thanking people for their concern.
When he had calmed, he explained to the circle of family faces, that he had missed the turn onto highway 82 at Maplesville, gone to Selma searching for a familiar scene, and saw a sign pointing to Montgomery. He thought if he could get to Montgomery, he could find his way home. We still could not account for the missing time. From that time on he never went out of the community without another person in the truck and I began to do most of the driving.
He became increasingly irritable, complaining about things he had never mentioned before. He did not want to go places alone and wanted me within sight or hearing. Each morning he wanted to ride, to see things, but did not want to be away from me in a store or large gathering. Our lives were shrinking and he began the ignore friends when they came over in favor of watching television. In weeks our lives would be changed forever!
Friday, May 14, 2010
SUNDAY, JULY 19, 1992
After an almost sleepless night in a chair by the hospital bed I was exhausted. It had been 24 hours since we rushed O.J. to the hospital after he'd shown signs of a major stroke. The prognosis was not good. The patient in the next bed was restless and loud and staff turned on the lights about 4 times an hour to care for him.
Around noon while O. J. slept I made arrangements to go home to get some rest while other family members were there. The doctor indicated that we were mostly observing, in essence waiting for the other shoe to drop.
By the time I was relieved I was near exhaustion. I was shaking and crying as I drove south on McFarland and on to I-20, afraid O. J. might mimic his sisters with domino effect of many stokes leading to death. The odds of recovery were decreasing. .
My prayers sounded like blubbering. "O LORD, please don't let O. J. die. Please we need him; I need him. Please make him better." Over and over through the Sunday noon traffic. Then very clearly I heard within me, "Dorothy, do you know what you are asking? Are you willing to go with him through whatever happens?"
"LORD, just let him live. I'll take care of him. I'll love him. Please leave him here."
I left the intersate with so many tears I could hardly see the highway. I was meeting cars that had just left churches near by. My breathing was ragged from the fierceness of my crying. On the way home I blamed myself for not caring for him better or for not insisting that he exercise. Then I blamed myself for nagging him to exercise.
I remembered a recent nightmare of his being “gone” and wondered if I had been subconsciously cataloging all the small symptoms and dreaming the worse. I even wondered if my dreaming it had made it happen.
Cars from my own church were meeting me as I reached Romulus. As I went into the silent house still messy from our hurried departure, I felt a frenzy to set things right, but found myself scattering, dropping, and spilling everything I touched.
Finally I gave up, took a bath and Missy brought me something to make me sleep. I took it, crawled into bed , and slept almost 2 hours. After putting a few clothes in an overnight bag, I drove back to the hospital. David reported that Dr. O. had been in and seemed unconcerned. O. J. talked some, but seemed drowsy and unable to focus. Two of his sisters had died with domino effect strokes and doctors weren't giving us much hope.
Late afternoon there was dramatic change. O. J. was awake, recognizing the many visitors who came to check on him and congregated outside the hospital room.
By 8 PM O. J. was quite alert, joking with Martha, Taffy, and her friend, Will. A sudden shift of mood and O. J. announced that he was going home. Attempts to calm him increased his agitation. He seemed delirious. He pointed to a mirror and said he was going through that “door” .He started climbing over the foot of the bed and over the portable table laughing gleefully at our attempts to stop him.
The heart monitor alerted nurses and soon 6 of us were trying to keep him in the bed. He was very strong and wrestling all of us. Finally a restraint band was placed around his waist . Quickly he escaped it. Then wrist restraints were put on and the doctors called. His exhilaration was turning to anger. He struggled and became very fearful. A nurse administered a shot to calm him and told us he would be carried down for another CAT scan at around 10 PM.
Family was baffled. Martha said the process was called "sundowning", but the rest of us were struggling. Was he better? Was this one last splash of lucidity before darkness? Tests, questions, and more tests. The suspense was painful watching the rapid changes of mood and personality. Periods of mania, then fear, then a great weariness seemed to enfold him. Family brought me clothing and food so I could stay with him constantly. I slept in the chair again that night.
July 22
O. J. was moved to a private room on the 2nd floor. He seemed more relaxed and alert. Bro. Channell and Mary came by to visit and found him sitting comfortably in a visitor’s chair, dressed and very coherent. Anyone meeting him for the first time would not recognize any physical or mental problem. The nightmare of the last week had vanished.
[JANUARY 31, 1997, WE HAD NO IDEA THAT THIS WAS THE BEGINNING OF A LONG, HARD TIME-A WINDING DOWN OF O. J.’ S LIFE. iT IS WELL THAT WE COULD NOT ANTICIPATE THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE NEXT FOUR AND A HALF YEARS.]
What's for dinner tonight? Find quick and easy dinner ideas for any occasion.
After an almost sleepless night in a chair by the hospital bed I was exhausted. It had been 24 hours since we rushed O.J. to the hospital after he'd shown signs of a major stroke. The prognosis was not good. The patient in the next bed was restless and loud and staff turned on the lights about 4 times an hour to care for him.
Around noon while O. J. slept I made arrangements to go home to get some rest while other family members were there. The doctor indicated that we were mostly observing, in essence waiting for the other shoe to drop.
By the time I was relieved I was near exhaustion. I was shaking and crying as I drove south on McFarland and on to I-20, afraid O. J. might mimic his sisters with domino effect of many stokes leading to death. The odds of recovery were decreasing. .
My prayers sounded like blubbering. "O LORD, please don't let O. J. die. Please we need him; I need him. Please make him better." Over and over through the Sunday noon traffic. Then very clearly I heard within me, "Dorothy, do you know what you are asking? Are you willing to go with him through whatever happens?"
"LORD, just let him live. I'll take care of him. I'll love him. Please leave him here."
I left the intersate with so many tears I could hardly see the highway. I was meeting cars that had just left churches near by. My breathing was ragged from the fierceness of my crying. On the way home I blamed myself for not caring for him better or for not insisting that he exercise. Then I blamed myself for nagging him to exercise.
I remembered a recent nightmare of his being “gone” and wondered if I had been subconsciously cataloging all the small symptoms and dreaming the worse. I even wondered if my dreaming it had made it happen.
Cars from my own church were meeting me as I reached Romulus. As I went into the silent house still messy from our hurried departure, I felt a frenzy to set things right, but found myself scattering, dropping, and spilling everything I touched.
Finally I gave up, took a bath and Missy brought me something to make me sleep. I took it, crawled into bed , and slept almost 2 hours. After putting a few clothes in an overnight bag, I drove back to the hospital. David reported that Dr. O. had been in and seemed unconcerned. O. J. talked some, but seemed drowsy and unable to focus. Two of his sisters had died with domino effect strokes and doctors weren't giving us much hope.
Late afternoon there was dramatic change. O. J. was awake, recognizing the many visitors who came to check on him and congregated outside the hospital room.
By 8 PM O. J. was quite alert, joking with Martha, Taffy, and her friend, Will. A sudden shift of mood and O. J. announced that he was going home. Attempts to calm him increased his agitation. He seemed delirious. He pointed to a mirror and said he was going through that “door” .He started climbing over the foot of the bed and over the portable table laughing gleefully at our attempts to stop him.
The heart monitor alerted nurses and soon 6 of us were trying to keep him in the bed. He was very strong and wrestling all of us. Finally a restraint band was placed around his waist . Quickly he escaped it. Then wrist restraints were put on and the doctors called. His exhilaration was turning to anger. He struggled and became very fearful. A nurse administered a shot to calm him and told us he would be carried down for another CAT scan at around 10 PM.
Family was baffled. Martha said the process was called "sundowning", but the rest of us were struggling. Was he better? Was this one last splash of lucidity before darkness? Tests, questions, and more tests. The suspense was painful watching the rapid changes of mood and personality. Periods of mania, then fear, then a great weariness seemed to enfold him. Family brought me clothing and food so I could stay with him constantly. I slept in the chair again that night.
July 22
O. J. was moved to a private room on the 2nd floor. He seemed more relaxed and alert. Bro. Channell and Mary came by to visit and found him sitting comfortably in a visitor’s chair, dressed and very coherent. Anyone meeting him for the first time would not recognize any physical or mental problem. The nightmare of the last week had vanished.
[JANUARY 31, 1997, WE HAD NO IDEA THAT THIS WAS THE BEGINNING OF A LONG, HARD TIME-A WINDING DOWN OF O. J.’ S LIFE. iT IS WELL THAT WE COULD NOT ANTICIPATE THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE NEXT FOUR AND A HALF YEARS.]
What's for dinner tonight? Find quick and easy dinner ideas for any occasion.
Stroke Again 1992
Saturday, July 18, 1992
O. J. woke up about 5:15 and went to the bathroom. He came back to the bed to get me up. He complained of a bad toothache on the left side of his mouth and wanted me to get some pain killer and a cup of coffee. He lay back down and I went to the kitchen for coffee and aspirin.
I put water and coffee in the coffee maker and turned it on. Then I transferred the wet clothes washed at bedtime to the dryer and turned on the dryer. The coffee grounds and water began overflowing and running all over the counter. At the same time smoke began billowing from behind the dryer. After I stopped the dryer and fanned the smoke out I cleaned up the coffee the coffee mess and made a new pot of coffee. I was too frustrated by the mess to be spooked by all that was going on.
About 25 minutes after I left to make coffee I returned to O. J. with the hot coffee and placed it on a table by his bed about 14 inches from his face.
“Where’s my coffee? What took you so long? His speech was slurred as it often was when he first waked. I thought he was teasing .
“If it was a snake..." I teased.
“Damn it, where is the coffee?" he said growing angry.
He can’t see it.
“Here, O. J., let me help you sit up.” I helped him to an upright position with both feet on the floor and handed him the cup.
He made a grasping movement about 12 inches from the cup. I placed the cup in his right hand and guided his left to a steadying position.While he was drinking it I called Missy, our daughter, who lived next door. She dressed and hurried over.
By the time Missy arrived I had helped O. J. get his pants on and had tested his sight by holding up fingers in front of his eyes one at a time. We finished dressing him to go to the hospital and called Martha, the daughter with an RN, to meet us there.
With our help he walked to the pickup still complaining of a toothache and talked drowsily as we went to the hospital. He wanted to walk in but Martha and an orderly persuaded him to ride in the wheelchair while I parked the car.
O. j. was immediately checked by the triage nurse then sent into an examination room. A resident took more information from me and Martha with O. J. giving weak responses when asked direct questions. We related facts about a major stroke in June, 1977, and the increasing frequency of TIAS within the past 28 months. We listed occurrences and the time lapses before the recovery with small residual effects.
After a CAT scan it was documented that there had been a “significant stroke” possibly the beginning of a larger episode. O. J. was sent to the 7th floor to the stroke unit for care and observation.
O. J. woke up about 5:15 and went to the bathroom. He came back to the bed to get me up. He complained of a bad toothache on the left side of his mouth and wanted me to get some pain killer and a cup of coffee. He lay back down and I went to the kitchen for coffee and aspirin.
I put water and coffee in the coffee maker and turned it on. Then I transferred the wet clothes washed at bedtime to the dryer and turned on the dryer. The coffee grounds and water began overflowing and running all over the counter. At the same time smoke began billowing from behind the dryer. After I stopped the dryer and fanned the smoke out I cleaned up the coffee the coffee mess and made a new pot of coffee. I was too frustrated by the mess to be spooked by all that was going on.
About 25 minutes after I left to make coffee I returned to O. J. with the hot coffee and placed it on a table by his bed about 14 inches from his face.
“Where’s my coffee? What took you so long? His speech was slurred as it often was when he first waked. I thought he was teasing .
“If it was a snake..." I teased.
“Damn it, where is the coffee?" he said growing angry.
He can’t see it.
“Here, O. J., let me help you sit up.” I helped him to an upright position with both feet on the floor and handed him the cup.
He made a grasping movement about 12 inches from the cup. I placed the cup in his right hand and guided his left to a steadying position.While he was drinking it I called Missy, our daughter, who lived next door. She dressed and hurried over.
By the time Missy arrived I had helped O. J. get his pants on and had tested his sight by holding up fingers in front of his eyes one at a time. We finished dressing him to go to the hospital and called Martha, the daughter with an RN, to meet us there.
With our help he walked to the pickup still complaining of a toothache and talked drowsily as we went to the hospital. He wanted to walk in but Martha and an orderly persuaded him to ride in the wheelchair while I parked the car.
O. j. was immediately checked by the triage nurse then sent into an examination room. A resident took more information from me and Martha with O. J. giving weak responses when asked direct questions. We related facts about a major stroke in June, 1977, and the increasing frequency of TIAS within the past 28 months. We listed occurrences and the time lapses before the recovery with small residual effects.
After a CAT scan it was documented that there had been a “significant stroke” possibly the beginning of a larger episode. O. J. was sent to the 7th floor to the stroke unit for care and observation.
Going Down A Caregivers Recollection by Dorothy Graham Gast
In the vernacular of the rural South social interaction not only asks about the health of the second person, but also the mother, father, or other family leader. If that person’s health is failing, the response is that the person is “going down”. Of course the ultimate is death, but the question and its answer shows the preoccupation with the journey as well as the condition.
O. J. Gast turned 70 in 1989. He was vigorously farming, traveling, involved in many community and church events. And enjoying his retirement. People often thought him much younger than his actual age, because of his vigor and his youthful outlook on life. Then little things began n to happen. He was not forgetful as I have been all my life constantly losing things and forgetting occasions, but forgetful about generalized information. Telling time and counting money became more difficult. Because cataracts had developed, he had surgery to remedy that, then came to realize that something more was going on. Having 20/20 corrected vision did not improve his diminishing perceptions.
The cataloging of the steps in the failing process reminded me of pictures in old geography books showing the distribution of cotton farming. Dots showed number of instances. A few scattered dots in the fringe areas, going closer and thicker in coverage until the focus area would be completely covered. Small occasional instances perhaps twice a month accelerated in amount and severity until suddenly the facts could no longer be ignored. O.J. Gast was “going down”.
Letters and journals written during O. J.’s decline exposed a pattern I had never seen during the beginning months. These have been put together in a loose chronological order to show what mental incapacity does within a home and a family group. Alzheimer’s disease where the brain becomes less able to function normally because of chemical and/or physical changes and multi-infarct dementia where many continuing strokes, large and small gradually cut off oxygen to the brain and the affected part fails have basically the same symptoms. Only an autopsy IS conclusive.
This is the story of one man and his path through the maze while he was “going down.’ He agreed that we should be open and transparent as the disease progressed, never pretending that everything was alright. He laughed at the time nurses confused us and thought I was the patient. The staff from Home Health and later Hospice were wonderful and helped as much with our emotional health as his physical health.
As his wife, my writing is biased with the tender eyes of a family member, and I have no medical training to counterbalance it. Yet I spent more than 6 years in concentrated study with individualized instruction from many medical specialists. With apprehension, I open the records of our family life with all its weaknesses and difficulties to the world, hoping that to some there may be found in this increasing darkness rays of light. Most of the names are changed to protect privacy. The information is our personal experiences presented in my point of view. Sometimes brave, or wise, or funny, but mostly ordinary, or frightened, or discouraged, they are a record of a family’s efforts to face and come to grips with approaching death of a loved one.
Going Down is my tribute to the man who refused to let disability destroy his love of life and family, his sense of humor, or his dignity. I hope readers can see that the situation is filled with moments of joy and fun as well as the long corridor of darkness often portrayed. We have no right to say someone is dying until the last breath is drawn.
Can love help you live longer? Find out now.
In the vernacular of the rural South social interaction not only asks about the health of the second person, but also the mother, father, or other family leader. If that person’s health is failing, the response is that the person is “going down”. Of course the ultimate is death, but the question and its answer shows the preoccupation with the journey as well as the condition.
O. J. Gast turned 70 in 1989. He was vigorously farming, traveling, involved in many community and church events. And enjoying his retirement. People often thought him much younger than his actual age, because of his vigor and his youthful outlook on life. Then little things began n to happen. He was not forgetful as I have been all my life constantly losing things and forgetting occasions, but forgetful about generalized information. Telling time and counting money became more difficult. Because cataracts had developed, he had surgery to remedy that, then came to realize that something more was going on. Having 20/20 corrected vision did not improve his diminishing perceptions.
The cataloging of the steps in the failing process reminded me of pictures in old geography books showing the distribution of cotton farming. Dots showed number of instances. A few scattered dots in the fringe areas, going closer and thicker in coverage until the focus area would be completely covered. Small occasional instances perhaps twice a month accelerated in amount and severity until suddenly the facts could no longer be ignored. O.J. Gast was “going down”.
Letters and journals written during O. J.’s decline exposed a pattern I had never seen during the beginning months. These have been put together in a loose chronological order to show what mental incapacity does within a home and a family group. Alzheimer’s disease where the brain becomes less able to function normally because of chemical and/or physical changes and multi-infarct dementia where many continuing strokes, large and small gradually cut off oxygen to the brain and the affected part fails have basically the same symptoms. Only an autopsy IS conclusive.
This is the story of one man and his path through the maze while he was “going down.’ He agreed that we should be open and transparent as the disease progressed, never pretending that everything was alright. He laughed at the time nurses confused us and thought I was the patient. The staff from Home Health and later Hospice were wonderful and helped as much with our emotional health as his physical health.
As his wife, my writing is biased with the tender eyes of a family member, and I have no medical training to counterbalance it. Yet I spent more than 6 years in concentrated study with individualized instruction from many medical specialists. With apprehension, I open the records of our family life with all its weaknesses and difficulties to the world, hoping that to some there may be found in this increasing darkness rays of light. Most of the names are changed to protect privacy. The information is our personal experiences presented in my point of view. Sometimes brave, or wise, or funny, but mostly ordinary, or frightened, or discouraged, they are a record of a family’s efforts to face and come to grips with approaching death of a loved one.
Going Down is my tribute to the man who refused to let disability destroy his love of life and family, his sense of humor, or his dignity. I hope readers can see that the situation is filled with moments of joy and fun as well as the long corridor of darkness often portrayed. We have no right to say someone is dying until the last breath is drawn.
Can love help you live longer? Find out now.
Will You Still Love Me?
WILL YOU STILL LOVE ME?
Will you still love me if I don’t know your name?
When my eyes have failed and nothing’s the same?
When I don’t know the date or even my age,
Or what is this book and where is the page?
Will you take time to remember and cherish our past
And make our shared moments sweet long as they last?
Will you hold me and touch me and wrap me in care
And whisper reminders of the history we share?
Will you hold on to me when my Self fades away
And you are a face from a dim yesterday?
When I want to go home and home’s where I stand
Will you gently remind me and hold to my hand?
When I call you Mama and forget you’re my wife
Will you kiss me and tease me and rejoice in my life?
Will you hold on to my world when I cannot see?
Will you keep a sweet thought for our used-to-be?
Will you keep family together and memories bright,
Reminding our children to seek for the right?
And when I no longer can hold up my share,
Will you still take time to show me you care?
Will you hold on to my world for me?
By Dorothy Gast January 3,1996
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Being in Love
BEING IN LOVE
Being in love is an awesome way to exist.
Colors are brighter, melodies clearer,
and all our senses become more finely tuned.
We become more alive, more vital, and wiser.
There is a vivid texture to common everyday life
that intensifies our every awareness.
Life is Beautiful!
We smile at teenagers in the hazy emotional state of warmth,
well-being, and happiness
that society defines as being in love.
And life tells us being in love is intoxicating as long as it lasts.
But, so often it doesn’t.
Extremes beget extremes and the happiness and exhilaration
often fall prey to doubt, anger, or disappointment
when the object of our affection
fails to meet all of our expectations.
We may pile all of our dreams on relationships
not meant to carry so heavy a load.
But Jesus came to earth to show us a way
to capture all the joy and satisfaction
in a way that transforms our world
and spreads like a good contagion.
The secret is not in enjoying our own love for one person,
but learning to live in an attitude of love.
We CAN live in His love.
At the Last Supper,
that goodbye meal with 12 of His best friends
He said in John 15:9-12, “Just as the Father has loved Me,
I have also loved you; abide in my love.
If you keep my commandments, you will abide in My love;
just as I have kept my Father’s commandments
and abide in His love.
These things I have spoken to you,
that My joy may be in you,
and that your joy may be made full.
This is My commandment that you love one another,
just as I have loved you.”
When we live in obedience to Him
we are granted the gift of love
and we are commanded to use it.
By keeping our thoughts on God’s way,
by trusting in His power and His grace
we can be “in love” all our lives.
When we are in a love relationship with Him,
we receive the ability to really love others.
The best part about is the renewal of hope and joy
that floods our lives and overflows into all we may contact.
Just as light is always stronger than darkness,
joy is always stronger that fear, hate,
disappointment, or common depression.
Obey Him, love others, and abide in His love.
“The joy of the Lord is my strength.”
by Dorothy Gast
Going Down ----the Journey
I have been writing about about dementia and its effects on family. Thought you might be interested and might want to add your input. DG
In June 1977 I returned from the grocery store to find Missy and David in a state of near hysteria. B. F. Goodrich Tire factory had called to say O. J. had had a stroke and collapsed at his work station unable to move or talk. He was conscious, but helpless.
The 25 minute drive to the hospital took 15 minutes that Monday. O. J. was lying still, but his eyes were filled with panic. The most fearless person I knew was looking all around unable to move anything except his eyes. The doctor explained that he had indeed had a stroke and was paralyzed and that there was a possibility of other strokes to follow. We were told that the prognosis was not good and that the next hours would be “wait and see”. If there was no improvement in 24 hours the damage probably be permanent.
Family members came and went as hours drug by and our talking to him seemed to relieve the panic somewhat. The next morning there was movement under the sheet; his thumb had moved. Gradually in the next hour he moved his hand, a foot, a leg, and turned his head slightly. The small effort exhausted him and he dozed off while we waited for Dr. Baker’s report. Tests indicated an embolism at the back of his neck, but continuing improvement in movement in varying parts of his body encouraged us that he was going to live
. By the end of the week we knew he had lost the ability to talk although he obviously could understand what we were saying. In two weeks we took him home and began the slow process of relearning to walk and talk. The therapist warned us not to do things for him that he could do for himself. He’d point to something and we’d ask, “Do you want a glass of water?” He’d nod, and reach and try to say, “water”, but it was not very clear. He learned to talk again fairly quickly, because he already possessed the the concepts.
He was not very patient. If we did not understand he would grow very angry and soon had a range of profanity that we had not heard before. This was part of his vocabulary for the rest of his life. His physical strength returned, but there was difficulty with balance and a limp that diminished, but never disappeared. He worked very hard at his physical therapy as well as his speech and by September was able to stay home while the rest of us returned to school.
He could drive and prepare a light lunch for himself. He was doggedly independent, and became angry if someone supplied a word he could not remember. By the first of December the doctor oked his return to work. The family noticed a change in his personality. Although he was easily frustrated in speech, he was more gentle and empathetic with others. There was a compassion in his eyes that I had not seen before his disability. He watched the family and seemed to be more aware of little details than he had shown when he had worn his master sargeant personna from 12 years in the military.
. Our son was seventeen and grieving over the changes in the dad he had followed from the time he began to walk. The youngest at 14 tried to do more things for her dad than O. J. wished. Therapists continued to remind us not to do so much that he would begin to rely on outside help. A year after the stroke no one who had not known O. J. before would be aware of the disabilities he had overcome. His language was more salty, but not incompatible with his personality. He might occasionally cry at appropriate times, something I had never seen before. The slight limp made him appear bowlegged, but that was minor. He withdrew from disciplining our teens, partly because his speech was not completely under control and partly that he had softened his stance in handling problems. I became the “bad cop”. The family became accustomed to the “softer” O. J. He still loved to get on his tractor as soon as he was home from work and worked on repair jobs on cars, water pumps, or any other motor. He could hear a car go down the highway 300 yards from the house and tell which spark plug was bad. We raised corn and peas and had a big garden enough to share with our married kids, Mama Annice and other family members. The small amount we sold was because there was not enough space to freeze it ourselves. Life had returned to normal except for more diligent health care. He had given up cigarettes five years before, and had adjusted to a lighter diet with less fried food and meat products. He looked vigorous and strong and had few residual effects. He retired early at 62 to farm and lead a slower lifestyle while my professional life was becoming more hectic. He worked the farm, hung out at the local country store and did minor repair jobs for friend in the community. This was probably one of the happiest periods of his life.
In June 1977 I returned from the grocery store to find Missy and David in a state of near hysteria. B. F. Goodrich Tire factory had called to say O. J. had had a stroke and collapsed at his work station unable to move or talk. He was conscious, but helpless.
The 25 minute drive to the hospital took 15 minutes that Monday. O. J. was lying still, but his eyes were filled with panic. The most fearless person I knew was looking all around unable to move anything except his eyes. The doctor explained that he had indeed had a stroke and was paralyzed and that there was a possibility of other strokes to follow. We were told that the prognosis was not good and that the next hours would be “wait and see”. If there was no improvement in 24 hours the damage probably be permanent.
Family members came and went as hours drug by and our talking to him seemed to relieve the panic somewhat. The next morning there was movement under the sheet; his thumb had moved. Gradually in the next hour he moved his hand, a foot, a leg, and turned his head slightly. The small effort exhausted him and he dozed off while we waited for Dr. Baker’s report. Tests indicated an embolism at the back of his neck, but continuing improvement in movement in varying parts of his body encouraged us that he was going to live
. By the end of the week we knew he had lost the ability to talk although he obviously could understand what we were saying. In two weeks we took him home and began the slow process of relearning to walk and talk. The therapist warned us not to do things for him that he could do for himself. He’d point to something and we’d ask, “Do you want a glass of water?” He’d nod, and reach and try to say, “water”, but it was not very clear. He learned to talk again fairly quickly, because he already possessed the the concepts.
He was not very patient. If we did not understand he would grow very angry and soon had a range of profanity that we had not heard before. This was part of his vocabulary for the rest of his life. His physical strength returned, but there was difficulty with balance and a limp that diminished, but never disappeared. He worked very hard at his physical therapy as well as his speech and by September was able to stay home while the rest of us returned to school.
He could drive and prepare a light lunch for himself. He was doggedly independent, and became angry if someone supplied a word he could not remember. By the first of December the doctor oked his return to work. The family noticed a change in his personality. Although he was easily frustrated in speech, he was more gentle and empathetic with others. There was a compassion in his eyes that I had not seen before his disability. He watched the family and seemed to be more aware of little details than he had shown when he had worn his master sargeant personna from 12 years in the military.
. Our son was seventeen and grieving over the changes in the dad he had followed from the time he began to walk. The youngest at 14 tried to do more things for her dad than O. J. wished. Therapists continued to remind us not to do so much that he would begin to rely on outside help. A year after the stroke no one who had not known O. J. before would be aware of the disabilities he had overcome. His language was more salty, but not incompatible with his personality. He might occasionally cry at appropriate times, something I had never seen before. The slight limp made him appear bowlegged, but that was minor. He withdrew from disciplining our teens, partly because his speech was not completely under control and partly that he had softened his stance in handling problems. I became the “bad cop”. The family became accustomed to the “softer” O. J. He still loved to get on his tractor as soon as he was home from work and worked on repair jobs on cars, water pumps, or any other motor. He could hear a car go down the highway 300 yards from the house and tell which spark plug was bad. We raised corn and peas and had a big garden enough to share with our married kids, Mama Annice and other family members. The small amount we sold was because there was not enough space to freeze it ourselves. Life had returned to normal except for more diligent health care. He had given up cigarettes five years before, and had adjusted to a lighter diet with less fried food and meat products. He looked vigorous and strong and had few residual effects. He retired early at 62 to farm and lead a slower lifestyle while my professional life was becoming more hectic. He worked the farm, hung out at the local country store and did minor repair jobs for friend in the community. This was probably one of the happiest periods of his life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)