When I was caring for Jim, I showed
great confidence. I tracked his medications, I knew his health history, and we
communicated on an almost subliminal level. Through classes, seminars,
workshops, online training, talking to medical professionals, from the
Alzheimer’s website, and support group, I learned everything I possibly could
about Alzheimer’s disease.
Knowledge was my weapon against
Alzheimer’s. I tracked research and tried to get Jim into promising drug
trials. The major roadblock we ran into was that most required participants to
be at least 65 years old. When I finally found a trial that didn’t have the age
limit, they had a communication requirement. Jim lost his ability to
communicate verbally early on in the disease.
Still, I was confident that I could
find the best medical attention possible, and when it became necessary, I tried
to find a good home for him. Still, I was vigilant, on top of his medical and
personal care. I offered my phone number as their hotline number, day or night.
From time to time, doubt overrode
my confidence. On dark days, I would wonder if I was up to the challenge. I second-guessed
some of my decisions. At times, I felt like a failure. From time to time
resentment battled with fortitude. I mentally beat myself up.
Outwardly, I looked competent, but
inwardly, I wasn’t so sure that I could keep on keeping on. When things were
going wrong, I would wake up with a cloud hanging over me. I never knew if it
was going to rain, or I’d get struck by lightning. It seemed that most of the
time, the sun would come shining through. Often, nighttime doubts were simply
replaced with daytime confidence.
When I took time to breathe, and
think rationally, I realized that I was simply a typical caregiver. In support
group, I learned that others had the same doubts I worked my way through.
I never intended to be the best
caregiver in the world, only the best caregiver I was capable of being. In
retrospect, I realize that I expected much more of myself than anyone else did.
When Jim first showed signs of
dementia, we lived life as normally as we could for as long as we could. We
cherished the good times. You know what I remember most from the nursing home
years? I remember the walks in the park, the trips to Dairy Queen, the times
Jim laughed, the kids and grandkids visiting him, wheeling him around the
parking lot on quiet summer evenings, seeing his eyes light up from time to
time.
Yes, I remember the little things.
Happy moments ramble through my mind like old photographs capable of bringing
smiles or tears, or more often—both.
Copyright © November 2017 by L.S.
Fisher
#ENDALZ
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