The Discontented Siblings

At dinner tonight I was seated at a table with ten others. We’d each made a reservation for one so it was truly a random group. I like the “singles table” we’ve been harping about creating for a very long time and we have that at the lunch cafe. It’s always fun with a different mix of people every day. The management of main dining room that serves us dinner, though, just recently caved but they only offer the singles table one night a week. Otherwise the ‘big table’ is reserved for curated groups and you know what that means. If you guessed clicks form you’d be right. 

Not everyone is a fan of the big table. It’s not exactly the Jets and the Sharks from West Side Story but there is a sharp contrast between those, like me, who love the big table dining experience and those who like the “intimacy” of dining at the four topper tables. Dinner can be as boring as watching a TV set that’s not plugged in if the topic being discussed at a the small table is one I have zero interest in. With the big tables you can always find one end or the other or the middle talking about something interesting.

Back on topic: That night someone asked if I’d seen the hardwood bowl someone made in the woodshop on the lathe. I had and someone else said I’d better hurry up and get well so I could make my bowl. I’d taken a few of the required safety classes to work in the woodshop, my intentions made clear I was only interested in operating the lathe. My dad had a lathe when I was a teenager and in my distant past I had a miniature lathe for making stuff for dollhouses. I’d kill to have that lathe kit back again but when I moved after my husband’s stroke I gave it to my brother. I’m kind of afraid of the full sized lathe now after realizing the guy teaching one of the safety classes was missing two fingers.

Before my Epic Fall I had making a hardwood bowl near the top of the list of things I want to do before I die and I answered the remark above that I don’t rank making a bowl as high on my bucket list as I did before the fall. “I realize I don’t have time enough left to do all the things I want to do and I need to makes some cuts.” And that started the conversation around the table of what various people wanted to do before they die. One woman who carries an oxygen tank around said she just wants to stay healthy. Another said she was happy doing what she was doing and didn’t have a bucket list. And around the table we went with me seemly being the only discontented person. Or maybe I was the only discontented person at the table willing to admit it...otherwise I’m living in Mary Poppinsville where no one wants something they don’t already have. Either way, in Respite I’d been thinking about donating all my art supplies to a school and admitting I’ll never be the artist I was in my prime. I said that to my youngest niece when she brought me back home and who has the best oil painting I ever did hanging in her bedroom. She got upset that I would stop painting.

We’re not promised a life of total bliss, especially if we’re not making an effort to create that kind of peace and contentment in our little corners of the world that we sat we crave. So I’m in that no-wins, no loses zone where nothing ever happens. I’ll admit it, I have a low threshold for boredom. And if I’m going to be totally honest I’d say that’s a sign I’m getting better in my recovery progress from the Great Fall and broken ribs. I do have plans in my head for another Great Purge but that's more about facing my mortality than anything else, In real time I finally made a goal of putting a bra on for the first time since the fall. I’d like to take it right back off again, though. So does it still count? The visiting nurse today told me it takes one week for every day you spend in the hospital to recover which means I've got three more to go before I quit falling asleep in public and maybe quit obsessing about having too much stuff.

Shift in topic: I’ve been reading a lot about dementia lately or more specifically about how to handle someone who is fixated on going home. Some of the techniques of distract and redirect the conversation have quit working with my brother. Telling him the hard facts that this is where you live now, doesn’t work either. “You weren’t safe at home.” “You’ve got dementia, you’re brain plays tricks on you.” It breaks your heart to visit and see that he’s packed all his belongings up in a laundry basket and cardboard boxes just waiting to talk someone into helping him make a great escape.

One article I read said, “Often when a person with dementia asks to go home it refers to the sense of 'home' rather than home itself. 'Home' may represent memories of a time or place that was comfortable and secure and where they felt relaxed and happier. It could also be an indefinable place that may not physically exist.”  That was an eye opener and the techniques the article offered are ones I want to try and involves “validating and redirecting” by asking questions like  “Do you remember the street address?” “What room do you like the best?” “What’s your favorite memory there?” The article said if you insist---as we’ve been doing---that this is where you live now the person with dementia feels you aren’t listening to them, and we need to remember that it’s not the place per say they need, it’s a sense of knowing they are heard, still valued and loved that will settle them down. For well over a week, my brother has been fixated on going home and no one has been able to distract him. Not sure how switching tactics will work but I’m going to try this afternoon. ©

PHOTO NOTE: My brother is on the left in the sweater with the bucking horse. My mom made that sweater and he loved it so much when he stared to outgrow it she added length to the bottom and the sleeves so he could keep wearing it. I'm, of course, in the center front. The other boy was a neighbor.