A word is like a face

My dear Grandmother who lived almost to the age of 100 years old (by three weeks) was not afflicted with dementia.  When out-of-town relatives or friends came to visit, I would greet them in the driveway to show them where to park; as we walked up to the front door, they would ask me if I thought Ruth would recognize them, it had been so very long.  I would reply, "Yes, she sure will, she has been looking forward to your visit" which was always true.  She would get dressed especially nicely that morning and quiz me on whether we had plenty of  things to eat and drink, was everything ready.  Then, when our visitors walked into the living room, her dear face would light up and I could hear a happy relief in their voices.  I mention this about Grandmother because I have seen firsthand a person with beautiful clarity of mind, a very astute observer and totally engaged.   She had a wonderful memory.  On her 97th birthday, she recited "Trees" for my Mother and me (we would give "birthday gifts" to each other or give back the Swarovski pin that was a gift at Christmas; her reciting "Trees" was her thank you to us for her birthday party).

My dear stepdad is afflicted with dementia and yet, in some aspects, I see a similarity to my Grandmother; he has a cheerful, affectionate personality; he is kind and thoughtful.  He wants to put people at ease, like a good host.

Yes, he is not being able to remember names always or put them with faces, but he keeps trying.  This morning we were practicing our names with him; he can remember my Mom's name, Beverly, but he was getting bogged down on mine.  We just kind of throw these practice sessions into the conversation, nothing to be making him feel self-conscious.  I will ask my Mom if SHE remembers my name, she pauses to give Dad a chance to tell her what it is.

Sometimes he asks "where is Whatchamacallit" and Mom surmises he means me.  One time he said to her "where is the little blond girl who helps me all the time".  That's okay!  :)  I mean, he is looking for me, WHO I am, even though he doesn't remember my name.

We went to Costco this afternoon and on our way to the exit, Dad was pushing the cart, I was just in front of the cart.  Mom was walking a bit ahead of us.  Dad called out, "Beverly, are we going out to the car?  Oh, no, I mean, Sue, are we going out to the car?"  I was so thrilled when I heard him call out my name, as well as his having realized he meant to say my name.  I walked next to him and told him yes, we were going out to the car and that he is really great.  He was pleased with himself for remembering my name.

Even though Dad does not remember names as he used to, he is a very good reader and we like to put on the news where he can read the captions out loud.  In 2009, I printed out the poem "Trees" as I recalled what a favorite it was of Grandmother's; I also printed out "The Gettysburg Address".    Sometimes, I ask Dad to read them aloud to me and I would say he does a pretty good job of reading the words, although where he has a problem sometimes with a word like "consecrate", he might say "concentrate", but he comes up with a replacement word quite quickly, which I somehow think is pretty good, too.  Afterwards, he seems like he has been given a vitamin, a shot in the arm.  It seems to bolster his confidence.

Every day, I ask Dad about the first two lines of "Trees";  I say, "Dad, I think that I shall never see, a poem lovely as a . . . " and 99% of the time, he will say, "tree" unless he decides to kid around and then he says, "sea" or "pea" or even "me", then he smiles.

After Dad does some reading out loud, reading so beautifully as he does, I also throw in faces and names such as Abraham Lincoln after he reads "The Gettysburg Address".

It seems to me that somehow, that part of his mind which is able to read a word can also read a face, recognize the face and say the name belonging to that face.

"The Persistence of Memory" (a painting by Salvador Dali)

If you have ever seen Dali's painting, "The Persistence of Memory", you remember those melting clocks.  I was thinking about that painting as I have been trying to help my stepdad get back into the habit of looking at his watch and telling time.

I had been praying for wisdom in helping Dad who has been afflicted with dementia.  He is a very wonderful person whose character and good nature are right there, more than ever, in spite of this affliction.  He is what is known as a good egg.  I help my Mom by taking turns with her in watching Dad so that she can get her sleep.  

I prayed last Wednesday night (August 24th) after Mom and Dad had gone to bed, hoping to find some inspiring story online about someone battling dementia. 

I found "What if there was a cure for Alzheimer's and no one knew?" by Dr. Mary Newport

Dr. Newport's husband, Steve, was afflicted with dementia due to early onset Alzheimer's.  Dr. Newport had been doing everything she could think of to help him and in the course of her own research, learned about medium chain triglycerides and how they can help the brain.  She then found that non-hydrogenated coconut oil was an excellent source of MCT's.  She then began giving her husband coconut oil; for starters, she stirred two tablespoons into his morning oatmeal.  This was back in 2008 (her husband had been battling early onset Alzheimer's for about four years).  Since Steve Newport began taking coconut oil, he has gotten better and even an MRI showed that the atrophy of the brain had been arrested.  You can read more details, including the amounts she now gives him on her blog:

coconutketones.blogspot.com

You will see on Dr. Newport's blog the three clocks that Steve drew during those days when she first found out about coconut oil.  The third clock reflects a very dramatic improvement.

Also, through Dr. Newport's blog, I found out about other people who have been helped by coconut oil, through their videos on youtube.com.  It has lifted "brain fog".

Ian Blair Hamilton and his wife, Cassie.  He was experiencing symptoms of dementia and especially concerned because his father had been afflicted with Alzheimer's:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mMw3d3ohx_s

Bruce Flett who developed dementia after a bout with endocarditis:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zLaAyzhumM4

So, Mom and I have started to give coconut oil to Dad; for starters, two tablespoons in his morning oatmeal and two tablespoons in whatever he is having for dinner.  It is really great; has no discernible flavor.  However, I also saw on Dr. Newport's blog that coconut milk with diet orange soda is another good way to get your MCT.  This week when I was in Trader Joe's in Palm Desert, I saw that they sell coconut milk in cartons, both unsweetened and vanilla flavored.

On Thursday, August 25th (the day after reading about the coconut oil), I went to Wal-Mart and bought four jars of Spectrum non-hydrogenated coconut oil.  I kept the receipt so that I can remember when we started this.  After I gave Dad the first round, I asked him to draw a clock for me, for future reference.  Mom said I was not very scientific about it.  It wasn't like the test dementia patients are given, where they are asked to draw a clock from memory. I drew a clock first, put in all the numbers and the hour and minute hands.  I then asked Dad to draw a circle, then put in 3, 6, 9 and 12 and then all the numbers in between those.  Then he drew the hands.  I think I will scan it and put it on here in my next post.  Anyway, I am not following the procedure of a test but I am going to use the clocks that he will draw to see if they reflect improvement, not only in the end result but by whether I have to tell him very much.  Perhaps he can ultimately just look at the clock I drew and then do the same and ultimately, draw it from memory. 

It is to build his confidence, just as we have been doing with his telling time again with his wristwatch. Back at Christmas time, I asked Mom if we could get Dad a plain watch without all the gadgets.  We went to JC Penney in Palm Desert and looked at all the watches, we went through various watches, showing them to Dad and asking him the time.  Then I found what I thought was a perfect one:  Timex, white background, Arabic numerals in black, nice and clear:  "Ten minutes to six", he said and he was right; so, we got that one.

If Dad even cares about wanting to know what time it is, we consider that a mustard seed of hope which we can grow.  It is wonderful to have this additional hope, so unexpectedly; thank you, dear God.

Play it again, Sam - how many times have I already asked you that?

"Casablanca" was on TCM again and when I asked Mom if she wanted to watch it, she gave me that little look of hers which means "are you kidding me".

"How many TIMES have you seen that movie, Susan?"

You know, I honestly could not say.  Ten times?  No, surely at least twenty times; possibly forty-six times.  I know how it turns out and I know every little scene yet I just love to watch that movie repeatedly.  To me, "Casablanca" is a perfect movie and why would watching a movie dozens of times be any worse than gazing upon a beloved painting?   Perhaps a study could be done - or perhaps someone has already done this - as to whether watching a favorite movie releases endorphins.

I must say, though, the thing about how many times I have watched "Casablanca" kind of bothered me; WHY can't I remember exactly how many times I have seen it?  If I did something constructive while watching "Casablanca" like knitting scarves I could then count how many scarves I had (believe me, I would still have all of them, nobody ever seems to need any).

Is there an untapped part of the brain which DOES keep track of all this?  Could neuroscientists some day devise a microchip for our brains, sort of like a flight data recorder or "black box" which would keep track of such things.  We could download the data and print it out, if we want to do so, to read when the wireless is down.

Driving to Rapid City minus a door - better call Triple-A for trip planning

Last night I had a dream - really, it was in those later hours of sleep, now that I think of it - just before it started to get light - I recall now, because I was so glad when I awakened and could see the gray light between the slats in the shutters . . . 

it was one of those dreams that just kind of follows you around all day, so I think if I write it down, it will just  go back to bed and leave me alone.

I was in the parking lot of a local grocery store, having bought some things to take along on my trip to Rapid City.  It seems that it was a Friday, late afternoon - I went to my car to open the door and it came off the hinges and came down with a clunk. My goodness, why did it do that?

While musing over this development and what effect this would have on my driving to Rapid City, a man in a Jeep in the next row over waved at me while he was talking on his cell phone . . . he finished his conversation and then told me I could take my car to the dealer, that they had to take care of that kind of thing, it would be covered under some kind of warranty, which somewhat amazed me as this was a rather old car (the car in my dream was a car which I have not seen in many years, my good old 1968 Willow Green Mercury Cougar).

Well, I began to contemplate whether I should delay my trip or just go ahead and start my drive to Rapid City, without the door attached (maybe I could put it in the back seat and put it on when I got to Rapid City) . . . but then I awakened just as I was getting all that figured out.

Did you cut your bangs again, Suejeanne?

Perhaps it is that middle child thing, quietly going about one’s business and trying to get something accomplished unobtrusively but, occasionally, not quite pulling it off and becoming an object of speculation, anathema to a shy person . . .
 

thus, life lessons are learned early, such as never cut your own bangs . . .

and so most shy people make this mistake just once, when they are about five years old (or even as young as two years old, if they ask for an older sibling’s help so as not to bother Mom).

I thought I had already been down that road, long ago . . . but a week ago, after I had my new haircut, it seemed my bangs were still too long; finally, a few days later, I decided to just go ahead and take a little bit off; mm – maybe a little more.

My mother (who is still quite a scrutinizer) did not seem to notice at first but she was doing her crossword puzzle; finally, she looked up and gasped.

The odd thing is this – that was on Monday – now they seem to be shrinking on their own.

Mother asked me if I cut them some more last night – perhaps I got up in the middle of the night and do not recall. I looked around the bathroom sink for clues but found none. 

I will see how they are tomorrow morning. I am up right now, writing this and so hope to impress the seriousness of this on my mind before I go to sleep, in case I actually have anything to do with this.

September 14, 2001

I am here with my 98 year-old Grandmother in her little place, way far away from where everything happened on September 11, 2001. Peaceful when you look outside, the sky bright blue and balmy desert breezes, a roadrunner and a cat named Leo who likes to sleep on the ledge are the only things moving out there.

Inside, Grandmother's apartment is filled with decades of love tokens from loved ones. And little children all around, her children and grandchildren in picture frames. And little chubby Hummel children: book readers, cake bakers, flower givers, umbrella toters, musicians. And Toby jugs in the hutch, looking down benevolently . . . all those kindly, cheerful, whimsical faces of Dickens characters, Bacchus, and Pearly King, among others.

Grandmother wants me to play some music for her; so, I get the old Orgasonic revved up and play "Edelweiss", "Irish Eyes" and that part of "Clair De Lune" that I know.

"Honey, when are you going to learn the rest of that?"

I tell her that I finally bought the sheet music and I am going to work on it.

I think of all this peace and coziness here, and how much my Grandmother and I have . . . then I wonder, to myself, how much would any of this be objectionable to those terrorists who might have done even more to our country if their other efforts had not been thwarted.

I turned off the news a while the other day and listened to Maria Callas in "Tosca". The terrorists would not have liked that. No opera. No Frank Sinatra or Elvis Presley, either. No "Clair de Lune".

I think what we ought to do, in defiance of those who would destroy all that we consider precious and civilized, in addition to flying our flag, and singing "God Bless America" and shouting "USA! USA! USA!" . . . we ought to fill our homes with all the music each of us loves and give the gift of music to the children in our lives; give them music lessons: piano, violin, guitar, flute, clarinet, cello . . . whatever it is that suits them, and give it to them NOW, for it is needed now, more than ever.

I think of the Ray Bradbury novel, "Fahrenheit 451" where there were hidden groups of people who memorized the great works of literature and passed them on, because the books that had contained them were no longer allowed. If these same people who attacked the World Trade Center and the Pentagon had their way, the great literature and music and art that we cherish would be destroyed . . . and so would all the little knick-knacks be that lit up a dear old face.

Let us have a lot of music, and every song is an anthem of defiance against those who would destroy who and what we love.

Susan Jacob

Published in "The Desert Sun" (Palm Springs, California) on November 9, 2001 as a "Valley Voice" article; they edited it and titled it "Let's Blast Away the Darkness of Terror with Music" 

"The Crushing of Light"

The crushing of light
is really an impossible thing
Light travels too quickly for lies to catch it
It emerges in places unexpected
It fills hearts without notice
It sets free the minds of captors and captives

- Susan Jacob
(written in 1999, thinking of tenth anniversary of Tiannenman Square)

Elizabeth Taylor and the filming of "The Blue Bird" in Russia

I recall reading a magazine article in the late 1970's, I believe, about Elizabeth Taylor - it mentioned the filming of "The Blue Bird" in Russia (a joint American-Russian project, directed by George Cukor).

It was a cold and miserable experience, with nothing good to eat. Miss Taylor had buckets of Chasen's chili flown in for her (I believe she loved Chasen's chili so much for quite a while already, having had it also shipped to her when she was filming "Cleopatra" in Italy).

The "Blue Bird" was made in 1976, well before our wonderful President Reagan said "tear down this wall" . . . but I remember thinking at the time, to be a fly on the wall at that hotel, with all the Russians working there hearing about her Chasen's chili and she probably shared it - perhaps that was the real beginning of glasnost.

03/24/11

Palming off

Palm trees are lovely, especially after a rain has washed them and then the sun comes out - the leaves shine as they flutter about in the breeze. You can step outside to pick up your morning newspaper and look about at the palm trees and say, "oh, isn't it marvelous to be here in the desert when other people are shoveling snow right now" . . but palm trees are really great when they are in other people's yards - the beautifully maintained palms enhance your view but if they are a mess, no one in the neighborhood glares at YOU for your drooping fronds.

04/09/11

Step Lively

Dad between us, my Mom warns us both as we are walking in front of a store, "Watch your step, Honeys" - on the sidewalk are all these chewing gum spots, leading off into the horizon . . . what, Hansel and Gretel didn't have any bread crumbs?

Somewhat shocked we were - and even though I am not in CSI, I was able to quickly identify the spots as Strawberry Shortcake, Key Lime Pie and Mint Chocolate Chip, all new flavors of Extra sugarless gum (because I recently discovered them myself).

Maybe more people are chewing gum again -

Perhaps the chewing gum companies could come out with a reverse-action Pez-type dispenser for used chewing gum -

04/06/11

Shopping cart behavior

I haven't traveled much in recent years - maybe in other parts of the country or world, things are different - but I have wondered if shopping cart behavior could be an indication of a decline in civilization - seeing shopping carts all over parking lots, willy nilly, not in the areas provided or even parked on planters, but just left right in the middle of a parking lot, to potentially roll into innocent cars.

Lots and lots of shopping carts, too - going back into the store finally once or twice a day - maybe it is too hot to go out there and get them - it gets worse as the weather gets hotter -
there could be a movie in this -

you say, "she must have a lot of time on her hands, to worry about shopping carts" - well, not really but it is just one of those things I wonder about sometimes as I dodge one of those guys, as if it is gliding across the stage toward me in "Swan Lake".

04-04-11