Here's a general outline, as chronologically as I can recall it, of how we came to the decision to put Dad into care, beginning with a story about a particular GP…. I’ll call him GPman.
There are draw backs to living in a small rural town. The quality of services can suck.
We convinced mum that Dad should be sent to a GP to identify once and for all if he was developing Alzheimer’s. I recommeded my GP....but the local guy won out.
Glenn accompanied Dad to this appointment for a number of reasons, one being Mum thought Dad would be better behaved with him there, and another being I didn’t have a terribly high opinion of this GP....I knew Glenn wouldn't put up with BS.
GPman avoided the topic of an Alzheimers test for the initial part of the visit. Glenn eventually had to ask, quite strongly, if there was or was not, a test that could ascertain whether or not Dad may need to see a specialist for Alzhemers.
There was. With a palpable sigh, GPman dug out the test from the filing cabinet and proceeded to ask questions. Glenn had to chuckle at a few of Dads answers.
Do you know what date it is today?
Hmmm. No. Do I have to? I’m retired. One day runs into the next. There’s no real need to know what today’s date is.
Do you know the name of the street this clinic is on?
Actually, I can’t think of it right now. But I know where it is and how to get here. If I need to see a doctor that's probably more important than knowing the name of the road, isn't it?
At the conclusion of the visit GPman said he would contact the relevant specialist and set up an appointment. As Glenn walked out the door, he looked back to see GPman throw the notes from Dad’s completed test into the bin. He thought that was a bit strange. When Glenn recounted this to me afterwards I thought lots of swear words and one or two may have escaped my lips.
A few weeks later, we were still waiting on a specialist appointment. Mum rang the GP’s office to see where the process was up to. The Nurse looked in the file and informed Mum there was nothing from Dad’s previous visit to suggest a specialist appointment was required. Why would there be? Dr Dip Sh#*t threw the test in the bin.
Mum explained to The Nurse that we were promised a specialist appointment, can she please ensure we got it. She did.
At some point post-Mental Health Specialist appointment arriving, Mum is told of medication that, though expensive, may hold off the Alzheimer’s for a year or so. She agreed to it.
So, for a while Dad was OK. Well, as OK as he could be...
Over time, Dad's mental faculties did worsen. We could handle his constant questions, his restlessness confounded us, and his suspicious delusions were a bit of humour. Of concern were his aggressive outbursts. We, the family, were worried about Mum being alone with Dad when he lashed out. One day she showed me the bruises he had caused on her. She told us how he sometimes took to her in the car. We decided it was time Mum looked at her options, so enquiries were made about what was available.
Mum was going through her own anguish about Dads condition and her ability versus desire to keep him at home.
She agreed, eventually, to look at respite care to give herself a break. She didn't think he needed fulltime care. She told us she would only look at fulltime care when Dad could no longer toilet himself. For now, she explained, in between aggressive outbursts, which she said weren't all that often, he was fine. Basically, she had decided that she was going to care for him and that was that.
She never did get the respite care. She reneged.
She told us the story about taking Dad to a nearby respite facility to check it out. He looked at the sign on the way in, then looked at her and said, with determination and his faculties obviously firing on all cylinders "I'm not staying here". She turned around and drove out. I don't think her heart was really in the decision at that time anyway.
I think Mum was in denial for a very long time. I remember one night, Glenn sat down with her and said, "You do realise he is not going to get better. He has Alzheimer’s. He is only going to get worse." The look on her face suggested she had been hoping otherwise.
Eventually, after one particularly vicious lash out, Mum decided she couldn’t care for Dad at home any more. It was too hard. The demands on her were too much. She agreed to look seriously at what care was available.
It wasn’t easy to come to this decision. Up till then I think she had decided that this was her husband, for better or for worse, and she wasn't about to give up on him. She buried a lot of the strain she was under behind an ‘It's hard, but I’m doing OK' facade.
You could think she was being a bit of a martyr, but in fact she was being normal. We’d heard from numerous sources that committing a loved one to care is one of the hardest things to do. Spouses of Alzheimer’s sufferers almost always leave it till very late.
Mum was still working as well, in a role that had it’s own excitements, although I think this provided a distraction, a reason to get up and out of the house, a link to the real world.
Once she told us her decision, we gave all the support we could - which included regular phone calls to ensure she wasn't going to reneg again.
The wheels were set in motion and Mum found the whole process involved with getting Dad into care a bit overwhelming. So much so that one day she called up and asked us kids to sort out a few issues and do much of the leg work. We did.
Maybe, if we'd known what would happen to Dad once he was in care, we wouldn't have been in such a damn hurry.
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