Frequent Questions.

As his condition really started to set in, the most noticeable thing, for us kids anyway, was the frequent questions.  Dad was repeating questions.  The same questions.  Constantly.

Do you know where your brother is today?

He's at home Dad.

Oh, is he. That's good.

So you know where he is, do you?

Yes Dad. He's at home, doing stuff.

Oh.  That's good he's doing things.

Where is he while he's doing these things?

He's at his place.

Oh. That's good.

Tell me, just one last time, I probably asked before. Your brother is at home?

Yes Dad.

Ok, just one more time and then I'll be quiet.  Where is your brother today?

Ummmm - You want a cup of tea Dad??

My brother and law came to visit one day and he said, ‘what would happen if you didn’t answer him when he asked for the 3^rd time?’  I had to say, I’d never thought of that.  I presume he’d just keep asking, or he’d ask another question.

I do know, though not as well as my mother knows, that living with constant, repetitious questions is very, very draining.  We short term visitors, which is how I’d label Glenn and myself, because we only turned up at home for a little while every couple of days, offered Mum a bit of a reprieve. 

We also became very good at rephrasing the same reply.  Why?  Well, it got darned boring saying the same response over and over again.  And I thought that maybe, rephrased, the answer may resonate somewhere in his mind and stick. 

But, as I’ve said before, with no resident expert offering salient advice, I have no idea if anything we were doing was right.

The only thing we knew for sure was he’s our Dad and regardless of any ups and downs we may have had, we love him heaps and we don’t think he deserves this bloody disease.

I haven't seen your brother today, have you?

Dad, you already asked me that question.

Did I?  What was your answer to my question then.



The brother in question.

Who You Gonna Call?

If you ever lost your memory, who would you call?

One thing that Mum noticed early on about Dad, was how he wanted her to stay close by, especially when they were out.  That was a little unusual.  Dad was a walker, a wanderer.  Find him a market, a second hand shop, a place he's never been before and he'd be lost in discovery. 

It took a while, but his confidence with things like being out shopping on his own started to decline.  Consequently, his dependence on mum increased.

I’m not talking being alone in a major city here.  I mean being unable to find his way back to the car in their little country town.

So, Mum ended up having to be very close by.  In fact as his Alzheimer’s progressed, Dad wanted to have her front and center almost constantly.  When he couldn’t get that he’d have one reaction.  He’d panic.

I remember visiting town one day.  Mum and Dad pulled up at the grocery store.  She pointed us out to him on the other side of the road.  We waved to each other and he started to head in our direction.  Mum took our presence as an opportunity to slip off to the shop alone as Dad was wandering over.  He hadn’t seen her go the other way and when he realized he looked round searching. He looked as though he had no idea what to do.  His lifeline had done a runner.  

He spun round again, saw us as if for the first time that day, and came racing over as fast as his old legs and walking stick would let him, in a real panic.  ‘Have you seen my wife?’

Yes Dad.  She’s gone into the shop.

Has she?  You’re sure about that?

Yes Dad.  You want to come with me.  I’m going to buy a coffee.  I’ll shout.

What about Pat.  What about my wife?

She’ll find us Dad.  And if she takes too long, we’ll just have another coffee – and you can buy that one.

Can I now?

Yep.

I do wonder what must have happened the first time he got ‘lost'. 

Imagine being lost in a place you’ve always lived. Lost on the street you’ve just walked down.  Looking at people you've known for years and thinking they're strangers.

Imagine the panic.  The confusion.

Imagine having to walk up to people, who you may know, and saying, ‘How do I get home?’

What must people think when you do that? 

That’s one good thing about being part of a small town, they know who to call.

Brush my boat....I'm going to church.

Dad started mixing his words - brush my boat, where's my dragon....It sounds humourous, and in fact taken on its own, it is humorous.  But there were times when it's just sad.

Dad was struggling with what was happening to him.

He’d often say ‘I think I’m having problems with my memory’. I’d just say, ‘Yes you are Dad, but that’s cos you’re old.  It’s an aged person’s problem.’  I didn’t see the point in telling him he had Alzheimers.  Maybe I was wrong, but his diagnosis did not result in reams of information being laid at our doorstep about what to do and how to go about it.   

Some days you could see his frustration with his condition.  Imagine knowing that you know something, but you can’t for the life of you remember it…..

One day he called me into the kitchen, pointed at the gas hob and said ‘What is this thing for?’

It’s for cooking dad. You cook food on it. 

That’s right.  And what’s it called again.

 It’s a gas hob Dad.

That’s right…

I can’t begin to imagine what it must be like to find your understanding slipping away like that.  To lose your ability to carry out simple, basic activities that you’ve done for years because the knowledge is there in the haze of your mind, you know it is, or it should be, but you just can’t grasp it and hold to the forefront of your thinking. 

Before I left for Saudi, Dad was replacing intended words with others.  For example,’ I have to go brush my boat’. (hair).  It is very easy to dismiss him as being completely loopy when this happens and, when you can’t get the right words from him, or figure them out (Brush your boat Hiwi? What do you mean, I don’t know what mean by that?) and walking away.

I’m glad our family has the ability to see humour in this Dad's situation. 

‘Why Dad are you going fishing?  I thought you were going to church’. 

‘Oh, is someone going fishing?’ 

‘No Dad, you’re going to church, but you better go brush your hair.’

‘Yes, that’s what I was doing.  I’d like some fish though.’

The first time I saw him muddle his words so badly the sentence made no sense at all, he got frustrated.  No matter how he tried, he couldn’t communicate his intent.  I’m not sure if his frustration was because we could not understand him, or because he figured out he was using the wrong words.

Having difficulty following a conversation when people spoke too fast kicked in some time ago. 

We got an email from my sister recently and she said that finally the nursing staff have realised that he needs time to compute what is being said. 

If you don’t mind silence while computation is occurring and if you don’t mind repeating the information slowly in simple bite size pieces, you will get an answer eventually.