Dad Goes to Potomac Homes
This week has been particularly sad for me. The disease has caused a rapid decline in my Dad's ability to live at home and be cared for by Mom. The symptoms sound somewhat innocuous but only because the time to describe and understand them is dwarfed by experiencing them. Dad hacks mucus and spits it without regard to where he spits. He would spit on the floor. Spit on the couch. Spit on the wall. Spit behind a table. After my mom confronted this behavior, he adapted by spitting into his hand and wiping it on the couch. Wiping it on the wall. Wiping it on the table. Wiping it on his pants. Wiping it on the dog. Wiping it on your hand when he touches you. I confronted this behavior by giving him a tissue. The problem here was retaining the knowledge that he had a tissue to spit in. Compliance with my intervention was low.
He has developed a bathroom anxiety. So he constantly thinks he has to go. It's become increasingly more difficult to determine when he must go from when he wants to go. Constant trips to the bathroom become extremely disruptive to the care provider, which led to the care provider's compliance with going with him each time low. This led to more mess to clean up. As his anxiety increased and his awareness of modern plumbing declined, he began urinating at need and in location. Sometimes the awareness of "going to a proper place" to relieve himself led him to places we would consider unproper. The closet. The trash can. The rug in another room. It also led to increased bedwetting.
Oral communication also became trying. Previously he was able to tell stories. To express himself. To get things out. His desire to communicate is still there, but the ability to do so has become impaired as well as our ability to interpret his expressions. Which led to anger and frustration. The general disposition has also evolved to one more of anger and frustration, which has scared caretakers and visitors.
At a point, it becomes unbearable from our perspective to bear the burden of self-sacrifice. So we enrolled him at Potomac Homes, a home for Alzheimer's and dementia afflicted people. But this conflicts squarely with another heightened anxiety - his desire to be "at home".
I'm not sure where home is. Home is a transient concept. The concept of which still resonates in his mind. The location of which I'm not entirely sure. In any case, Potomac Homes is not "home" from his perspective. I'm not sure what it is from his perspective. A "nursing home"? A place we're disposing of him because he's being bad? Purgatory? Hell? Not home?
This past Tuesday, Mom, Tiffany, and I took him to Potomac Homes to drop him off. We sat at a table in the social gathering room. Tiffany and I gave him his Christmas gifts - two stuffed animals, a Chihuahua and a Boxer. He was immediately drawn to the Boxer, who he named "Joe" and wore on his head, backwards, to elicit attention. And this was very funny, but also remarkable in his ability to maintain enough balance to keep it on his head as he walked around, squatted up and down, turned his head. He didn't seem to care much about the Chihuahua, who he named "Piccalarry", which is odd considering he's only had Chihuahuas for at least the past 40 years.
Eventually the novelty of the toys and being "someplace other than home" wore off. He wanted to "go home." And eventually to "get the hell out of here". He became enraged. "Fuck you." "Fuck this place." "Get me the fuck out of here."
Mom and Tiffany went upstairs to prepare his bedroom. I stayed with Dad. We walked around a bit. We went to the bathroom, where he had difficulty defecating and became depressed with his state. "I hate myself." "What is my problem?"
We walked around the home. He queried how we could escape. "How can we get out of here?" "If we can just get outside, we can jump the wall." "What do you want me to do?" "How can I be good?"
I told him he should help the others in the room. To make them laugh. To give them hope. He told me has a problem. Why does he have a problem? He'd do anything not to be bad. Where is Ann? Get her to get me out of here.
We sat in the TV area of the gathering room, where the other residents were staring at or ignoring Oprah. He didn't want to sit on that fucking couch. He got up. He wanted to show me how we could escape. He went straight to the front door, unlocked it, and we walked out. He was proud. Of figuring out how to escape. It broke my heart to tell him we had to go back inside; it broke his as well.
Knowing that Mom is a figure of comfort for him, I took him upstairs to the bedroom. He asked to speak to my mom in the hall where he firmly and lucidly expressed his extreme discontent about being there and that he wanted to go home now. After my mom assuaged him, he came back in the room. Almost immediately his mood was turned as he saw us eagerly and happily setting this room, whatever it was, in order. He and I sat on the bed. And closed our eyes, holding the puppies. He dozed off, at which point I determined it was probably as good a time as any to leave. Despite not wanting to "ditch him", I felt it was the right time.
We put our coats on, which was a mistake. That led him to wanting his coat since it was obvious we were leaving. This makes me think that we cannot wear coats to or from the building. I suppose bearing with the cold is one sacrifice me may need to make. Our presence, while temporal and transient, must seem eternal if intermittent.
He got enraged and searched for his coat. He got violently upset when we were seemingly heading out without him. The staff suggested that we "slip out". So I distracted him, took him back upstairs to move some furniture around. Mom and Tiff slipped out without him knowing. One of the staff tried to get him in the elevator so I could slip away, but he wasn't leaving my side.... So I got in the elevator with him. He said "Fuck you Ann." When we got to the first floor, the elevator opened. A staff member put her arm around him as he cursed and stammered and led him to the gathering room. Behind his back, she pointed to the front door. And I walked out.
Devestated. Guilt-ridden. Sad. Nervous. Sick.