For laundry, I use banana boxes. A full banana box is a full laundry load. The boxes are easy to carry, because they have holes for handles on the ends.
Recently I filled a box with freshly laundered towels, yet to be folded. I placed the box on the dining table, as I attended to something for my son. Suddenly my son said, "Mom! Dad!"
I turned to look at my dementia addle-brained husband. He had grasped some of the towels in his hands and was bringing them towards his face. I thought he was going to wipe his face. Quickly I stepped back to the table, took the towels from his hands, and whisked them away.
"No, dear. These aren't napkins. I'll get you a napkin."
He looked at me with an odd expression and said, "Why are you taking my cake?"
Years prior, layed cakes with cooked White Mountain Frosting were his favorite. Part of his brain still held those memories. But, the part of his brain that makes sense of his senses and surroundings often misinterprets the input of information... amazing what is produced.
Poor guy. No cake.
Monday, September 5, 2016
A Cow Crapped on Me
Monday, February 1, 2016
Recently my wheelchair-bound dementia husband called to me. "What's wrong," I asked.
He said, "A cow crapped on me!" (As his vocabulary deteriorates, his favorite word is "crap" or a form thereof.)
I had to ask him several times to repeat himself, because he has speech difficulties and I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
"A cow crapped on me! Get me out of here and clean it off!"
I couldn't help but smile and laugh. I said, "Sweetie, you're dreaming."
It took some convincing, but finally he realized he wasn't in a barnyard or pasture. He started smiling, although he was still agitated. We had spent more than our fair share of time living on farms, wading through and shoveling s--t, and getting whacked by cows' tails covered in liquified manure.
After he calmed down, I asked what happened. He said was on the ground and a cow was standing over his back, crapping on him. He said he could feel it, smell it, and see the texture and color. He was amazed at how real it all was.
These days he is often confused about what is a dream and what is real. Even when he is having a hallucination, it's easier on him to tell him that he is dreaming.
Stupid Death
Last night my dementia husband's passion for laxatives caught up with him. Luckily his pull-ups caught a good deal of the loose pudding textured outpouring. His pants captured most of the rest. Unfortunately, as he checked the damage by repeatedly plunging his hands down the back of his pants, he managed to shroud his hands with the stinky brown stuff and then finger painted everything within reach. Ultimately his electric chair, the toilet, walls, grab bars, standing bar, toilet paper and holder, door, and floor featured generous sloppy smears of excrement.
"Oh, my gosh! What happened?"
"I had an accident. It's your fault!"
I was stunned by the extent of the mess and smell. "It's okay. Let's get you cleaned up. Next time, don't do this. Just let me clean you."
I took him to the shower, trying to minimize the trail of excreta, transferred him to the shower chair, effectively covering a good portion of that with liquidy feces, and began a relatively long process of washing every nook and cranny of his being. His clothes, his hair, and every part of his body were not spared the ejecta. Eventually, after several full body scrubbings, while cleaning the shower area in between, he was clean. But, he needed to wait, while I cleaned his electric chair and enough of the floor to allow exit from the bathroom. Waiting is not his forte.
After not too terribly long, I stripped his chair and placed folded towels for him to sit on, so he could go back to bed, which I had also stripped and remade with fresh linens. I transferred him and he went back to his slumber. Now, in the middle of the night, I faced not only a small mountain of stinky laundry, but considerable scrubbing of the bathroom. I set to work.
Using what I had, I began cleaning in earnest. Because many of the cleansers were nearly depleted when I began the tasks, I used several different products. Finally, it was looking fairly clean. Because I like to walk around barefoot, I wanted the floor to be very clean. I needed to close the doors (the bathroom has two doors) to make sure every square inch was scrubbed and sterilized. The floor wasn't dry from the previous cleansers I had used, but I was anxious to finish and go to bed. I decided to use bleach to be certain the floor was clean.
While on my hands and knees, I poured the bleach onto the floor. A cloud of gas quickly arose, enveloping my head. I gasped. That breath immediately caused me to become severely light headed. When I was young, the news had prominently featured warnings about cleaning bathroom with the combination of Comet cleanser and Chlorox bleach. A young mother had used the combination in her toilet, passed out, and drowned. The second thought was of a person who had died by being squeezed to death by an elephant, like a peanut. While both instances of deaths were tragic, there was also something funny about dying in an unusual way. Simultaneously I had the thought that I didn't want to die having done something stupid. Although I hadn't used Comet cleanser, something reacted with the bleach. I didn't want to be remembered for that. Unable to get to my feet, I groped for the door handle. As consciousness was nearly gone and my vision faded towards black, I was able to get the door open for some untainted air.
The next morning, still shaken from the close call, I had to laugh. My main concern had been, and still was, that I didn't want to be remembered for a stupid death.
"Oh, my gosh! What happened?"
"I had an accident. It's your fault!"
I was stunned by the extent of the mess and smell. "It's okay. Let's get you cleaned up. Next time, don't do this. Just let me clean you."
I took him to the shower, trying to minimize the trail of excreta, transferred him to the shower chair, effectively covering a good portion of that with liquidy feces, and began a relatively long process of washing every nook and cranny of his being. His clothes, his hair, and every part of his body were not spared the ejecta. Eventually, after several full body scrubbings, while cleaning the shower area in between, he was clean. But, he needed to wait, while I cleaned his electric chair and enough of the floor to allow exit from the bathroom. Waiting is not his forte.
After not too terribly long, I stripped his chair and placed folded towels for him to sit on, so he could go back to bed, which I had also stripped and remade with fresh linens. I transferred him and he went back to his slumber. Now, in the middle of the night, I faced not only a small mountain of stinky laundry, but considerable scrubbing of the bathroom. I set to work.
Using what I had, I began cleaning in earnest. Because many of the cleansers were nearly depleted when I began the tasks, I used several different products. Finally, it was looking fairly clean. Because I like to walk around barefoot, I wanted the floor to be very clean. I needed to close the doors (the bathroom has two doors) to make sure every square inch was scrubbed and sterilized. The floor wasn't dry from the previous cleansers I had used, but I was anxious to finish and go to bed. I decided to use bleach to be certain the floor was clean.
While on my hands and knees, I poured the bleach onto the floor. A cloud of gas quickly arose, enveloping my head. I gasped. That breath immediately caused me to become severely light headed. When I was young, the news had prominently featured warnings about cleaning bathroom with the combination of Comet cleanser and Chlorox bleach. A young mother had used the combination in her toilet, passed out, and drowned. The second thought was of a person who had died by being squeezed to death by an elephant, like a peanut. While both instances of deaths were tragic, there was also something funny about dying in an unusual way. Simultaneously I had the thought that I didn't want to die having done something stupid. Although I hadn't used Comet cleanser, something reacted with the bleach. I didn't want to be remembered for that. Unable to get to my feet, I groped for the door handle. As consciousness was nearly gone and my vision faded towards black, I was able to get the door open for some untainted air.
The next morning, still shaken from the close call, I had to laugh. My main concern had been, and still was, that I didn't want to be remembered for a stupid death.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Are Organic Foods Worth the Cost and Safe?
A 2012 Scientific American article explained that organic food is considered organic, because no non-natural pesticides are used. But, pesticides are pesticides, whether naturally produced or not. When copper sulfate and rotenone (both natural pesticides used in organic farming) are used, both stick around after harvest. Chronic copper sulfate exposure can lead to anemia and liver disease. Rotenone, correlated to Parkinson's disease, holds five times the risk of its synthetic counterpart.
A study by the Swedish Environmental Research Institute suggested that pesticides toxins could be nearly entirely removed by an organic diet in two weeks. But, they also reported that "levels that we found in urine during the period of conventionally grown food are well within acceptable levels, which means that it is unlikely that a single substance would pose any risk to humans."
The Environmental Working Group tested over 50,000 samples of fruits and vegetables for levels of pesticides. From their results, they compiled two lists. One, the "Dirty Dozen," high in pesticides. And the other, the "Clean 15", low in pesticides. They believe that eating organic versions of the Dirty Dozen might reduce pesticides levels by up to 92 percent.
Dirty Dozen
Apples
Celery
Strawberries
Peaches
Spinach
Nectarines (imported)
Grapes (imported)
Sweet bell peppers
Potatoes
Blueberries (domestic)
Lettuce
Kale/collard greens
Clean 15
Onions Kiwi
Sweet corn Cabbage
Pineapples Watermelon
Avocado Sweet potatoes
Asparagus Grapefruit
Sweet Peas Mushrooms
Mangoes Eggplant
Cantaloupe (domestic)
I believe there is a simple explanation for the difference between the two groups. The items in the first group are usually eaten with the outside skins. The skin is directly exposed to pesticides, whether applied or in the environment. The items in the second group have, except for asparagus and mushrooms, have an outside covering, which is usually peeled off prior to eating.
A study by the Swedish Environmental Research Institute suggested that pesticides toxins could be nearly entirely removed by an organic diet in two weeks. But, they also reported that "levels that we found in urine during the period of conventionally grown food are well within acceptable levels, which means that it is unlikely that a single substance would pose any risk to humans."
The Environmental Working Group tested over 50,000 samples of fruits and vegetables for levels of pesticides. From their results, they compiled two lists. One, the "Dirty Dozen," high in pesticides. And the other, the "Clean 15", low in pesticides. They believe that eating organic versions of the Dirty Dozen might reduce pesticides levels by up to 92 percent.
Dirty Dozen Apples
Celery
Strawberries
Peaches
Spinach
Nectarines (imported)
Grapes (imported)
Sweet bell peppers
Potatoes
Blueberries (domestic)
Lettuce
Kale/collard greens
Onions Kiwi
Sweet corn Cabbage
Pineapples Watermelon
Avocado Sweet potatoes
Asparagus Grapefruit
Sweet Peas Mushrooms
Mangoes Eggplant
Cantaloupe (domestic)
I believe there is a simple explanation for the difference between the two groups. The items in the first group are usually eaten with the outside skins. The skin is directly exposed to pesticides, whether applied or in the environment. The items in the second group have, except for asparagus and mushrooms, have an outside covering, which is usually peeled off prior to eating.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Mr. Toad's Wild Ride
While in the process of putting my wheelchair bound son back to bed following a bathroom break, we heard, "Help! Help!" As I placed my son on the edge of his bed, leaving him holding onto a standing grab bar, we heard more desperate pleas emanating from my husband's bedroom. "Help! Help!"
"Coming! I'm coming as fast as I can!" I yelled. I rushed down the hall.
I entered the room to see my husband's wheelchair doing "donuts" in the space by his bed.
Terry lay on his bed, witnessing the mayhem, yelling frantically, "It's doing it by itself!"
In a split second, it was clear what had happened. As Terry had climbed into bed from his electric chair, he threw the blanket that had been covering him aside. The blanket caught on the wheelchair control joystick and draped around the front of the arm rest. As often happens, Terry left his chair in drive mode and forgot to turn it off. The blanket's weight pulled the joystick to the side and, with the wrap around the arm rest, slightly forward. That kicked in the drive. The chair jumped into action, circling, while dragging the blanket. With each rotation, the blanket became tighter and tighter. The blanket edge, firmly wrapped on the control stick, drove the chair into a wild ride. The remainder of the blanket that dragged on the floor collected Terry's discarded clothes.
As the wheelchair circled, so it's right side was near me, my hand darted out to the toggle switch and turned the monster off. In the same instant, I thought this was Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, brought about by my husband. Terry looked confused as to what had happened. I explained that he had forgotten to turn the chair off, before he climbed into bed. Then, with throwing the blanket to the side, the scene was set. He remained convinced the chair was possessed, with a mind of it's own. I couldn't help but laugh at the small disaster he caused.
It was typical Terry.
"Coming! I'm coming as fast as I can!" I yelled. I rushed down the hall.
I entered the room to see my husband's wheelchair doing "donuts" in the space by his bed.
In a split second, it was clear what had happened. As Terry had climbed into bed from his electric chair, he threw the blanket that had been covering him aside. The blanket caught on the wheelchair control joystick and draped around the front of the arm rest. As often happens, Terry left his chair in drive mode and forgot to turn it off. The blanket's weight pulled the joystick to the side and, with the wrap around the arm rest, slightly forward. That kicked in the drive. The chair jumped into action, circling, while dragging the blanket. With each rotation, the blanket became tighter and tighter. The blanket edge, firmly wrapped on the control stick, drove the chair into a wild ride. The remainder of the blanket that dragged on the floor collected Terry's discarded clothes.
As the wheelchair circled, so it's right side was near me, my hand darted out to the toggle switch and turned the monster off. In the same instant, I thought this was Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, brought about by my husband. Terry looked confused as to what had happened. I explained that he had forgotten to turn the chair off, before he climbed into bed. Then, with throwing the blanket to the side, the scene was set. He remained convinced the chair was possessed, with a mind of it's own. I couldn't help but laugh at the small disaster he caused.
It was typical Terry.
Singing Soprano with a Push-up Bra
Years ago, our adult son Andy (wheelchair bound) and I worked out a way for me to assist him in the bathroom, yet let him to retain his privacy and dignity. Recently he regained strength and the ability to be slightly more independent. One night he didn't wait for me for full bathroom assistance, but still needed help pulling up his clothes. This is where things went awry.
Positioned to his side by his back, I pulled up his underwear and pajamas in one strong swift motion. He immediately began making high pitched noises, released his grip on a grab bar, and began pointing, as best as he could, down. Looking at the side of his hip, I saw that his pants were not at his waist all the way around, but angled down sharply from the back to the front. They seemed to be caught on something in the front. I was puzzled by what was causing the problem... then it hit me.
I slide my thumbs down, beneath the the waistbands on the sides, and pulled straight forward. Instantly his clothes popped free from the front obstruction and up to his waist. Chuckling, I asked him, "Was it caught on the jewels or the pickle?"
"Both!" he exclaimed, with a little irritation.
I burst into laughter, as an image of a push-up bra entered my brain... a push-up bra with slightly different contents more appropriate to a male.
When his care giver arrived in the morning, I told him while he and my husband sing alto, we discovered Andy could sing soprano.
Positioned to his side by his back, I pulled up his underwear and pajamas in one strong swift motion. He immediately began making high pitched noises, released his grip on a grab bar, and began pointing, as best as he could, down. Looking at the side of his hip, I saw that his pants were not at his waist all the way around, but angled down sharply from the back to the front. They seemed to be caught on something in the front. I was puzzled by what was causing the problem... then it hit me.
"Both!" he exclaimed, with a little irritation.
I burst into laughter, as an image of a push-up bra entered my brain... a push-up bra with slightly different contents more appropriate to a male.
When his care giver arrived in the morning, I told him while he and my husband sing alto, we discovered Andy could sing soprano.
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