It's a lot of different things, actually.

Not that I’ve been a terrible slacker where exercise is concerned, but my mom’s recent report of less-than-optimal bone density has galvanized my determination to hit the elliptical as close to daily as possible. It helps tremendously when I’m reading something equally galvanizing on my Kindle, and What is America? by Ronald Wright is doing a pretty good job of motivating me to step and read.

Rachel recently brought home a couple of elementary school textbooks from the 60s (My era. The books look awfully familiar, even if they weren’t the specific ones we used in Mrs. Randall’s 3rd grade classroom.) They brightly remind me of what a blond and Eurocentric world of childhood memes I grew up surrounded by.

Ronald Wright’s relatively analytical retelling of the cultural behaviors and histories which led to the launch of the U.S. is not going to be a staunch latter day patriot’s cup of tea, but as much as I enjoy visiting the courage, follies, and struggles of early Americans through such venues as HBO’s John Adams series, it would be disingenuous of any fair-minded person not to look, with honest eyes open, at the perspectives of all the peoples involved in the settling and expansion of the U.S.

That’s what Wright does in this book, tracing cultural tendencies and clashes back a good ways, into the religious and political (usually the same thing,) maelstrom of Britain and Europe into how it all spilled over onto the turf of the New World.

Thus far, there are only 11 reviews of What is America? on Amazon, with the only 1-star reviewer bashing Wright’s book as an anti-American rant. Which doesn’t surprise me. Because it removes, utterly, the whitewash which was splattered thickly over history as it was presented to young minds, mid-20th century, (which is the only educational era I can vouch for with first-person accuracy.)

I’m not going to rant anti-Americanly either...because I’m not anti-American. But I am willing to face what seems obvious--that humans, as cultural groups, are and have always been driven by ambitions and methods that seem to defy the good-heartedness of people I know individually. There were always eye-witness voices willing to state--with refreshing candor--the facts of what occurred to clear the path for America as it exists today. But I don’t think they read us those voices and accounts in 1967.

And as for now--and as for ever--all any individual spawned into a point in history can do is say “Here’s where we are. Here’s how we got here. What did we do well? What did we do poorly? And what can we do better?” Then you vote.

my...um...person I take care of.

I took Jeff to the Hair Cuttery today for a trim. I’m never quite sure how they perceive us at such places...can they tell he’s impaired? Is my behavior--as “director” of the expedition--coming across as unnecessarily managerial, or is it clear that someone needs to be at the helm, and it’s not Jeff?

Sometimes, even when an appointment or similar starts out nebulous, by the end I’m sure they know. I sat with Jeff’s coat and played “Spider: Bryce Manor” on my iPhone while the overly bleached hair lady took care of Jeff, but when he was done and clearly perplexed about which direction to walk in, there was no sign of misunderstanding on the hair cutter’s part when I stepped up to pay.

Meanwhile, as I focused mainly on the transaction, I noticed a fellow customer--a women about 60--helping Jeff to put on his coat. This surprised me. Not that an observant person wouldn’t spot the problem with his fumbling, but that someone would be so quick to act. I finished paying, and thanked the coat-lady for helping Jeff. “Your father?” she said. We’re getting this occasionally now. A few weeks ago, when the vet led us into the back of the animal hospital to view Otis’ belly x-rays, she briefly referred to Jeff as “Pop.” “Come on Pop.” Someone could construe that as rude, but it was clearly meant to be a friendly gesture. I took no offense, and Jeff didn’t even notice.

Meanwhile, “no,” I said to the coat-helping lady. “My husband. But whatever it is you’re thinking, you’re correct.” (She could, of course, have been thinking that we’re Brangelina...but I doubt it.) “Yes,” she replied. “My friend’s father is like that.”

Jeff did not take a speck of that exchange in, fortunately. As much as it is important to give what autonomy and acknowledgment you can to an Alzheimer’s person, it is also true that you can often talk about him to another person, completely circumventing his ability to realize that he’s the subject.

But my father, eh? Mom told me she thought that would start to happen. Jeff has always been very youthful looking for his age, so--despite our 14 year age gap--he has almost never been taken for my father. Confusion ages people. And there’s a thing about eyes, which you may not pay so much attention to until you’ve been intimately involved with Alzheimer’s. But intelligence and focus beam right through our optical orbs like a laser and, when it is gone in a loved one, you become a keen observer of it in others--particularly others who may be older than your faded loved one.

Then there’s me, too. I guess I look about exactly the right age to be classic sandwich generation. If you had to peg me vis-a-vis Alzheimer’s, you’d presume it’s a parent I’m caring for, not a spouse. Ok.

beeeep

What happens in the last chapter of The Wolf in the Parlour by Jon Franklin, is that his dog (whose personal tale is woven into the narrative alongside the story of Franklin’s search for insight into the nature of the human-canine symbiosis,) alerts him and his wife to a house fire, thus getting all three of them out in time.

I am very glad to have a dog (except for when I’m not...she can be awfully barky,) but since I already do, the main action Franklin’s book spurred me to was checking the smoke detectors. Thus was this afternoon’s agenda set.

We have three smoke detectors, all (theoretically) wired, such that if one smells smoke, all will blare. The one upstairs is so high into the peaks of the beamed ceiling that I can only reach it by dint of my Little Giant ladder. Which I’ve done to replace the back-up battery. The unit on the main floor lives on the normal-height ceiling, just outside the bathroom and around the corner from the kitchen. It has had a problem for some time.

The problem with it was that--at some point--Jeff replaced the detector, but not the ceiling bracket. This resulted in its not locking into place at all, and--for years--it has functioned, but dangled on its wires, six inches from the ceiling. There have been many household maintenance details that I’ve ignored over the years, and this is one which today I resolved to fix.

As for the detector in the basement, well, today it failed inspection. Not only could I not push the button to test it--I couldn’t even reach the button which seemed to be unnaturally sunken into the unit. It too was hanging, even though it had a bracket. But the bracket was only half-installed as it turned out, anyway.

My best guess is that an electrician connected the upstairs unit, but that the other two were some of Jeff’s last work--when he still understood the basics but was missing details all over the place. While both semi-functioned, neither was properly installed or wired, so I’m happy to report that replacing wired smoke detectors is pretty easy, even for someone who’s only working on her junior handyperson merit badge.

Green lights on? Check. Red lights flashing once/minute? Check. And all on the ceilings, where they belong. No dangling. Just before Christmas, the house across the street from my Mom’s burned to a crisp. The homeowner got out, but the whole thing’s a goner. This is not something we expect in today’s world of homes which are no longer heated or lit by open flames. But it happens. So I’m a little better prepared now. But I also hope the dog will wake me up.

Ruts are places too.

Did you ever wiggle your fingers just before beginning to type? I never did until yesterday, when I sat down to work on my first official blog post for the Fisher Center for Alzheimer’s Research Foundation.

It was more reflexive than anything, and I felt very silly as soon as I did it. I also assumed that such a stereotypical gesture would guarantee me a case of writer’s block. Well, maybe not block. But at least a 3-day stint in the Inescapable Rut of Trite Phraseology.

And it did. I’m stuck there at least through tomorrow. Still, I think I managed to scrape enough mud off the sides of the IRTP (you know...the rut,) to smudge it up just enough that it wasn’t an entirely hopeless freshman entry.

Meanwhile, I’ll toss thoughts for the next contribution into the slow-cooker and refrain from adding any seasoning until the IRTP is a sad but distant memory.

coming...to a blog near you...

I am planning another cross-country trip by train. Working name: West by Northwest.

While it feels a bit right on the heels of the last one (known as: West by Southwest,) and I feel a trifle extravagant and/or frivolous, there are creditable reasons to go sooner, rather than later. Primary among them: Making hay while the sun shines. Beyond any impending sense of decline I may be experiencing as Jeff’s caregiver-in-chief, there is also the realistic acceptance that if probabilities hold, stage 6 of his illness (the last in which we can expect any kind of travelability...and only in the early phase at that,) will be over within 2 years.

There is also my mom, and our decision to do something together. I hope my lovely healthy mother will find many more opportunities to explore the world, but since her primary travel partner’s (my dad’s) death from Parkinson’s in ’09, I would love to fill any available niches to the extent that I can. (Though she should note: Olivia, aka daughter #3, has offered to accompany Grandma to almost any exotic location of Gma’s choosing. Is that a deal or what?)

Hence, last week we found ourselves poring over an expansive pile of brochures and magazines offering trips to every corner of the globe. We wanted to take the one down the Peruvian Amazon by riverboat. Sold out. We almost booked a small-ship cruise to the Galapagos Islands. The rivers of Europe looked awfully pretty. But the more we thought and weighed Jeff’s limitations against the imperative to maintain a pleasurable, non-stressful traveling atmosphere, the narrower our parameters became.

Substantial changes of time-zone will knock a healthy person’s IQ temporarily down by several multiples of 10. We don’t want to turn Jeff into a zombie. Airport security is hassle enough with someone who can’t manage his own items. Adding customs to that seemed excessive. Many boat trips required numerous transfers into rocking zodiacs where the nimbleness and visual requirements might trip us up. Tours by land would have us changing accommodations nightly, increasing disorientation.

Finally, I told Mom that ever since our Amtrak Southwest Chief trip, I’ve been eyeing the Empire Builder covetously. Would she be interested? Mom is a sport, and an adaptable one at that. So yes. This has, therefore, become much more of an Emily trip than a Gale (mom) trip.

So--barring unforeseen downturns in function or other eventualities--we will, in late April, chug from Washington D.C. to Whitefish, Montana (with a change of train in Chicago.) I don’t think much happens in Montana in the Spring, but that might be ok for us. Glacier National Park will be there, and we’ll drive in and have a look around. We’ll see what museums are open year-round, and relax at the inn. I’ll post, with an eye toward making it look exciting and enviable.

not so old blue eyes

There’s not much sillier than Jeff relaxing with earphones, emitting sounds that are clearly meant to correspond with the phrases in New York, New York by Frank Sinatra. This is not a guy from a particularly musical family, let us say.

Today’s purchase was an iPod shuffle. It’s the most affordable form of iPod by far, and if--like Jeff--you hardly care in what order your favorite tunes are broadcast, then it might just be the device for you. I spent a good part of the afternoon loading various albums--jazz, saxophone, Sinatra, Johnny Cash--into iTunes, then feeding them into his tiny iPod shuffle. It is, in fact, so tiny (smaller than a matchbook even,) that I’d fear for its disappearance were it not snugly plugged into a set of sizable earphones. Fiddly earbuds, in this case, need not apply.

(Now he’s singing Blue Skies, with Willie Nelson. I’m surprised I can tell.) I’ve discovered a website--The Fisher Center for Alzheimer’s Research Foundation--which breaks down the classic seven stages of Alzheimer’s, giving clearer cut guidelines and milestones. “Stage of illness” had been a tricky thing to gauge. Jeff’s process has been, all along, more forceful in its consumption of his visual capabilities than his memory per se. Hence, a cursory review of the seven stages sometimes misses the points with which I can identify, in his case.

But Fisher has helped me out. Assuming you consider it helpful that I can now place him at stage 6a in a process where stage 7 represents the end-game. Stage 6 is subdivided into a through e. And it appears we’ve crossed the border from 5 to 6 on the following donkeys: We can no longer be counted on to put clothes on in the right order, let alone right-side up, and speech is, not infrequently, having trouble coming out in an articulate sequence. (Eventually it does, but it’s often a bit stumbly.) Apparently, by the time we’ve traversed b through e of stage 6, we can expect him to “manifest overt breakdown in the ability to articulate speech.” We will also see an end to continence. There’s one I’m looking forward to.

I was a little surprised to discover, in reviewing the mean durations of the stages, according to Fisher, that we are not far off the averages. Which means (if we stick with the program,) that we’ll complete all the requirements for Stage 6 in approximately 2.5 years. At which point--in Stage 7--relative mobility becomes one of the leading predictors of timetable.

I hope I’m not too morbid. It’s difficult, if one has a mind for research, NOT to probe into this kind of thing.

Ultimately, of course, one cannot call these things anymore than one can predict the stock market, and I’m very happy that listening to Sinatra, and singing along, with a complete lack of regard for key, is a source of happiness.