Hustling to get help during moment of clarity

Praise God. Gram gets it.

“Tell your mom that I know I may have a problem…Alzheimer’s…and that’s being checked,” she said to me Wednesday after I called to check on her. This was after the family - including my mom! - took her to the doctor. “We’ll, at least it is not communicable.”

Wednesday, I knew I was seeing glimpses of my old Mac. However, Saturday through Tuesday afternoon, Dad, uncles John and Art and I have been wrestling with my grandmother while she was in the grips of dementia or Alzheimer’s disease. And its grip was tight.

She's back right now and we're taking advantage of it; hustling to get her help during this moment of clarity.

Praise God she gets it. Today. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

We got concerned Saturday when Gram could not dress or eat herself and could not remember basic things, like her children’s names or the day of the week. Gram's disorientation and agitation increased in Lakewood. She began taking out her frustrations on my mother, who had done nothing but give up damn near every weekend for 30 years to do Gram’s bidding.

I was incensed. I am taking prednisone and methotrexate to treat sarcoidosis and one of the big side effects of prednisone is mood swings.

These days, I am always on the verge of blowing like a volcano. I have chased down drivers who pushed me along in the slow lane of the Garden State Parkway, yelled at slow store clerks and people who cut me off in line. Most times, I am able to hold my tongue, but it is hard. I fight the urge to smash to bits the contents of rooms - waiting room, public bathroom, and my bedroom, whatever.

As I said, I am good at keeping it concealed. I know the rage is pharmaceutical induced. I do not usually go around tearing up stuff – and I do not want to hurt anyone.

However, I am protective of my mother and feel the need to shield her from her mother, who is trying to beat her down verbally. That just is not happening on my watch.

But I catch myself. We are dealing with Gram but not dealing with Gram. She is in the grips of one of the foulest of diseases and she is afraid. Afraid of being alone. Afraid of the future. A couple of months ago, she told me that she was not afraid to die but afraid to live.

So I sheath my claws and look for a way into Gram’s addled mind.

I see it when she tells me to tell my mom that she knows that she needs help.

We had a conversation about it Wednesday after visiting with her primary care physician. For whatever reason, he was able to talk to her about dementia and she listened.

“The doctor was trying to tell me something. Everyone is trying to tell me something. I just don’t want everyone to know. I can get help for this. At least it is not communicable.

There. A joke. That is my Gram fighting back. I reassure her that we, her family, are only here to love her and help her.

Meanwhile, we are working behind the scenes to secure assisted-living and other services. We are also considering having her prescribed a medication to alleviate symptoms; I am scheduling some doctor’s appointments first to rule out anything physical.

Sunday, Gram declared that she had a shooting pain in her left arm and demanded to see her doctor. It was a ploy to get out of our Lakewood home and to get back to Elizabeth, back to familiar territory. It worked. We could not ignore her complaint so my mom and I loaded Gram in the SUV and drove 45 minutes north to Elizabeth (she was not having a heart attack, so…) and Trinitas Regional Medical Center.

After blood and urine tests, a CAT scan and thorough exam, the emergency room doctor said she was physically fine but was exhibiting signs of dementia and needed to take her high blood pressure. My grandmother would have nothing to do with the diagnosis even though she could not remember anything from earlier in the day.

Gram is 83 years old. She stands 5-foot-three-inches tall. She was physically strong enough to wrestle with a nurse in her 20s that was trying to help her sit on the gurney. She was strong enough to shove pills at the nurse after refusing to take them. The nurses at Trinitas were great. They exhibited the patience of Job with my grandmother.

I am glad Gram taught me the story of Job. I have to do the same.

...Ladybug, Ladybug...

It's strange that while all this stuff is going on with my grandmother, I have noticed the swarms of ladybugs on windows and in front of doorways this Indian summer. In fact, I had to fight through what seemed like scores of ladybugs to get into my grandmother's condo complex this week.

"What's up with all the ladybugs," I asked one of the maintenance men, who was sitting in the lobby and appeared to be staring at the little red beetles and a leak that was dripping from the second floor.

"Oh, I just noticed them," the man said. "Look at that..."

The man overseeing maintenance at a hi-rise on Pearl Street in Elizabeth, N.J., is clueless. I remember that ladybugs are one of my grandmother's favorite animals. She even has ladybug broaches. I was taught they are "good" bugs, a gardener's friend, feasting on aphids and other creatures harmful to plantings.

I can't count the number of insects that I have killed in my lifetime, but I am pretty sure I never harmed a ladybug, specifically because of Gram.

I walk past the custodian and head back to my grandmother's unit, trying to remember the old nursery rhyme she sang to me and, I have learned, to my mom.

Ladybug! Ladybug! Fly away home. Your house is on fire. And your children all gone. All except one, And that's little Ann, For she crept under The frying pan.

My Gram was sitting in a chair and singing that song when I left her on Wednesday.

Senior mental distress hits families hard

My family is having my grandmother evaluated by her doctors. She is exhibiting signs of dementia or Alzheimer's disease.

If my Gram has either, she is not alone: 3.4 million Americans aged 71 years and older, almost 14 percent of the population have dementia, according to a 2007 study by Aging, Demographics, and Memory Study (ADAMS), funded by the National Institutes of Health. And 2.4 million, 9.7 percent, have Alzheimer's disease. The study is described as the "population-based study of dementia to include people from all regions of the country."

No one, the person with dementia or Alzheimer's, or their familial caretakers want to be in this club, which is growing.

I have been back in New Jersey for almost three months and spent quite a bit of time with Gram. She was slower and more forgetful that I remember, but I did not see this coming.

I drove up to see her Saturday. My mom advised me to just go food shopping for Gram and get back on the road to Lakewood to avoid the second round of the nor’easter that hit the region this weekend.

As I drove up, I thought about taking Gram out lunch or maybe a movie just to get her out of the house. She had not been out much since last Wednesday, the last time I visited her. I took her to the Barnes & Noble in Clark, bought her a decaf and soup and worked on a blog posting. She seemed fine, reading a magazine article about the tomb of King Tut, people watching.

I was unprepared for what I encountered Saturday. I could not get her to open her door. I could not get her to get dressed. She did not know what day it was or what time of day it was. I had to hand feed her a hamburger because she kept mistaking a napkin for the sandwich. I had to feed her fries because she kept nipping at her fingers.

I was taking care of Gram Saturday because my mom had bronchitis. I had to call my mom for help. I was way over my head.

“I’m sorry if I am a bother,” Gram said to me after my parents and I made the decision to bring her to Lakewood. We packed up some of her things and I scooted her into my car for the ride home. “No, you are not a bother, Gram. I love you. We love you. We’re just taking care of you, that’s all.”

My grandmother cannot remember what happened between Wednesday and Sunday. My grandmother cannot keep straight the names of her children. She cannot remember to take her medications and fights you when you try to administer them. She cannot remember where she is. And she is suspicious of anyone who tries to help her, including my mom and me.

This is sad and exhausting.

I thought that dementia was not a problem for the demented. It is especially excruciating for the people who have to take care of the afflicted. The caretakers are worn down by the disoriented person that is trying to make a snack of their own fingers instead of the French fries you just served.

However, I suspect Gram, the gentle woman who helped rear my brother and I who helped me become someone who loves telling stories and who understands right from wrong, is trapped somewhere inside the person sitting across from me as I write my column at the kitchen table.

The woman sitting across from me is quiet, but agitated. She is fighting my mother and me over the medications she is supposed to take. She says she is ready to go home. I tell her she is staying here until we all go to the doctor together. She’s staying until we have sure she is well.

She offers an incoherent explanation about why separate prescriptions are mixed together in one bottle.

Then, she has a moment of clarity.

“Sometimes I am wrong,” she says about her prescriptions. “I can’t remember. My mind is a sieve. It goes in and goes right out.”

This is a ray of sunshine I need to keep going. I am worn out and frustrated. I am supposed to be dealing with my own illness, sarcoidosis, and now I wrestle with hers, too.

She did all she could do for me. It is my turn now.

More Friday. Thanks for reading.