Recently, I bought cake for a group meeting and ended up bringing home two kinds of leftover cake. Mom, whose appetite has whithered, enjoyed it so much that I served her carrot cake for breakfast and chocolate cake for dessert after dinner. That's why when I was thinking about trying to keep some sort of written record of this experience that the name for my blog first occurred to me -- Cake for Breakfast.
One of the casualties of Alzheimer's for Mom has been her appetite. When I was still trying to work and care for mom, I always planned dessert as well as a balanced meal for her and her sitter. She ate better when someone ate with her and seemed to enjoy the dishes I prepared for her. But gradually, getting her to eat became a problem. The first problem was a sick stomach that we decided might be attributed to her meds. We changed them and her appetite picked up again, but it didn't last long. She ate less and less.
Possibly, her taste buds don't respond to food the way they used to. At first, I attributed her waning interest in food to her trouble using the utensils. When a knife and fork were too much to manage, I substituted a spoon. But as time passed the only thing that worked was her fingers. Eventually, even that was a problem and I began to feed her. Sometimes she would refuse her dinner but want dessert. Sometimes I could use the prospect of dessert to persuade her to eat some of the meal I had prepared. But that no longer works. I can't even get her to drink Ensure.
Sometimes she asks for something, like mashed potatoes yesterday, but she may not stay awake long enough to eat what she's requested. At other times she purses her lips together tightly and refuses to allow the spoon to pass her lips. And she may hold the world record for number of times she chews her food. When she really doesn't want it, she waits until you are out of sight and spits it out, wherever.
Although her interest in food continues to wane, she retains enjoyment of sweet stuff, especially ice cream. The doctor said that ice cream was good for her whenever she wanted it so we keep a supply. But as I fed her minuscule dabs of ice cream yesterday, I wondered how long that will last.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
I wouldn't have believed it...
I really wouldn't have believed it if someone had told me a few years ago that I'd be changing diapers at my age (50-something). I have no children but my 80-something mother has Alzheimer's and her descent into the vagaries of that disease has been swift and unrelenting.
She's not the first in her family to succumb to Alzheimer's. Two of her aunts wandered into the fog and never returned to the world the rest of us share. But my mother was a strong woman who cared for an invalid husband and two elderly parents and was still going strong and working part time into her 80s. She enjoyed her family, her garden, homemaking and was always busy with something.
The frail woman lying in the next room is a shadow of her former self.
I don't know how deep her descent is because she has lost her language skills and is often unable to make herself understood. I became pretty good at guessing what she wanted for a while there but now, even that is slipping away. Much of the time, what I say doesn't penetrate either. Sometimes I forget that she isn't deaf, I raise my voice as if that will penetrate the darkness that surrounds her. For a while there, she would look at me sometimes -- a glimmer of her former self visible -- as she scolded me "you don't need to shout." I soon learned that when, in frustration, I did shout, my message was lost anyway, unheard over the internal dialog that was trying to formulate an appropriate rebuke for a daughter who dared to shout at her Mom.
But today has been a good day. She had difficulty waking up but that allowed me to change her diaper around noon without her being aware of the process. Her response to queries about breakfast were vague but finally she managed "later." I let her go back to sleep. When she was finally awake, I persuaded her to eat perhaps two small scoops or peach ice cream. It's the most she's eaten at one time in days.
A short time later, when she asked me about supper later I was encouraged. I offered all sorts of things in hopes that one would pique her interest. She finally agreed she could try to eat some mashed potoates. I got them ready right away and she ate three little tastes before saying she had enough. Maybe I should have made gravy. If, as she hinted, she will try again later to eat something, I will.
She's not the first in her family to succumb to Alzheimer's. Two of her aunts wandered into the fog and never returned to the world the rest of us share. But my mother was a strong woman who cared for an invalid husband and two elderly parents and was still going strong and working part time into her 80s. She enjoyed her family, her garden, homemaking and was always busy with something.
The frail woman lying in the next room is a shadow of her former self.
I don't know how deep her descent is because she has lost her language skills and is often unable to make herself understood. I became pretty good at guessing what she wanted for a while there but now, even that is slipping away. Much of the time, what I say doesn't penetrate either. Sometimes I forget that she isn't deaf, I raise my voice as if that will penetrate the darkness that surrounds her. For a while there, she would look at me sometimes -- a glimmer of her former self visible -- as she scolded me "you don't need to shout." I soon learned that when, in frustration, I did shout, my message was lost anyway, unheard over the internal dialog that was trying to formulate an appropriate rebuke for a daughter who dared to shout at her Mom.
But today has been a good day. She had difficulty waking up but that allowed me to change her diaper around noon without her being aware of the process. Her response to queries about breakfast were vague but finally she managed "later." I let her go back to sleep. When she was finally awake, I persuaded her to eat perhaps two small scoops or peach ice cream. It's the most she's eaten at one time in days.
A short time later, when she asked me about supper later I was encouraged. I offered all sorts of things in hopes that one would pique her interest. She finally agreed she could try to eat some mashed potoates. I got them ready right away and she ate three little tastes before saying she had enough. Maybe I should have made gravy. If, as she hinted, she will try again later to eat something, I will.
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