Something New, and It’s Good

For the past two and a half years, Kate and I have followed a rigid routine. The caregiver arrives at 11:00 each morning. The first item on the agenda is to get Kate dressed and out of bed. Until recently, we put her in a recliner in a sitting position where the caregiver served her lunch. She remained in the recliner until we went out for ice cream shortly after 3:30.

While I was away, Kate often felt sleepy, and the caregivers got in the habit of setting the recliner in a reclining rather than a sitting position. I began to feel that she was spending too much of her day on her back and decided to move Kate from her bed into her wheelchair instead of the recliner. Originally, I was concerned that being in the wheelchair all day might be uncomfortable for Kate, but she accepted the change without a problem.

After we changed our primary caregiver 3-4 months ago, the new person asked if she could take Kate out of the apartment. I told her that would be fine. It turned out much better than I thought. She has responded well to the additional attention she receives. I meet them for ice cream after returning from lunch. I frequently find them talking with other residents and staff in much the same way as when I am with her. Kate herself doesn’t often say very much, but she often smiles. That lets all of us know that she is happy.

This has now become a regular part of our daily routine. I’ve always felt that even the best of our caregivers don’t give her as much attention as I would like. The new routine solves that problem. It works for everyone. Kate and the caregiver like getting out of the apartment and mingling with other residents and staff. I, too, like it because it provides Kate more stimulation than when she and the caregiver are alone in our apartment. It’s a “Win-Win-Win” situation.

This is another reminder of the importance of intuitive thought or abilities. This change did not stop the progression of her Alzheimer’s. Her rational thought or ability hasn’t improved. Her memory of people, places, and things is gone. Her aphasia means that she says very few things that we can understand.

Nevertheless, all is not lost. Her intuitive thought and ability remain. As a result, we continue to enjoy life and each other. What more could I ask at Late Stage Alzheimer’s?