Mom, the Anarcho-Libertarian Philosopher

We just recently increased (doubled) the dosage of the Excelon patches Mom uses to slow the Alzheimer's and I think it's working. (The reason the patches start on lower dosages is because one of the side effects is "psychotic episodes"(!!) which we, fortunately, did not experience. Anyway. . .) I don't think any of what follows would have been possible before the patches.

I had the most interesting "conversation" with Mom the other day. She had become thoroughly bored with the game on TV so I turned it off. Her eyesight and attention span don't allow her to follow the games anymore and everything runs together and seems never-ending to her. (See Mom-sequiturs .)

With the TV off, she kept talking. At first it seemed like she was complaining about the no longer visible game. Her complaints usually run along the lines of "Who decides that (X) should go with (Y)?" And I explain that "X" is the game but "Y" is just a commercial and has nothing to do with who's up next or the current score. Or "Y" is a preview/review/instant replay. This time we went in a different direction.

Mom: I don't understand who makes these decisions.

Me: What decisions? (This is usually a bad question and most often I just ignore the opening.)

Mom: The decision about who should make the decision.

Me: (O.K., this is a little meta. Obviously, she's not going to let this go.) Different people make different decisions about different situations.

Mom: Absolutely! But we're not happy with what's going on. I guess life is supposed to be like that. Is one person supposed to be in charge of everything? We should choose our own way or leader and if that makes you happy, good! Be happy!

Me: (Are we still complaining about the composition of the TV program? These conversations seldom have a defined subject.) Are you asking me if I have any ideas, because I'm not sure what you're talking about.

Mom: (Laughs.) Live our own lives and don't pay attention to anyone else. Everyone do as he wishes . . . as long as you don't hurt anyone else. I'd like to see how the program ends.

Me: What program? (Surely, she doesn't want the game back on?)

Mom: What's good for you and what you should do. That plant out there in the yard, taller than anyone else. I don't see why that makes it any better. And you can get awfully tired discussing this because there is no answer.

Me: . . ..

Mom: If there is a particular item in charge, I don't want to know about it.

Me: (Item? I'm not sure I want to get into a theological debate this late in the evening.)

Mom: I like to think we're happier with the more people we know and are in contact with.

I agreed and went to get her another cup of coffee. By the time I got back the topic was closed. We changed her patch, did her eye drops, and she went off to bed. A good place to end it anyway.

Mom-Sequiturs

Sometimes Mom says things for which I have no response. We were watching the Notre Dame football game Saturday:

"For all the years this (current) game has been going on, I don't think I've ever seen anyone win."

And the Tampa Bay game Sunday:

"They're not even playing hard enough to warm me up. I need to put my sweater on. I told them that two years ago."

The Destruction of the Language Is a (Continuous and) Subtle Thing

Since this is Florida, dependent on tourism and therefor acutely aware of rain, hurricanes, and other forms of weather, we watch the reports which local TV obsesses about. The station we watch, the local NBC affiliate brags that Haley Webb, their weather lady, not only "tells you where it's raining," but then goes on to tell you "where it's going to rain!"

Well, duh. I thought that was the whole purpose of weather reports and always had been. They seem inordinately proud of the obvious.

The worst part, though, is that telling you what's going on now is apparently considered the "forecast." Telling you what will happen is now called the "futurecast."

The sad part is, I'm sure these idiots have no idea what's wrong with their choice of words. At all.

Anthony! Anthony!!

Anthony was a little kid living in Boston's North End whose mother would call from the townhouse window, summoning him home to a fine 1950s-'60s style weekly pasta dinner made from Prince spaghetti, because "Wednesday is Prince spaghetti day!" As a kid growing up watching TV in those days, I wondered why Wednesday was so special. I've finally figured it out.

It's not just because a dedicated pasta day would sell more Prince spaghetti.

It's because, now that I've taken up cooking the daily dinner for Mom and myself, I finally realize how difficult it is to come up with something new and interesting to eat every single day! Seriously. There are just so many variations on a theme (and a more limited theme than when I was cooking just for myself). I'm helped partially by Mom's short term memory losses but I really don't want to have to count on that to get me by.

Telephonics

So. . .. One of Mom's docs (the dermatologist) called this morning. I was expecting a call from the neurologist who left a message yesterday wanting her to go back to the hospital to get more tests done, but didn't say which ones or why, so I called back but got voice mail and now it's their turn again, which (along with Mom's deafness and confusability and the fact that telemarketers still manage to call sometimes) is why I tend to intercept her phone calls which she is perfectly happy to let me do. So I did.

The doctor was very nice (I've met him since I've started going in to Mom's appointments with her) but refused to tell me why he called because I'm not officially on her need-to-know HIPAA list.

So I handed off the phone to her. The doctor had to yell so loud that I heard everything from my chair three feet away anyway.

Her biopsy came back clean. She's good for another six months (on that front anyway).

Life in the Real World

This is how you tell you're not in Zion any more: The local supermarket circular has literally a full page spread on Kosher specials for Rosh Hashanah. With multiple competing brands. And little tag lines on other items throughout the six pages of the ad noting "Kosher for the Holidays." No getting uncomprehending looks since there's no need to ask in the first place.

That, and a distinct lack of blondes.

Happy New Year!

Good Days, Bad Days

The Excelon may be working. It's hard to tell. Some days Mom is totally together, coherent, verbal with little or no word loss and others (yesterday, I'm looking at you) . . .. She couldn't figure out where the newspaper article ended or how--or why--to turn the page to continue the story, and couldn't understand that slicing up the paper with nail clipper scissors wouldn't solve the problem. She got very frustrated and kept saying, "I just don't understand how to do this. Where am I supposed to cut this?"

The good side of it is she forgets fairly quickly when she's in this mode and so put the paper down, sat for a few minutes, picked up a magazine and everything was fine.

The bad part is, at least while the behaviors remain harmless, these situations are pretty funny (after the fact). I'm probably not accumulating any Karma by laughing (but never out loud or when she's around).

At least she still appreciates my cooking.