Conundrum Continued

Yesterday morning, Gregory and I had a discussion (if you know can call it that) about the closet (if you know what that means,) selecting clothes (if you know the process,) getting dressed (if you are able,) and keeping the cats out of the closet (if you remember to do so,) etc.

The conversation lasted about 15 or 20 minutes (if one can measure time.) The whole time I knew I was using too many words and was not sure how much or what he understood. A brief summary of the event is:

Gregory: "I want to go back."
Michael: "You can't go back."

Gregory's morning sweats and slippers are laid out on the bench for him to use after cleaning up. I put them out the night before so they are waiting for him in the morning when he is ready. For a while he used to get them out of the drawer in the closet but I started doing it for him when most often he stood there naked, chilled, looking to me without words, saying "What do I do next?"

He struggled less this morning then he usually does with getting the sweatshirt on; correct arm in correct hole, shirt correctly oriented. Other times he stands there anyway wondering what to do next.

After his shirt was on, while I was sitting at my computer, he came over and went through the hemming and hawing and hesitating that begins our conversations. I stopped working, checked the expression on my face to make sure it looked pleasant, interested, and patient, and waited.

"I want to go back." That was the essence of what he wanted to say.

"I am not sure what you mean?" I asked. Eventually, because he was not able to tell me what he meant and because I could tell he was getting frustrated, I guessed, "Go back to picking your own clothes out of the closet?" The answer was "Yes."

I only wish you could have been here to see the confusion in him trying to express himself. Once I knew what he wanted, I also knew that we could not really discuss the issue because the associations and understandings do not exist. But I tried. I talked slowly and simply.

In as few words as possible, I talked about the problem with the cats chewing his shoe laces. I talked about his struggling with picking out clothes and then not knowing how to put them on. I talked about my not being able to go through this with him every morning. I talked about the "feel bad now or feel bad later" idea. I talked about the problem with Alzheimer's and how that has changed our life. I talked about not being able to go back. I talked to him about doing the best we can.

Eventually he, with great organizational difficulty, said, "You need ... to do ... what ... you must ... that is best for ... me." He cried and said, "I'm sorry."

I told him not to be sorry. At least not for me, that I am OK and I will do what I have to for him. "I am here for you. I will make good decisions for you."

But maybe we can go back a little bit, if we do it together. Instead of my picking out his clothes, I will go into the closet with him, my keeping the cats at bay, and my helping him decide what he wants to wear.

I'll make sure he has the pants, and the shirt, and the belt, and the sox, and the shoes. We will take everything out of the closet into the bedroom, put them on the bench and then I'll say, "Get dressed." The closet will be velcroed shut so he does not go back in looking for something already on the bench.

While I am sitting here at my computer, I'll make sure he keeps on his underwear while putting on his outerwear. I'll sit here and probably write again about my frustrations, fears, and anger. While he is getting dressed just in case he needs help, I'll surreptitiously monitor his behavior while I am typing.

The challenge of telling him (doesn't work,) showing him (doesn't work,) and doing it for him (which doesn't always work) will continue. Why do I have to be human when I want to be super-human and be the most patient person in the world?