Robert Gottschlich's Blog - Posts Tagged "caregiver"

“Peter is an unhappy man. Underneath the dementia that surges and falls back like some rapacious, ransacking horde and the diabetes that eats at his extremities like termites at wood, he is aging ungracefully and the sparks of discontent fly off him at all times of the day. Mornings, however, are his worst time.”

Excerpt From: Gottschlich, Robert. “Ten Acres in Malibu.”

“He moans a great deal. He doesn't complain of any particular pain but it’s there. The diabetes again, a gnawing in the bones. And the more he hurts, the less he recognizes where the pain is coming from. That’s the dementia.  He isn't sure where he is half the time and I have to hold his hand and talk him down much like you would an LSD freak-out.”

Excerpt From: Gottschlich, Robert. “Ten Acres in Malibu".

“I can't handle him,” she goes on. “I wish I could. And I can't ask the kids to leave their jobs and families. Kathleen would in a minute but she's not strong enough.”

   “I'm here for now,” I say, trying to reassure her but it sounds like I'm on my last legs, which I am.

    “We are going to make a decision at lunch tomorrow. It's against all that I believe in but I think it might be best to put him in a nursing home.”

   That is a big decision. Huge. “Let me know what you guys decide.”

   She shakes her head vehemently. “I want you at that meeting, Robert. You're like family now. You know him better than we do almost.”

Excerpt From: Gottschlich, Robert. “Ten Acres in Malibu."

Here is a poem I wrote about Peter.

I remember your body radiating like a giant crystal.
You let me witness you as a beautiful man.
I held your hands and showered you with ever lasting love.
I can’t get you out of my head, the talks we had and what you said, You impacted me greatly for you will never know.
Till we meet again my friend, watch me, guide me, till the end
Forever you are embedded in my soul….

  He passed at 6:03 in the morning on this thirteenth day of September. The family has gathered here in the guest room as they did before.

Excerpt From: Gottschlich, Robert. “Ten Acres in Malibu.”

http://www.amazon.com/Ten-Acres-In-Ma...

A year later, my mom decided to move us to Florida to live with my grandparents. I went along; I had no say. It fit my plan well in my case. Out of sight, out of mind. Memories of my father became memories of cold, unforgiving weather, of streets piled with black ice and trash. I was a blue sky, hot sand, warm water tropical kid now. Dads didn't live in these alligator climes. There was no danger of running into a dad down here in the sunny swamp.

Excerpt From: Gottschlich, Robert. “Ten Acres in Malibu.”

“Little did I know that this job I thought of as a joke, as a means to pay the bills until my real life got started, would change my life deeply and forever.”

Excerpt From: Gottschlich, Robert. “Ten Acres in Malibu.”

“He for the most part is quiet. He doesn’t thank her for the sandwich she makes him, doesn’t answer
when she asks him something, doesn’t look at her when she stands right in front of him and smiles, her love for him so very obvious I want to kick him. She is as invisible to him as he is to Jan. That’s how it seems, anyway.  He’s so used to tuning her out, when she accidentally backs into his chair, his eyes go wide and he throws up his arm to ward her off as if she’s someone he’s never seen before. Dementia, I remind myself. It’s a wicked thing.”

Excerpt From: Gottschlich, Robert. “Ten Acres in Malibu.”

“I am lying in bed, worn out, sleep deprived but I can't go back to sleep, knowing that at any moment my charge will be awake. My mind is a wreck. I watch the early morning sun shoot through the blinds and dance on the Spanish tile floor. Outside, a hawk is up, circling and screeching in the morning sky.”

Excerpt From: Gottschlich, Robert. “Ten Acres in Malibu.”

“I didn’t know it then. Perhaps if I'd known better, if I had cared others who were dying, I might have had a shiver of recognition. Often, the best times in a demented patient's life, the clearest moments, the most encouraging signs of rehabilitation cruelly come just before a turn for the worse. But this turn is still ahead of us and I tuck him into bed thinking how fortunate I am to be caring for such a sweet, carefree old guy.”