One of the earliest memories I have of Dad caring for me is an image of him removing my snow boots and rubbing my tiny feet in his hands to warm them. It comes to mind whether I am just washing the sand from Dad’s feet after a beach walk or giving him his daily shower.
Since we’ve gone through gradual changes together we have a good routine for personal hygiene following the same step-by-step process for years. It typically goes smoothly and calmly. Every once in a while Dad goes to a different place, time or experience and the process requires a greater level of patience and encouragement. Dad once described it as, “When my brain works backwards.”
I’ve seen Dad’s brain work backwards many times during nighttime sleep disturbances when he is acting out his dreams and delusions which is common for Lewy Body Dementia. Interestingly, although he no longer uses more than a few words at a time when he is in the moment, during altered state episodes, he speaks full sentences and although whispering, converses with whomever he is seeing in his mind. Rather than disturb him, I often let him continue. And most of the time, even if I get him back in bed, he remains in his mind, not knowing I am with him or what we are doing in the present.
Last week, during bath time, Dad’s mind started working backwards. We always begin with toileting. When I asked Dad to sit down, he announced, “I’m a grown man!” You might think I was startled. But no. I was elated to hear his strong voice and see his independent nature. I reminded him that grown men use the toilet and asked him please. This worked. I thought the episode was over until it came time to clean his backside. Typically, he wouldn’t notice or care. This time, Dad said, “Get outta there!” which fortunately, even with a chuckle, I was able to do quickly.
Bathing was uneventful with Dad sitting on a shower chair holding the spray shower head as a distraction while I soaped him up head to toe. I softly sang one of Dad’s favorite tunes, “How in the heck can I wash my neck if it ain’t gonna rain no more…,” and again, I thought the disturbance was over.
I got Dad dried and partially dressed, then moved on to shaving as usual. When I got the shaver out, Dad firmly and loudly asked, “Do you mean you are telling me I have to shave? I’m a grown man!” Not knowing exactly what would work, I said, “We always shave after your shower Dad.” Cognitively, Dad hasn’t been able to shave himself for a few months, but I hand him the shaver. He says, “I use a different one.” This is true, I recently bought a new one, and luckily still had the old one. I got the old shaver out of the drawer and gave it to Dad. He held it, looked at it but didn’t know what to do with it. While he was distracted, I start shaving him with the new shaver.
By now, shower time had taken 20-minutes longer than usual and we still weren’t finished. Fortunately, we didn’t have to be someplace on schedule. Dad grimaced while I brushed his hair, gave me the over-his-eyeglasses look when I helped him with his dentures, and huffed while I finished dressing him.
The last thing we always do is look in the mirror. Usually I say, “There you go handsome.” On this day I said, “I’m glad you are a grown man, and I am glad you are my Dad.”
It isn’t always easy, but for me it is a privilege to care for Dad, after all he has done the same for me. I treasure the sound of his voice, and his strong independent nature he carried with so much success for most of his life. It’s nice to be reminded, “He is a grown man!
