Every night before leaving Dad, I move in close and say, “Arlabunakti” (Good night). Initially, when I started these nighttime visits, I was amazed to hear Dad reply “Arlabunakti” back to me. But you know how things go: new becomes normal. Then, one night, Dad surprised me with a next-level followup. “Kā ar buču?” (What … Continue reading Bedtime chronicles of dementia care
dementia
Nighttime rituals in dementia care
It’s my birthday, and we’re cancelling the 6:30 dinner reservation. It’s around that time when my dad wanders into other residents’ rooms and exhibits combative behaviour, something I’ve never witnessed. I’m no professional, but it seems Dad needs care and comfort, not more medication or police threats. Over the past few months, my daytime calls … Continue reading Nighttime rituals in dementia care
The call
My iPhone rings, and Dad’s face lights up the screen. “Please talk to your father,” says the personal support worker. I try to ask what and why, but the PSW interjects. “Just talk to him,” she says firmly. * I’ve received calls like this several times over the past few months. Dad doesn’t know how … Continue reading The call
Give a little bit
A lot of people ask how my dad is. I believe my dad’s as good as he gets. He’s lost the capacity to determine what he needs to feel healthy, connected and engaged. These days, he’s as good as the opportunities provided. We could be at a picnic on the beach. The August wasps dive into … Continue reading Give a little bit
Treasured connections
I recognize Dad’s voice as I exit the elevator. He’s reading a Christmas story to the ninth-floor seniors. Some are slumped in wheelchairs. A few are asleep, resting their foreheads on the table in front of them. Dad’s holding court, so to speak, because he’s king. He told me so a few days after he … Continue reading Treasured connections
Thursdays with Dad
Let’s make sure we bring Kleenex, I say to Dad as we prepare for choir practice. “Why?” he asks. Because you’re going to cry. “How do you know?” he asks. Because you always do, I say. When we started singing in the Latvian seniors’ choir, Dad would laugh and tell me there’s no way I … Continue reading Thursdays with Dad
Haircuts and potato wedges
It happens like this. She cuts his hair and they talk, just like any barber and customer. Except this is grandfather and granddaughter, they’re in the bathroom, and this is the closest they get these days. Imants Ziedonis said it best: Stroke a silver head. Grandmother, grandfather, uncle when he’s sick. And he’ll begin to … Continue reading Haircuts and potato wedges
Postcards from my brain 