Peep Massacre

It's been such a crazy week for us. The Supreme Court hearings about DOMA and Prop 8, vigils, news media, and of course work and kids and getting ready for Easter, and a BBQ, and Casper, and daily life. There was just too much by Wednesday, and usually too much doesn't hit until Friday. That's never good, because I am gone all day and too far to come home, but at least we get to Friday.

Yesterday we had dinner plans and a news channel coming to see us about DOMA. Casper could not get out of bed. Tremors, shakes, and confusion reigned. I am careful now ot wake her several times before I leave for work to remind her where she is, what day it is, and to show her my schedule. By nine in the morning she was calling me, oblivious to the meeting I was in. "Where are you? I need you home. I'm not OK." It was the one day I could not leave the office. There were conflicts afoot, and I had to wait it out to address them. I had to present an inservice. We talked about it three times that morning, and the days beforehand. Yesterday, there was a cloud of confusion, and fear. Pure fear.

"Please come. Please?"

"As soon as I can. I promise. Sleep some more. When you wake up I will be there." Her words are slurred, garbled, and she's having trouble finding them.

With the meeting over and stuff resolved, and in a black cloud of a mood because of it, I raced home. Lunch half hour is now the lunch commute home. In a hurry. Traffic is my nemesis.

Casper is shaking, confused, not sure what day it is, when I left, why I left. We get her into the car after a few missed steps. Five minutes later, she's like a mad toddler. "I wanna go home. I'm all shaky. Let's go home."

"I need to see this patient. Then I promise. But I have to do this first. Please?"

"I don't know if I can..."

I pray, hard. I see my patient. And then we go home, again, before I am off to the next one. Casper is safely in bed before I leave. "Do not go down the stairs. Promise?"

Dinner out dissolves for her, as does the day. The TV crew doesn't meet her. The night is a wash of confusion and reorientation. I use every trick in my training to keep things calm and get her back to the moment, over and over and over. I find myself getting used to it, and see that the look in her eye is still just as loving, and even more secure in the knowledge that I am not going anywhere, that she is safe. The kids, and extra kids, come and go, and she tries like crazy to know who they are and to smile. She wants it to be OK. As she tries to sleep, she tells me she wants her life back. So do I. I want us to be us again, like we used to be.

Today, I awakened to a look of panic, and exhaustion. Garbled words...

"My parents were here. They helped me. I flooded the house. The cleaned it up with me."

Your parents? They are buried in North Carolina. How do I approach this? I can barely think I am so tired from last night.

"The house was flooded? Here, or back home?" No challenge to the facts, just getting more specific.

"Here. I flooded...Flood...down...downstairs." The words are barely intelligible.

"It's all cleaned up? Was it nice to see them?"

"Yes, they helped me. You needed sleep."

So it's Easter week, when Linda usually is around in her own way, and now Casper's parents are visiting too. We may need to add a wing. How do you do that for angels? And then a second thought- did I have my nightie down and not in hot flash mode when they were in our room? (It's OK to laugh in the midst of craziness. It actually helps).

Casper doesn't want to tide today, so I get her resettled. Or so I thought. I stop by a couple of hours later between visits, and the kids look worried.
"
"Mom, Casper went outside. She fell. She called for help. She couldn't get up."

Crap. Yes, I know. Ask someone with dementia on a bad day not to go somewhere and expect them to follow directions and remember? Nobody ever said I had all the sandwiches needed for a picnic.

Casper is in bed. Words are not coming again. She looks like a six year old in trouble. "Did the kids tell on me?"

Oh yeah,, they did. "They were worried." "I can handle it." "I can see that."Back to lucid for a bit. Casper has ideas about how to make Peeps decorations, my newest Easter obsession. Except the ideas does not gel well. I promise to get stuff that will work. She looks excited.

Back home later, I show her the goodies. Then I discover we need more Peeps. Apparently the PD sweet tooth has caused a massacre of the Peeps I just bought. Casper isn't wearing lip gloss- she's wearing Peeps! Tomorrow night we will make Peeps decorations after Good Friday services. She's happy. Then worried. "But tomorrow is Easter." Five minutes ago it was Thursday. I know time flies, but not all the way to Sunday. I force my shoulders, which are tightening, to relax.

"Nope, tomorrow we get ready for Easter!" An hour later I am getting ready to leave again, and Casper is surprised I am here. "How did you get in?" I almost said I used my transporter. I check myself. "Want to ride to Beaumont?" A cute smile- I think I see what Casper looked like when she was a little girl. It makes me smile and feel sad at the same time.

"Yes, let's go."

"Wait- what day is it again?"