Hello, friends--

An update for you on the goings-on here:

My father has Alzheimer's, and has dramatically declined in the last couple
of months. He deteriorated rapidly and wound up in the emergency room, and
was later transferred into a nursing home. Eventually we found a very nice
group home in Annandale, Virginia about 12 minutes from our home. He's been
in there just a few days now, and only in the last...oh, I dunno...9
minutes?
have I felt like I could take a deep breath again.

A nurse and former rehabilitation unit director run the home, and there are
3 caregivers there to look after the 8 residents. Good numbers; a great
ratio! It has a solid reputation among the therapists my wife Marsha knows
who have seen patients there. It's bright, attractive, clean, and on a quiet
cul-de-sac in a very pretty, residential neighborhood. He has his own room,
which we've furnished with his own recliner, TV set, table, memorabilia,
awards, photos and plaques on the walls, and an assortment of his own
clothing.

He was very resistant at first, as the idea dawned on him that this was
where he was to stay. He mentioned that he might have to hitchhike home, or
that he could get friends to come pick him up. "Who, Pop? What friends do
you mean?" we asked. "My old OSS buddies at the CIA! I can call them and
they'll come get me pronto!" he said. He can't remember what he had for
breakfast, let alone a phone number, so the notion of some spook team
parachuting in and extracting him at midnight wasn't exactly too daunting.

We tried to calm him down, and got past it by telling him that since
Medicare wouldn't pay for the nursing home any longer (and they wouldn't; 30
days is it.) and the doctor felt he needed more rest to build up his
strength and gain some weight, that this place would be perfect. "It's so
close to us, you have this nice quiet room, etc., etc." and he eventually
bought it-- thanks to the suggestions you folks made here.

I was terrified of making this final transition. The sense of... stashing
him somewhere, forcing a choice on him, was abhorrent. But he can't make
decisions any more. I have to make them, and hope not to make anything
worse.

From the hospital to the nursing home was fairly easy, as he really couldn't
distinguish between them. From the nursing home to this group home was a
real change. This place is obviously a private house, so it's been a bit
more alarming for him. He didn't want to even see his room at first. Then,
once we coaxed him downstairs, he refused to leave the room. He only wanted
to lie in bed and sleep. I spent the first night here, sleeping in a chair
next to his bed because he'd doze off and wake up and not know where he was.
He was panicky--like a kid. I calmed him down and explained where he was and
why, and that everything was all right. A very restless night for us both.

He likes the food. The three caregivers (they're sweet women, Certified
Nursing Aides from Sierra Leone and Trinidad) bring trays to his room, and
dote on him, calling him "Mr. Wayne". They all find him very charming,
despite his refusal to get out of bed or leave the room. He'd been refusing
to change his clothes or bathe, too-preferring to sleep in his clothes. It's
not possible to deal with him rationally any more. Discussing hygiene or
manners didn't work. Appealing to reason or his sense of appropriate dress
didn't work. Coaxing, wheedling, pleading, yelling, arguing-none of that
worked. Finally I suggested that the caregivers appeal to his sense of
gentlemanliness. They finally told him that no one would kiss him if he
didn't brush his teeth.

That worked, all right.

Then they told him they would all be *deported* if he didn't let them bathe
him...

That worked, too-- like a champ.

So, there's this sweet little Siamese cat named JoJo who lives at the house.
The nurse who runs the place said she'd been thinking of taking the cat away
to another facility, since none of the residents  (most of whom are pretty
low-functioning, more's the pity) showed any inclination to interact with
the cat-and the caregivers were just afraid of it. She'd hoped JoJo would
provide company for the residents, but it hasn't worked out very well.
The cat's just starved for affection and attention.

I saw it on the stairway and gave it a scratch under the chin. The poor
little thing just about turned inside out rubbing up against my hand. I went
to Pop's room and spent some time talking to him. Marsha came by to visit,
and she carried JoJo into the room with her.

"Wayne, do you like cats?", she asked.
"No. I'm more of a dog person." he said.
He hasn't had a pet in probably 40 years or more.
"Would you like to meet this cat?",  Marsha asked. "It's very friendly."
"No." he said.

She left the room, and returned 2 minutes later.
It doesn't take long for a thought to clear Pop's memory these days.
She placed JoJo on the bedside table, where he stared at Pop.
Pop stared back at him.
JoJo sort of marched in place, as if anticipating an invitation.

"Well, don't just stand there; c'mon over", said Pop.

JoJo hopped on the bed, walked back and forth along Pop's leg, and rubbed
his head against his hip. He lay down next to him and started purring.
Pop laughed and began to pet it very awkwardly, but gently.

"He's purring. I think he likes it here" he said.
In a minute, he dozed right off.
When we tiptoed out of the room, both he and the cat were asleep, and he had
his hand resting on JoJo's head.

When I phoned this afternoon to check on him, one of the ladies said,  "Your
father is *very* clean now-- *and* he came upstairs to eat, *and* he
finished all his breakfast! Later, he ate nearly all of his lunch! We are
*very* happy about that. Then he asked us for the newspaper. Then he asked
me to bring him the cat!"

God bless you, JoJo.

And strength to us all...

Jef.