The psychiatric nurse practitioner visited Muzzy today and called me afterward. Nurse mentioned in passing that there isn't much anyone can do for Lewy Bodies Disease. Like Alzheimer's, LBD is a form of dementia caused by protein buildup in the brain. An MRI or CATSCAN will not detect the protein. Only an autopsy can show for sure the diagnosis is correct.
Muzzy already takes an anti-psychotic, Serquel, and they are going to move to twice a day dosage. i guess it is the only option at this time. The hallucinations have now moved to paranoia about the staff. Sometimes meds can help with delusions, but most of the time--I think--even when the elderly take these drugs legitimately to treat symptoms it cause them to become droolers.
My own take on the delusions as symptoms focuses on the hardwiring of the human brain. More on that later.
31 August 2010
29 August 2010
28 August 2010
The Thing I Miss Most
On the cover of one of my favorite greeting cards is a cartoon with a woman, obviously the stereotypical frazzled housewife-mother at the end of a very long day/week, collapsed on the couch in a room that is cluttered with everything everyone has drug out and not put away. The caption reads, "The thing I miss most around here"; and inside it says, "is my mind." I think this is my favorite card because I've so often felt that way.
How many times have I opened the mail, answered a distraction (phone, door, child, text) , and turned back to the mail only to find that I can't find the overdue bill I had in my hand? And where's my coffee? Why did I come into this room? Where are my car keys?
When the mind truly is missing it doesn't look like that at all. And it isn't funny. Visit a nursing home--a long-term care facility--where many minds have gone missing. Okay, so in order to endure the visit, I do find some humor amidst the disoriented minds that attempt conversations.
My own mother's mind seems to be fractured. One day more of it is missing than another. Like swiss cheese brain that rotates around, lettting a bit of the memory pass through one minute, but the lucid moment vanishes the next as the cheese moves. Gives "Who moved my cheese?" a whole new meaning for me.
Right now Muzzy (my mother) believes that a man named Will Claire d'Lune wants to marry her. He has been trying to visit her and give her a ring for six months. One or another things keeps him from finding her. His mother's name is Ruth d'Lune. Will is a choir master. A choir of women accompanies him wherever he goes. That's how she knows he wants to visit, as a matter of fact. The choir of women sings about it, filling her in on where he is and when he will be arriving. Except that he never arrives.
Will has a ring for my mother. An engagement ring. Big diamond. I can tell by the lilt in her voice when she describes the ring that she can't wait for Will to bring it to her. She's been talking about this for nearly the whole six months. But Will has not been able to get in to see her.
Yesterday, Muzzy told me that two women in the nursing home believe the ring is theirs. One of them is going to file a law suit.
Sometimes the choir sings songs. I remember a few months ago her excitement in telling me they sang "Old Man River" in four part harmony. A few men joined them for that song. Must have been brilliant. She sounded impressed.
A piece of my mind gets lost each time I visit. Though I'm trying to hang on to my senses, the incredibly imaginative delusions challenge me to remain objective. This is my mother. This is my mother in old age. This is my future.
How many times have I opened the mail, answered a distraction (phone, door, child, text) , and turned back to the mail only to find that I can't find the overdue bill I had in my hand? And where's my coffee? Why did I come into this room? Where are my car keys?
When the mind truly is missing it doesn't look like that at all. And it isn't funny. Visit a nursing home--a long-term care facility--where many minds have gone missing. Okay, so in order to endure the visit, I do find some humor amidst the disoriented minds that attempt conversations.
My own mother's mind seems to be fractured. One day more of it is missing than another. Like swiss cheese brain that rotates around, lettting a bit of the memory pass through one minute, but the lucid moment vanishes the next as the cheese moves. Gives "Who moved my cheese?" a whole new meaning for me.
Right now Muzzy (my mother) believes that a man named Will Claire d'Lune wants to marry her. He has been trying to visit her and give her a ring for six months. One or another things keeps him from finding her. His mother's name is Ruth d'Lune. Will is a choir master. A choir of women accompanies him wherever he goes. That's how she knows he wants to visit, as a matter of fact. The choir of women sings about it, filling her in on where he is and when he will be arriving. Except that he never arrives.
Will has a ring for my mother. An engagement ring. Big diamond. I can tell by the lilt in her voice when she describes the ring that she can't wait for Will to bring it to her. She's been talking about this for nearly the whole six months. But Will has not been able to get in to see her.
Yesterday, Muzzy told me that two women in the nursing home believe the ring is theirs. One of them is going to file a law suit.
Sometimes the choir sings songs. I remember a few months ago her excitement in telling me they sang "Old Man River" in four part harmony. A few men joined them for that song. Must have been brilliant. She sounded impressed.
A piece of my mind gets lost each time I visit. Though I'm trying to hang on to my senses, the incredibly imaginative delusions challenge me to remain objective. This is my mother. This is my mother in old age. This is my future.
26 July 2010
Like Cornography but with a P
Evidently the number of corn but with a P websites on the Internet number high in the millions. I don't want to spell cornography with a P because it will result in no end of unwanted everything. So many many others have estimated the number of corn sites with numbers that defy imagination. What can we imagine as corn with a P anyway? And what's wrong with corn with a P, by the way, you might ask. If you have to ask, you haven't been paying attention.
Some may have to ask and want to know first what corn with a P is--how do we know it's corn with P? Do we answer, well, we can't define it, but we know it when we see it?
I believe the definition stands to reason. And reason lurks well beyond the corn with a P fan's ability. The surgeon general has a warning on cigarrettes that tells people smoking causes problems for their health. We know it can cause early death and lots of pain. But people smoke anyway. We don't, these days, allow them to smoke in public places. Why? Because it takes away the rights others have to not have their safety and health endangered by nincompoops. Same with corn spelled with a P. Science tells us that corn with a P is dangerous. Harms people. Demeans people. Uses people. Treats human beings as objects rather than persons.
What can lower the esteem and worth and value of a person more than being used for the sheer pleasure of others? Do we have a right to treat others badly? Even if they allow us to treat them badly? What if we pay them cash money to let us treat them badly, lower their worth as human beings? What role do we play in stopping others from treating people badly?
If studies prove absolutely that having a value only for the pleasure of someone else, harms an individual, stunts the ability to form relationships, permeates the very soul of a person who is treated as an object such that he/she fails to see the "self" as worthy of love, would we be horrified? Especially if the object of pleasure has not had time to develop, say, beyond childhood, would we be horrified? Most of us would be. The 21st century corn sources have gone beyond magazines for men, hidden in the garage or bottom drawer. They exist as sexually explicit images, text, and everything in between or in combination all over the Internet and elsewhere. Who dares complain about it? Lest they be called closed minded. Criticized for being prudish. Labeled as uptight. Accused of restraining the artist with a message. Damned for violating the rights of someone else's freedom of speech.
What happened to the right of each human being to be a person, respected for being an individual with value and worth well beyond the pleasure they offer others?
Some may have to ask and want to know first what corn with a P is--how do we know it's corn with P? Do we answer, well, we can't define it, but we know it when we see it?
I believe the definition stands to reason. And reason lurks well beyond the corn with a P fan's ability. The surgeon general has a warning on cigarrettes that tells people smoking causes problems for their health. We know it can cause early death and lots of pain. But people smoke anyway. We don't, these days, allow them to smoke in public places. Why? Because it takes away the rights others have to not have their safety and health endangered by nincompoops. Same with corn spelled with a P. Science tells us that corn with a P is dangerous. Harms people. Demeans people. Uses people. Treats human beings as objects rather than persons.
What can lower the esteem and worth and value of a person more than being used for the sheer pleasure of others? Do we have a right to treat others badly? Even if they allow us to treat them badly? What if we pay them cash money to let us treat them badly, lower their worth as human beings? What role do we play in stopping others from treating people badly?
If studies prove absolutely that having a value only for the pleasure of someone else, harms an individual, stunts the ability to form relationships, permeates the very soul of a person who is treated as an object such that he/she fails to see the "self" as worthy of love, would we be horrified? Especially if the object of pleasure has not had time to develop, say, beyond childhood, would we be horrified? Most of us would be. The 21st century corn sources have gone beyond magazines for men, hidden in the garage or bottom drawer. They exist as sexually explicit images, text, and everything in between or in combination all over the Internet and elsewhere. Who dares complain about it? Lest they be called closed minded. Criticized for being prudish. Labeled as uptight. Accused of restraining the artist with a message. Damned for violating the rights of someone else's freedom of speech.
What happened to the right of each human being to be a person, respected for being an individual with value and worth well beyond the pleasure they offer others?
27 June 2010
What it's like being in the world of publishing, or not... according to Garrison Keillor and me.
A fellow former acquisitions editor for a local publishing house sent me the following link to one of Garrison Kiellor's former posts.
Interesting (fairly brief) column by Garrison Keillor on publishing.
We were acquisitions editors once; now we've moved on to new career paths, some might say more respectable, depending on the publishing house, I suppose. I responded to my colleague and to Garrison with my own take on the fate of traditional publishing and the acquisition of authors for "house stable":
We almost traveled in that world, you and I, when the likes of inspiring religious authors like Paul C. awaited our calls and emails, rolling new ideas around in their minds so to be ready to let them roll and flow off their tongues hoping to grab our interest, land a contract with three figure author advances and escalating royalties on the first 500 copies flying off the shelves to those readers oh so eager to find a path to heightened spiritual awareness and answers to the questions burning in their hearts and souls, but now others sit in our places at the cocktail parties in Barnhart smiling coyly across the table near the door at GiGi's writing down every word uttered by this being of higher thought and pure holiness, like Joe K., Joan C., Sean M., Andrew C. W., and so many others, watching the cars pass along the freeway of Jefferson County under the crystal blue skies just north of Crystal City in America's heartland where people still read books because the internet has not yet come over power lines, cable wires, and cell phone towers, home of the brave and last remaining Christians, not many of whom are Roman in their beliefs, and at the end of the shared meal, bread broken, hearts stirred, the new editors shake hands, maybe hugging with the pastorally correct one arm, those monks, brothers, sisters, and clergy, a few lay Christian writers, promising to call or email and invite them for further conservations which will certainly include the marketing minds ever vigilant to sell the five-hundred and first copy for which the author will earn extra royalties and be able to buy an extra gallon of gasoline, as prices for fuel rise faster than the incense upon the altars of worship of which they write.
Interesting (fairly brief) column by Garrison Keillor on publishing.
We were acquisitions editors once; now we've moved on to new career paths, some might say more respectable, depending on the publishing house, I suppose. I responded to my colleague and to Garrison with my own take on the fate of traditional publishing and the acquisition of authors for "house stable":
We almost traveled in that world, you and I, when the likes of inspiring religious authors like Paul C. awaited our calls and emails, rolling new ideas around in their minds so to be ready to let them roll and flow off their tongues hoping to grab our interest, land a contract with three figure author advances and escalating royalties on the first 500 copies flying off the shelves to those readers oh so eager to find a path to heightened spiritual awareness and answers to the questions burning in their hearts and souls, but now others sit in our places at the cocktail parties in Barnhart smiling coyly across the table near the door at GiGi's writing down every word uttered by this being of higher thought and pure holiness, like Joe K., Joan C., Sean M., Andrew C. W., and so many others, watching the cars pass along the freeway of Jefferson County under the crystal blue skies just north of Crystal City in America's heartland where people still read books because the internet has not yet come over power lines, cable wires, and cell phone towers, home of the brave and last remaining Christians, not many of whom are Roman in their beliefs, and at the end of the shared meal, bread broken, hearts stirred, the new editors shake hands, maybe hugging with the pastorally correct one arm, those monks, brothers, sisters, and clergy, a few lay Christian writers, promising to call or email and invite them for further conservations which will certainly include the marketing minds ever vigilant to sell the five-hundred and first copy for which the author will earn extra royalties and be able to buy an extra gallon of gasoline, as prices for fuel rise faster than the incense upon the altars of worship of which they write.
28 April 2010
TheTitling Tilting Planet
Today I took a big step. Not just a step, but a leap beyond what I ever thought possible. With all my strength of heart, mind, and body, I took three bins filled with magazine to the recycling center. In particular, this trip to the center takes on grave significance because contained in these bins were National Geographic magazines.
I am not sure what they do with these magazines in the recycling process. The weight of 4 decades of National Geographic issues moved from one place to another could quite possibly shift the tilt of the planet.
If tomorrow, your juice glass slides across the breakfast table you'll know why.
note: thanks Anna, I need an editor!
I am not sure what they do with these magazines in the recycling process. The weight of 4 decades of National Geographic issues moved from one place to another could quite possibly shift the tilt of the planet.
If tomorrow, your juice glass slides across the breakfast table you'll know why.
note: thanks Anna, I need an editor!
10 February 2010
Puppies in the Sky
On a briskly cold St. Louis day, one small boy's dream came true. Standing at the top of Art Hill, he looked out upon the world as far as a small boy could see. Snow. One steep hill, one blue plastic toboggan, and nothing but hay stacks below.
One push and he sailed down the perfectly snow packed hill, bouncing gently over the bumps in the earth below the snow. All the way to the bottom, the wind kissed his cheeks making them ruby read to match his nose. Ice cold snow-spray kicked up from the heels that dug into the snow, painted his jacket and hat white with frost. The heels dug deeper and the toboggan carrying one small boy pounded into the hay stacks. He giggled with joy, as he fell over backward onto the soft compacted snow. "Look," he exclaimed as his eyes scanned the brilliant blue sky, "puppy clouds in the sky. This is the best day ever."
09 February 2010
Lettin' It Snow
New house, new job, and new lease on life. Mother Nature provided me with another pajama day, as the snow keeps falling and what melts in the sun on the pavement turns immediately to ice. One totally free week before starting the new job could be spent packing books and drawers for the coming move, but snow days have rules, and one of them is "If it was a day you'd go to work or school and it snows on this day, sitting around reading is expected." Fortunately, I went to the library yesterday and gathered a bog o' books just to follow this rule.
Titles:
Making and Keeping Creative Journals
Write Away: One Novelist's Approach to Fiction and the Writing Life, Elizabeth George
A Moment on the edge, ed. Elizabeth George
New Media in Late 20th Century Art, Michael Rush
Darwin's Watch: The Science of Discworld, Terry Pratchett
And four periodicals:
Interior Design, Nov. 2009
ART NEWS, Oct. 2009
Psychology Today, August 2009
ditto, Nov./Dec. 2009
Still on the bed-side table: Elain Viets' Clubbed to Death fun and easy read, started reading it after returning from our winter respite in Miami.
No more EPDs, no more PAWs, no more meetings waiting for the other shoe to fall, and no more wondering what's going on behind those closed doors.
Enjoy a house tour with Jon
Titles:
Making and Keeping Creative Journals
Write Away: One Novelist's Approach to Fiction and the Writing Life, Elizabeth George
A Moment on the edge, ed. Elizabeth George
New Media in Late 20th Century Art, Michael Rush
Darwin's Watch: The Science of Discworld, Terry Pratchett
And four periodicals:
Interior Design, Nov. 2009
ART NEWS, Oct. 2009
Psychology Today, August 2009
ditto, Nov./Dec. 2009
Still on the bed-side table: Elain Viets' Clubbed to Death fun and easy read, started reading it after returning from our winter respite in Miami.
No more EPDs, no more PAWs, no more meetings waiting for the other shoe to fall, and no more wondering what's going on behind those closed doors.
Enjoy a house tour with Jon
03 January 2010
Tis the season to read
On the reading list through this past long holiday break with no metro, bolo, dodo have been some lengthy and inspirational books:
In Due Season, by Paul Wilkes
Circling My Mother, by Mary Gordon
Pearl, by Mary Gordon
What the Dog Saw, by Malcolm Gladwell
How Big Is Your God?, by Paul Coutinho, SJ
The Cavalier of the Apocalypse, by Susanne Alleyn
The Lacuna, by Barbara Kingsolver.
Spiritual quests : the art and craft of religious writing, compilation of essays
None of them disappointing.
And several movies well worth watching: The Hours, Star Trek,Sherlock Holmes.
Tomorrow, metro, bolo, dolo, to do what I do: read manuscripts that will be books. The life of an English/Literature major: read, read, read. Read until the right time comes to write.
In Due Season, by Paul Wilkes
Circling My Mother, by Mary Gordon
Pearl, by Mary Gordon
What the Dog Saw, by Malcolm Gladwell
How Big Is Your God?, by Paul Coutinho, SJ
The Cavalier of the Apocalypse, by Susanne Alleyn
The Lacuna, by Barbara Kingsolver.
Spiritual quests : the art and craft of religious writing, compilation of essays
None of them disappointing.
And several movies well worth watching: The Hours, Star Trek,Sherlock Holmes.
Tomorrow, metro, bolo, dolo, to do what I do: read manuscripts that will be books. The life of an English/Literature major: read, read, read. Read until the right time comes to write.
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