Life in the Slow Lane

Bev is kind-of-sort-of becoming accustomed to life at the senior home. I say this with an air of hesitation, though, since I actually have not been to visit her yet this week. Ok, maybe it just seems like she is finally adjusting well, only because I have not sat with her for any extended period of time lately and listened to her moan about how she “has it all together” and she “will be just fine at home.” Bev still phones me frequently asking the same things over and over and over again. I have begun to save her bizarre messages on our home answering machine and on my cell phone lest anyone doubts that she truly has Alzheimer’s disease. That way I can just hit the replay button for any skeptics and it will amaze them that I have taken care of the woman for this long and have still managed to keep my sanity intact. Bev is smoking like a chimney, not using her oxygen properly, and making rude & embarrassing comments in front of the other elderly residents. I accompanied her to the dining room for lunch last week, and when she was given her plate of food, she screeched, “Look at the sh*t they expect me to eat.” (Incidentally, she ate every last bit of the sh*t.) One of her tablemates, an adorable woman named Betty, refers to Bev as "a real hoot." Well, I imagine Bev does spice up the previously mundane mealtime conversations with some outlandish, fabricated anecdotes, punctuated by her colorful language. So goes life with a disgruntled dementia patient.