The May Gap

       It’s 3 p.m. 

      “Let’s go!”

     “Go where?’  Woops!  That’s a question.  Can’t ask direct questions.

     “Someone needs to tell me where to go.”

     No answer, maybe a shrug and grimace, maybe a “I don’t know.”

     But go we must.  I looked for back streets and residential areas where I could putt along at 20-miles per hour.  I could be a Uber driver or go to work for UPS or a pizza place that delivers.  I’ve seen places around town that I didn’t know existed.  I have toured a section of Fort Collins with names from the Eastern Planes,  Akron, Limon, and Arriba. No Genoa, yet.

     After 45 minutes or so, I would try returning home.  Ten minutes in the house and  I would hear, “Let’s go!” or maybe “We’d better be going.”  Many times, her arms would be full of something rolled up in a blanket or maybe pictures taken from the wall, stuff we mustn’t leave behind, we must take with us.

     Attempts to prepare something to eat would be interrupted with demands to do something, usually leave, go somewhere.  Shut off the stove and go.

      Going out to eat became risky.  Once, as we sat waiting for our meals, she became increasingly agitated.  Trying to find causes for behaviors was , and is, a major consumer of my time.  In this case, some girls sitting in a nearby booth were having a good time, laughing and joking.

      The Goodwife was sure they were laughing at her.  She became increasingly agitated. She rose and started to go for those girls.  I blocked her exit from the booth we were sitting in.  She became loud and abusive, turning her wrath on me. 

     The manager came over and I asked her to change our order to “to go”.  The manager and waiter got things ready to go as fast as they could.  Using one hand and holding her back with the other, I fished out a credit card, signed the slip, and the manager helped us to the door.

      The end came on a Tuesday night while I was at the weekly meeting of the barbershop singers.  I got a phone call and I rushed out of the meeting and headed for the bingo site where a lady had volunteered to take her.

     The lady has lived with cerebral palsy all her life.  She is small in stature and not sure on her feet.  When I arrived on site, a friend of the caregiver had helped soothe the savage beast.  I soon learned that the Goodwife had knocked the caregiver over in the parking lot when she tried to keep her from running away.  

      I thanked the friend, I apologized to the caregiver lady, and I got the goodwife into the car.  I knew I had to do something.  I couldn’t go on this way.

      Three different people suggested I have her tested for a UTI, a urinary tract infection.  After three days of trying to reach our neurologist with no response, I turned to our personal physician.  Not much fun, as under the new company he now is contracted to, you cannot reach his office.  Instead, you have to do everything through Arizona headquarters.

      Finally, we got an appointment at an urgent care facility where the “pilot fish” lady that does all the preliminary work for the doctor, got the Goodwife into a restroom and managed to collect a urine sample.

     As we sat waiting for the doctor, I read all about diabetes on a poster on the wall.  When the doctor came, he said there was indeed an infection, a “mild” one he said.  He prescribed an antibiotic to be taken for four days.  He also said she was dehydrated.

    “Getting her to drink water is a chore,” I said.

     “What will she drink?”

     “ A little coffee, maybe some tea, Coke.”

     “Give her Coke or Gatorade or anything she will drink.”

     “I just read all the evils of sweets,” I said and gestured to the poster on the wall.

     “Doesn’t matter.  She needs liquid.  Give her all the Coke she will drink.”

     We picked up pills at the pharmacy and took one immediately.  It didn’t help much.  That evening, I was tired from going.  I resisted the call to go somewhere until about 9, when I realized it might be a long night if I didn’t get  her settled down, so we went out at 9 and drove around.  It didn’t help much.

        When I pulled back into the garage 45 minutes later, she refused to get out of the car.  I left her sitting in the car.

      As she had been a flight risk, I had previously rigged up an extension cord and plugged the garage doors into it.  When I pull the extension plug out of the outlet, the garage doors won’t open unless you pull the emergency cord and open them manually.

     She was sitting in the dark in the car in the garage.  I went to shower.  When I came back, she was out of the car wandering around in the garage and had settled down a lot.  I managed to get her into bed and that was the end of that day, a Thursday.

             Meanwhile, another suggestion came from friends at Dementia Together.  Try CBD gummies.  The cerebral palsy lady agreed.  She said she had used them for years and they helped her.

      On Friday, we called on the local CBD store.  I had just about made up my mind to walk on by, because I really couldn’t see the store itself, only the signs.  As we passed by, a young guy came along and asked if we were looking for the CBD store. 

     I was a little worried about taking her into a place where there might be a crowd or noise, but the young guy wouldn’t take “no” for an answer, so we followed him up the stairs and into the store.  We were the only people in there. 

      There followed a brief explanation of the types of CBD and the benefits.  Always the skeptical one, I though, “Yeah, right,” to myself, but then what did I have to lose.  We bought a small bottle of Peach-flavored gummies that had both CBD and CBC in them. 

     When we got out to the car, I took the bottle out of the box, broke the seal under the cap and gave the Goodwife one.  They were so good she wanted another, but I managed to delay that. 

    We took a little run up to Carter Lake, visited with a man with a dog, always an attraction for “us.”   We went home for about 30 minutes before going to the bar where the 96-year-old guy plays.  We were at the lounge until after 9 p.m., ate, visited, had a good time.  No sign of agitation or anger.

     It was our miracle day.  There hadn’t been a peaceful day for a long time.  Was it too good to be true?  Would I have to reconsider my opinion that such stuff was another form of snake oil?

     Saturday came and went with only minor disturbances.  We ran through the antibiotics and continued to use the gummies.  There have been days when we used two gummies a day.  It hasn’t been perfect, but when I look back on it, it still seems a miracle that I don’t have to deal constantly with “Let’s go!”

      How did I live with it?  The truth is I was seriously considering memory care for her.  I couldn’t deal with that kind of stress day after day. 

     I have since found some good help for three to five days a week.  We are managing.  Life goes on.