#caregiver life - Meanderings

August 17, 2022 No Regrets

We wheeled him across the street. One helium balloon already declaring in bright, bobbing shiny proclamation: “It’s My Birthday”.

He was well dressed. I was told that when he was asked what he wanted to wear he had only said: “Blue”. He was dressed in a lovely blue shirt, gray dress pants and dark blue slipper shoes. He was well groomed having just had a haircut five days before. He smelled nice.

Destination was the Italian restaurant a short block away. All was ready including the 14 guests that would celebrate this special day.

“How old am I?” The voice was tentative, slightly raspy, low and slow. The once talkative man was showing the ravages of Alzheimer’s and the onset of aphasia which began just two weeks before. The rock had become shifting sand.

“Today you are 90 years old”. The still bright eyes opened widely and the ghost of that most beautiful mischievous smile broke through. “That… no, you 90 too?”

There was laughter.

There was laughter as a favourite niece got him speaking German, and Dutch then it doubled in volume when he answered in Swedish.

The food was great, the conversation lively and the 90 year old man was happy to be the VIP, the celebrant, the focus of all around him.

A conglomeration of cards, balloons, flowers, odd items surrounded his plate. There were pop-ups, noise makers, puzzles, musical renditions of the birthday song all coming from the cards, gifts and trinkets. More helium balloons decked his chair, tied to show off the witty sayings displayed on them.

He did not say much. Each question was passed on to his wife with: “You tell them”. When she answered with an encouraging word or mnemonic aid to have him join in answering he would nod or say one or two words. And he smiled.

It was a very happy occasion and for three hours his usual tiny sliver of view of the world became a whole pie. He ate. He drank. He smiled. He saw the entire street. The cars, the bus, the gardens, the small plaza were seen at earth level, not from the constricted view from his third floor window.

Those who had not seen him for a while marveled at how well he looked. He reached for my hand and held it even as I fed him.

There was a parade going back to the home. It was a celebration.

His place at the table was crowded with his birthday gifts so some had to go into his room. The noisiest, brightest, most comical pop-up cards were shown around to his companions in the room. Flowers were on the window sill. There was no guessing who the birthday guy was as his chair was festooned with the bright helium balloons. Many came by to look and those who could, chatted, touched, stroked and wished him a Happy Birthday. Then everyone had cake with tea.

“Okay sweetheart. See you soon”.

“Bye, my Paula, soon.” It was the clearest he had spoken all day. He was my Bert.

August 17, 2023

It could have been bleak. It was not. It was filled with happy memories and I was happy to recall the last birthday party. We had no idea then that in 39 days that world view would expand to encompass the entire universe. None of his guests knew then that the next time they saw him would be for another celebration, of a life well spent.

This year his birthday party is with the stars while I was treated with lunch at a friend’s home. There was love, and I marveled at how much the world, life, business, pleasure, sadness and joy, like glass in a kaleidoscope, shifts and reassembles as you adapt to a new reality.

We walked down to the lovely creek that meanders through the property. There has been so much rain it is the fullest I have seen the water. It had risen to be lapping at the footbridge and as it rushed with musical notes to the lake it seemed to say: “You done good, girl”.

The Meander: Yes, I have.

Muted and Fading

The wheelchair is in the usual place beside the window. The view is the same. It is that very narrow slice of the world comprised of the patio, the gardens, over the street to the restaurant, a parking lot and backyards. The passing vehicular traffic provides the only change in scenery.

Walking up to the wheelchair I see my Bert, head upright with eyes closed but not asleep.

“Good morning my darling. How’s my Bert today?” The eyes open slowly. I smile and a tentative smile is returned. I whisper “I love you” close to his ear and he nods his head.

My Bert no longer utters even one word. He no longer speaks. The man who would laugh when I told him that one formula for our happy marriage was that he talked and I listened is now muted.

I begin to describe the scene in front of him as with advancing macular degeneration I am not sure that he sees even that narrow world with any clarity. He reaches for my hand and then we play the usual game. As I try to take my hand away he tightens his grip. He smiles when I cannot get loose but this game is no longer usual. There was a time not long ago when I had difficulty loosening his grip. Now I am half pretending. I still my hand and he hangs on now rubbing my thumb up and down, up and down.

He has said nothing. He is permanently muted.

The birthday balloons are still hanging by the window. They hover half-heartedly. I had wanted to discard those two weeks before but when I told him I would put them in the garbage my Bert shook his head.

Today as I look at them and see the slow seeping out of the gas, look at their wrinkling softness and see them drooping towards the ground, I see them as a metaphor for my Bert. He too is losing his gas, his vitality; he too is wrinkling, shrinking and losing weight. He too is losing strength and settling into an unhealthy softness.

I am seeing Alzheimer’s Bert today. The disease is taking my Bert. He does not walk, he does not talk and he lethargically succumbs to having everything done for him and to him. He understands when asked to open his mouth for the next drink or spoonful of food. He nods, he shakes his head he clamps his teeth when he does not want to eat. He is not eating well anymore so he gets meal replacement supplements. He drinks better than he eats. I am grateful for that.

I find that living in ‘smalls’ is becoming more important as the ‘smalls’ are getting smaller. Just six weeks ago the small joy was the brightening smile and the shout “That’s my wife. That’s my Paula” as I entered the room. Now it is that tentative smile and the holding of hands.

I am getting used to Alzheimer’s muted Bert. I am getting used to Alzheimer’s Bert who can hardly keep his eyes open and the Alzheimer’s Bert that is the epitome of weariness.

I sing to my Bert and show my love the best I can. I overreact at the smile, the nods, the eyes that open one at a time or together. I praise a clean plate and emptied glass. I compliment his attire, his hair, his clean shaven face, his smile.

And I grieve.

My Bert is fading.

The Meander: I am beginning to wonder when enough is enough. The heart and the mind are in a constant battle.

MEET THE AUTHOR (Come say hello, if you can)

AUTHOR SIGNING EVENT

Indigo Books Burlington Centre – Store #977

777 Guelph Line

Burlington, ON

905-639-8860

September 25, 2022

11-5pm

90 Going On 2

I asked Alzheimer’s: “Is this the last birthday?” It did not answer. There are some things even more mysterious than Alzheimer’s and beyond its reach.

Going on two is a misnomer. The reversal of life that is a hallmark of dementia means that the operative words are ‘going on’. A two year old child is more animated, more rambunctious, more vital, more mischievous and more aware than my Bert. Yet all those adjectives are applicable to him too. Add strong, resilient, great teaser, fun and you get an idea of my Bert the old man/child – when.

August is the busiest birthday month. There are more birthdays to remember than days in the month. There is one particular day which has four birthdays.

August is special too, as the two most important men in my life are both August men, both Leos and both precious. They are my husband and our son.

August 2022 is noteworthy for my husband as he celebrates his 90th birthday. To mark the occasion 15 family and close friends gathered for lunch. The food was good, the company great, the conversation flowing and the focus all on my Bert.

It was a far cry from the blockbuster parties of years gone by because my Bert is 90 going on two. Alzheimer’s is to be blamed for that cruel reversal. The voluble, smart, life of the party, consummate host, charming Bert is almost mute. That’s aphasia. Just three weeks before he was talking up a storm but as that darn Mr. Murphy and his law would have it, he had lost the art of speaking by the time his birthday came around. He still says the odd word, with coercion, but you now notice the difficulty of pronunciation and how at times what he wants to say comes out garbled and sounding strange.

He nodded, he smiled, he understood. He did not go to sleep, nor show disinterest. He played with his niece, our son and daughter-in-law and held on to all hands. He still has a firm grip. He remained alert yet it was a day that he was more Alzheimer’s Bert than my Bert. I hope I was able to hide the sadness.

The man/child was happy as the birthday cards came out. There were cards that sang, talked, cards with dogs in a conga line, cards which lit up, 3-D cards, cards that popped, unfolded and were filled with pictures and photographs and other conversation starters. There were helium balloons that now decorate the sliver which is his world. They will remain as long as they are afloat, withering away slowly, fading, losing their substance and drifting to the ground, mirroring the slow decline and loss of heft of my Bert.

At 90 every day is worth a birthday celebration.

At two you are allowed to be happy every day looking forward in anticipation for what comes next. The future is before you. The sky is the limit.

At 90 my Bert lives just for this day. The present is always the only now and it is fleeting.

The Meander: Happy Birthday, darling. What a wonderful life. Your past is filled with amazing memories that you no longer can recall. No matter, I’ll remember for you.

New Routine

After my Bert’s second bout of pneumonia a new greeting routine emerged. I had told a few people about how ill he was and all sympathized and asked me to greet my Bert with a hello, a hug and good wishes from them. I did.

As he recovered and I still got the greetings I would lean over and give him a kiss as I called the name of the person who sent the good wishes. He liked that though I am rather non-plussed at figuring out what he’s feeling as he gets those little pecks through a mask. I noticed too, that as soon as I entered he would lift his head, lips already pursed for the little kisses.

Thus was born the new routine. Now each day the first activity, whether he is my Bert or Alzheimer Bert, is to give him a little peck and call the name of the person who sent him the kiss, or hug, or greeting. Dear friends, you do not know this but if you should suddenly have ringing ears and you wonder who is calling your name, it could be me.

I usually begin with the usual suspects who send a daily greeting- family, close friends and neighbours, but I am the author of my own troubles as I decided he would get ten per day. I pluck names out of the air from among our many friends and although he will not remember the names from one day to the next, I will. For variety I call random names to go with each kiss.

My Bert loves this new routine. The last kiss is always from me after which he will ask: “Do I know them?”

“Of course you do. If they came in right now you would recognize them. They are our friends.” He gives a nod of satisfaction and smiles. Ah! the glory of therapeutic lying! It is one of the best tools in a caregiver’s tool box.

The new routine has also honed a hithertofore unknown talent of kissing through a mask. I notice that I am not the only caregiver that has now perfected this new talent. I can hardly suppress the giggles as these masked little kisses occur all around. What a talent.

Next is talking but only if my Bert wants to talk. If the day is a my Bert day then the conversation is happy, quite fast, certainly rambling and full of laughter. If it is an Alzheimer Bert day there may be silence, a nap, or awake with eyes closed but always holding hands.

It is then time to prepare for lunch or dinner depending on which meal I choose to lend a hand. First the garment protector aka the bib is put on. His drinks arrive first. There is milk, juice and water followed by soup at lunch, then the entrée consisting of protein, carbohydrate, vegetables and dessert.

It is no longer the new routine. My Bert has a good appetite and will rouse himself to have his meal. Although he can feed himself he will not do so when I am there. He drinks by himself but I must feed him the soup, entrée and dessert. We have that down to a fine art and it doesn’t matter if he’s animated or not.

There is one consistent action. After his meal whether it is my Bert or Alzheimer Bert he will usually doze off with a smile on his face, hands lightly clasped on his stomach. He’s content. I cannot ask for anything more.

I will not ask for anything more. I just want so much more. As I watch him doze I’ll recall that well know short version of the Serenity Prayer:

“God grant me the serenity

to accept the things I cannot change:

Courage to change the things I can;

And wisdom to know the difference.”

The Meander: I pray for wisdom but nefarious, insidious, devastating Alzheimer’s is wickedly wiser. The things I can change are becoming less and less each day so courage is on life support but acceptance is big and bold and serenely beautiful.

Living In Reverse

Today this is the exact report for my journal under the heading: My Bert.

The Care Conference went very well today. My Bert got a great report. If he was in grade school he would receive an A+.

What is even more important is that I gave the Home a very good mark also. My questions (I had notes) were all answered. My concerns were addressed and we arrived at solutions that were agreeable to all parties.

My Bert is eating well at 70 -100% of his meals. He eats 100% when I am with him and he is well hydrated as he drinks his liquids. We found a simple solution to my concerns about week four of the four week eating rotation.

The doctor was as usual professional, delivering advice, answering queries and giving explanations of medications and a history of Bert’s condition since the last Care Conference. This is all done with empathy and a degree of care not only for my Bert but for me too. I appreciate that.

The physiotherapist is focusing on both upper and lower body strength exercises and I do see the results whenever my Bert does programmes like Zumba, chair yoga and other group exercise sessions. Though wheelchair bound atrophy of the muscles is being slowed by physiotherapy.

Recreation reports are all positive. Bert participates well. He is ready for pet therapy, every kind of music programme, stretching classes, one on one activity and pampering, of course. Macular degeneration does not stop him from playing with the oversized jigsaw puzzles, blocks or cubes.

He loves picture books, especially if they are about cars, trains, airplanes and flowers and there is a good supply of them.

The nurse had only good things to say about his manner, his friendly behavior towards staff, his amiability and the ease with which he accepts the few medications he gets. She credits some of that to my daily visits. I wonder if she knows how vital those visits are to me also.

It all sounds great and it is, but I cannot help feeling sad as I realize we are both living in reverse. My Bert is childlike but not a child. I am both mother and father to my husband when all I want to be is a wife.

Creeping unheralded in the back of my mind is: Will there be another Care Conference? Will I be writing about a great report, a bad report or no report at all? Will I be wishing I still had a grandchild or perhaps a great grandchild in the form of a husband as I miss his presence?

The Meander: We are lucky to have Care Partners who care. They are the hardworking PSW’s and dedicated front line workers for whom the work is more than just a job. Yet I wish we did not need them. What a terrible disease.

Two Berts

There is a recurring question from friends, family and anyone who knows that my Bert is in a home:

“How is Bert doing?”

My usual answer is: “As well as can be expected.” This seems to cover the basics. Depending on the relationship, the enquirer, the social interactions of the moment I might go into a bit more detail. My Bert is living in a Long Term Care facility so ‘fine’ or ‘very well’ seems inappropriate.

Any further expansion is also based on the Bert I am seeing at the moment. There are two Berts. There is my Bert and there is Alzheimer’s Bert. In the book My Bert Has Alzheimer’s I devote some time to talk about the necessity, stress and the confusion of living in two worlds. There is the real world and Alzheimer’s world. Now I have two Berts. I invented this new duality as a coping strategy.

When someone has dementia their moods, actions, words, reality can change in an instant. It means that each day I visit my Bert I do not know what I will find. Will he be in a good mood? Will he be morose? Will his eyes light up when he sees me or will they look through me? His mood dictates my inner feelings too. On those days when he lights up as I walk towards him; when he lifts his hand in greeting; when he holds up his head and purse his lips for a kiss; when he jokingly shoos away anyone nearby and pats the chair beside him for me to sit: That’s my Bert.

On the days he looks sullen and shrugs off my greeting and remains silent, that’s Alzheimer’s Bert. On these days I try every trick in the book to bring him out of that negative mood. Sometimes I succeed and sometimes not. My expectations then become basic. He must eat, drink and be comfortable. That is all.

My Bert days are wonderful. He is talkative. He asks questions and pontificates on subjects that only he understands. As example a few days ago he told me in no uncertain terms that the ‘things are moving’. After some cogitative expressions and a nod, in a very serious voice I said: “Yes, they are.” That must have been an acceptable reply as he nodded in satisfaction at the answer. I am still unaware of what the things were and to where they were moving. So what? My Bert was animated.

The very next day Alzheimer’s Bert was up front and personal. There was no greeting but a rather baleful look that clearly was saying: “Don’t bother me.” I donned the cheerful hat and in a clear voice said:

“Hey, are you not speaking to me today? Come on; say something out loud to me.” There was no response. The big grin I had was wasted under my masked visage.

“Oh, well. I am still speaking to you and I love you.” The word ‘love’ brings a flicker of interest but no verbalization. He ate his lunch, had his milk and juice but refused the water. No sweat. He had already had soup. This was clearly an example of you can lead a horse to water but you cannot make him drink.

I did not hang around after lunch. During that entire visit I heard only one word: “No.”

A day later was a banner day. The topic of conversation was happiness. My Bert started the ball rolling with: “You are happy.”

“Yes, I am happy.”

“Am I happy?” he asked.

“You tell me.”

“Yes, I’m happy.”

“That’s very good.” He pondered for a while and then said: “I’m happy. You’re happy. We are happy.” English lesson aside the grin on his face as he said those words was priceless. I laughed out loudly and gave him a hug. He was delighted and for the next hour or so that conversation was repeated every five minutes. Groan.

Then I got a reprieve. It was barber day so down to the salon he went. I waited for his return. He came back and his first words were: “Is it good”?

“Oh yes. It’s a great haircut. You are my handsome Bert.” He beamed. He wanted to talk but I was not up to another hour discussing the tonsorial splendor of his freshly cut hair.

No dawdling now. I give him the usual see you soon farewell and escaped.

The Meander: I love My Bert and wish I did not have to contend with Alzheimer’s Bert. I’m grateful that my Bert is the one that appears more often…still.

Life Sentence

Six to twenty years plus. This sounds like a prison sentence for a very serious crime. It is, although no crime has been committed. Yet that is the sentence handed down to every prospective caregiver of a loved one diagnosed with Alzheimer disease.

I heard it. It is a terrible verdict but unlike others this one is indisputable. There is no avenue for appeal.

My Bert Has Alzheimer’s: Caregiving is Living for Two charts ten years into that sentence. I have not marked off the years. There is no lumberman’s tally of the hours, days, or months. That is futile, but on the publication of this memoir it suddenly dawned on me that I may be only at the half way mark of that cruel and unusual punishment.

There is another part to this sentence besides its length. It should also include ‘at hard labour.’ Being a caregiver to a loved one with dementia is the definition of hard labour. One chapter with the heading Caregiver Job Description is a testament to that fact. Yet with all its details and list of requirements it is still only a glimpse into the convoluted life of a caregiver.

It is a chapter that resonates with readers whether they are caregivers or not. Caregivers of all stripes will remark on how true it is and add their own similar stories and experiences, while others will say: “I don’t know how you do it.”

Another unique facet of this sentence is that the diagnosis is for at least two people. The disease is for one but the following life of dealing with the manifestations and trajectory of the disease is for both parties. In fact a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s may be more devastating to the caregiver than to the patient.

Gasp! How can you say that?

It is easy for me to arrive at that conclusion. I am living it. My Bert is content. He has no idea what stress is now. His blood pressure readings are fantastic. In fact I know that almost everyone with this disease at this stage, has a fantastic reading unless there is an underlying problem that raises blood pressure.

Whenever my Bert has a reading I will tell him that he has the blood pressure of a teenager, and he, being the character he is, will respond saying: “Of course, I’m a teenager” or: “I’m only 19!” At least that’s what he used to say. Now he smiles and nods.

So as the caregiver I take delight in his contentment though I rail at the narrowness of his existence. But that is my worry, not his. There’s always a smile when he sees me whether he knows our relationship or not. Perhaps he has forgotten my name but he has not forgotten ME.

At times when I feel as if I am swimming in a sea of despair I also know I feel the despair because I am alive. I pause and breathe. I breathe and breathe in life.

The Meander: I hope I do not fall into the estimated 30% of caregivers who die before their loved one. The sentence continues but so does the adventure as our story continues and I have to live for two.

The Doldrums

I sit at the table. My Bert’s spot is empty. I have arrived early as today it is only screening and sign in to do before I go to my Bert. If it was a Covid rapid test day my journey from the entrance to my Bert would be 20 minutes instead of five.. He will come out very soon, I know.

In the meantime I look out and see the empty patio of the restaurant across the street. The OPEN sign blinks but it appears closed, desolate, and empty.

An ambulance drives by. No siren, no lights.

A truck rumbles by and cars come around the bend, some much too fast. My Bert loves to watch the movement on the street. Sometimes we play a game. I tell him I will count how many red or black or grey cars pass by. He will guess a number and I will guess another. He is delighted when he wins the game of course. He seems to win a lot.

My eyes drift downwards and see mounds of dirty snow. It is very cold and underneath the soiled snow is ice. It has been cold for a few days now. A few pieces of debris that escaped the plows are frozen in what was once soft powdery clean snow.

A woman walks her dog. Both are high stepping with an unaccustomed gait as they try to avoid the slippery icy clumps in the pathway. The recently cleared sidewalk is full of treacherous spots covered by blowing snow. I want to shout: “Watch out. There is ice underneath.”

My eyes move closer to our side of the street. Looking down I notice our patio is a jigsaw puzzle of ice, snow, browned grass where visible, skeletal trees and a still life of a Muskoka-like chair overturned and lying on its side. The storm had brought not only snow but also high winds.

The large gazebo looks forlorn. The roof is partially covered with snow. It is cold so the pattern is haphazard frozen in place by the final gust, and soon there will be no pattern if the weather forecast holds true. There will be a white shroud covering that roof.

The smaller gazebo still has two chairs inside. They are weather proof but I have learned to distrust the hype of weather proof furniture. Will they survive to support residents or visiting caregivers through spring and summer and fall?

I long for spring. I long to be outside with my Bert, talking with other caregivers, sharing experiences, greeting each other and bonding in new friendships made possible by a terrible disease that holds our loved ones in its thrall. I am in a dark mood. I want to see the naked trees begin to dress themselves in foliage that spans the green spectrum. A sigh escapes.

I hear before I see.

“Hey, Mr. Bert, look who’s here?”

I turn. The wheelchair is silent and makes a noise only when it bumps the table as he is put in his spot.

“Hi, sweetheart. How you doing?”

My Bert looks up. He smiles. He gives a thumbs up.

“OK. That is good.” We both smile.

My once garrulous Bert is not talking much now. Yet he does talk.

He looks out his window and a flock of birds rise into the air.

“Look,” he says, “the birds up in the sky.”

I look up and see the sky, the birds, and their winged flight soaring high above.

I look at my Bert and he is smiling, taking pleasure in the simple flight of the birds. He sees the movement that tells him there are birds. His sight has deteriorated because of macular degeneration. Yet, he still sees.

I notice the smile remains in place. He is content. I arrange my face to match his. I have to be positive. We begin the game.

The Meander: Moving from the Doldrums to contentment takes effort. I may find myself back in the Doldrums as soon as I depart. But for now I will enter into my Bert’s world.

Good and Perhaps Last

We would celebrate come what may.

My Bert was celebrating a birthday. Born under the sign of the Lion the pussycat relationship was at the forefront most of the time. Despite living under the thrall of Alzheimer’s it was time to celebrate another year. My Bert’s inner child is most apparent on his birthday.

The restaurant was alerted.

The amazing staff at his home assured me he would be ‘spiffy’ for his outing. He was.

The mobility transportation was booked. The guests were all lined up. Covid-19 curtailed the numbers, only eight in total and even so, physical distancing was the order of the day.

Yet, I worried. What if the transportation was late or my Bert not in the mood or gets an anxiety attack. There were so many ifs to consider.

The worry was a wasted emotion as everything went exceedingly well. As per the norm, my Bert rose to the occasion. He chatted, ate, drank, and kept smiling at everyone. He knew Corbert and Amy and me. The others were ‘friends’ and that was all he needed to know.

He surprised one by exhibiting his usual alpha male tendency by squeezing the hand offered to him. It was so much the norm for both of them they had a good laugh.

Before leaving the home the young ones had decorated his room with a large peel and stick mural. Given the macular degeneration that has left him legally blind things have to be large and brightly coloured and well defined. The mural was aligned for maximum viewing space as depending on where things were placed there could be a best place for viewing for him. The wheelchair needed to be at an angle for him to see it. He touches the mural and says: “Pretty birds. Woo lots of butterflies too.”

He is happy. So am I. Here is some new scenery for him to look at. Each morning he sees the mural it is new and he is delighted.

I read the cards. He laughs at the funny ones and he wants to know who gave it to him. The only answer he needs is that it is from a friend. I name them and add: “If you saw them you would know them.” He laughs at one of the cards from the kids which is actually from their dog. They know he loves to get cards so that is an extra and he loves it.

Is this the last birthday celebration? That is my anxious nature asking. It could be. I do not know and I have no control over that. As I observe his pleasure, his delight at the funny cards and his slow but happy smile when he finally comprehends the sentiments expressed, the question becomes moot. Instead I begin to wonder what the next birthday celebration will be like. I have every intention to celebrate it, given the chance.

What is surprising and most welcome is that on returning to the home, my Bert looked around and said: “Home again, at last.”

What a difference. When we had entered into this home just over two years ago I never thought my Bert would ever utter these words. But I know he is sincere. This is his home and it is familiar territory. I am spending the rest of the day with him. That’s even more reinforcement that he really is at home. My relief at his acceptance is more than that. It also alleviates the discomfort I still feel when I see his shrunken world. Each day as I leave after visiting, he may ask me where I am going. I tell him the truth. It could be to an appointment, grocery shopping, or to get gas for the car but often it is “back to the apartment” which is my physical home. To my Bert it is the other place that I look after. It is not ‘home’ because he is not there.

He is correct. Home is where we are together. We went out and had a great time with family and friends. We celebrated his birthday, his day.

My Bert- Happy 89th Birthday August 17, 2021

The Meander: Sometimes home is not where you were born, or where you chose to live, or where circumstances dictate. Sometimes it is simply where the heart is.

Hair Oh Hair!

I want to blame Covid 19 for my hair distress but it wouldn’t be fair. It is just one of the culprits.

The first iteration of my hair I can recall is of a middle part and two braids hanging with ribbons attached at the ends. The ribbons matched the dress, of course. I was a child; I had no say. This was how my hair was styled.

Then there came the ‘straightened’ hair. There was a heavy metal comb, heated on a very hot stove contraption that was used to do exactly as described, straighten the hair. The comb and heating contraption looked like a torture instrument from the Middle Ages and was not too far off the mark. It sizzled and clouds of smoke accompanied by the smell of burning hair pervaded the atmosphere. No matter how careful the hairdresser, there had to be at least a few times when the comb grazed your ear and you got a foretaste of what going to hell in the afterlife would be like. I loved the page boy hairstyle during this period. Here began the intense personal relationship with my hair.

Not long after came ‘creaming’. Also known as ‘processing’, or ‘touching up’ this was in reality a chemical process containing caustic lye that was combed through the hair. Those of us who thought the heat of the hot comb was awful soon found out that if the hairdresser was not adept, the burn you got from a bad job was worse than the hell fire. I have friends who have been made permanently bald through bad processing.

The great advantage of the chemical process was that once done, you did not have to repeat it for perhaps two to three months and if you were skillful at styling your own hair it was so much easier and more manageable to create what you wanted. You could curl it, keep it straight, fashion updos, French rolls, loose waves or whatever your heart desired. You had control.

There was still a little work and discomfort to be endured to keep it looking well groomed on a daily basis. Every night, the last thing you did was ‘set your hair’. Depending on the hair length and texture you would sleep with myriad curlers of varying sizes. I am still in awe of how we could sleep with our heads swollen by those curlers, hairpins, nets, clips and sleep bonnets.

Then I decided the curlers were giving me a headache so I invested in a curling iron. I may have to wake up at the crack of dawn to curl the entire head of hair but at least I had had a comfortable night’s rest.

The experimentation was not over. I did try the natural afro look. My hair was showing the years of battering and I thought if I cut it off, wore it natural, I would be giving it a chance to rejuvenate. The experiment failed. I looked in the mirror, did not recognize myself and prayed for quick regrowth so I could return to the ‘touch ups’.

I also tried wigs. They came in handy, especially when travelling, but they too gave me headaches. They received scant use.

A Caucasian friend who went to the same hairdresser as I did would go for a ‘perm’ which meant she went through a tortuous routine that made her straight hair curly. I went to make my curly hair straight. Oh, the irony!

All was well until Alzheimer disease entered my life. Suddenly I began to notice a large amount of ‘shedding’. I like that word because that is exactly what was happening. Also I was prescribed a new diabetes medication that worked really well but on researching its various effects found out that it could also lead to hair loss.

I was flummoxed. My hair is naturally fine so it does not take too well to shedding and hair loss. It is decision time. Do I reject the medication or do I take it and see how much shedding there was before I cried Uncle.

Health comes first. So I continued with the medication and bought various potions, lotions and unctions to help, I hoped, with the shedding.

Enter Covid 19, with its companion a world pandemic, and it seems my hair just gave up. The stress was too much. Every day I kept seeing more and more shedding. I was raining hair.

What do I do now? Do I just keep shedding until I am bald? Do I get a buzz cut? Wigs are fashionable and the variety in colour, cut, style, and length, endless. Should I get a magenta or green or blue? No I am too conservative for that. I will just look for gray wigs. I soon became bug eyed at the variety and the number. I had no idea there were so many shades of gray. It put the famous fifty shades to shame.

Remembering my friends who have been wearing wigs forever I decided to consult them about their wig buying habits and places of choice. I needed their experience and advice as at this moment I am living in the twilight zone of hair today, gone tomorrow.

I hope the hair revives itself, that some of the lotions and potions will do what they claim they can and so I can make the other options moot. In the meantime, if you are unsure who that hair challenged person that looks like Paula is, just say hello. It could be me.

I have abandoned the bald look. After taking a good look in the mirror I know I do not want to expose the phrenology of my cranium with its bumps and lumps to the world nor to my family and friends.

I love them too much.

The Meander: If there is reincarnation I want to come back as a peahen. No muss, no fuss with my feathers. I leave that to the peacock. He can have all the preening stress and showing off to entice, while I, in my drab plumage peck, eat and glance coyly at the display.