It’s the little things that Lewy body dementia makes more difficult.
Tearing open a wrapped cookie. Typing. Remembering where you put your glasses.
Parkinson’s Disease, Lewy’s cousin, can work much of the same territory.
Remembering what day of the week it is. Picking up your feet to walk. Putting on a shirt.
I don’t know if it’s better to have a pull-over shirt so that I may tie myself into a knot as I push my head through a sleeve instead of the neck hole.
Like a newborn baby getting pushed out of the birth canal my pulled-tight face, stuck in my sleeve, looks real funny in the mirror.
Or should my early morning hijinks start with a buttoned-down shirt where I spend 15 minutes to push those plastic buttons sideways into a too-small hole only to find out that the buttons on the right side of my shirt didn’t go into the correct holes on the left side of my shirt. Aaaaargh!
Maybe I’ll leave it, no one will notice. OK, that might have worked except, upon further inspection, I missed with the buttons by two holes each. My shirt looks like a Picasso painting.
Ah, maybe I should button the shirt beforehand and then pull it over my head? That might work except there’s already a tangled up, pull-over shirt halfway on my torso. So I walk (carefully) downstairs looking like a shirt rack and approach my beloved wife and caregiver and meekly say: Help.
It’s the little things.
Like climbing out of the bed in the morning.
I’m pretty sure that someone rolls me up in two sheets, a quilt and a blanket, sometime in the middle of the night while I’m sleeping. Houdini could not get out of this straightjacket. I push away bad thoughts that Catherine does this as revenge for all the button and pull-over mishaps. (Hmm. It does buy her more peaceful coffee time before she’s confronted with the walking shirt rack.)
Wrapped like a mummy in bed sheets, I’m limited on how to contact help. I cannot stand up, so I can’t walk down for help. She keeps her phone with her so I could call her with my phone which is on the night stand about six inches from my face. My arms are tied, but I briefly entertain the idea of trying to peck at the phone with my nose.
It’s the little things. Lewy minutia, I call it.
But when you’re shuffling down the hallway, unable to find your glasses, with your head stuck in a sleeve, it can seem rather daunting.
NOTE: This is a fictionalized account based on real events. And the names have not been changed.
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