Leah is approaching week two at her residential facility. It’s been a mixed experience. The facility itself is beautiful; one couldn’t ask for nicer accommodations. But Leah’s situation is, to say the least, unique. We were skeptical if the staff there could meet her needs. However, that seems to be improving.
We had an interesting evening earlier in the week. I received a phone call at around 7 or 8 pm from a number I did not recognize. Upon answering, the woman on the other end said, “Is Craigory there?” I replied, “Who’s speaking?” But I was thinking, “Did she just call me Craigory??” Leah calls me Craigory as a nickname (long story), and that is how I appear in her phone. I said it was me, and she put me on the phone with the … EMT.
“Hi, this is Jessie, and I’m from the fire department.” I tersely replied, “Why is the fire department there?” Jessie said the staff found Leah on the floor, that she’d had a panic attack, and called 911. Jessie asked me, “Does Leah have any medical issues we should be aware of?” I said that there were too many to condense into a quick chat.
After requesting I be left on speaker phone to listen in, Jessie began asking Leah the usual questions: “Leah, do you know what day it is? How many quarters are there in a dollar?” I could tell the way Leah was mumbling that something was wrong. I said, “Jessie, um, she has dissociative identity disorder, and you might not be talking to Leah.” Jessie replied, “Good to know.”
Her vitals were fine, and I spoke with Leah shortly thereafter. She had indeed switched. Jessie was not talking to Leah.
Leah recently entered a new phase of “twilight,” as I call it. Sometimes people with dementia can get worse when the sun goes down. Leah has been having such difficulties, despite not having dementia. After 3 pm, she can bottom out, start having suicidal thoughts—called “suicidal ideation”—and switch; it’s up for grabs. Sometimes she’s fine. It just depends.
Last night was fair to middling. She was taking her frustrations out on a floor-mounted punching bag. It looks like a speed bag that wobbles on a thin stand. Leah wasn’t wearing full boxing gloves, but smaller training gloves. I was really proud of her. She looked kinda bad ass, and I could see that it was doing her a lot of good.
She had not eaten much that day, so I was on her case (as I usually am) about getting at least a small amount of food in her. There was much discussion over a pear—too much any one pear deserves.
So, she made her way to the kitchen. There she bumped into one of her buddies, Kaiden. He is a younger fellow, quite funny, and irritatingly has fabulous hair. He is very sharp.
At one point he was telling me something and used the phrase “with regular frequency.” He then corrected himself and said “Those two words are the same, never mind.” Later I said, “Kaiden, I don’t mean to be obnoxious, but can I tell you something?” He said, “Sure.” I pointed out that regular and frequency are not synonymous. He very quickly said, “Ah yes, regular is consistency and frequency is speed of consistency.” I became the proud professor.
I really like Kaiden. But his hair I’ll just have to learn to tolerate.
On balance, Leah is doing well. She wants to come home. Being gone is hard for her. I try to be supportive, but sometimes I just offer platitudes and become tiresome instead of reassuring.
When she leaves, she’s going to sorely miss her new four-legged friends.
Oh, I have a nickname for Leah, as well: it’s Cuckoo Bird. She did not love it at first, but now she does. At least I’m 78 percent certain.
