This is just an account of a few days of tough sledding, nothing unusual really but I sometimes find it easier to write on this blog than in my journal.
The last few days were a bit chaotic. We had a small family visit (5 people) on Saturday, which was very nice, but pretty exhausting for Don, who slipped in and out of knowing who was who, and by the end could hardly walk.
That evening, despite his wobbliness, we coaxed him out to dance with our favourite band, Celtic Cargo, at Zocalos, which is a small enough spot that everyone pretty well knows him, and he is safe in the space, allowing him to dance around the room. He danced all night, although taking rests and enjoying the party. One of our caregivers came with, so that I actually get a chance to relax and enjoy the music too.
The next day, the last of the family visitors left, and Don slept, as expected. But by Monday afternoon, things went a bit haywire. He confused opening the mail box at the road with starting the car, as far as I can figure out. After mucho discussion about keys — which, where, what — and several demonstrations that the car really did start, he came to the startling insight that “I must be losing it.”
And that night became another night from hell, especially for him. I gave him the evening half quetiapine, but at 1:30 am he was wide awake and terrified. Shaking with fear, prowling the house with his stick thumping, looking for intruders. Totally afraid of the dark, and absolutely sure he was going to die, or be killed. Couldn’t quite make out the scenario playing in his head because it shifted all the time, but the fear was real (and to be honest, exasperating). Another half quetiapine made no impact.
“I know they are coming for me. They are going to take me away”
“The police — they will either send me to jail or an asylum, I don’t know which.”
Two hours later, I gave in (and up) and gave him a lorazepam and by a quarter to five we were both asleep. As the sun started to peek through in the early morning, I quietly turned off the light.