Saturday, June 17, 2006
Looks like today is going to be a protracted sleep day.
I was back from my errands at 1045. As often happens, by the time I entered the house Mom was in the bathroom. I think she hears the car pull up in her sleep. I was very pleased. That would put her sleep-time at about the 12 hour mark. She hadn't leaked through, which didn't surprise me. I announced that, if she wanted, we could do a "short bath", which involves rubbing down her entire surface area for stimulation, but using an unsoaped, warm, damp washcloth on most of her.
"I'm not up yet," she announced.
"You mean you want to go back to sleep?"
I guess she thought I might try to wrangle her into staying up. She responded, "I'm tired today. I don't know why."
"O.K. Well, listen. You're also dehydrated from yesterday."
"How do you know?"
"You didn't leak through."
"Oh. I didn't, did I?"
"So, why don't you come on out to the kitchen, let me give you a glass of water..."
"How about some orange juice?"
Oooh, cool, I thought. That might actually get some energy stirring inside her and get her moving. "O.K. Orange juice. Good idea. Then, if you're still interested in sleeping, I'll let you go back to bed."
"Oh, I'll still be interested in sleeping, all right."
She was. I was wrong about the orange juice, although glad that she drank it. I left the Benefiber out, this time. No reason to add insult, today, to yesterday's "injury".
She stayed up about 45 minutes, though. We chatted while I put groceries away, talked about what I might prepare for possible company on Monday...I was so sure she was going to remain up that when she headed back into the bathroom I made preparations for bathing. When I entered the bathroom in her wake, she was rising off the toilet.
"No, no. You always sit there when you're bathing. Stay put," I ordered.
"I'm going back to bed."
"Are you sure you want to?"
She gave me that comic, "What do you think?" look, accompanied by her tight lipped, ironic smile. "I've never been so sure of anything."
It took her awhile to get in and settled. I'd wager that she probably fell asleep about noon. I checked in on her a little while ago. She's on her back, snoring and dreaming. I considered getting her up but thought, nah, I'll give her a sleep day, today, for whatever reason. And, we'll forget about stats, until maybe evening. Maybe we'll have a stat free day. She's adamant about the sleeping part, at least. Except, of course, if I get nervous, I'll slip into her bedroom, nudge her awake and check back with her determination. Usually, on days like this, the second up-'n'-at'em is the charm.
So, needless to say, while I keep the house running, consider cleaning for company and do a little (but not so much that anyone would consider that I'm having a change of nature; housework is not my strong suit), I am continually thinking about sleep: Her sleeping, sleep in general, sleep in particular. I've been having a running correspondence with the author of the The Yellow Wallpaper about a variety of aspects of caring for someone with dementia, one of the most prominent aspects being how much sleep these people can pack under their belts. Truth is, until corresponding regularly with her and learning more about her mother, I always thought This Sleep Thing was an extension of my mother's natural inclination to "love the sleep, the dream". Today, though, while considering her sleeping habits against those of my new friend's mother, I'm wondering, now, if most people with dementia sleep a lot. It would make sense. Sleep is when we set ourselves to rights neurologically. People who are sleep deprived eventually begin having delusions and hallucinations and becoming ineffective in their unnaturally extended awake life. For this reason, sleep deprivation is often used as torture. Maybe, I'm thinking, it takes the brain longer, when it's operating out of the neurological quirks of dementia, to make sense of what it's taken in during its awake cycle; in part because of the confusion caused by this very information. I'm also wondering if brain functioning is much less stressful for the demented during sleep time than awake time. I know it is very common for my mother to awaken and think that what she dreamed is what she experienced. She usually comes around out of this but, sometimes, the life she lives in sleep is so pleasant and has such a hold on her that she cannot be talked out of its in-the-awake-now reality.
Just wondering. I think I hear her making waking up noises. Or, maybe not. Think I'll go check.
Later.
"I'm not up yet," she announced.
"You mean you want to go back to sleep?"
I guess she thought I might try to wrangle her into staying up. She responded, "I'm tired today. I don't know why."
"O.K. Well, listen. You're also dehydrated from yesterday."
"How do you know?"
"You didn't leak through."
"Oh. I didn't, did I?"
"So, why don't you come on out to the kitchen, let me give you a glass of water..."
"How about some orange juice?"
Oooh, cool, I thought. That might actually get some energy stirring inside her and get her moving. "O.K. Orange juice. Good idea. Then, if you're still interested in sleeping, I'll let you go back to bed."
"Oh, I'll still be interested in sleeping, all right."
She was. I was wrong about the orange juice, although glad that she drank it. I left the Benefiber out, this time. No reason to add insult, today, to yesterday's "injury".
She stayed up about 45 minutes, though. We chatted while I put groceries away, talked about what I might prepare for possible company on Monday...I was so sure she was going to remain up that when she headed back into the bathroom I made preparations for bathing. When I entered the bathroom in her wake, she was rising off the toilet.
"No, no. You always sit there when you're bathing. Stay put," I ordered.
"I'm going back to bed."
"Are you sure you want to?"
She gave me that comic, "What do you think?" look, accompanied by her tight lipped, ironic smile. "I've never been so sure of anything."
It took her awhile to get in and settled. I'd wager that she probably fell asleep about noon. I checked in on her a little while ago. She's on her back, snoring and dreaming. I considered getting her up but thought, nah, I'll give her a sleep day, today, for whatever reason. And, we'll forget about stats, until maybe evening. Maybe we'll have a stat free day. She's adamant about the sleeping part, at least. Except, of course, if I get nervous, I'll slip into her bedroom, nudge her awake and check back with her determination. Usually, on days like this, the second up-'n'-at'em is the charm.
So, needless to say, while I keep the house running, consider cleaning for company and do a little (but not so much that anyone would consider that I'm having a change of nature; housework is not my strong suit), I am continually thinking about sleep: Her sleeping, sleep in general, sleep in particular. I've been having a running correspondence with the author of the The Yellow Wallpaper about a variety of aspects of caring for someone with dementia, one of the most prominent aspects being how much sleep these people can pack under their belts. Truth is, until corresponding regularly with her and learning more about her mother, I always thought This Sleep Thing was an extension of my mother's natural inclination to "love the sleep, the dream". Today, though, while considering her sleeping habits against those of my new friend's mother, I'm wondering, now, if most people with dementia sleep a lot. It would make sense. Sleep is when we set ourselves to rights neurologically. People who are sleep deprived eventually begin having delusions and hallucinations and becoming ineffective in their unnaturally extended awake life. For this reason, sleep deprivation is often used as torture. Maybe, I'm thinking, it takes the brain longer, when it's operating out of the neurological quirks of dementia, to make sense of what it's taken in during its awake cycle; in part because of the confusion caused by this very information. I'm also wondering if brain functioning is much less stressful for the demented during sleep time than awake time. I know it is very common for my mother to awaken and think that what she dreamed is what she experienced. She usually comes around out of this but, sometimes, the life she lives in sleep is so pleasant and has such a hold on her that she cannot be talked out of its in-the-awake-now reality.
Just wondering. I think I hear her making waking up noises. Or, maybe not. Think I'll go check.
Later.
