After a trip to Minnesota to see family and friends in need of care, I am reminded of the importance of telling others what you want. It’s hard to imagine NOT being able to speak for oneself, but I’ve witnessed a sister and a friend struggle to do just that.
This blog, albeit a bit longer than normal, appeared as an article in Girlfriend’s Magazine earlier this year. Read, enjoy, and then put your wishes to paper:
I had an exchange student from Norway in 2010-11. Henrik and I hit it off immediately. When he asked why I had chosen to have an exchange student, I jokingly replied, “I’m grooming you to take care of me if that day comes.”
Of course I was kidding with Henrik, but sharing my wishes has never been a joke. My Health Care Directive provides a good, basic overview, but like an excellent meal, I want my care team to pay special attention to ingredients that are unique to my tastes. If you find it challenging to write down your potential needs, may I recommend writing a letter? I think of letter writing as creating a recipe book for my care. The following is just one example of what such a letter can contain.
You asked that I let you know how to take care of your “host mamma,” because, after all, you will be one of my caregivers. (You do remember that we made a pinky-swear about this, right?) Ideally I will hold on to my faculties and you won’t need any of the information contained in these letters. But if the day comes when I need you to care for me, these letters will provide insight. (Of course I expect you to train the others on my care team.)
We had tons of fun when you lived with me. We sailed into the wee hours and slept until 10 on Saturdays. You know I love active, full days, but I’ve also grown to cherish my quieter days. Some days will even be sad. Let me have those times, mixed with spells of uproarious laughter and spontaneous kitchen dancing. I like to process my feeling and alone time is important. However, if I’m alone for more than three days, it’s time to get me out (or bring people in).
I may complain when you tell me you’re taking me out, but please persist. If I remain disconnected from others for too long, my depression can easily pull me into a very dark place. Take me to a coffee shop. We can talk, read, or simply people watch. Take me to a bookstore, even if you don’t think I can read. Let me wonder and sit amongst the books. Take me to a movie or on a drive with a stop for ice cream and people watching.
If you invite friends for dinner, don’t get so caught up in the conversation and forget about me. I could easily get lost in the rapid-fire conversations if I have dementia. Include me by simply putting your arm around me. Nod and say, “Isn’t that right, Kari.” It will be your job to help me feel connected, even if I’m not contributing. Don’t worry if I can no longer form sentences. If I’m smiling, then I’m enjoying myself.
This letter writing is a two-way street, Henrik. If you have specific questions or wonder about a specific ingredient in my overall care, please ask. And remember, you’re not to do this all by yourself. You must also take care of you.
Your host mamma