...and it sure pisses them off.

When folks take issue with me, I don’t get mad. Or angry. Or out of sorts. I generally just take it. Good naturedly. Even when I’m called nasty names. And ridiculed.

Yet, when I chide some in the Alzheimer’s Ladies Aid Society, I stir lots of hostility. Yes, outright rage. Vile language. I’m called Hitler. And worse. Names not allowed in a family-oriented blog. I’ve upset the ladies for suggesting that some Alzheimer care-givers aren’t suited for the job. Some of ‘em because they are unable to control their tempers. They have short fuses. Especially when they become tired and depressed. Certainly, that doesn’t bode well for their patients.

And hey, if I manage to light their fuses, by merely espousing the premise that some care-givers aren’t ready for prime time, just imagine what might happen when they become frustrated over the rigors of care-giving. Ain’t a pretty picture.

I got a letter the other day from a somewhat irate and beleaguered member of the Ladies Aid Society.

“I have a few things to get off my chest with you and about you,” she wrote. “Do I expect you to allow this comment to be viewed by others? No!!! Do I care? No!!!!! But I will know that you have read it.”

The lady thought that maybe I’d judge her as an unfit care-giver because she takes sleeping pills.

But I said I saw no problem with that -- that care-givers often take medications, including sedatives and anti-depressants. And it often does them good.

The lady also questioned my advocacy of daily outdoor exercise and fresh air as a relief valve for care-givers. I said it won’t hurt, and it may help.

“OK, Jim,” the lady said, “I get more exercise than I need or want. I have to lift mom from the bed to the potty chair and then back to bed. I lift her from the bed to her wheelchair and then back to the bed when she is ready to go to bed. No, I will not use a lift to help me. And I don’t have to explain (why) I won’t. I don’t have a CNA (nurse’s aide) to do that as you did with Jenny.”

I had to correct the lady. My wife’s name was Jeanne, not Jenny.

Furthermore, I didn’t rely on a nurse’s aide. I lifted Jeanne myself. Daily. In and out of the wheelchair. In and out of bed.

Next, the lady commented, “Do I have someone prepare (mom’s) meals? No, I do that. Do I have someone to wash, dry and fold her laundry? No. Do I have someone to bathe her daily? No. I do that.”

Again, the lady's inference seemed to be that, compared to her, I’ve had it relatively easy as a care-giver. And in a sense, I did. That is, after Jeanne went into the nursing home. It was a picnic compared to my stint as a 24/7 care-giver. Yes, for years before the nursing home, I was on duty round-the-clock. I did the cooking. I did the laundry. And I took Jeanne into the shower with me. Daily.

And when Jeanne went into the nursing home, I hand-fed her lunch and supper. In her room. I wasn’t there for breakfast. But in three years, I rarely missed the other meals.

And every night, I wheeled Jeanne down to the shower room. And gave her a bath. And a body massage. So, don’t sell me short, lady.

The lady went on to say that she cleans her mom up after she poops and pees on herself. That she makes sure mom takes her meds. And that she’s the one that takes mom to the doctor’s office.

“Did you do that with Jenny (Jeanne)?” she asked. “Or did you just go visit with her and smooch? Did you change her adult diapers when they needed to be changed? Did you change her clothes when she had an accident?”

Obviously, this lady must think that as a care-giver for 13 years, I mostly spent time twiddling my thumbs. I changed diapers thousands of times. I’ve cleaned up poop smeared all over the bed. I’ve cleaned up poop in the kitchen sink. And poop left in boxes on the clothes dryer. I was with Jeanne when she reached into her pants in a book store and deposited her poop on a book shelf. And I’ve wiped Jeanne’s ass many, many times. Without complaint. It’s what care-givers do.

And I admit that early on in my care-giving days, I lost it to some degree. I became angry. And that wasn’t good for me. And it especially wasn’t good for Jeanne. I’m not proud of that fact. Because it made me an unfit care-giver at the time.

But I learned. With on-the-job training. I finally became a pretty good care-giver. Especially in the last 38 months. I didn’t lose my temper in Jeanne’s presence. Not even once. I exuded good vibes. In large part, because I was rested. I had daily respite. I showed up to provide supplemental care for Jeanne. For 8-10 hours. Daily. Yes, I didn’t miss a day. I got my act together.

And I guess what I’m saying, there are far too many care-givers that don’t have their acts together. And that’s what I’m telling the ladies...and it sure pisses them off. –Jim Broede