...the 'bad' people of this world.

I remember seeing bombed out buildings still standing in Frankfurt when I was there in 1958 and 1959 and 1960. I'd go to the opera. To see Humperdink's "Hansel & Gretel," in a nice new opera house. But standing right next to it was the bombed out shell of the old opera house. Not yet removed. So sad. But a reminder of what was. And how war devastates everything. And when I visit Germany, I still hear the stories. Right around Kashofen, the tiny town where my ancestors lived. And they show me the big craters that still exist in the forest. Where Americans dropped bombs. Along the Siegfried Line. Even in the little villages. Not because they were strategic places. But just to demoralize the population. That's what they do in wars. Try to demoralize everyone. Think of it. America is the only nation with the "will" to drop nuclear bombs on a population. Hiroshima. Nagasaki. For the sake of winning a war. We would vaporize hundreds of thousands of people. And we justifty it on a moral basis. By saying the Japanese asked for it. The Japanese are the bad and evil people. And we Americans -- well, we're the good guys. We wear the white hats. God is on our side. To this very day, George Bush tells us we are the good people. We are god's favored people. That's why we are allowed to invade Iraq and execute the 'bad' people of this world. --Jim Broede

...something meant to be.

I'm old enough to remember World War II. The day it ended. VE Day. Victory in Europe Day. And there was great celebration in the small town where I grew up. My brother and a neighbor kid and I went downtown. People were dancing in the street. They even formed a congoline. And danced in and out of stores. And some guy gave us 50 cents. Money to split. That was lots of money in those days. Or so it seemed to us kids. Funny, the things one remembers. My dad never had to go into the Army. He got deferred, I guess, because he had three kids. But my uncle Norman (my mother's brother) was in the Army and he came to visit us once when he was on leave. And I would write him letters. When I was 8 or 9. And he was with Gen. Patton in Germany. And Uncle Norman was having difficulty with his hearing. Because of the sound of heavy artillery fire. He also brought us kids Nazi armbands. With swatzikas. And we were cautioned by mom not to wear them out on the streets. That would have been considered unpatriotic. My German friend, Gerhard Broede, is the same age as me. And he remembers those times. From a different perspective. In Germany. And how he was scared by all the bombing. And the need to go to bomb shelters. He reminieces about growing up in Germany in those days. And how he was recruited into the Nazi youth movement. And how, for so many years after, he was a good communist. And now how he has evolved into something else. And that he has a good American friend. Me. He has undergone so many transitions in his life. I expect to see him again this summer. In his little summer garden. And we'll go out on the Baltic Sea. And be amazed at how we became friends. We were curious about each other. Because we happen to share the same surname. We aren't related. The fact that our paths crossed -- well, maybe that was just something meant to be. --Jim Broede

Isn't that enough?

I remember once defying an English teacher in one of my English classes. I refused to memorize a poem. Because I thought it a waste of time. Because I saw no sense in reciting a poem from memory. Now, if the teacher had told me the assignment was to tell in my own words what that poem meant -- well, then I could understand and accept that assignment. But the teacher was allowing so many of us to get by with just being able to repeat the poem, and not truly understand it. In essence, I was asking for permission to translate a poet's words. Isn't that enough? --Jim Broede

The wooing...has returned dividends.

When I am on my computer I am hardly ever alone any more. Both of my cats, Chenuska and Loverboy, have gotten used to the cushion on the right side of my large desk. Even when I'm not at my desk, they still come up to occupy that soft cushion. At this moment, it's just Chenuska. She's so at peace. Her paws tucked beneath her. Her eyes closed. Not sure where Loverboy is now. But often, he jumps up. Then begins grooming her with his tongue. And soon, she returns the favor. And they're passionately grooming each other. Mainly, the tops of their heads. Then, they'll settle down. And just cuddle. But occasionally, Loverboy will get aggressively amorous. Even though he's neutered. He still has the instinct. And that will get Chenuska very much peeved. And she runs away. Making sounds of annoyance. Loverboy may chase her around the house for a while. But soon he gives up. And settles down once again. They are so entertaining. They really do like each other. But it took about a year for them to really get fully accepting of each other. Loverboy maybe was ready from the start. But Chenuska -- well, she wasn't quite ready. But Loverboy did the proper wooing. And it has returned dividends

We got our sustenance from each other.

I shared my job, my writing with Jeanne. I often took her on assignments with me. On interviews. She'd sit in often. She knew when to participate, and when not to participate. If I was doing an animal feature, Jeanne would love it. And I'd discuss with her the way I was planning to handle a story. Or I'd bounce a draft off her. And often, I worked out of home. I'd conduct a phone interview from home. And Jeanne would eavesdrop. She might caution me -- to not be so intimidating. Things like that. Often, Jeanne could put the person I was interviewing more at ease. Maybe if I could have such a nice wife, I wasn't such a bad guy. And when I came home, Jeanne and I would share our days together. Share our ups and downs. And if I was uptight over something, maybe Jeanne would take me to bed. Or if Jeanne needed loving, I saw that she got it. Our lives were intermeshed. We didn't have a whole lot of social contacts. Jeanne had her relatives and friends, and she appreciated them. But we were mostly focused on each other. We consumed each other. In pleasant ways. We were not only husband and wife and lovers -- we were best friends. There was nothing we couldn't share with each other. Even if we were annoyed with each other over something. We could bring it up. We could get it resolved. Jeanne was unpretentious. Just a delightful woman. She was herself. She didn't have to put on aires. I could discuss heady stuff with her. But she more than likely would steer me to less convoluted subjects. Jeanne was down to Earth. An animal lover. She knew what was important. Our time together. If housework didn't get done, that was all right. Our time together was the most important thing. Just being with each other. We weren't separated for more than 10 days in all those years together. We got our sustenance from each other. --Jim Broede

...the focus is on ourselves rather than on our loved one.

It's sad that we don't find better ways to treat Alzheimer's. Too often, we just abandon these people. We write them off. As hopeless. As unreachable. Maybe it's just that we don't want to tackle something that's so difficult. We give up too easily. Or we just aren't up to the task of loving someone with dementia. It takes a special kind of love and devotion. We have to overcome heartache. And that's very difficult. We begin to feel sorry for ourselves. And then the focus is on ourselves rather than on our loved one. --Jim Broede

...a guiding spiritual hand.

I found that when I immersed Jeanne in pleasureable moments, pleasurable activities, one after another, that it seemed to buoy her spirits. Tasting ice cream, for instance. Spoonful after spoonful. Each spoonful tasted so good. Maybe a minute or two later, Jeanne would forget that she had ice cream only moments ago. But when she was having it, she enjoyed it. So maybe in the next moment, I played her music that she likes. And she enjoyed the music for that moment. And soon forgot about it. But then maybe I would comb her hair, and that was still another pleasurable moment. Or I'd massage her feet. Or I'd give her a kiss on the cheek. Or I'd lie down on the bed next to her. Or I'd take her outdoors in the wheelchair. Or I'd give her a warm shower. So, in a single day, Jeanne would experience so many, many pleasurable moments. Not necessarily moments that would be remembered. But moments that would be enjoyed within the framework of the moment. So, in that sense, I was still able to construct a happy life, of sorts, for Jeanne. That's how one makes the best of a bad situation. I think that when a care-giver makes a long, long string of pleasurable moments for someone with Alzheimer's, there's some sort of retention that occurs. One has a sense that one has experienced pleasure for an extended period of time. Even if it's in the unconscious mind. Maybe in what I'd call the spirit. Just an innate feeling that all is well. That's what I tried to do for Jeanne in those last 3 or 4 years. And I think I reached Jeanne then. In a way that's difficult to comprehend. But it was as if god was telling me, showing me, how to do it. I had the feeling that there was a guiding spiritual hand in all of this. --Jim Broede

It won't be for any lack of trying.

I always find a way to make love work. That's my mission in life. To love. To make it work. I spent almost 40 years making love work with Jeanne. One never ceases making love work. One must stick at it. Forever and ever. One never gets it totally right. The fun is in trying. One tries to make it better day by day by day. I'm trying to be the best lover I can be today. That's all I can do. And when tomorrow dawns, I will try to be an even better lover. And the day after that, still better. And I don't worry that I might fail. But by golly, it won't be for any lack of trying. --Jim Broede

God isn't a stickler when it comes to spelling...

Funny thing. Some of the snob ladies perceive me as an atheist. The devil incarnate. Because I am a free-thinker. I believe in god. But I am not a Christian per se. They think I'm a heathen. Because I would dare to suggest that I could sit down with Jesus in a tavern and have a beer with him, and that we'd hit it off. And they think it's blasphemy that I'm able to have conversations with god. I tell them that god is my buddy. And they think that's not showing proper respect. The fact that I spell god with a lower case "g." That really annoys the ladies, too. And I simply tell them that god doesn't mind in the least bit. That god isn't a stickler when it comes to spelling and proper names and proper ways to address a deity. --Jim Broede

That's how I think...and dream.

I think the spirit lives forever. Upon death, the spirit is released from the body. And the spirit soars. Into infinity. Into another dimension. Into Paradise. Can I prove it? Of course not. But it is what I want to believe. So I believe it. Because for me, it is what makes sense. God tells me it is true. And what if god is a figment of my imagination? Well, then I will still have created god. Inside me. My god has given me the ability to create my own reality. A reality permeated by love. Because I feel it. Therefore, there must be love. And there must be god. Otherwise, I would not be here to comprehend and grasp it. And at this very moment, my god is allowing me to love and be loved. Is that a figment of my imagination? Am I just living in a dream world? Well, it sure seems real to me. If this is a dream -- well, then thank god for the dream. That's how I think...and dream. --Jim Broede

Yes, all this makes me stop to think. Life is wonderful.

Life can be full of relatively inconsequential tasks. But if something bothers me, I take care of it. Little things. Like cleaning the house. If my mind gets out of sorts, or cluttered, often it may be that I've let my surrondings get cluttered, too. So I spend a few hours cleaning and organizing things around the house. I scrub the floors. I get everything reasonably neat. And it has a quelling effect. Tends to relax me. When my lunch counter is clear of clutter, I can sit down and read the newspaper on a clean counter. And then I try to eat and read slowly. Ever so slowly. I give myself time to ponder. And maybe I have music. In the background. Better than the TV. Right now, my desk is pretty much free of clutter. And just to the right of me, I've placed a cushion on the desk. On which dear cat Loverboy luxuriates. And I reach over and pet him. And he looks lovingly at me. And he licks the top of my hand with his sandpaper tongue. He can't lie on top of the computer screen anymore. Because it's a flat screen. Not the bulky one I used to have. But the printer/scanner is flat. And he can lie on top of that. And he does. Sometimes. Anyway, I get comfort from Loverboy. Big comfort. I love him. And his mate, Chenuska, too. Albeit, she's more standoffish. But that's just her personality. And I accept that. She's her own self. Sometimes, she needs cuddling. She crawls into bed with me, and digs deep under the covers. To stay warm. And to nestle against my feet and legs. Yes, all this makes me stop to think. Life is wonderful. --Jim Broede

The snob ladies just don't get it.

I learned so much in the nursing home. With Jeanne. I thought it would be hell. Instead, we made something of it. In some sense of the word, it was a little paradise. I learned so much there in those 38 months and one day. I learned how to better love. Not only Jeanne. But other Alzheimer patients. And I even learned to love myself better. And to love life better. To really appreciate what I have. To really appreciate having Jeanne for that extra time. To be able to find new ways to reach Jeanne. And to love Jeanne. I tell the snob ladies that the time I had with Jeanne in the nursing home daily was precious time. It made me a better human being. And the snob ladies tell me that makes me sick. That I should deplore that time. Well, I guess I am telling the snob ladies that in some ways, I was able to turn the Alzheimer's experience into a blessing. And they say for me to do that, I must have a sick mind. That I could actually find happiness in caring for Jeanne. The snob ladies just don't get it. --Jim Broede

They have no clue when I'm kidding.

I do spend a good part of my life laughing. That's one thing Jeanne taught me. Not to take myself too seriously. Oh, I get impassioned over various things. Which is good. But even then, there's often comic relief. Love can be funny in so many ways. Deleriously funny. People have to learn to laugh at themselves. I like self-deprecating humor. And I do a lot of "put-on" humor. I pretend to be serious sometimes, when I'm really not. I lead people on. For instance, I'll pretend to be arrogant. When I'm not. It's like when somebody asks me, 'How are you?' And I tell them 'I'm better than you.' Or I tell them I'm infallible. That's what I call put-on humor. And those snob ladies. I'll josh them. Like I congratulate one for being the 7,000th visitor to my web site and I tell her the grand prize is a life-size autographed picture of me. Or a free dinner with me. Some of them, I think, actually believe that I'm arrogant enough to send them that autographed life-size picture. These ladies don't know how to laugh. So sad. They're so serious. They have no clue when I'm kidding. --Jim Broede

I'm addicted to bread dumplings.

Dumplings. Oh what memories. I remember my Aunt Martha in Chicago. I often stayed with her and Uncle Fred for weeks in the summertime when I was a teen-ager. Along with my brother Bruce. And we'd go to Chicago Cubs baseball games daily. Anyway, Aunt Martha would occasionally make Bohemian fruit dumplings. Dumplings with fruit inside. Might be peaches or apricots or prunes. And I loved them. She also got Bohemian kolaches (sweet rolls) at the local bakery on Cermak Road. And that's when I became a glutton. Now when I go to the Czech ethnic dinners at the Czech Hall in St. Paul they usually serve roast pork, sauerkraut with caraway seeds and bread dumplings. I often persuade one of the cooks to sell me a loaf or two of the dumplings, and then I freeze them and supplement my home-cooked meals with the dumplings. I'm addicted to bread dumplings. --Jim Broede

I am fascinated by it.

Yes, Einstein had quite a head of hair. I've seen some pretty wild heads of hair. There was a fight (boxing) promoter named Don King. And he had hair that stood up, like he was having an electric shock. And I see some women with multi-colored hair, practically every hue in a rainbow. When I see something unusual like that, I try to pretend that I'm not noticing. I do not stare. But I am fascinated by it. --Jim Broede

They are doing that to themselves.

Maybe it's that I neglect protocol. Too often. Maybe it's that I don't show proper respect. Maybe it's because I tell some of the unhappy and distraught ones to get over it. To get on with their lives. It works with some. But not with others. And I come across as self-righteous. Because I often speak with confidence. I feel that I'm doing what's right for me. What works for me. And they automatically assume that I'm telling them do as I do. It might work. Well, I'm just telling them that it works for me. And if they want to try it, fine. And if not, that's fine, too. They take this as arrogance. And maybe it is. And arrogance can be taken as a form of cruelty. A way of making people who already feel bad, feel even worse. And I tell them, I'm not doing that to them. They are doing that to themselves. --Jim Broede

Love should be savored. Done in slow motion..

Remember, fellow lovers, to live in slow motion. Think slowly. Act slowly. There's no hurry. We live too much by deadlines. So we rush through our lives. To try to get everything done. And that's where we go wrong. We don't give each other enough time. We don't give ourselves enough time. To love. And that's what we should be doing. Because true love takes time. Love should be savored. Done in slow motion. --Jim Broede

I have to be a true believer. That's a condition of love.

I have been mulling over some of my mail today. Mail from the snob ladies. I call some of it hate mail. But maybe that's too strong a word. And I answer some of it. But inadequately, I think. I don't know how to reach these women. But I can't stop from trying. And sometimes the more I try, the deeper I dig the hole. I tell myself that maybe I should stop trying. But I always seem to think that I am going to find the right words. To reach someone who refuses to understand. I'm always looking for a breakthrough. I think I'm a good communicator. But apparently I'm not good enough. Why can't people learn to communicate? With each other. It shouldn't be that hard. But it is. Unless, that is, people achieve a level of love. Total acceptance of each other. This thing that I call unconditional love. If we don't have that, we tend to fall out of love. Somewhere along the line. I achieved it with Jeanne. Because I had faith. Faith in much the same way that I have faith in god. I have to be a true believer. That's a condition of love. --Jim Broede

It's an intensity...a passion...a tranquility.

I am still learning so much about love. Love baffles me. Intrigues me. I'm not sure if I will ever fully understand love. All I know, I guess, is that it feels good. It's a little like trying to understand god. I can't fully define god. Or grasp god. Yet I feel god. The presence of god. I feel the presence of love. I believe in god because I have to. To make sense of life. And the same goes for love. I have to believe in love. In order to survive. I can't imagine a world without god. Without love. I need god. I need love. And yet, I don't understand it all. It's as if I am moving through life on faith. Blind faith. As if I put my trust in a power I can't understand. That I can only feel. I call it love. Life. I'm alive. Conscious. And permeated by a feeling. A compulsion. To love. Every day. Every moment. I am not alive unless I am in love. Otherwise, I am just going through motions. Being idle. Marking time. Even when I go for a walk, I have to feel that I'm in love. With the walk. With movement. With nature. If I read a book. Or listen to music. I have to feel that I am in love. To fully appreciate it. It's an intensity...a passion...a tranquility. --Jim Broede

Why bother myself with tomorrow?

If I think 20 years ahead, I see no future for myself. I will not be living. At least not in the physical sense. Maybe even in 10 years or less. Even tomorrow, I may be dead. There's that possibility. That is, if I choose to think about it. And what it does, it takes me away from living today. Knowing today that I am in love. And that makes me happy, and content. But if I choose to dwell on what life may be like 5 years from now, I start to contemplate all the possible scenarios. Good ones. Bad ones. But if I'm focused only on today, I only feel good. Because that's how I feel now. I'm living good. In love. Sure, tomorrow there's a chance I won't feel good. But why bother myself with tomorrow? --Jim Broede

I can accept that fate.

All I know is that I am in love. And that's good enough for me. Today I am in love. And I was in love yesterday, too. And the day before that. A string of days for which I have lost count. That's a good sign. Because I am totally immersed in today. In the moment. Seems to me that I am in love for 24 hours every day. I can accept that fate. --Jim Broede

It could be that love made a difference. I like to think so.

It's a frequently asked question. How long can someone survive with Alzheimer's Disease?

My sweet Jeanne lived for 13 years after the first signs of dementia. And in some ways, she showed some signs of improvement right up to the end. She still knew me. She seemed to be at peace. She smiled. She was pleasant. But she did go though a period of agitation and belligerence. In those last 38 months, in a nursing home, I was with her 8-10 hours daily. Didn't miss a day. And I kept her active. And loved. Maybe that helped ease her way through the Alzheimer's sojourn. We were both still in love with each other. Right up to the end. It could be that love made a difference. I like to think so. --Jim Broede

Don't wait until tomorrow.

Seems to me, happiness eludes people when they stop living one day at a time. Instead, they must learn or relearn to not even get a single day ahead of themselves. Live today, today. And live tomorrow, tomorrow.

Once you get ahead of yourself, you start to imagine what could go wrong. The further ahead, the more you see going wrong. Ultimately, you envision your own death. Non-existence. And you end up focusing on not living, rather than on living. Fully. Today.

It's when you put too much focus into the past and the future that you become unhappy. Instead, it's important that you be what you are today. Be yourself. If you are something you don't like -- well, then choose to be something you like. But be what and whoever you want to be today. And then live it. Today. Not yesterday's you or tomorrow's you. Yes, perferably find a way to be happy. Genuinely happy. Today. Don't wait until tomorrow. --Jim Broede

I really want to write about love. Not hate.

Oh, I don't connect with some people. Just with certain people. Only a mere handful. Is that my fault? Oh, maybe I don't stop to think about it that much. It's just the way my life has been. I accept the fact that some people hate me. Despise me. And I probably could analyze all this, and become more likeable to those who hate and despise. But sometimes I think that would be like selling my soul. To the devil. The world is full of hate. But oh, there's so much love, too. And that's where I want to focus my attention. I really want to write about love. Not hate. --Jim Broede

Good ridence (sic)!

Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "I'd call that progress.":

Mr. Broede. You will be pleased to know that Cinn's Mother died last Night. Oh, maybe you will not be pleased, because you will have to dig up someone else to torture, for your own pleasure!

Cinn is, and has been 1,000 times better Caregiver, & Human Being then you could ever hope to be? Oh, that is right too, you usually pick on people you are jealous of, getting that much 'coveted' attention, that you so crave, and never get?

I never read your Blog, because I have never even come across a more dispicable Human Being than you J.B. I 'loathe' you, and I am obviously not alone in this.It appears that The Alzheiemer's Association is FINALLY on to you too, since I have not seen any posts from you for weeks, maybe, months? Good ridence!

I'm still in love with life.

"Sunday my father was found after shooting himself," someone called Lost Now writes on the Alzheimer's message boards. "A neighbor had gone to check on him after being unable to contact him by phone...My mother has been in an Alzheimer's care facility for almost two years and my father has been having a more difficult time visiting her and had basically stopped coming because all he would do is cry when he saw her. My heart is broken. I don't know what to do. I was never close to my dad. He was a hard person to know. He would not let me help him even though I begged him to let me. I did not see a way to force him to move from his country home into town or to the town where I live where my mom is now. It is a hour and a half away from me. Now I wish I had done more. I knew he was depressed. I am depressed and...I couldnt see past my own pain. I thought he could handle it...So much pain and regret. I am blaming this Alzheimer's disease for this. It has sucked the life from me. I present a happy face for my mom. But inside I am dying. I believe it is the reason my dad is now dead, too. It takes everyone and everything. More than ever I believe that now. How will I go on now?"

Well, Lost Now, my dad committed suicide, too. When he was 38. I was 13. That's almost 60 years ago. And I got over it because I discovered that I enjoyed life. Despite the pitfalls. I'm sure you can, too. The secret is to focus on all the good things in life. Sure, there's bad things. Like a loved one's suicide. And Alzheimer's. But hey, death is a part of life. Just because bad things and sad things happen -- well, that's no excuse to stay depressed. Instead, go out and live. Show your dad's spirit how it can be done. Heck, I've been showing my dad how it can be done for a long, long time. I hope he's watching. I'm happy. I've had a happy marriage. And yes, my dear Jeanne died almost a year ago. From Alzheimer's. But that hasn't stopped me from loving. I'm still in love with life. --Jim Broede

At times, you ladies act very unlady-like.

Attention anonymous posters!

Some of you anonymous posters here have suggested that because I acknowledge that some of my posts here would be inappropriate on the Alzheimer's message board, that automatically means they are inappropriate or harmful posts here. That's shoddy reasoning. It just happens that the Alzheimer's Association has more rigid, more conservative standards than I do here. Because the Alzheimer's online administrators want to steer clear of controversy. That doesn't mean my standards are bad standards. They're just different standards. I allow for rhubarbs. I think that's a good thing. Controversy isn't necessarily a bad thing. Actually, most of the anonymous comments posted in this blog would be deemed highly inappropriate for the Alzheimer's message boards. They would get you suspended or banned pronto. But I allow more leeway here. Many of you, as you well know, have already been suspended repeatedly by the Alzheimer's Association. Your posts have been far more inappropriate than mine. Yes, face it, you ladies are far more disparaging and mean-spirited than I ever dreamed to be. Compared to you ladies, I'm kind and considerate and open-minded and tolerant. I set a much higher personal ethical standard than most of you. It's time for you to face the truth, dear anonymous ladies. You're often the nasty ones. At times, you ladies act very unlady-like. --Jim Broede

I'd call that progress.

Her name is Cinmin girl. And the other day she ranted and raved on the Alzheimer's message boards. Can't really blame her. She had a bad, bad day.

"I have spent today cleaning," Cinmin girl said. "This morning wake up included a soaking wet bed, nasty filled pull ups and a new attitude (more nasty stuff) for mom. You would think that I wet her bed the way she acts when this happens! She’s always surprised when there is a BM in her pants and always, always, always sticks her hand RIGHT IN the wet Depends when I tell her that we have to change her pants. WHY, please tell my WHY can’t she just believe me when I tell her that they are wet? Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr! Just indignant when she has to be cleaned up. Like I ENJOY that?? Sheets, blankets, pillow covers and shams (how did she get the shams wet??) into the washer. Her washcloth and towel PLUS any and all hand towels into the suds ...She has to be 'reminded' constantly to wash her hands and unless I put the soap on her, I’m never sure if she’s used soap. ICK! Scrub down the bathrooms and grab those towels to add to the wash pile. Clean up last night dinner’s pots and pans and I hear the dog. Yep, slimy green whatever it was is all over the carpet. Out comes my trusty Bissell Steam Cleaner and presto, the green is gone! I am sitting here (on a self-appointed break) as the assorted washers (and dryer) run, with Clorox permeating every breath, but at least I know it’s clean! Some fun, huh?? I remember someone explaining what they use to clean the urine smell out of clothing and sheets. But I can’t find the thread. Any help appreciated! I’ve been using HOT water, detergent, Clorox and baking soda and this does seem to work. But if there is something that works better, I’m interested in it!! Thanks for letting me rant for a minute!"

I used to rant and rave, too, Cinmin girl. Until I learned to accept the disease for what it is. And I cleaned up the pee and the poop, and didn't get one bit peeved about it. And I marveled at how far I had come. I learned patience. And understanding. And sensitivity. And compassion. And love. At the beginning of the journey, I had much to learn. But after 13 years, I think I learned well -- at least well enough not to rant and rave any more. I'd call that progress. --Jim Broede

I'm a living and loving example.

"My husband has now been in a nursing facility for four months," writes Maggie on the Alzheimer's message boards, "and I find myself grieving to the point that I can not function. I try to go to the nursing home each day, but I can hardly bear to see him that way. When I leave, I feel like I have not stayed long enough -- that I need to do more. I feel guilt that I couldn't take care of him at home. I look forward to nothing. I want to crawl in bed and stay there, but I have to get up and go to work. I feel no passion for teaching anymore. If I do for a fleeting moment enjoy something, I feel guilty that I can't share it with him. Everyone tells me I should live my life, but I dont' want to live it without him. When do you begin to not feel so darned guilty and begin to live again? Does this disease take everyone with it?"

No, Alzheimer's doesn't take everyone with it. You'll be all right some day, Maggie. Believe me. My Jeanne died Jan. 18. And you know how much I loved her. And I grieved. And I anguished. But at some point, I told myself to get on with life. Exactly what Jeanne would have wanted me to do. To continue to love life. And you know what, Maggie? I've survived. And I'm in love. There's no other way to live. To be happy and in love. You can make that choice, too, Maggie. I'm a living and loving example. --Jim Broede

That's what keeps us sane. Crazy love.

"Lots of frenzied residents tonight at my mom's assisted living facility," Jo writes on the Alzheimer's message boards. "Not sure what is up. My mom asked me when I walked in, 'What am I?' I said, 'What?' She said, 'Am I a boy or a girl?' I told her she was a girl. She said someone asked her and she wasn't sure what to tell them. Another woman was sitting in a chair yelling 'Mom, where are you? I am waiting for you!' Crazy disease."

Yes, I agree, it is a crazy disease. And life is crazy, too. And falling in love is crazy. And so there's a good kind of crazy. And you know what? It's still possible to find sanity in everything. Even in dealing with Alzheimer's. I found it. I think it's even possible to love someone with Alzheimer's. Right up to the end. And that is what makes the journey worthwhile. Finding the ability to love, despite the craziness of the disease. Love is a crazy thing, isn't it? But that's what keeps us sane. Crazy love. --Jim Broede

And one that I can call lover.

The more I think about it, to fall in love, one must allow one's self to become a fool. To be crazy. Love is an act of craziness. One must let go. Do what to people out of love deem to be rather foolish. Even irrational. When I declare myself to be a romantic idealist (dreamer), a free-thinker, a liberal and a lover -- well, so many people think I should add to the list, fool. And maybe I should. Because I tend to be happy when I'm not supposed to be happy. When I'm tending to Jeanne. Being Jeanne's care-giver. When I'm coping with the perils and pitfalls of Alzheimer's. I still manage to find satisfaction. Happiness. And I tell other care-givers that and so many of 'em tell me I'm crazy. I'm an irrational fool. You know, that's why in some sense of the word, I don't fit into this world. But really, I know I fit. When I find people who allow me to be a fool. They accept me that way. Even appreciate me. And quite possibly love me. And soon I realize that's all I need to be happy. My cocoon and a handful of people that I can call friends. And one that I can call lover. --Jim Broede

A very nice combination when dealing with life.

I announced recently on the Alzheimer's message boards that when I was caring for my Jeanne for 13 years, I decided in the end it really didn't suck. It was one of the more rewarding and fulfilling experiences of my life. I wish that I didn't have to go through the ordeal. But it taught me something. That I genuinely loved my Jeanne, and I'd gladly do it again.


Well, I got a variety of responses. Both positive and negative.


"If I had the choice, I wouldn't go through this again," Sharon wrote. "I find it all very sad. My Bill is a shadow of the man he once was. He was always self-reliant and strong, a real do-it-yourselfer. He would be humiliated to know now that he wears diapers, frustrated at his helplessness. But, I am grateful that I still have the strength to care for him at home. I am grateful for the smiles and laughs and songs that can still he sing. I appreciate the little things more now. Alzheimer's Disease is character building for the caregiver, Jim. I'm glad you found something postive out of all of this. You sound like you enjoyed learning about yourself and your new ways of coping. I am not enjoying this situation, but I am learning, and that's always a good thing."

Then there was Kathy. "Yes, Jim, I agree," she wrote. "Although we would never choose this road, I am sure that we are becoming better (if not different--ha) people from it. At times, I feel myself getting and being very bitter. I think that is a normal cycle all caregivers have to go through again and again. In our hearts, we have to keep on and do what is the right thing. Giving up would be too easy and also too painful. I am a firm believer that everything in our life happens for a reason. We may never know these reasons. I don't know if God will let us in on the secret when he calls us home or not. I have a feeling not, as we will be so thrilled to be there, we will no longer care. It will just be so comforting to finally have made it there and to be with our loved ones yet again. Everyone happy and whole. Myself, personally, feel that God is putting my om with AD, and me to care for her together for a reason. Maybe to resolve all the hard feelings and bad blood between us all these years. I also, at times, when I know that I am making no difference to my mom at the nursing home, feel that God has lead me to the other less fortunate clients, who have no one. Maybe my smile, my squeeze on the shoulder is the only love they have felt all week. Or maybe I am being lead to the nursing home to form some kind of relationship with someone I haven't met yet, but will serve some purpose to me or that other person's life. We don't know. I know the last place I would have ever dreamed I would find fun and joyful, would be a nursing home. But I do enjoy trying to bond with my mom and visiting with the others there, clients and staff alike. It is part of my life now and I am trying to make the best of it. I am also trying to hard to keep my faith. It is hard sometimes. I do not understand why God would let anyone suffer through the horrible sickness of AD, but again, it is not for us to understand. I know he forgives me for my moments of weakness and I question him. Thank you for sharing your experiences with us. I am so happy that your wife had you to care for her and love her. Your words of encouragement to us that are just beginning this journey mean a lot. Thank you again."

Dawn wrote, "I think you have a beautiful heart and more people should look at things the way you do. I would gladly take care of my mom again. God rest her soul. I lost her in December 2003. And now I am taking care of my precious dad who has AD. I know it's going to be a long difficult road but I would give anything to do it again. And I would gladly take care of my dad over and over again. Thank you for having such a beautiful heart!!! I am only 39 and have lost my mom, my brother and am losing my Dad. Life really is precious."

Joyce, however, still has a tough time dealing with the situation. "After caring for my Bill for over 11 years," she declared, "I still think it SUCKS. I would never gladly do it again. I wouldn't want him or me to go through it again. Now give me the 35 years before this all started, and I would gladly do that again, even with all those ups and downs. I always had Bill to lean on. I can't imagine anyone wanting to see their loved one suffer through this again."

Joanie is having a tough time coping, too. "I know that I couldn't do it again," she wrote. " For me, it does SUCK. Bigtime. To see my mother, who was a strong, vibrant, controlling, wise and independent woman become this shadow of herself brings me no joy. I didn't need this disease to come into my life to know how much I love her. I knew that beforehand. Through our disagreements and differences I loved her and she loved me. Soon she won't know me or that she loves me. I find no joy in that. Yes, I cared for her fulltime for 2 years. And I hated when people told me what a good daughter I was, because I didn't feel that I was making a sacrifice that should be applauded. She was my mother. And if I had a husband who had this, I would do it because he was my husband. There are no heroics involved - that's what family does. But I find no joy or happiness in my mother's disease. I find nothing rewarding in watching my mother be unable to care for herself. I don't mind going through the ordeal. I hurt for my mother because there are moments when she is cognizant enough of her condition to know how much she has changed and views herself as a burden. That brings me pain. I don't find joy in her Alzheimer's. It makes me so very sad to see the other people there who used to have active and fulfilling lives reduced to sitting around, some wheelchair bound, but all of them locked inside their deteriorating minds. I cry everytime I leave - not just for my mother but for whoever touched my heart that day. I do find working with my autistic children rewarding because I might be able to help them forge a future. I find raising money for Alzheimer's research rewarding because somebody needs to find a cure or prevention for this damned disease. I find it rewarding to research why disorders like Alzheimer's, Autism and ADHD are on the rise because I think the answer lies in our lifestyles. I find it rewarding to watch my son as he grows into a little man. A great baseball player (future Dodger) and musician. I cry when his grandma bites his shoulder when he hugs her because she no longer knows any better. I'm generally a happy and carefree person. This disease took that from me for two years and my son lost that precious time of seeing his real mom. I've even been called a Pollyanna in my approach to life, which would leave me outside of the group that someone has placed me in. I always found that term interesting. And so belittling. I got out my old Pollyanna books (copyright 1908 - belonged to my grandma!) just to double check the origin of that term. I know that as much as my mother never understood the spontaneous, goofy me, she would have hated to see that person disappear. She loved me in spite of me and I loved her in spite of her uptight Pennsylvania Deutsch ways. I respond to this because it touched me deeply knowing that I probably wouldn't do it all again - at least not the same way. So I respond, taking the risk of becoming fodder for a blog, but I felt my opinion also needed to be heard."

Well, folks, I think Joanie did a good job of expressing herself very well, and honestly. Can't ask for much more than that. I like forceful and strong and honest opinions -- and Joanie has 'em. And she's polite and courteous, too. Seems to me that makes for a good parent, a good daughter and a good teacher. A very nice combination when dealing with life. --Jim Broede

That's a good start.

The woman signs herself frustrated and stressed. "Hello," she writes on the Alzheimer's message boards. "I'm new to this site. I'm 23 years old. My father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's a few years ago. He is now 78 and in the late stages. And to make matters worse, he is also diabetic. He doesn't speak and he doesn't have any hobbies. He mainly watches TV, which seems depressing to me. But he doesn't talk. So I don't know if he likes it or not. I've come to the point where I don't think there is much my family can do for him. But we're not ready to give up. Is there any types of puzzles or mind-stimulating games I could give him to occupy his time and maybe make him smile? He can't read and the only activity he likes is writing his name 200 times or pacing back and forth. Any help would be greatly appreciated."

Well, I have some ideas. Take him out in a wheelchair. Maybe the sense of motion and the fresh air will stimulate him. Or sing him a song, or play music. Sometimes, music works better than the spoken word. Give him a shoulder massage, or a foot massage. Or a kiss on the cheek. See if that brings the slightest hint of a smile. Try to talk to his spirit. And ask god for help. And think good thoughts about him. All this stuff may not help. But it won't hurt. And it's worth a try. Yes, keep thinking of little ways to reach him, to stimulate him. I'll bet that you find something that works. Eventually. I've spent lots of time in a nursing home. And I have yet to see someone that can't be reached, one way or another. Sometimes, all it takes is a simple touch. Or communion with a spirit. A personal conversation with god. Imploring his help. I find that nothing is hopeless. One can even communicate with the dead. So, why not with someone stricken with Alzheimer's? You've gotta try. You've gotta believe. That's a good start.--Jim Broede

They pull me through.

"My father has dementia, and I provide care and assistance for him," writes JRB on the Alzheimer's message boards. "I work full-time and most of off-work time is spent taking care of his needs. Just feeling bad today, my daughter who is a second year nursing student, is struggling with her nursing program. She just got a 'D' in her last two tests and her final is coming up. I feel bad I haven't spent time with her, talking with her, supporting her efforts. I'm always in a hurry to take care of something for my dad. My husband is going to have his leg checked out this week because of numbness. My family is understanding of my situation and the need to look after my father. I know this is part of caregiving and that your own life takes a backseat. I can accept the backseat for myself. It's just that I feel badly for my family. My father at this point is unwilling to have outside help, so it's basically me. My daughter called to tell me she got a 'D.' She's in tears. If she doesn't do really well in the final, she's out of the program. Wish there was more of me to go around. Just venting, don't expect a reply. I know everyone is in the same boat with a lot of demands on each of us."

Well, JRB should know better. I'm prone to give replies, even when they aren't expected. Tell your daughter to relax. To not put pressure on herself. Just do the best she can. And if she fails, to try again. And again until she succeeds. Failure can be a learning thing, too. The same thing goes for you, JRB. Try your best. If you fail, learn from the experience. Don't be afraid of failure. We all fail. But we all succeed, too. In many, many ways. Don't forget to count your successes. Think about it. So many of those successes came after failures. After repeated failures. If I let every failure get me down, I'd be a loser. Turns out, I'm a winner. Because I love life. I know how to love. Even though at times I've failed. I'm still trying to get it right. To learn how to love my enemies, for instance. I've made some progress. But I'm still failing, too. But hey, the successes are wonderful. They pull me through. --Jim Broede

If it doesn't work, try something else.

We have lots of worry warts on the Alzheimer's message boards. And I invariably tell 'em that worrying won't help. The same goes if one keeps focusing on the worst case scenario. Try to find a bright side, I say. Even if it's only a tiny ray of hope. Then you'll feel a little less tired. A little less worried. Every little bit of optimism helps. And before long, it could permeate the mind. Yes, look for little things that go right. It tells you that the day wasn't a total loss. At least that's the way I learned to cope. Bit by bit by bit. It may not work for everyone. But I recommend giving it a try. You have nothing to lose. If that doesn't work, try something else. --Jim Broede

...if I sounded like those ladies.

Some of the ladies on the Alzheimer's message boards think I use pseudonyms. In other words, that I may be 'Cherie' and 'Rosie.' Because Cherie and Rosie have nice things to say about me. Therefore, the ladies think I'm playing a big game. But hey, look and see. I'm the only one on the message boards with the courage to use his real and full name. I'm Jim Broede. And they can easily get it verified that I'm real and live in Forest Lake, Minnesota. I have no need or reason to use fake names. Ever. The ladies, meanwhile, all hide behind pseudonyms. So, why do they complain when I lift some of their posted comments and use them here, without their permission? After all, they never used their real identities anyway. They're cowards. Hiding behind false names. Can't blame 'em, really. I wouldn't use my name either...if I sounded like those ladies. --Jim Broede

A positive attitude can make the push...enjoyable.

Oh, those ladies in the Ladies Aid Society. I love 'em. Partly because they are so entertaining. And partly because they are obsessed with me. I rile them no end. Even when I don't mean to. They will always think that I am conniving and scheming and that I'm totally evil. And insensitive. That I am the devil incarnate. And hey, that really doesn't bother me. It amuses me. Yet, I think I could win these ladies over. If I met them face to face. It would be a challenge. But I think I could do it. And I'd laugh trying. I'm really not the ogre they imagine.

Another thing these ladies have taught me. To better understand the lynch mob mentality. How perfectly good and nice and innocent people have been lynched over the ages. It happens all the time. Even within our own judicial system. There have been many, many innocent people executed. But in America, and especially in places like George Bush's Texas, we keep parading one after another into the execution chambers. No rich people. But many of them are poor people. Minorities. People who can't afford good attorneys. So they get railroaded. Sent to their deaths. So that some smug conservative Americans can get satisfaction. The feeling that evil people got their just dues. And the most evil people of all are those who pass judgment on these people. Really, the likes of the snob ladies. They see evil where there is no evil. They are the evil. And they don't see themselves. And when I try to get them to see themselves, they turn on me. And try to make me the evil one. It's as if America as a nation doesn't perpetrate evil. We fancy ourselves as the good nation. And we have our president identifying the "axis of evil." And he rattles off the names of the countries. One by one. And he tells us that god favors America. Because America is a Christian nation. A democracy. The bringer of good. To that, all I can say is god help us.

America could be hell. But hey, even in hell, there's the ability for one to create a tiny paradise. A cocoon. Like I have. In my little corner of America. It shelters me from big America. I can still find solace. A refuge. For so many years, it was with my dear Jeanne. Love. That was the saving grace. Even in hell, one can still love.

I like to ponder the myth of Sisyphus. The writer Albert Camus wrote about the myth. Even in hell Sisyphus finds solace. Comfort. Sure, he has to push that boulder up the hill. Time and again. Forever. But he outsmarts the gods that have sent him to hell. He finds comfort on the way down the hill. To fetch his rock again. That's a respite. A break. And even the push up the hill. That may not be so bad. Physical exertion can be good. It releases endorphines. Yes, one's attitude makes a difference. A positive attitude can make the push up the hill enjoyable. --Jim Broede

I like to think nice thoughts. It doesn't hurt.

“My mother,” Myrtle wrote on the Alzheimer’s message boards, “has had hallucinations for over two years, in spurts…Throughout all of the previous hallucinations, she saw people but she didn't recognize or know any of them. Now she is seeing our deceased family members. Has anyone else experienced this?”

Interesting, isn’t it?

I told Myrtle that maybe mom really is in contact with deceased relatives. Because she's getting closer and closer to the spirit world. Maybe her spirit is being released gradually from her own body, and that brings her closer to the spiritual realm. I don't discount it. Maybe Myrtle shouldn't either. It's a positive and somewhat romantic and optimistic way of looking at things. Mom may be getting closer to god. To paradise. To the spirit world. Another dimension. Maybe that happens when we lose our minds. It leaves only the spirit. Now, isn't that a nice thought? I like to think nice thoughts. It doesn't hurt. –Jim Broede