Avoiding misunderstandings

My family has a tradition of giving two greeting cards for every occasion.

To avoid misunderstandings.

Several years ago I sent my brother a card congratulating him on becoming president of a major company.

To me, anyway, it was funny.

First, I must explain.

He and I had a long, exciting tradition of sending one another humorous to knee-slapping hilarious cards. We always looked forward to receiving the *perfect* card that would send us ROTFLOAO!

Then came an episode of familia interruptus (not speaking, any of us), brought about by ... misunderstandings, due to a failure to communicate clearly.

This dispute was resolved before I sent my intended-to-be funny, soon-to-be infamous card.

It went something like this: The front of the card said, "Congratulations! I'm sure everyone in the company - including your competition - is thrilled with your promotion!"

Open it, and across both sides of the card it shows a white-shirted corporate guy laying face down on his big desk with this huge knife in his back.

In the old days mon frere would have doubled over laughing, tears flowing, farts tooting.

But .. after our initial reconcilliation, my congratulatory card was evidence of much work still left to be done to heal the family communications chasm. His former sense of humor was MIA.

My mom called to say He. Did. Not. Find. It. Funny.

In fact, he felt it was disrespectful.

Um, ouch.

OK, I can see where some people might see it that way, and I realized things had, indeed, changed. Or at least he had and I hadn't and maybe I should.

I apologized profusely, begged for forgiveness and sent him a hand written message of genuine congratulations, how he deserved it (he did!), yanga yanga yanga.

It would be awhile after that faux pas before I would send him another "brother - humorous" card.

Then I remembered another incident that occured years before the family furor when my bro encountered the same problem with my dad. He sent dad a "funny" card that daddy-o did not consider laughable, but was instead insulted. Or hurt. Or both.

OK.

A couple months after my screwup and groveling apology, I sent my bro another serious card for another occasion.

Then, wouldn't you know it, I found a really hilarious card for him that I couldn't refuse. I bought it, addressed it and put the stamp on it.

I wondered: send? Don't send. Send. Don't send. Send. Don't. Send. Don't..... Send?

I took a chance and dropped it in the mail box, hoping by now he might be able to enjoy it - especially since he already received my sincerely thoughtful message.

In fact -- he did enjoy it! Mercifully, he let me know right away!

Haha! Hoho! HURRAH! He was laughing!

At last we retrieved our mutual sense of humor! From the ashes rose the phunniex!

Thus spawned the family tradition of sending two cards for every holiday, occasion and opportunity.

To be *very* clear, my mother writes on the back of each dispatch, "This is the serious card." And, "This is the funny card."

I decided to do the very same -- just, you know, to avoid any misunderstanding.

Lost

My dad recently suffered bouts of intermittent dementia when he was hospitalized with a broken hip.

I understand dementia can hit elderly patients in hospitals with some regularity because so many drugs are floating through their bodies to begin with, then adding more, including pain pills, can push some over the top.

Most of the time his behavior is normal, but occasionally he slips in and out of a brief confusion - attributed to his age (87).

Like me ( ;-), he looks considerably younger than his age, and he's pretty physically fit so that makes him very strong (for his age).

One morning, within moments, he went from simply being a little groggy to becoming outright violent with the staff, actually striking his primary nurse and ripping out his IV's. Because of his outburst, he hurt himself enough to have to undergo another vital, though less major, operation.

This is especially painful for my mom - she doesn't fully understand that he has no idea what he is saying or doing when he flares up with one of his episodes and says all sorts of horrible things to her and everyone within the range of his voice.

For some reason dad listens to me, so mom called me to settle him down. I call the hospital.

He says he'll speak with me but he won't touch the phone because he insists, "It's loaded." With explosives.

So I talk to him via the nurse who holds the phone and transmits my messages to him. I can hear him just fine. I tell him no one is trying to harm him, that I would protect him if anyone tried.

He starts to relax and finally starts breathing normally so I hang up.

A few minutes later I call him again and this time he answers the phone. Frustrated, sad, angry, lost - but no longer believing the phone will detonate.

He pleads that "they" are trying to kill him. They're plotting against him. They're planning to hurt him.

After he vents for awhile, he concludes, his voice tapering, "I can't fight any more. They're going to do it. I can't fight any more."

I interrupt, "Don't."

Dad: Don't?

CP: Don't fight. Rest. That's what gets you well. Rest.

Dad: Rest?

CP: Rest.

Dad: I can't fight any more. They're going to -

CP: I won't let them get you. I'll protect you. I've got a special system in place to protect you.

Dad: Yes. I know you can. You have before.

(I have no idea what he means by this.)

CP: Yep. And I will again. Stop fighting. Rest.

Dad: OK, I'll rest. Stop fight..ing..

CP: I love you dad.

Dad: Rest.

I call back 10 minutes later.

His nurse answers. He's asleep, his wrists in restraints because there's no telling if he'll snap again.

If he remains settled, they can remove them but they can't "sedate" him to keep him settled; it's against the law to use any more restraint than necessary to protect the patient from harming himself or others.

Unfortunately, some recovery left him lost in confusion and helplessness - wondering how on earth he could do these things, afraid he might do it again.

My brother flew out to be with them a few days; he and I told my mother that her job now is to take care of herself; to let her friends take care of her the way she normally takes care of him because he has several people - all professionals - looking after him.

I stayed with them last weekend.

Dad's currently in a recovery and rehabilitation clinic. His dementia episodes still occur with some regularity. A nurse recently found him going through another patient's belongings, taking a wallet and other effects he believed were his. One thing about him - in his right mind, he is fastidiously honest.

It's painful to watch; it's also a concern to wonder whether it might be inherited.

The staff at the recvoery facility believes there is hope that with a lot of thought-provoking exercises, paying close attention to his behavior and having him flex his mental muscles, he may well have a shot at a real recovery and experience genuine clarity again.

For everyone enduring this sort of mental illness with family, friends or loved ones - my heart goes out to you. It leaves us all at a loss to do little more than cope until more is known about treating brain deteriorating conditions like dementia and alzheimer's disease.