Have just found a way to back up the work. I'm not motivated or switched on enough to truly get the hang of computers. And I have a short fuse. So it's only taken about a two weeks to find a writing software that I like and can actually use and another week to find a way to back up the writing - not trusting that computers won't crash at some point - as they have in the past.
Bought a USB thingy and can't figure out how to use it - every file on my computer already seems to be there which is unhelpful because I can never find what I'm looking for amongst all these random files. Often I try and look at a file which has a name which is redundant and there's nothing there. Or it won't open. Other files I don't dare delete because no doubt they are necessary to the smooth running of the computer. Makes me crazy as it's like having a desk piled chin high with scraps of paper. I'm one of those anal retentive types that has to have a clean workspace to get anything done.
And it all gives me the shits really. I would rather just do what I want to do, look at some sites, write and read emails and not spend hours cracking on with stuff I don't give a fig about.
So I've started another blog and each blog will be a chapter. Simple really. Couldn't figure out how to start another separate blog on this site so have found another free blogging site and downloaded that. Have all this stuff on the blog I don't need and can't seem to get rid of but that's okay. Seems I do have to publish, ie make public, in order for the work to be saved but as the blog is not being promoted in any way I very much doubt, with all the millions of blogs out there, that anyone will stumble upon mine. Even if they did, why steal the work? To be tempted to steal something that something has to have value and this is a first draft of something that I would like to make good but surely isn't now - nor may it ever be.
So it's a bit of a celebration.
I am putting off doing anything of note because ABC Classical is on with the harpist, Marshall Maguire ( http://www.marshallmcguire.com/about ). The guitar is fun and frustrating and quite beautiful but truly my first love has always been and will ever be, The Harp.
Today has been a good day. I climbed WAY up on the roof, happily not a steep pitched roof like our former house, to saw off overhanging branches. As the house is built atop a hill with cantilevered decks overhanging the side, I was quite a way up. I wasn't 'pulled' downward by looking down but I sure did plant my foot while sawing away. Especially while pruning the last branch which was quite heavy. Didn't want to let them drop onto the steep ground below as they would be difficult to retrieve - and I wanted to save them for the birds who get so few branches now. But I really didn't want to be pulled over the edge by trying to hang on to them either.
Have also attached more thick styrofoam panels to the aviaries. The difference between bare metal exposed to the sun and the insulated metal is profound. Nearly burned my hand on the bare metal - and of course the birds are feeling that radiated heat. But the insulated metal, although not cool to the touch, was barely warm. Have more to do but not much more gluing, mostly painting although there are still some narrow strips needing styrofoam. Although the current colour of penis pink is not attractive (that's the colour you get when mixing together all the free leftover paint given by a friend) it is much neater than the brothel mess of fraying carpet attached to shiny insulation paper. The last of that has gone in the bin.
Looked up when R was first diagnosed with Parkinsons. May 22, 2013. The Parkinsons hasn't progressed all that much in 5 1/2 years. The dementia has. Know it pains him that I am on the roof sawing off branches, that I am the one that manhandles the extension ladder into place, that I am the one that does the measuring and cutting of the styrofoam (not that I did a stellar job there!). His ability to communicate his thoughts grows more difficult. Words are being taken away from him. Oh, he still has words just not the right words. Sometimes we are truly at a loss. Mostly I can guess what he's trying to say but sometimes not...frustrating for both of us. I prattle on about things but have accepted that a) he mostly doesn't hear me (I no longer nag about the hearing aids) and b) even if he does hear me, he doesn't understand. But I have to talk still. Maybe that's why I've started writing a book.
Showing posts with label parkinsons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parkinsons. Show all posts
Thursday, December 27, 2018
Thursday, March 10, 2016
Music, Parkinsons and Dementia
On ABC the Catalyst program was Music on the Brain. It was about the power of music to help those with severe Parkinsons and dementia. A man with advanced Parkinsons could hardly walk. It was as though his feet were stuck to the floor. Music was played, music he chose that was meaningful to him. The man who could hardly walk began to waltz, slowly but smoothly.
A woman with advanced dementia, who rarely smiled, spoke or interacted was played music through an ipod. She sang along with the music, she smiled and afterwards had a meaningful conversation about the music.
The Catalyst episode can be viewed here: http://www.abc.net.au/catalyst/stories/4421003.htm
Years ago I noticed that people who composed, conducted or played music seemed to live longer than non-musical folks. Live longer and keep all their marbles. George Martin, the fifth Beatle, died today aged 90.
Music is the only art form that moves with and through time. It moves through our blood with the rhythm of our beating heart. Music moves us to tears or creates that 'oceanic feeling' of awe and joy.
Music has power. To music we march to war. With music we are stopped in our tracks to listen to its transient beauty.
I listen to classical music every day. Mostly, I admit, it is the quiet backdrop to reading or drawing or computing. I've stopped listening to it when I do yoga finding that I am quieter and deeper within the practice without the distraction. When much-loved pieces come on, I stop what I'm doing, crank up the sound and stand in the sweet spot in front of the speakers to absorb it through my skin as well as my ears. Like most people I love music. I love classical but I also love Joni Mitchell and Ella Fitzgerald, 'world music' (India, Spanish, African, Middle Eastern) and favourite movie soundtracks.
But imagine if my life was music. What if I wrote, played or somehow created music. I notice that I feel better after singing for any length of time. I used to sing all the time. I rarely sing now which is sad. To sing with all one's might requires total privacy. At least for me.
Did music come before language? Why then do we love birdsong so much? And the music of crickets and the slow deep music of the sea? Does it resonate in our blood?
When I saw the awakening through music of those who had been lost in the dim wilds of dementia I cried. When I saw the man who couldn't walk dance, I cried. I didn't look at Richard but I began to mentally list his favourite songs.
A woman with advanced dementia, who rarely smiled, spoke or interacted was played music through an ipod. She sang along with the music, she smiled and afterwards had a meaningful conversation about the music.
The Catalyst episode can be viewed here: http://www.abc.net.au/catalyst/stories/4421003.htm
Years ago I noticed that people who composed, conducted or played music seemed to live longer than non-musical folks. Live longer and keep all their marbles. George Martin, the fifth Beatle, died today aged 90.
Music is the only art form that moves with and through time. It moves through our blood with the rhythm of our beating heart. Music moves us to tears or creates that 'oceanic feeling' of awe and joy.
Music has power. To music we march to war. With music we are stopped in our tracks to listen to its transient beauty.
I listen to classical music every day. Mostly, I admit, it is the quiet backdrop to reading or drawing or computing. I've stopped listening to it when I do yoga finding that I am quieter and deeper within the practice without the distraction. When much-loved pieces come on, I stop what I'm doing, crank up the sound and stand in the sweet spot in front of the speakers to absorb it through my skin as well as my ears. Like most people I love music. I love classical but I also love Joni Mitchell and Ella Fitzgerald, 'world music' (India, Spanish, African, Middle Eastern) and favourite movie soundtracks.
But imagine if my life was music. What if I wrote, played or somehow created music. I notice that I feel better after singing for any length of time. I used to sing all the time. I rarely sing now which is sad. To sing with all one's might requires total privacy. At least for me.
Did music come before language? Why then do we love birdsong so much? And the music of crickets and the slow deep music of the sea? Does it resonate in our blood?
When I saw the awakening through music of those who had been lost in the dim wilds of dementia I cried. When I saw the man who couldn't walk dance, I cried. I didn't look at Richard but I began to mentally list his favourite songs.
Thursday, December 31, 2015
More Fit in 6 Minutes or FISM
We've begun. Yesterday at the gym we started the Fit in 6 Minutes (FISM). Unfortunately I can't remember what my heart rate went to: was it 150? 146? as I was paying more attention to how Richard was going. He was trying but not hard. His HR got to 81, not nearly high enough. Trying to tread that fine line between encouragement and nagging, I did convince him to up his game enough that he actually became a little breathless for the final attempt. We have to do four sessions of 30 seconds, 3 times a week.
So. Today I showed him the charts regarding age appropriate heart rates. Fifty percent capacity for a 70 year old is 110. Took his resting HR last night, 62 BPM, which is good (mine 72, above average). Suggested that someone he doesn't like, who will remain nameless as this is a public space, was chasing him to 'have a chat'. Brought up the transcript from the Catalyst program and read him appropriate parts. Why wouldn't the FISM program be helpful for Parkinsons as it is also a disorder of the nervous system? The segment on the mice who have been genetically engineered to age faster (how cruel is that? that's a whole 'nother post) and who, with a tailored exercise program (running on a treadmill) didn't age at the same speed as the non-exercising control group, is very telling.
Richard has never been sporty since I've known him. He walks with me and is going to the gym, which is so outside his comfort zone and something he would never do under normal circumstances, and I'm very proud of him for that but he needs to be keen enough to experience real discomfort. For instance, on one of the arm press machines, where the bar is pushed up, he was still on the lightest weight. In all the months he'd been going it never occurred to him to push the weight up a little and he's been going for a few months longer than I! So I encouraged him to increase the weight. Ditto the bike. Suggested that he could go higher than level 2. Yesterday he was on level 7. Yay!
He is also an old hand on the quadricep machine, the treadmill and the cross trainer, machines he avoided because they were too hard. Therefore I am confident that with practice and getting used to the fact that working out hard for 30 seconds hurts, he will master FISM.
In April, after four months of FISM, it will be interesting to take our resting heart rates again. I trust that both will be improved, that we'll have less abdominal fat and more muscle. And that maybe I'll notice that Parkinsons (and/or Alzheimers) will have less of a grip on Richard.
I am excited by the prospect. This might be the answer. No cure for old age and death but if we can feel good, stay active and mentally capable until we keel over, terrific. Can't ask for more than that (except by the time we die all the animals are or will be looked after and loved and if I go first, that Richard is also looked after and loved). Happy New Year!
So. Today I showed him the charts regarding age appropriate heart rates. Fifty percent capacity for a 70 year old is 110. Took his resting HR last night, 62 BPM, which is good (mine 72, above average). Suggested that someone he doesn't like, who will remain nameless as this is a public space, was chasing him to 'have a chat'. Brought up the transcript from the Catalyst program and read him appropriate parts. Why wouldn't the FISM program be helpful for Parkinsons as it is also a disorder of the nervous system? The segment on the mice who have been genetically engineered to age faster (how cruel is that? that's a whole 'nother post) and who, with a tailored exercise program (running on a treadmill) didn't age at the same speed as the non-exercising control group, is very telling.
Richard has never been sporty since I've known him. He walks with me and is going to the gym, which is so outside his comfort zone and something he would never do under normal circumstances, and I'm very proud of him for that but he needs to be keen enough to experience real discomfort. For instance, on one of the arm press machines, where the bar is pushed up, he was still on the lightest weight. In all the months he'd been going it never occurred to him to push the weight up a little and he's been going for a few months longer than I! So I encouraged him to increase the weight. Ditto the bike. Suggested that he could go higher than level 2. Yesterday he was on level 7. Yay!
He is also an old hand on the quadricep machine, the treadmill and the cross trainer, machines he avoided because they were too hard. Therefore I am confident that with practice and getting used to the fact that working out hard for 30 seconds hurts, he will master FISM.
In April, after four months of FISM, it will be interesting to take our resting heart rates again. I trust that both will be improved, that we'll have less abdominal fat and more muscle. And that maybe I'll notice that Parkinsons (and/or Alzheimers) will have less of a grip on Richard.
I am excited by the prospect. This might be the answer. No cure for old age and death but if we can feel good, stay active and mentally capable until we keel over, terrific. Can't ask for more than that (except by the time we die all the animals are or will be looked after and loved and if I go first, that Richard is also looked after and loved). Happy New Year!
Friday, September 4, 2015
Life in *Bits*
Must be the new(ish) ways to communicate; Instagram and Twitter and such things for the blogs I follow are no longer active, or only show signs of life every month or so.
Seems we think in bits now. We consume our news in bits, we talk in bits, we message in bits, we show pictures (at least they're worth a 1000 words) of ourselves. These selfie bits others taste on this Moving Digital Feast where no one gets a full meal.
Kind of sad really.
Suspect that as time goes on we will lose the capacity to think anything through. If we can't grasp it in 140 characters or less we'll just toss it in the too hard basket and move on. I notice that in myself. I'll read some editorial on Huff Post, get half or 3/4 of the way through, find my attention wandering to the picture on the side bar of the cobra and python battle and click on that.
Kind of sad really.
Even books. I don't read nearly as much as I used to. I read in bits. Always getting up to check the computer, or just getting up to do something else. Years ago I'd stake out a claim on one end of the couch and read for hours. Or, with a really good book, stay up all night. Now I grab 10 minutes there, half an hour there.
Kind of sad really.
But what isn't sad is - Richard has joined the gym! He'd stopped doing yoga, hadn't done any physio prescribed exercises for months and was just curling further and further into himself. This is a hard thing to see for he had such terrific posture. Damn Parkinsons! Anyway, besides the afternoon walk (or walk/shuffle) and any chores he undertook, he wasn't doing anything. And I had a hissy fit. Had to stop nagging him as it was making us both miserable and wasn't really doing any good. So hard to see him scrunched over and not say anything but had to bite my tongue. I will copy his posture sometimes to show how extremely bad it is; a sort of visual nag, but I don't say anything. Never nagged about doing yoga, just hoped he would, that he would be motivated to want to fight the symptoms of parky but he didn't.
Hence the hissy fit. Said not to be so damn selfish and to think of me and the kind of companion I was going to have in the future because he wasn't doing anything today, that he wasn't a self-starter and how did he ever run a successful drug squad without being a self-starter. etc etc. Then I told him of Wilma's gym buddy, a woman with parkinsons who has experienced a major turnaround because of working out.
So he joined. Went yesterday and today he is really really sore.
Not sad really. Not at all.
Seems we think in bits now. We consume our news in bits, we talk in bits, we message in bits, we show pictures (at least they're worth a 1000 words) of ourselves. These selfie bits others taste on this Moving Digital Feast where no one gets a full meal.
Kind of sad really.
Suspect that as time goes on we will lose the capacity to think anything through. If we can't grasp it in 140 characters or less we'll just toss it in the too hard basket and move on. I notice that in myself. I'll read some editorial on Huff Post, get half or 3/4 of the way through, find my attention wandering to the picture on the side bar of the cobra and python battle and click on that.
Kind of sad really.
Even books. I don't read nearly as much as I used to. I read in bits. Always getting up to check the computer, or just getting up to do something else. Years ago I'd stake out a claim on one end of the couch and read for hours. Or, with a really good book, stay up all night. Now I grab 10 minutes there, half an hour there.
Kind of sad really.
But what isn't sad is - Richard has joined the gym! He'd stopped doing yoga, hadn't done any physio prescribed exercises for months and was just curling further and further into himself. This is a hard thing to see for he had such terrific posture. Damn Parkinsons! Anyway, besides the afternoon walk (or walk/shuffle) and any chores he undertook, he wasn't doing anything. And I had a hissy fit. Had to stop nagging him as it was making us both miserable and wasn't really doing any good. So hard to see him scrunched over and not say anything but had to bite my tongue. I will copy his posture sometimes to show how extremely bad it is; a sort of visual nag, but I don't say anything. Never nagged about doing yoga, just hoped he would, that he would be motivated to want to fight the symptoms of parky but he didn't.
Hence the hissy fit. Said not to be so damn selfish and to think of me and the kind of companion I was going to have in the future because he wasn't doing anything today, that he wasn't a self-starter and how did he ever run a successful drug squad without being a self-starter. etc etc. Then I told him of Wilma's gym buddy, a woman with parkinsons who has experienced a major turnaround because of working out.
So he joined. Went yesterday and today he is really really sore.
Not sad really. Not at all.
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