Acceptance

"Ingratitude is a painter of hard lines on the face." Emma Curtis Hopkins

It seems that Dwane finally accepts living in assisted living.  The owner of the facility told me that it had been especially hard for him to accept, and -- if he had not accepted it, he would have had to go to a locked facility.  What a relief that he is choosing to be happy where he is.  It is not perfect, but, then, neither is my living situation.  He has chosen to move from his large, spacious room (with an inferior bathroom) to a regular room on the main floor.  I have surrounded him with his things; those things he wants and enjoys to feel he is at home.  He has his reclining lift chair, and the wing back chair from home, a tv that I hope he can operate (sometimes can and sometimes cannot), books, vcr and tapes, talking books, paintings he likes on the walls -- I want him to be content and occupied with pleasurable things.  This next weekend our son-in-law is taking him to a car show of vintage cars prior to WWII.  He will love it, if he can physically handle the outing.  The PT (physical therapy) is helping with the inoperable back pain, but it is still incapacitating for him at times.   Five long months it has taken for him to accept that he needs assistance, and even now he sometimes lapses into thinking he could be at home or on his own.  It is still baffling that with his type of dementia he is so unable to see his needs at times, but at other times he will tell me that he knows he is where he needs to be.  His acceptance is such a relief.