Designer Genes

My interest in dementia has led me to a variety of resources, including The Alzheimer’s Association. They’ve provided support and guidance throughout my journey with my mother. I receive a newsletter from the Greater New Jersey chapter, and there was an item of interest in the Spring 2012 issue.

In the middle of the state of NJ there is a Memory Enhancement Center where a study exploring the genetic risk of developing Alzheimer’s is being conducted. As the child of someone who clearly has dementia, I have already pondered the obvious questions: “what if this happens to me?” or “will this happen to me?” My mother may not have Alzheimer’s (we’ll know after she passes) but her older sister did die from it. In addition, my mother’s mother had “organic brain disease” indicated as a cause of her death in 1980. Grandma Nettie had suffered speech aphasia several years before she died, finding it difficult to speak English, reverting to her native Yiddish when last I saw her alive. With the genetic cards apparently stacked against me, at least on my mother’s side, I contacted the folks running the study. An ideal candidate, I really wanted to know if I had the genetic predisposition.

Now, first, let me clear up a few things:

1) Having the suspicious gene does NOT mean a person will definitely develop Alzheimer’s. What it does mean is that the likelihood that they will develop Alzheimer’s is higher than for those who don’t have the gene. And conversely, not having the gene doesn’t let you completely off the hook either. You just have better odds in favor of holding on to your faculties as you age when managing other risk factors, like lifestyle.

2) The results of the genetic test may NOT be shared with your insurance company. This is why we have privacy laws in this country. Keep it to yourself and your carrier will never know.

3) The test does not hurt. You don’t even need to give blood; the inside of your cheek can be swabbed to derive the necessary material to test your DNA for the gene.

Since I had to be in New Brunswick for a conference the first week in May, I contacted these folks and offered myself up for testing.

First, they did a cognitive test. I am very familiar with these, as I have been with Mom on numerous occasions as she was subjected to them.

What’s today’s date? Who’s the president? Remember three words: “apple,” “table,” “penny.”

Please write down any sentence that comes to mind.

“I ate the apple and put a penny on the table.”

Copy a line drawing of two intersecting pentagrams.

Can you remember the three words? Yep: apple, table, penny.

I scored 29 out of 30 because I exaggerated the way the pentagrams were drawn on the test. I showed the tester how the intersections were not clean (as a graphic artist, I am a stickler for precision), and told him he owed me half a point.

Then he swabbed my cheeks and told me he’d call with the results. It could be two days or two weeks.

Following some delays, I finally received word: I DON’T HAVE THE GENE! Yippee!

Again, this is no guarantee, but my odds of aging without dementia just took a 20 percent uptick. Add healthy lifestyle and the odds continue to improve.

If you are the child of someone with dementia, you might want to consider participating in a study. We are the generation that could well escape the fate of our parents. But research must be done and subjects are needed.

Of course, you may not want to know. Ignorance may be bliss, for a while. And you may be so burdened with your loved one’s care that you might not have the time. But consider it. You may be lucky, like me. You may be unlucky. But either way, you’ll have one of many answers to a nagging question and you’ll be helping researchers find the answers to the bigger questions. Hopefully, one day the answer will be “Yes! we HAVE found a cure for Alzheimer’s!”

If you want to explore trials that are currently being conducted, I encourage you to go here: http://www.alz.org/research/clinical_trials/find_clinical_trials_trialmatch.asp You have nothing to lose. You may even find a cutting edge treatment for your loved one. Whatever you decide, I wish you well and hope you find the answers you need.

Repeat That Please

The definition of insanity is repeating the same action and expecting a different result. In my role as caregiver to both my mother and my cat, I visit the edge of insanity on a regular basis.

My cat, Max, has diabetes and must be fed on a schedule. He must also be injected with insulin twice a day, every 12 hours. We’ve learned that injecting him (or “shooting the bat*,” as we’ve come to call it) is easier when he’s preoccupied with eating, which also keeps his blood glucose on an even keel. He gets Fancy Feast, which he usually loves, and Nutro Max Cat crunchies. When he was sick and malnourished from the diabetes, his appetite was alarming. He’d suck down two cans in a sitting (and reject the dry food he used to love). He’d barely acknowledge the thin needle delivering his medication. But now that he’s back to a good weight (about 14 pounds), he still cries for food after he’s been fed. He’ll eat a few bites, walk away and clean himself, then forget there’s food in his dish. I will then walk him back to his still-full dish, but he continues to cry. I tried a number of things to get him to dig in, but I found an answer, quite by accident. He needs to be placed at 9 o’clock to his food dish, with his left shoulder to the wall, and then he will eat. Bizarre but true. If he’s at 6 o’clock to the dish, it might as well be empty.

I go through similar gyrations with Mom. A couple of weeks ago, after Bob and I took her out for lunch, I shlepped her packed suitcase back up to her room (she often packs her suitcase, thinking my brother or I will be taking her elsewhere) and noticed that all of her photo albums were wrapped in brown plastic bags. I asked her why she did this, and she repeated that the place was closing and she was going to have to move. I reassured her that was not the case and suggested she unpack her things. It would give her something to do. I told her we were going away the next weekend to see our nieces, but I’d see her soon after that.

During the following week, I got a call from an RN hired by Genworth, Mom’s long term care insurer. They wanted her re-evaluated. Would that be OK? I told the nurse I would be happy to arrange it and meet her there. I wanted to see how Mom was doing through professional assessment standards and I think she’s a little less stressed if I’m there to coordinate.

On the appointed day, the nurse was running late, but I figured I’d spend a little more quality time with Mom. Up in her room, not only was the stuff still packed in bags from last time, she had packed even MORE stuff. And people were stealing her underwear and makeup! No, Mom, they’re packed in your luggage and brown plastic bags. I unpacked everything, hanging some of her clothes, putting other items in her dresser drawers, showing them to her to reassure her, once again, that her things were still there, still safe, and now being stored and organized for her use. I shuffled the items in her closet, putting her slacks in one section, blouses in another, coat and jackets on the far right.

“All that work” Mom sighed.

This was second nature to me at this point. I must have done this exercise in the various places she’s lived at least twenty times (including her time at my house). This time, I was doing it so I could get a handle on what things she might truly need. I know the next time I see her, everything will be tossed around, if not packed, yet again. But at least I know she’s still got hairspray, soap, toothpaste and Poise Pads (they apparently make great packing material).

After her interview with the nurse, I sat with Mom in the main living area and we chatted. Mom said something about having recently had dinner with Dad.

“Really? When was this?”

“I get confused between Daddy and the one who came after him.”

Me too, Mom. There was no one after Daddy. You made up some other fellow in your head; someone you’ve never been able to name. Someone you think you were married to, who had a hostile family and a wandering eye. His story is fascinating, but he doesn’t exist; at least not in my world.

Then she started listing the things she needs. Knee highs, in white.

“Socks? No problem.”

“And underwear.”

“I can get you more. Did you try on the new panties we bought?”

“Yeah. I need a different size.”

“Were they too small or too big?”

“Uh, I don’t know. You know that one stole my underwear. But I got even with her. I took one of her blouses.”

Her. They. Him. Stolen. Oy.

“I know it’s a pipe dream, but I’m thinking a I might need a new bathing suit. The ones I have are old and they, you know…”

“The elastic goes bad.”

“Yeah.”

“OK, we’ll have to go to a department store and you’ll have to try some on.”

“Yeah, OK. I’m thinking it’s also time to see someone about my face again.”

“You want another facelift? That’s kind of expensive, Ma. And you might not be strong enough to deal with it. You don’t heal that well.”

“Well, if I get a twinkle in my eye…”

“Yeah, OK, we’ll see.”

Another facelift. When she’d gone for her LifeStyle Lift back in 2007, my brother was thrilled (he’s a product of modern plastic surgical techniques). I was delighted because she was doing something life-affirming and positive for herself. Now, she lives in a home where the only male is a 26 year old health care aide. But in her head, she could be back in Florida flirting with some spry guy with the bat of an eyelash.

And here I sit, recording my musings on the meaning of caregiving, praying that I am never on the receiving end, hoping that my perspective will be of value to others and wishing that my cat would stop screaming at me for food, at least until the next bat bell rings.**

Shriek. Feed. Shriek. Re-direct.

Pack. Unpack. Re-organize. Placate.

I’m tired. But I’m not going to the funny farm. Not just yet, anyway. Because unlike my charges, I am well aware that the results will continue to be pretty much the same no matter how many times the actions are repeated.

*One of Max’s nicknames is “Bat Boy,” due to his cartoonish looks and distinctive black mask. And “shoot the bat” sounds so much less ominous than “inject with insulin.”
**I set reminders on my iPhone so we’ll remember to deliver Max’s food and insulin on time. These alarms have come to be known as the “Bat Bell.” And when Max arrives in my bedroom at 7:30 am to scream for his breakfast, that too is known as the “Bat Bell.”

Time To Kill The Cat

I’ve always been more of a dog person, but Bob loves cats. Once you get started with one type of pet, it’s hard to switch. Cats tend to do better in pairs. They keep each other company while you’re running around away from the house. They groom each other and give each other exercise and comfort. If one dies, the other tends to mourn and generally appreciates a new companion.

Back when Mom was living with us in 2010, we had two cats: Grady, the elder gray tiger, and Max, the younger tuxedo cat. They got along pretty well despite their age difference, but Grady became impatient with Max as he became enfeebled and eventually succumbed to cancer at 16. We were grateful that Grady managed to stay functional until after Mom returned to Florida so she didn’t have to witness his coup to grace.

Knowing that the mass twisting his body was an inoperable malignancy, Bob and I agreed that once Grady hit certain benchmarks, it would be time. If he stopped eating or appeared to be in pain, we would end his suffering as soon as possible. As long as he had quality of life, we would spoil him and love him all we could. The day came when he would no longer eat. I made the appointment.

We brought Grady to our vet who assured us we were doing the right thing. Grady was contorted by a huge tumor. He was anemic. He’d had enough. We petted him and wept as the doctor administered his sweet release.

Sad as it was, this was a “good death.” Grady had a good, long, happy run. We loved him dearly and still miss him, but it was clearly his time and we accepted it.

Max missed Grady. He would start up with me, initiating cat fights. I figured we’d eventually get him a playmate. Max was 6 and had feline company all of his life.

One of our neighbors asked us about taking in kittens TWICE. We eagerly said yes, but each time, she’d give away the kittens to others or decide to keep them for herself. So I decided to look at shelter kittens.

The local shelters post descriptions and pictures of their adoptees online. One caught my eye: “Kohl” a long haired baby of five months. Could we go take a look?

Bob and I went to the shelter and looked at every cat they had. Lots of cuties to break your heart were looking for homes. I asked about “Kohl.” We were brought to his cage. When the door was opened, the kitten in question literally leapt into my arms. I was on the hook. This dark brown, long haired beauty was coming home with us.

Problems soon followed. Being locked up in “juvey” for five months, this kitty was damaged. Skittish, plagued with chronic diarrhea and fear of being handled for drug administration, he was a tough case. He did like music and rolled around on Bob’s amp as he played his bass. He also watched TV and tried to catch birds and other critters he saw on the big screen. He even proved to be a good hunter, having killed a baby mole and leaving it in our bedroom jammed under the baseboard heating register. And he would cuddle with me, but only when I was sleeping so I couldn’t do anything to him.

We renamed him “Cody” (a nod to his obvious enjoyment of music, inspired by the term “Coda”) and tried to help him settle into life with us.

Mom saw him a couple of times before she moved to assisted living. She was impatient to see the kitty. But he wasn’t cooperative. When she’d get near, he would hide. She did comment that his tail looked like a bottle brush.

Rather than acclimate to being handled and cared-for, Cody became more skittish. He’d hiss, scream and squirm away when I tried to give him any kind of medicine. He would only be brushed where he didn’t need brushing. He looked like no one cared for him because no one could. It was maddening.

Eventually, he developed gingivitis. We’d had another cat with chronic gingivitis: Marty. He was a sweet, loving cat who’d let me do anything to him. We had taken him in when he was about five months old and he fit right in with two other cats in the household (one of whom was Grady). I gave him antibiotic drops almost daily for most of his nine years. He even allowed me to brush his grotty gums (which was like trying to mop a dirt floor). Eventually, he developed kidney failure from the poisons in his gums. All things considered, he had great quality of life. He was worth every moment, every cent worth of care he required. He returned our love ten fold and I still miss him eight years after his departure.

But Cody was a completely different story. The older and stronger he got, the harder it was to do anything for him. Bringing him to the vet for his check up and shots was a two day process, figuring out how to get him in the box and transport him safely to and from the vet. In fact, he pooped himself once in the box, and then busted out of the cardboard carrier after being placed in the car. During that check up visit, his gingivitis was diagnosed. I asked the vet for tranquilizers to give him to see if I could calm him down to care for him further.

I managed to get a pill down his throat one time. It made him a little wobbly, but no easier to grab, hold or manage. I tried putting the antibiotic in his food. He wouldn’t touch it. It was becoming obvious that this was one sick kitty who would only get worse.

Cody started to shriek for no apparent reason. He’d try to eat and then scream. Clearly, his mouth was sore. He wasn’t eating much. Bob and I compared notes.

Meanwhile, Max had developed health problems. First, he was vomiting almost daily. Then he was losing hair on his thighs. I brought him to the vet and he was given cortisone shots, the idea being that he might have food allergies.

During the holidays in 2011, Max had lost almost half his body weight. He slept by the fire a lot.

The vomiting stopped, but Max lost weight at an alarming rate. He went from 16 pounds to 11.5. He screamed for food constantly and continued losing weight. He was also thirsty and peeing a lot. He  developed a cough, too.

Max had become diabetic and required injections of insulin twice a day. We dreaded this at first, but Max accepted his treatment gracefully, barely taking notice of the thin needles. He got better. He gained weight. The drinking and peeing slowed and went back to healthy levels. I took him to the vet weekly to monitor his blood glucose levels and titrate his insulin doses.

During one visit to the vet, I voiced my concerns about Cody and my inability to treat him. She knew I tried. She knew I was a caring pet owner. I told her what I’d been rolling around in my head; that maybe it was time to put Cody out of his and our misery. She kindly told me that what I was thinking was not a bad thing. Some pets are simply not meant for this world.

I told Bob. He was more than supportive. He blamed Cody for Max’s deterioration. We decided we’d bring him in on a Saturday so Bob could help corral Cody and keep the plan on track.

We plotted Cody’s capture and managed to get him into the cardboard carrier. We actually had to put that box inside a kennel with metal bars in order to get him to the vet. He busted out of the box while in the kennel, but the kennel contained him.

We arrived at the vet’s office and I informed the receptionist that Cody had pooped in the box and maybe should be sequestered from the waiting room. We were ushered directly into an exam room.

A different doctor attended to Cody. He extracted him from the kennel and removed the poop, shaving sticking turds away and checking him over. Yes, his gums were mighty inflamed. They could pull all of his teeth, or give him steroids. But we’d have to give him drugs at home, bring him back and…

I started to sob as I once again explained the trouble we’d had trying to care for this poor damaged animal. It wasn’t like we could put him up for adoption by anyone else. And it wasn’t like we hadn’t tried every other reasonable option.

He understood. He asked a few questions, had us sign some papers and brought Cody to another room to administer his last treatment. He said we’d feel crummy for a few days, but he agreed we were doing the right thing.

Restored to "only cat" status, Max resumed sitting in our laps for extended periods and sleeping with us after a year-long absence.

Max improved almost immediately. He’d been putting weight back on, but now he was back in our laps, sleeping with us, playing with us and acting the way he used to a year ago. I couldn’t believe how much he’d changed and how quickly he’d changed back. Now I felt bad for putting Max through all this trauma. But I was glad he wasn’t suffering any longer, and thrilled that we weren’t either.

We tried so hard to do all the right things. In the end, we had to recognize the true problem and eliminate it for the greater good. Sometimes, you have to do the hard thing. If I had to put down one sad creature to save the life of a cherished pet, I’m OK with the choice. Max is once again thriving, happy and healthy. He may even regain the ability to make his own insulin. It’s never an option to take lightly, but sometimes, you just have to kill the cat.

Subject To Interpretation

My mom used to tell stories about my precociousness as a child. She claims that I started singing the refrain to “Old MacDonald” (E-I-E-I-O) at seven months. She was thrilled when I was finally able to let her know, by pointing and crying rather than just crying, that I had an ear ache. At last, she could help me without trying to guess the cause of my distress.

These days, Mom is often acting the role of my crying baby. Her pleas for help, her odd comments, the unfounded complaints, all having some basis in a shared reality that I am required to decipher. Is someone REALLY stealing her stuff? Does she actually need a ride somewhere? Is her agitation coming from her established conditions, or is something new and more sinister brewing?

My brother called last week to relate a call he received from Mom asking for a ride home. I explained that this was part of her illness and that she was confused about where she was. It’s always best to reassure her, tell her you love her and you’ll see her soon. And ask to speak to whomever dialed the phone. They can confirm what’s going on. Just be glad she still knows you.

On a recent weekend, Bob and I took Mom out for brunch. Our birthdays are two days apart, so we figured a little joint celebration was in order. I brought Mom earrings I had been keeping for her and a birthday card from a friend.

We had a nice meal and brought Mom back to the home. A guy who sings and plays guitar for the residents was entertaining the gals and Mom was excited. Bob wasn’t feeling well and was waiting for me in the car. I sat Mom down in the living room where she was honored with a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday” and I ran up to her room to put away her earrings and her birthday card.

As I prepared to leave, I told Mom where I put her stuff, kissed her, told her I’d be back tomorrow and went to join my husband in the car.

Later, my cell phone rang. It was Mom.

“What did you want me to remember?”

I told her that I left the card on her dresser and put the little pouch holding her earrings in the top drawer. She searched where I suggested and found the items.

“Oh wonderful! I’m so glad I can still talk to you and ask you about things I need to remember.”

You and me both, Mom. I’ll always try to figure out where it hurts. I’m just so glad you’re still able to point.

Riding It Out

“Oh, I’m so surprised I found you at home! I hate to bother you, but I need a ride. Can you come get me?”

Mom’s calls often start this way. She has someone at the home call me on my cell (so I could theoretically be anywhere; she just assumes I’m “home”) because she’s certain she’s been out on a merry jaunt and can’t find transportation back to wherever it is she’s supposed to be. And there are always others with her, stuck in the same predicament.

“Sure Mom. It’s OK. If you need me, I’ll come. How are you feeling? Are you still having to go to the bathroom a lot?’

“It’s better, but I’m still going more than usual.”

“OK. Can I talk to one of the girls?”

I get one of the nurses on the line. Mom has another urinary tract infection and she’s being treated with antibiotics, and encouraged to drink lots of water (which explains the excessive peeing). I always delve a little further to try to get a handle on what’s REALLY troubling her when she seems agitated. Since last summer’s misadventures, I’m on guard for any potential red flags.

According to the nurse, she’s been calm and fine all day. Mom likes to follow her favorites around and watch them work. She did this with me, too. Watching others work tires her out.

Fast forward a week and I have still not seen Mom. I’ve been sick. Today I have a low grade fever. A sore throat over the weekend convinced me to take it easy and rest, but it wasn’t enough. Now I’m coughing and achy. I need to see a medical doctor. But I already have an appointment with my eye doctor in Ramsey, and a visit with Mom is pending. I’m on the fence about it though. I don’t want to get anyone else sick, especially not a houseful of vulnerable elders. And then there was the “Selma” incident.

Last week, while I was on another call, an old friend of my parents, Selma* called. She had tried to call Mom at the place in Wayne (from whence Mom had made a hasty exit in July). I told her where Mom was and gave her the new number, assuring her that Mom would certainly still remember her. Within the hour, one of the nurses called to ask ‘Who’s Selma?” I told her it was OK, she was an old friend of Mom’s. The nurse understood, but told me Mom didn’t remember her and didn’t want to talk to her. I was shocked. This woman had gone to kindergarten with my father. Mom had known her for years. I expected short term memory loss, but this? I gave the nurse a few key prompts to jog Mom’s memory about this old friend and hoped she’d remember. Of all the people Mom might forget, I didn’t think Selma would be one of them.

Apparently, in the elder care game, this happens a lot and the nurse handled it well. She told Selma that Mom was napping and would call back later.

As I waited for a call back from my doctor, I decided to call Potomac. The nurse I’d spoken to over the “Selma” situation picked up. How did that go? Based on the prompts I’d given, Mom did remember and had a lovely conversation with Selma. When she got off the phone, she continued to share the retrieved flood of memories with the kind nurse. I felt better.

Then I explained that I was sick and didn’t want to infect Mom or anyone else there. I also didn’t want to panic Mom; in her condition, a sneeze can turn into a coma faster than you can say “Gesundheit.” (Last summer, when she was at the psychiatric hospital, she welled up when she saw me because she had been convinced I’d been in a serious accident). The nurse assured me that maintaining a distance would be wise under the circumstances and she’d let Mom know of my condition should she ask. Boy, am I glad I called.

Next, I called the eye doctor to reschedule. They too were grateful I’d decided to keep my germs to myself. By next Monday, I should be fine (or at least no longer contagious).

All I have left is the council meeting tonight at 8 pm. One of my jobs is to air, record and schedule rebroadcasts of our town’s governing body. For that, I stay in a room by myself. I will be seeing my doctor this afternoon and hope to have some cough medicine to help me through it. Even if I don’t have physical contact with anyone, the microphones could pick up my hacking through the walls. And no one else knows how to do this job.

This is my body telling me to rest, slow down, stop pushing. OK, body, you win. Let’s ride this out and evict these stupid germs. Meanwhile, tell Selma I’m taking a nap.

*Not her real name

Reflections on a Long Year

Mom doesn't always remember his name, but she loves Bob

After a very busy weekend which included a visit with Mom, I’m confronted with another holiday season. I do love this time of year. I don’t mind the cold; I enjoy brisk walks and I love the lights and holiday decorations. I’m filled with anticipation and excitement at seeing friends, having some laughs, finding the right gifts for people I love, it’s my kind of season.

This time last year, Mom had her first major psychotic break. I won’t dwell upon the particulars; they were adequately documented in my post “Welcome to Stage VI.” But what a year it’s been.

Now that Mom is ensconced at Potomac in Ramsey, I have the luxury of being able to think about other things. I visit her once a week, and I usually leave with a list of things she needs and thoughts about what I can do to keep her as comfortable as possible. It gets trickier, because so much of what she experiences these days is in her head.

Mother and son

Mom thinks she has a job at the home. It mostly involves keeping the other residents in line. She complained that they kept her up until after three in the morning that Saturday evening with all those poor people stranded and unable to get on their boat back home. (Yes the boats are back). The noise from the street, the railroad (there is a train that runs through Ramsey; that’s real) and the toots of the boat whistles (no water in Ramsey except for a few ponds and small lakes) make it difficult for her to sleep. I offered to buy her ear plugs (her hearing is eerily acute for someone her age), but she declined.

She wants a phone. The staff isn’t responsive enough. She feels the need to be able to call me at will. I told her it would cost about $60 a month for a phone in her room. In the past that would stop her; this time she wasn’t bothered by that expense. What about a cell phone? She thought she might try it. Again.

Now, of course, I’ve been down this road with her before. She couldn’t work the simplest cell phone when she was more lucid. Now, she’d lose it before it even got charged up. And if she COULD manage to use the phone, what would she do with it? Call me at all hours to complain about the crowds of people in her room waiting for the boat ride home?

I researched walkie-talkies, but those would require the procurement of a license to traverse more than 2 miles (we’re about 8 miles apart as the crow flies). I even researched a converter that would allow her to use a cell line like a land line.

The further I dug, the closer I came to the realization that I was wasting time trying to answer a rhetorical question. Mom doesn’t need a phone any more than she needs a passport. She travels great distances in her imagination all the time with no documentation. She often tells me she tried to call me and couldn’t reach me. What she needs is what she has: a comfortable, safe place to live where she’s given attention, affection and regular visits from her family.

Happy Holidays folks, and a HEALTHY New Year. Without your health, nothing else matters.

After a Christmas Day hike at Sterling Lake

Aloha

Tracey and Nai Noa

Well, this is a fine how do ya do.

For the first time in five years, Bob and I got to take a real vacation. The kind of vacation where you only do things you want to do. No errands for Mom. No crazed phone calls. Just the kind of luxury and fun befitting a twentieth wedding anniversary.

Last year, Bob forgot our anniversary. Very unlike him, but under the circumstances, he was very busy at work and I was up to my neck in caregiving. I was sad and vocal about the lack of acknowledgment. Bob apologized and said our twentieth would get its due. We could go wherever I wanted.

Italy! I always wanted to see Florence, where so many of Michelangelo’s works were on view. And Venice. And Rome.

Bob agreed. For a while. But then “Arab Spring” began, and refugees from Tunisia and Lebanon began streaming into Italy. Might we consider something else?

Hawaii. I had been to Oahu 30 years ago when I worked for a Japanese travel agency. My alcoholic Japanese boss offered me the trip as a “paid vacation.” When I got there, he forced me to work the tour desk every day, helping the incentive trip winners to enjoy themselves. I got to sit inside watching others having fun. I got one day off to snorkel at Hanauma Bay. It was unforgettable, and I swore I’d one day return as a tourist. This was the time.

I booked a vacation package through AARP/Expedia and got the hotel for eight nights in a King room with breakfast daily, round trip, non-stop air and a full size car for one attractive price. The hotel, the Kahala Resort, is a five-star gem on the southeastern shore of Oahu, just ten minutes from Waikiki, with its own private beach and lagoon enlivened with five dolphins cavorting with guests (for a fee) and performing tricks just to add to the ambience. I added on exit row seating for our ten hour flights and we were good to go.

The place was better than you could imagine and we had the time of our lives. We enjoyed the beach and pool just about every day. Our room was lovely, featuring a terrace with a mountain/golf course/waterfall/lagoon/ocean view and a king bed as comfy as our own (which is saying something). We scaled Diamond Head, visited the Arizona Memorial, checked out Waikiki, snorkeled at Hanauma Bay, and did a little shopping (it was time to procure my first bikini in many years). I took yoga and pilates classes on the beach. I kissed and petted a dolphin. We took a sail on a catamaran at sunset and watched fireworks shot from the Hilton Hawaiian Village. We found cool restaurants with delicious food and drinks that were a little more affordable than the offerings at the resort.

One hitch in the proceedings occurred during a visit to the Kahala Mall. We went on our first Saturday after touring the northwestern portion of the island by car. I wanted to see if they had any bathing suits I might like, get a little lunch and snag some sundries.

The parking lot was busy and we circled a while until we spotted a Japanese family preparing to depart in their parked minivan. Mama-san was struggling with the stroller, trying to fold it and put it in the back of the van. The thing was not cooperating. I started making a little fun of the poor gal. “Oh honey, prease hep me wit dis ting! Honeeee!!” Then Papa-san appears with Junior-san in his arms. He transfers the child to Mama and she retreats to the vehicle. Papa stomps on the right release and the stroller yields to his pressure. Into the van goes the folded stroller, followed by Papa-san. Away they go. Bob and I are giggling watching the transaction. It’s funny because it’s not us.

We take the vacated spot. I lock my beach bag holding a couple of cheap digital cameras, my sneakers, hat, socks, the depleted battery case for my iPhone, sunscreen, hotel room key and a voucher for our Friday night sail in the trunk. Still giggling, we go shopping.

I found my first two piece bathing suit. It’s not easy finding a flattering suit, but after trying on a whole bunch, I settled on one I would not feel bad wearing in public. Then I bought a tossed salad with chicken and ate it outside the Whole Foods store as Bob went in for a look. By the time he emerged with his purchase, I’d finished my salad. We returned to the car and I asked Bob to open the trunk. The trunk was empty.

Wait a minute. We’re on vacation. How could this happen? I called 911 and they sent a squad car right over.

The policeman was nice, but he chastised us for putting the bag in the trunk after we parked where we could be seen doing it. (I’d never do anything that stupid in Brooklyn). He went on to explain that the Dodge Charger was a notoriously easy car to break into. And ours had been. The driver’s side lock had been jimmied. They used the release inside the car to open the trunk and grab my bag. Damn!

I filed a police report and said I would press charges. Hey, who wouldn’t use any excuse to go back to Hawaii?

I also filed a report with mall security. Having reviewed all of the items lost, it wasn’t that big a deal. It was early in the trip, so I hadn’t taken a lot of pictures. And both cameras were older. Everything could be replaced. No IDs taken. We were lucky.

Since we were at the mall, I figured I might as well replace the more essential items: the sneakers, the battery pack and the sunscreen. I found a pair of sneakers on sale at Macy’s. After getting very discouraged at the teeming Apple Store, I went to the much more accessible Verizon Store and found the battery pack I needed for my iPhone (which now also became my primary camera). I picked up a fresh tube of waterproof sunscreen and we were ready to head back to the resort.

Once in our room, I realized one of our room keys was in the stolen bag. I called the front desk and apologized for losing it (along with the cool beach bag provided in our room). The desk agent was genuinely concerned about our misfortune and assured me that new beach bags would be provided by housekeeping and he would disable our old room keys and issue new ones.

Something unusual about this hotel: they use REAL METAL KEYS, not plastic cards. But they are electronically encoded. When I got downstairs, our new keys were ready.

I found Bob at the bar and told him that he’d have to surrender the old key. Later, on passing the front desk, he deposited it in the box and we went back to our room. When we opened the door, we were greeted with a beautiful, large canvas beach bag holding two huge, plush beach towels. A consolation gift from the hotel. How nice!

Next day, we turned in the Charger and got a Chevy Malibu instead. The rest of our trip went without a hitch. We watched the weather reports and saw what was heading our way back home. Our timing appeared to be perfect. By the time our plane was scheduled to land back in Newark on Sunday, the freak Halloween snow storm would be well away, the highways would be clear and the skies would be sunny. There were no delays. Our flight would leave on time and arrive early. Oh, well. This was one time I’d have been happy for a delay.

I received a wake-up call from one of the nurses at Mom’s home: there was no power at FIVE of their facilities, including Montville. Mom was going to be moved to Ramsey, one of the locations with power. She was OK, but would have to double up for a while. I allowed the portentous nature of this call to get by me.

Upon landing in Newark, I turned my cell phone on and got a message from our pet sitter. Her phones were not working, so she was using her daughter’s cell. I got every few words. “Limbs and branches.” “No power.” “Fed the cats extra.” Huh boy. Why couldn’t we have gotten this while we were still in Hawaii?

Well, no use crying about it. We were safely on the ground. We were reunited with all of our bags, and my car was waiting in Long Term Parking. I have a Beetle, so the snow tends to slide off of its rounded form, and I did have a scraper in the trunk.

The roads were clear and I got us home pretty quickly. We saw a lot of downed trees along the way, but as we approached Ringwood, it got worse. Bob called the Skyline Traffic Hotline and the main artery home was closed. I took the alternate.

Our block was hit hard. Our house was quite intact, but there were huge branches down everywhere and saplings hanging onto our back room and hot tub. The driveway sported a 10″ layer of wet snow which is immovable by snow blower and impassible by VW Bug. The power was out, so I had to wade though the snow and brush in my new sneakers, up into the house to open the garage from inside and liberate our shovels. All that time in transit added to the six hour time difference had us weary as it was. But the only way in was to dig. So we sucked it up and dug.

Bob was alarmed by how heavy some of the fallen limbs were and did his best to clear the drive. We both shoveled as neighbors slowed in their vehicles to welcome us home, share a few words and get going to wherever they were heading following this latest natural disaster.

Eventually, we got the driveway clear so we could get the car into the garage and unload our bags. I wouldn’t be doing laundry anytime soon.

None of the electrical comforts of home worked, but we do have a natural gas fireplace, so we could heat the main living area. The kitchen stove could be lit with a match. I had enough juice in my laptop batteries to keep my phone charged and at least keep some contact with the outside world. We had candles and cat food for the cats. Upon closer inspection, our home was not damaged. We just got left in a holding pattern, waiting to get back to “normal” as the pain of leaving our island paradise clung to our tanned, chilled bodies.

By Monday evening at 9 pm, our power was restored. I raced around the house turning internet back on, resetting things and getting the TV on. In short order, we realized just how truly lucky we are. Many of our neighbors would wait many more days for their electricity to return. My car, which would have been demolished by falling limbs had we opted to take a cab to the airport, was safe inside the garage. Mom was safe in Ramsey. And we were finally home on the other side of limbo.