Costco, a Pedicure, and Verizon

When I was growing up, Costco did not exist – be nice. I’m not that old; Costco is young. When Doug and I were raising kids, going to Costco was a weekly event. I was grateful to have the wholesale, large quantity store available for our growing family. My daughter enjoyed the Costco experience, samples, the toy section, and even an occasional hotdog. But mostly, she enjoyed organizing the cart while I shopped, so everything fit neat and snug. She was the oldest of three and was especially helpful when her younger brothers came shopping with us. In my haste, it was not uncommon for me to toss an item into the cart while assisting a child with broken concentration along the way. Admittedly having a little helper in my daughter – organizing my disorganization – aided the whole Costco experience.

I rarely shop at Costco now. The kids are grown, and the Costco portion sizes tend to be too exaggerated for my current lifestyle. But now and then, Costco comes calling. It did recently in the form of Pots and Pans for my niece.

I did not give the potential complexity of this field trip any thought when I loaded Doug and mom into the car. I brought the wheelchair for mom and the “handicapped” parking placard. We arrived, parked, settled mom into the wheelchair (after the walker became more than she wanted to manage), gave Doug the job of pushing the cart (which now carried the discarded walker), and headed towards the pots and pans. As a caregiver of two in a crowded Costco on a Saturday afternoon, I immediately felt challenged. I pushed the wheelchair and trusted Doug was following close behind, pushing the cart.

Trusting dementia should have been my first clue that being in Costco on a crowded Saturday with two people requiring around-the-clock physical and cognitive attention would leave me saying, “I will never do that again!” I guess that’s what makes hindsight 20/20.

Doug’s dementia is not glaring like old age or a broken leg. It doesn’t physically present itself from a distance and does not tend to bring the do-gooders around to hold the door or patiently walk behind until there is an opportunity to pass. Dementia lurks unsuspecting, exposing itself randomly, especially in Doug, who could be considered too young for such an ailment.

In the case of this Costco trip, dementia reared its head as Doug accidentally ran the cart into the heels of an innocent stranger with a temper. Doug’s language deficit and my profuse apology and clumsy explanation only made things worse. I gracelessly maneuvered a confused ruffled Doug, the shopping cart carrying the discarded walker and pots and pans in a box, and mom in the wheelchair away from the irritated unforgiving customer. We bumbled towards checkout as my heart raced and tears brimmed.

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We have a family joke about grandma’s big toe. Doug inherited it. He also inherited big feet and dry skin, the perfect combination for a pedicure. Doug, like many men, had no pedicure experience. A pedicure, to him, is part of a spa day women share with their friends while vacationing in a five-star resort, always including a flair for toenail polish.

Toenail polish is not Doug’s thing!

Caregiving has taught me to do many things for Doug that I don’t remember being part of the wedding vows or the pre-marriage counseling. Cutting toenails is one such thing, especially the big toe toenails. So, I recently decided someone else needs that job, and I took Doug to get a pedicure!

Doug’s love language is physical touch. He feels loved and appreciated and gives love and appreciation through touch. For example, a pat on the back in sports was equivalent to a “good job, my friend.” With his kids, he would give a hug, tousle hair, or put a hand on their shoulder to let them know he was close and that he loved them. In the case of Doug and me as a couple, he liked to sit close, hold hands, hug, be held, and be intimate.

Sadly, dementia has stunted Doug’s expression of touch. Now he is reserved, detached, and often stands alone. This apathy was an early dementia symptom that is still hard to get used to. But when I took Doug to get a pedicure and trim those big toe toenails, the physical touch involved in the process lit something in him. His face beamed with a smile, and the words cascaded in expressed gratefulness – albeit not all in the correct order or as prolific as you and I would articulate. He loved the attention, the touch, and the clean, trimmed outcome. I made him another appointment in a month.

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Two of my least favorite things are buying a car and going to Verizon. They both feel high pressure, where the salesperson has the upper hand with practiced voice intonation techniques and dense, complicated language about specials, discounts, and the latest technology. It all inevitably leaves me feeling vulnerable and underqualified. Unfortunately, my aversion to these high-pressure situations was recently reinforced when I experienced a slick salesman with empty promises that included changing our cell phone plan at a Verizon store.

I made an in-person appointment and arrived on time, knowing what I wanted as an outcome, but feeling apprehensive and slightly melancholy about changing our existing phone plan details. Doug and I have shared a cellular family plan for what feels like, forever. Both our phone plans were under one umbrella. Our children each initiated their cell phone use under that same umbrella until they eventually graduated to individual cell phone contracts. 

Doug’s phone number holds a place marker in my memory. His “hello,” when he’d answer, is as familiar as my reflection in the mirror. We have shared an unknown number of phone conversations and texts, some simply informative, some serious, some playful, and some emotionally charged. 

I intended to reduce our cell phone plan to a single line (mine) and remove Doug’s phone number from the contract during this visit, hence my melancholy mood. The step to make this change and downgrade from our shared plan has been brewing for a while. It was not a spontaneous or impulsive decision. Doug’s language and executive functioning skills are inadequate for this (or any) level of technology. He doesn’t use his phone anymore except as a fidget toy that confuses him, triggers anxiety, is easily lost, weighs heavy in his pocket (when it’s not lost), and requires charging.

Making this change to what had become a staple of daily life – consistent communication between us anytime and anywhere – was not easy emotionally or physically and felt like another painful dementia fragment fractured from the whole of who Doug has been.

After a lengthy explanation of our dementia situation and how it impacted our cellular contract details, I left the Verizon store with what I thought was the best option, only to discover a slick salesman’s sale won the day. My gullibility was responsible for an additional hour of my time on the phone with a customer service rep who needed a complete explanation again to make necessary corrections. All said and done, I was exhausted, and Doug’s phone was disconnected from cellular technology.

For us, a day in the life of dementia is never smooth, always heartbreaking, and filled with choices, deep love, laughter, and my bottomless desire to provide Doug with as many more good days as possible.

He does not remember the challenging Costco experience with a shopping cart, pots and pans in a box, and the angry unforgiveness directed at him. Doug does not recollect unleashing words of gratitude (usually trapped silently inside) through the beauty of touch in his initiation to a pedicure. He is no longer anxious and triggered by the cell phone he lugged around in his pocket (when it wasn’t lost).

Doug lives in the moment as his mind mercilessly changes daily, slowly walking him toward his heavenly home. I desperately wish to interrupt these changes and stop this relentless cadence, but I can’t. So instead, I pray for him and do what I can to provide more good days by spending time connecting with him one day at a time and gratefully counting the many blessings we still share.