JON: As you may recall, we moved to Denmark with the theory that I was still capable of learning a new language at my advanced age. At first I went go to a government-funded language school, a fine institution with what claims to be an efficient method for teaching the young and able-minded amongst us. However, it is perhaps not quite such a good method for the somewhat more elderly, and definitely not a lot of use for anyone with a degenerative brain disorder which is slowly turning his grey matter to custard. I have often said that if at first you don’t succeed – just give up. I took my own sage advice and gradually dropped out of language school.
But although my “just say no” approach to failure works OK in general, I admit that it’s also nice to succeed once in a while. An aside: who is most likely to succeed? A toothless budgerigar (succeed/suck seed). It’s a dentist joke – my–o-my but we had fun whilst chiseling wisdom teeth out of jaws.
Anyway. Then we had a brain wave (well, when I say “we”, I mainly mean my thinking-brain dog, a glossy-haired bitch called Marie). What I needed was a group of people who would talk to me in Danish v-e-r-y - s-l-o-w-l-y and preferably also have a limited vocabulary. Who answers to that description? Old folks, that’s who. So I started going to the Oak House day centre for the slightly demented twice a week.
At first this was perhaps a less than perfect solution. Of the other eight or ten old guys and gals there, only two spoke a form of English, but not as she is spoke in Blighty - more pidgin, or perhaps swan. However, their English was vastly superior to my Danish, so it would be churlish to complain.
However, I recently changed the days I go there from Mondays and Fridays to Tuesdays and Thursdays. And with that change came a whole different bunch of people, so things started to perk up rather pleasantly. Here was fresh meat, or at least several new blokes, to practice my Danish on. One guy in particular speaks near-perfect English. On our first meeting, he told fascinating tales of international derring-do and seemed to be an all-round good guy, so much so that on my first day I had to wonder why he was an ‘inmate’ of the day centre. It didn’t take long to work out what the problem was, though: he has the memory capacity a concussed bee or, for the more technical of my readers, a Sinclair ZX80. So although his stories are interesting, they have a tendency to repeat on you over and over again. Fortunately, my memory is not that great either these days, so I don’t mind the repetition too much.
Now, if I could only get them to serve proper food at lunch instead of all this foreign muck…
Showing posts with label language. Show all posts
Showing posts with label language. Show all posts
07 August 2012
04 February 2012
Good news, on the whole
Who would have thought, as I lay innocently in my crib, that I’d end up married to a buxom Danish lady (although I stretch the meaning of ‘lady’ somewhat here), living in the middle of snowy nowhere, and – this is the strangest part – officially defined as demented. I’ve been called many names in my time, some more obscene than others, but demented is a new one.
I assume that you, dear reader, have been following our travails over the past month or so (there may be a quiz later), so you know that after many tests a neuro-psychologist told me that a) I am (or have been) highly intelligent, but b) I now have Parkinson’s Disease with Dementia, or PDD among ‘friends’. I’ve not been able to find out a great deal about PDD, but then I don’t need a book or a website about it. I now live with it all day and every day, so I’ll learn as I go along.
A plus, at least, is that we have now become eligible for respite care. This means that on a regular basis – for now, every Monday from 9 to 3 like clockwork – Marie gets a break from me, and I get a rest from the woman’s incessant nagging and planning. The respite home I go to is a ‘normal’ family house that takes 8-10 users at a time, who are supervised by three ‘staff’. The word ‘users’ is theirs. I’m sure it’s very wrong if I call us the inmates or the patients. Some of the others call the staff ‘the grown-ups’, presumably because they have to take responsibility for everything. Maybe simply ‘us’ and ‘them’ will work.
So far, I’ve only been there twice, and both times it’s been an OK experience. I had been told that around half the people there speak English to some extent, and I find that surprisingly many are surprisingly happy to speak it. But not all of the people all of the time, of course, so I also get exposed to ‘raw’ Danish for a good part of the time, which lets me relax. Actually, I think there’s a good chance that, by a process of osmosis, these demented guys and dolls will teach me more Danish than I could ever learn in my old language school. We’ll see.
In other news, I visited a friend in Glasgow last weekend. I had an excellent and exhausting time, and was pleased to find that solo air travel is still well within my capacity. In other ways, too, it was a telling experience: as agreed in advance, Marie rang me every 2 hours from Denmark to remind me to take my medicine. In one way, it was a sweet expression of affection and concern. In another way, it was just a tad humiliating, like having your mum collect you from the playground, or – as has happened to me – being made to wear lederhosen in full view of my peers (who were also five years old, but that’s beside the point).
We are now scouring the web for a portable alarm that will free both of us from the straightjacket of the bi-hourly call. The trouble is that I have a bit of a history of switching off pill alarms without actually taking the pills that I’m supposed to be alarmed about. I’ll need something loud and insistent. Something very like Marie, in fact.
I assume that you, dear reader, have been following our travails over the past month or so (there may be a quiz later), so you know that after many tests a neuro-psychologist told me that a) I am (or have been) highly intelligent, but b) I now have Parkinson’s Disease with Dementia, or PDD among ‘friends’. I’ve not been able to find out a great deal about PDD, but then I don’t need a book or a website about it. I now live with it all day and every day, so I’ll learn as I go along.
A plus, at least, is that we have now become eligible for respite care. This means that on a regular basis – for now, every Monday from 9 to 3 like clockwork – Marie gets a break from me, and I get a rest from the woman’s incessant nagging and planning. The respite home I go to is a ‘normal’ family house that takes 8-10 users at a time, who are supervised by three ‘staff’. The word ‘users’ is theirs. I’m sure it’s very wrong if I call us the inmates or the patients. Some of the others call the staff ‘the grown-ups’, presumably because they have to take responsibility for everything. Maybe simply ‘us’ and ‘them’ will work.
So far, I’ve only been there twice, and both times it’s been an OK experience. I had been told that around half the people there speak English to some extent, and I find that surprisingly many are surprisingly happy to speak it. But not all of the people all of the time, of course, so I also get exposed to ‘raw’ Danish for a good part of the time, which lets me relax. Actually, I think there’s a good chance that, by a process of osmosis, these demented guys and dolls will teach me more Danish than I could ever learn in my old language school. We’ll see.
In other news, I visited a friend in Glasgow last weekend. I had an excellent and exhausting time, and was pleased to find that solo air travel is still well within my capacity. In other ways, too, it was a telling experience: as agreed in advance, Marie rang me every 2 hours from Denmark to remind me to take my medicine. In one way, it was a sweet expression of affection and concern. In another way, it was just a tad humiliating, like having your mum collect you from the playground, or – as has happened to me – being made to wear lederhosen in full view of my peers (who were also five years old, but that’s beside the point).
We are now scouring the web for a portable alarm that will free both of us from the straightjacket of the bi-hourly call. The trouble is that I have a bit of a history of switching off pill alarms without actually taking the pills that I’m supposed to be alarmed about. I’ll need something loud and insistent. Something very like Marie, in fact.
31 October 2011
Commitments
JON: As I was idly leafing through the blog posts the other day, it became horribly obvious that I have not been pulling my weight in the blogging department. I have lots of excuses, some of them quite inventive, even inspired – but staying silent for almost 4 months has been a mistake. Politicos say that a week is a long time in politics, and 4 months is too long with PD. A lot can happen, and has, in that time.
As you know, I have started taking Danish lessons. These are what is termed “total imersion”, which means that the teacher conducts the classes entirely in Danish, and we poor students struggle bravely to keep up. It makes a certain amount of sense as students come from all over the place and have no common language other than Danish.
The lessons last from 8:30 am to 2:00 pm, 5 days a week … yes, you that read right: 5 days a week. Since I find myself exhausted when having to maintain concentration for more than 10 minutes at a stretch, this is…a stretch. So we have decided that I will go to class twice a week, a rather more achievable ambition. Consequently, my Danish is still minimal, and I linger at the “the cat sat on the induction cooker” stage (so don’t yet know how to say “the cat broke the induction cooker”). I feel I am making little progress, though I can see my fellow students improving steadily – though mainly improving their English during the breaks.
But what of the other days, I hear you ask. Am I off out having fun with the natives and their herrings? Well, no. Two days a week are devoted to physiotherapy, and the last weekday I spend trying to recover from the combined mental and physical strain.
I started to take physiotherapy shortly before our holiday. It is turning out to be somewhat worse than I expected (and you know what an optimist I am). I went hoping for massage, relaxation and a generally pleasant experience. How sadly mistaken I was. The clinic owns a full set of the most horrific implements of torture you’ve ever seen in black leather and brushed steel – and I’m expected to eagerly jump on these things to “work out”, because “it’s good for me”. Do I look that gullible?
And to bring you right up to date: yesterday we went to Copenhagen for a lecture on cantopedia, a subspecies of voice and music therapy. What, I wondered as I sat in my discrete corner, is an arch cynic and all-round poo-pooer of new age crap in all its myriad forms doing at a lecture given in Norwegian to a Danish audience, with the lecturer’s acoustic guitar as a teaching aid? Marie had issued a three-line whip so I couldn’t get out of going, and I am embarrassed to report that I believe there may be something in this canto-therapy.
Parkinson’s is a strange disease. We Parkies can go from full-body rigidity to fluid walking in a matter of moments with the right musical stimulus. Magic – and I mean that, because it seems to me that a fair bit of the scientific basis is still wobbly, but I can see and feel the effect for myself. I’ll tell Marie to explain the idea in her next post as I suspect she understood rather more of the Norwegian than I did.
As you know, I have started taking Danish lessons. These are what is termed “total imersion”, which means that the teacher conducts the classes entirely in Danish, and we poor students struggle bravely to keep up. It makes a certain amount of sense as students come from all over the place and have no common language other than Danish.
The lessons last from 8:30 am to 2:00 pm, 5 days a week … yes, you that read right: 5 days a week. Since I find myself exhausted when having to maintain concentration for more than 10 minutes at a stretch, this is…a stretch. So we have decided that I will go to class twice a week, a rather more achievable ambition. Consequently, my Danish is still minimal, and I linger at the “the cat sat on the induction cooker” stage (so don’t yet know how to say “the cat broke the induction cooker”). I feel I am making little progress, though I can see my fellow students improving steadily – though mainly improving their English during the breaks.
But what of the other days, I hear you ask. Am I off out having fun with the natives and their herrings? Well, no. Two days a week are devoted to physiotherapy, and the last weekday I spend trying to recover from the combined mental and physical strain.
I started to take physiotherapy shortly before our holiday. It is turning out to be somewhat worse than I expected (and you know what an optimist I am). I went hoping for massage, relaxation and a generally pleasant experience. How sadly mistaken I was. The clinic owns a full set of the most horrific implements of torture you’ve ever seen in black leather and brushed steel – and I’m expected to eagerly jump on these things to “work out”, because “it’s good for me”. Do I look that gullible?
And to bring you right up to date: yesterday we went to Copenhagen for a lecture on cantopedia, a subspecies of voice and music therapy. What, I wondered as I sat in my discrete corner, is an arch cynic and all-round poo-pooer of new age crap in all its myriad forms doing at a lecture given in Norwegian to a Danish audience, with the lecturer’s acoustic guitar as a teaching aid? Marie had issued a three-line whip so I couldn’t get out of going, and I am embarrassed to report that I believe there may be something in this canto-therapy.Parkinson’s is a strange disease. We Parkies can go from full-body rigidity to fluid walking in a matter of moments with the right musical stimulus. Magic – and I mean that, because it seems to me that a fair bit of the scientific basis is still wobbly, but I can see and feel the effect for myself. I’ll tell Marie to explain the idea in her next post as I suspect she understood rather more of the Norwegian than I did.
17 January 2010
Am I me, and is that good?
JON: I’ve been looking back over my previous blogs, many of which are basically just diary entries – “last week we went to the zoo” kind of thing – but a couple of things stick out like sore thumbs. When we started blogging we promised to be strictly honest and I’m surprised to see just how honest we have been. Sure, there has been some editing and there is very little mention of our sex lives (or should that be sex life?) – not that there is much to tell, really, since the goat escaped.
Marie talks a lot about how I have changed, and how she initially raged (against the dying of the light) while I just grieved quietly. But have I really changed? While I am still me, am I the me that I was two or three years ago? I think not. I’ve asked friends if they have noticed any changes, and they all say no, though I suspect they are just being kind.
For instance, before I had PD I made lots of off-the-wall jokes. I might ask, apropos of nothing at all, “do you realize that 50% of doctors perform below average?”, or I might pretend to misidentify one of the stars in a film and say that “I’ve always liked Buster Keaton” when the actor is in fact Brad Pit. OK, perhaps these are not examples of stunning wit, but with a following wind they would raise the occasional smile. But this seems to have changed of late, now people look at me (more) strangely and I can almost hear the cogs whirling in their brains, wondering if that was a joke, or my brain failing.
It might partly be due to the change in status. Pre-PD I was the “serious(ish)” scientist with three degrees, a white coat and 100+ publications. Now, I’m that odd bloke who makes even odder comments, the one who sits in the corner and twitches. We have a friend who says “vroom, vroom” whenever he gets in a car – is he demented or just making a very poor joke? In his case the smart money is on dementia, but you get the point?
Another minor problem is that I seem to make weird statements. I start to say something, but then get ahead of myself and leave some of the connective words out. So instead of saying “look at the fat bloke on the TV”, I’ll just say “look the fat TV”, which makes sense to me but not to anyone else. (Of course, I’ve always been used to people not understanding me – I doubt I ever managed to explain my interest in the biomechanics of the temporo-mandibular joint (TMJ) to anyone – but this new incomprehension is more troublesome.)
Along with not finding words when I need them, I also switch words around and end up talking nonsense. For example this morning I was looking at the cat so asked Marie “can you put the cat on” when actually I wanted her to put the radio on.
And I am still having problems with short term memory which I suppose I must accept is unlikely to get much better. I forget appointments, forget when it’s my turn to cook dinner, forget to do things I promised (and meant) to do, ask a question and almost immediately forget the answer. It is really very annoying, for me and for those around me. And it is of course also hugely worrying because I can’t know whether this is more or less a stable situation or the beginning of a slippery slope.
So I get paranoid. A concrete example is our attempts to teach me to speak Danish. We had got into a routine where we did half an hour a day after dinner. Then some months ago the book was tidied away into Maries office and only reappeared when I recently asked about its whereabouts, but we have a yet to do anything with it. (OK, this is just as much my fault as it is Marie’s – but I have the excuse of being a Parkinsonian with auto-motivation issues.) Is dropping the lessons just an oversight, or is that we are both terrified that they will bring my memory issues to the fore?
(MARIE: I was horrified to read the above! I had really, honestly just tidied the book away when we were preparing for the first house viewings, and then forgot about it in the middle of much busy-ness. I had no idea that Jon was fretting that I might have hidden the book because I thought he was beyond learning anything new. And he never said a word, just sat there quietly nursing his fear. What would we do without the honesty of this blog?)
I manage to cope without speaking Dutch, but this is mainly because the average Dutch person speaks fluent English so there is very little incentive to learn (and Marie has learnt sufficient Dutch to cope with most situations). But if Plan A comes to fruition and we move to Denmark, I’m going to need to be able to at least understand some Danish (they are not quite so internationally minded there as in Holland). So far all I can really do is ask for a cup of tea – and I don’t even much like tea. But we’ve decided to restart the daily Danish lessons as of today so hopefully the Danish world of beverages will soon be at my feet. Now, if I could only remember what they call their beer …
Marie talks a lot about how I have changed, and how she initially raged (against the dying of the light) while I just grieved quietly. But have I really changed? While I am still me, am I the me that I was two or three years ago? I think not. I’ve asked friends if they have noticed any changes, and they all say no, though I suspect they are just being kind.
For instance, before I had PD I made lots of off-the-wall jokes. I might ask, apropos of nothing at all, “do you realize that 50% of doctors perform below average?”, or I might pretend to misidentify one of the stars in a film and say that “I’ve always liked Buster Keaton” when the actor is in fact Brad Pit. OK, perhaps these are not examples of stunning wit, but with a following wind they would raise the occasional smile. But this seems to have changed of late, now people look at me (more) strangely and I can almost hear the cogs whirling in their brains, wondering if that was a joke, or my brain failing.It might partly be due to the change in status. Pre-PD I was the “serious(ish)” scientist with three degrees, a white coat and 100+ publications. Now, I’m that odd bloke who makes even odder comments, the one who sits in the corner and twitches. We have a friend who says “vroom, vroom” whenever he gets in a car – is he demented or just making a very poor joke? In his case the smart money is on dementia, but you get the point?
Another minor problem is that I seem to make weird statements. I start to say something, but then get ahead of myself and leave some of the connective words out. So instead of saying “look at the fat bloke on the TV”, I’ll just say “look the fat TV”, which makes sense to me but not to anyone else. (Of course, I’ve always been used to people not understanding me – I doubt I ever managed to explain my interest in the biomechanics of the temporo-mandibular joint (TMJ) to anyone – but this new incomprehension is more troublesome.)
Along with not finding words when I need them, I also switch words around and end up talking nonsense. For example this morning I was looking at the cat so asked Marie “can you put the cat on” when actually I wanted her to put the radio on.
And I am still having problems with short term memory which I suppose I must accept is unlikely to get much better. I forget appointments, forget when it’s my turn to cook dinner, forget to do things I promised (and meant) to do, ask a question and almost immediately forget the answer. It is really very annoying, for me and for those around me. And it is of course also hugely worrying because I can’t know whether this is more or less a stable situation or the beginning of a slippery slope.
So I get paranoid. A concrete example is our attempts to teach me to speak Danish. We had got into a routine where we did half an hour a day after dinner. Then some months ago the book was tidied away into Maries office and only reappeared when I recently asked about its whereabouts, but we have a yet to do anything with it. (OK, this is just as much my fault as it is Marie’s – but I have the excuse of being a Parkinsonian with auto-motivation issues.) Is dropping the lessons just an oversight, or is that we are both terrified that they will bring my memory issues to the fore?
(MARIE: I was horrified to read the above! I had really, honestly just tidied the book away when we were preparing for the first house viewings, and then forgot about it in the middle of much busy-ness. I had no idea that Jon was fretting that I might have hidden the book because I thought he was beyond learning anything new. And he never said a word, just sat there quietly nursing his fear. What would we do without the honesty of this blog?)
I manage to cope without speaking Dutch, but this is mainly because the average Dutch person speaks fluent English so there is very little incentive to learn (and Marie has learnt sufficient Dutch to cope with most situations). But if Plan A comes to fruition and we move to Denmark, I’m going to need to be able to at least understand some Danish (they are not quite so internationally minded there as in Holland). So far all I can really do is ask for a cup of tea – and I don’t even much like tea. But we’ve decided to restart the daily Danish lessons as of today so hopefully the Danish world of beverages will soon be at my feet. Now, if I could only remember what they call their beer …
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