Walking About with Dementia
As my dad's Alzheimer's worsened, his ability to walk steadily deteriorated. Though he owned a walker to help him stay balanced, the disease that stole his memories also robbed him of the awareness that he needed assistance. He'd rise from his chair without warning, leaving the metal frame abandoned beside him.
I didn't know back then what I know now: that frequent stumbles or that distinctive shuffling walk aren't just Dad being careless. They're red flags that deserve medical attention. His doctor might have checked for medication side effects or other physical issues—things that could be fixed. Or he might have confirmed what we feared: that the disease was working its way through more of his brain, stealing not just his memories but his motor control too.
Safety became our obsession. I rolled up every throw rug and stashed them in the attic. I installed brighter bulbs in the hallway fixtures and bought nightlights that switched on automatically at dusk. I watched Dad like a hawk, noting how he'd pause at the step down into the living room or avoid the narrow space between the dining table and wall. We replaced his favorite recliner with one that had wooden arms he could grip. The bathroom required the most attention—I secured a metal frame over the toilet that gave him something to push against when standing. My greatest fear was a fall. His doctor had warned me that a broken hip could steal years from his life, and that anesthesia might accelerate his cognitive decline. The physical therapist became our coach, teaching me how to guide Dad without hurting either of us.
I discovered a gait belt, the physical therapist called it—that wrapped around Dad's waist. It gave me something to grip when he wobbled, saving us both from tumbling to the floor countless times. This is an excellent tool for transferring someone from a chair to a wheelchair or just helping them to stand.
I scrutinize my Dad's footwear with the intensity of a safety inspector. The wrong shoes can spell disaster—those leather-soled dress shoes he'd worn for decades now threatened to send him skating across the kitchen floor. I replaced them with Velcro-strapped sneakers that hugged his feet securely, no dangling laces to trip over. When he shuffled to the bathroom at night, I held my breath, watching his beloved, worn slippers, knowing that if one slipped off, the momentary confusion might be all it took for him to topple. Today’s new step-in shoes are ideal for those living with dementia.
I became a detective in my own home, watching Dad's every movement for clues. The way his hand hesitated before reaching for the banister. How his eyes narrowed slightly at the transition from tile to carpet. Each observation could reveal a potential hazard—a too-dark corner, a slippery floor mat—that with minimal effort might be eliminated before it claimed his balance. We need to stay alert for possible risks.
Gary Joseph LeBlanc, Director of Education
