#236 Parkinson's Hallucinations and Some New Photos

 

Our front yard frosted with hail.

#236 Perception and Pictures

Crocus in our front garden.

The pictures in this post were actually taken this past month by me. They are real photographs taken on Lumix ZS100 or Nikon Z50ii cameras. It’s the first time in quite a while that I’ve felt good enough to get out and shoot some new photos, even if they are just ordinary—most were taken at the Canby Community Pond which is always full of friendly fowl and rodents.

Hallucinations and Delusions

John, Anne’s cousin, responded to the last blog post [Thank you, John!] with a story about his cat called Ghost. Ghost was a found gray cat like my George and got his name from his ability to seemingly disappear on walks and reappear later in the walk. John’s story made me consider telling about the fact that George The Cat seems to be haunting me even now. Every so often when I’m in bed the covers (usually just a sheet) will fall in on me like it would when George would curl up on the bed at night. I know there’s no cat that just got on the bed, but it’s hard to ignore the motion of the covers is like George is right there. Either the ghost of George has just crawled onto bed to settle in for the night or it’s a Parkinson’s disease hallucination.

A bullhead or common goldeneye?

A pair of ???

A newly rebuilt garden path.

That brings me to this post’s information about living with PD. As many as 50% of Parkinson’s sufferers over the course of their time with the disease will be affected by hallucinations and/or delusions. These affects will be in the form of seeing things that aren’t really there (people living or deceased, animals living or deceased, objects), hearing sounds that aren’t real (extraneous sounds, music, voices), other sensory manifestations, paranoia (believing people are watching you or talking about you), and false beliefs (fears of loved ones stealing from you, putting you in harm’s way, or being unfaithful). The causes of these hallucinations and delusions are varied, but most can be attributed to the natural progression of the disease (changes in the brain) or the side effects of dopamine therapy where the increase of dopamine in the brain may cause the effects. If natural progression is the suspected cause then certain drugs may give help. If drugs are the cause then a change of dosage as well as a change of treatment drugs may be the solution.

Alas poor Yorick...

With Parkinson’s related hallucinations visual images are the most common type. The hallucinations may be minor called passage images (like shadows) or major called presence. Most of PD patients who experience hallucinations say that while startling at first, they actually get fairly used to them. Most patients know the hallucinations aren’t real, but still find them unsettling. One of the members of my support group said that her hallucination came in the form of a cat—she knew it wasn’t real because it was polka dotted and wearing a yellow bow tie. If I have to include hallucinations in my PD symptoms I hope that they aren’t the paranoid delusional type, but rather the mild kind, like George’s ghost. Although, I don’t think I would mind meeting the polka dot cat as long as he was still wearing the yellow bow tie.  

Wood Duck

Wood duck circles and reflections.

He'll see what he can do.

Next: I like the idea of new photos. I'll see what I can do.

Spring Sunset in Canby

#225 Some History and Travel Stories

 

This is not the post that I expected to put up this month, but trouble loading older photos from external hard drives has commanded that I punt that plan. The new plan (this post) consists of a memorial I have wanted to present for years and a couple of stories from my travel book (16 Years of Travel in Scotland, Ireland, England, and Wales which is still available on Amazon) intermixed with photos taken recently around the Canby Community Park. I hope you like plan B.

R.S.Baker

The pictures of R.S. were taken in 1978.

My introduction to Robert S. Baker, professor of English at Oregon College of Education, was the summer I went from Linfield to OCE in Monmouth. After four years at Linfield I didn’t graduate because of not having a second year of foreign language even though I tried them all. Instead, I transferred into a fifth year program to get my teaching credentials. That summer session I took a massive load of classes, many were lower division to get me up to speed with the education requirements and meet OCE’s requirements for a degree in English. My Linfield major was speech with a minor in English. I needed several writing classes as well some more extensive Lit classes. Thus I met R. S. Baker.

Baker taught a graduate level composition class needed for a fifth year program. I had made my way through Linfield’s English requirements by writing essays—I even ghosted essays for frat brothers for extra income. This one class would be a snap. The summer class was made up of many working teachers getting needed hours or degree requirements and a few undergrads with me somewhere between the two. After some basic class info, professor Baker gave us an in-class writing assignment. The topic was a personal essay about something easy to write on. We turned our essays in and I thought, "Easy peasy."

The next day we all showed up and Balker chose a paper to read to the class—he chose my paper. What a great thrill! He read the one page paper aloud, then looked at me and said, “Mr. Jones, this is a f***ing piece of shit!” He outlined all that was wrong with my writing  and tore the paper in half and threw it in the bin. He read a couple more papers, not as bad as mine, but still weak. He assigned us the next essay and I walked out crushed!

I did better on the next paper. Half the working teachers did not show up for the third session. Those of us who stuck it out worked really hard. I know I never worked so hard for a “B” in my life, but I learned. 

Over that year at OCE I had R.S. for every class I could. When I went for my Masters at OCE (now Western Oregon University) I took more classes from Baker. I was one of numerous R.S. Baker disciples and he became a friend. We’d talk in his office crowded with books and go to jazz concerts together, Not only was Robert S. Baker an outstanding teacher who helped us get the best out of ourselves, I consider him one of the major influences in my life.

Bio

Born Robert Samuel Baker in 1926 in Weed, California. His elementary schooling was in Salem and he graduated from Vancouver HS, WA, in 1944. R.S. spent time as a Merchant Marine and with the Army Signal Corps where he was stationed near New York City where he developed his love for jazz. After his stint with the Army, he went to Pacific University in Forest Grove, graduating with a degree in literature in 1953. He earned his Master’s Degree in English at the University of Chicago in 1956. Baker started his teaching career at OCE where he taught for 31 years. While teaching he published numerous articles in publications such as The Nation and Commentary. He remained a jazz devotee with special affinity for female vocalists. He died on June 26, 2004, and will always be remember for his influence on so many teachers.  

Attack of the Ducks

While touring the far northwest corner of Scotland, from

Durness east towards Tongue, we had one of our most unusual

animal encounters. We were attacked by a flock, herd, bevy, covey,

gaggle, crowd, or what ever you call a gang of crazed ducks. I had

gotten out of the car at an ocean overlook to photograph the view

and was soon accosted by a group of local ducks, at least they all

quacked with a northern Scottish brogue. They kept up their

begging behavior as I walked across the road, but left me when

I headed down toward the beach.

After about ten minutes of picture taking, I walked back to 

the car. Anne had rolled down her window and was shouting 

at me to come feed the ducks who had been pecking the car 

door under her window demanding a ransom of cracker crumbs 

for her release. I found some Carr’s Cheese Melts (our  favorite 

cracker) and lured away the mob who I discovered would fight 

each other to eat right out of my hand. We were several miles 

from even a small village in the remote far northwest corner of 

Scotland, yet the ducks were able to eek out an existence by 

gang attacking tourists. Clever birds!

Attack of Ice Cream Crazed Gulls

In Llandudno (clan-DID-nu), Wales, we hit an absolutely

gorgeous stretch of weather--clear skies, 80 degrees, almost no

wind--in mid April. After golf one afternoon we walked from our B&B

down to the waterfront and then out the Llandudno pier. It was too

early in the season for most of the pier shops and attractions to be

open, but the ice cream shop was doing a brisk business in the fine

weather. We each bought a cone and continued to walk out toward

the end of the pier making jokes about a long walk on a short pier.

Without warning, a gull swooped down and hit Anne’s cone holding

hand, knocking the ice cream and cone to the ground. A couple of

gulls pounced on the dropped cone with relish. 

After seeing what happened to Anne, I guarded my cone 

much more closely. I saw a gull dive at me and turned to the side,

but the gull hit me with a wing and knocked my glasses off. It might

have been the same gull who hit Anne or a different one, I didn’t get

a chance to ask for identification. In trying to keep my glasses from

a watery grave off the pier, I dropped my ice cream cone to the

great delight of another couple of gulls.

Without ice cream cones we walked back to the beginning of

the pier and noticed locals standing next to protective buildings

enjoying their sweet treat. When we told our B&B hosts about the

vicious attacks, they apologized for not telling us that the local birds

were a “tad aggressive.” Tad aggressive! Our military needs these birds!

NEXT: Your guess is as good as mine.

#221 Two stories and Two Sets of Photos

Bald eagle with dinner in claw, WA state.

HAPPY NEW YEAR! This post contains two stories that are sort of related and two groups of photos (the birds and the bees/bugs) that are related to each other, but not related to the stories. I hope both the stories and the photos are enjoyable in their own way. It’s going to be that kind of year—all mixed up. but we still find joy where we can.

Goshawk in forest, Perth, Scotland.

Goshawk in flight.

Voices in the Wall 

It was a lovely afternoon for watching the Lamlash Bay lap on the shore of Isle Arran, Scotland. After a great round of golf at Shiskine GC, we had stopped at Arran Cheese and picked up a couple of rounds and some crisps (what we’d call crackers) for snacking. Back in our room at Lilybank B&B we had cut into one of the cheese rounds, broken out some crisps, poured two generous drams of Lochranza single malt scotch, and were sitting back enjoying the view of the bay and the Holy Isle. We were the only guests so far in the B&B, but yet we could hear voices. The closer we listened, the more the voices seemed to be coming from the wall of our room. Was it the whisky? Was our room haunted? The voices were indistinct, yet they were recognizable as voices. I walked over to the wall for a closer listen.

Gannet

A very patriotic gull.

 

I couldn’t tell what they were saying or where exactly the voices were coming from, but they seemed to be repeating the same refrain. I went to the door and listened outside the room. No, they seemed to be just in the wall of our room. As I moved along the wall to try to pinpoint the voices, the sound moved from the wall to my backpack which leaned against the wall. 

It took me only a moment to find my mini voice recorder, the one I use for verbal notes as we play a golf course. Somehow it had turned on and was playing back the same sentence describing a hole from the previous day’s golf. Mystery solved, but it might have been a better story had it been a talking mouse in the wall or the spirit of a former guest who really didn’t want to leave the place. 

Pheasant near St Fillins, Scotland.

Red grouse in Glen Quaich, Scotland.

Duck, Lower Slaughter, Cotswolds, England

Meadowlark, Taos, NM

Scottish Robin

The Noise at Home

First, some background. A couple of months ago in the middle of the night one of our smoke detectors started beeping one chirp about every 15 seconds. We checked all the rooms in our unit (two bedroom with a den) to make sure there was not a real emergency. When we were satisfied that we were safe, we realized we were still being annoyed by the constant chirp telling us the battery in the detector was running out. With no ladder or willingness to climb up one if we had it, we called maintenance. Even though it was 1:30 in the morning a worker came to the house and changed all the batteries in all our alarms. Ah, senior living.

Now to the real story. A couple of weeks ago, again in the middle of the night, about 2:30, I was awakened by a very piercing but soft noise—a whistle or alarm sound. I had been sleeping in my living room recliner— something I often do when my Parkinson’s tremors are acting up. I looked around to see if I could see a source for the now irritating noise. I couldn’t. So, I got up and looked at every electric item we had in the room (tv, radio, DISH module, alarms, clocks, stove, fridge, microwave, etc.). Nothing was making the noise. By turning my head I tried to triangulate the location. Nothing was definitive. I checked every other room and outside, but I was sure the sound was emanating from the kitchen-diningroom-livingroom area. I still couldn’t identify a source for what now sounded like constant electric screaming. 

Canmore, Alberta, Canada

Yellow Swallowtail

"Let me out!" Huntingtower Castle, near Perth, Scotland

I finally woke Anne, who had slept through the noise and my noise because, of course, she doesn’t wear her hearing aids at night. Together we went through the whole process again and came up blank. We were just to call for help when she said, “Wait a second.” She moved a couple of books on a shelf, “Look at this.” She was pointing to a small, very old Sharper Image travel clock. It was indeed the culprit. I turned the clock over to see battery acid leaking out of the battery compartment. It was so corroded that the alarm must have been shorted out. Plying the batteries out shut off our noise invasion. Not as interesting a tale as voices in the wall, but certainly closer to home.

Assassin Bug (?)

In Scotland this would be called a ginger wooly bear.

This walking stick hitched a ride on my golf club bag.

If you want to view some really fine wildlife photos, check out the sites that feature two of our great friends from Canada. See Kathryn Delany's website -- www.colorsplashes.com -- and find Nick Delany's work by going to www.psa-photo.org and searching for Nick Delany.

NEXT: We've had the birds and the bees; next is, of course, the Beasts.