Can I use this blog for non KWS stuff?

This is a question I ask myself a lot.   Since generally not a lot of people check this site out, 24 - 32 on the best days, I don't think deviating from stationery will be too much of a detraction.  Or will it be bad for business?  Are people coming here from my Facebook page looking for KWS information, and will they get off-put by my wandering into more personal territory?  I generally don't like to talk much about myself, so I don't think I'll ever turn this into a substitute for my journal, which I write in at least a few times a week.  Still, how much is too much, how personal is too personal, and how much of a tangent is too tangential?

So, I've decided to do an experiment.  I'll put up some personal posts, not many but a few, and see if I get any negative feedback.  Here goes.


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Dad sits at the kitchen table, considering but not actually eating his oatmeal.  I lean over him slightly, reaching in front of him to remove the empty plate that once held sliced fruit.  Standing next to him still holding the plate, I just watch him for a moment to see if he is okay.  After a few seconds, his whole body flinches.  His eyes blink rapidly and his body cringes, shoulders shaking.  The spasm is brief, and when it finishes, he seems to be fine.  He looks around with confusion, trying to take in visual cues that will remind him where he is and what is happening.  As his eyes settle on me, mild surprise registers on his face.

"Oh, sorry," Dad says, his voice subdued.  "My eye gave me a signal that it didn't want to be invaded."

I have no idea what made him think something was trying to invade his eye.  We are in the kitchen on a Saturday morning.  The windows are closed, there isn't even a breeze that could have tickled his eyelids.  "Invaded by what, exactly?"

Dad pauses, eyebrows knit together.  Finally he produces, "a bee ..." a bit uncertainly, before trailing off.  I wait, knowing that he often comes up with a second thought if you give him enough time.  After fifteen seconds that feels like three weeks, he adds, "or a bear!", and this time he seems much more convinced of the correctness of his answer.

Until I ask, "A bear?  How often have you seen a bear in this house?"  Mom has told me I should just ignore him when he says things that make no sense.  That I should agree with him and let it go.  She's not just being mean - this is what the Alzheimer support workers have told her during caregiver therapy.  Agree and redirect.  It's their mantra.  I still haven't gotten the hang of it.  I want to know what's going on behind his eyes, what's happening in his mind.  Where his thoughts originate.  I keep thinking that if I can find an underlying source of anxiety, I can then alleviate that source and help him feel better overall.  Sometimes it works, but there is always the chance that I leave him more confused than ever.

Dad's face goes slack as he tries to trace his thoughts back into the recesses of his brain, but around one of the dark and twisting corridors he gets lost and can't find his way back.  His eyes remain blank for almost five minutes while I stand watching him, waiting.  Mom appears from behind his chair, reaching around and putting a box of cookies on the table in front of him.

"Would you like some dessert?" she asks, looking at me pointedly, letting me know my line of questioning is over.

Dad's eyes slowly track to table, then they light up.  "Maybe just one," he tells her, as he starts to fumble with the box.