Tag Archives: PWD

A Bad Day in Dementialand (aka Why I Am Not a Saint)

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If I meet someone for the first time and they ask what I do for a living, I say that I’m a college professor. If the conversation goes a little further, I tell them that part of my role is also doing community outreach on Alzheimer’s and related dementias.

A typical response is, “Being around people with dementia must be so difficult.” Sometimes people say, “That must be really hard for you.”

They say it as if they think I’m some sort of Mother Theresa. Trust me…They’ve definitely no reason to perceive me as a saint. When I get frustrated, I curse like a sailor, and there are times I’m not even all that nice (in my defense, that’s typically when I’m hangry). I also once punched a guy at a waterpark while we were both treading water–although that was because the guy was stealing inner tubes from small children. But, in summary, I’m in no way an angel.

I’ve struggled to verbalize how I feel when someone says it must be hard working with people who have dementia or when someone says I’m great for working with “those people.” Finally I’ve finally come up with a response.

I say something like, “Working with people who have dementia is not nearly as hard as having dementia.”

I went to a memory care community a while back to visit some people who have Alzheimer’s. I was looking forward to seeing a particular woman–that I’ll call Donna–that I had a great chat with when I had visited the previous month. (For the purposes of my work, a “great” chat may not make a bit of sense but generally includes a lot of smiling and laughing.)

However, when I got there, Donna seemed like a completely different person. I’m not talking about her level of confusion. (I don’t judge how well someone is doing by their level of confusion. In fact, sometimes “pleasantly confused” is a great goal).

In sum, her whole demeanor was different. No smiling. No laughing. I couldn’t connect with her. She wouldn’t even make eye contact with me.

Donna was anxious. Almost panicky. Terrified of something. But she couldn’t express what. And I just couldn’t get “in.”

She was teary-eyed and it was almost like she couldn’t catch her breath. Perhaps she was having a panic attack. I wondered if she was in pain but I was told the nurses had found no reason she’d be hurting.

I had no idea how to help her. I sat with her for a while. She was sitting in a recliner by her bed, and I sat on the edge of her bed. I think she knew I was there, but I don’t know.

I went to talk to the lifestyle coordinator at the facility, who happened to be one of my former students. I asked her about the situation and she got visibly emotional. She said this had been going on for a few weeks and she didn’t know what to do either. They had been using sedatives but they seemed to cause hallucinations and other side effects for Donna.

We decided to try some music. I have seen music have amazing effects for people with dementia. In many cases, it can be more effective than a sedative in reducing anxiety. We turned on some Sam Cooke. If anything, it made her more agitated. We tried Johnny Cash and Frank Sinatra. Even worse. At one point (during “I Walk the Line” if I remember correctly), she lifted her arm like she was trying to slap the lifestyle coordinator. It was her only acknowledgment that we were with her.

When I was in Donna’s room with the lifestyle coordinator, Donna’s daughter and teenage granddaughters came to visit. They lived across the state and hadn’t seen her for a while. The sight of her made them break down. One of Donna’s granddaughters went down to the lounge and didn’t come back.

I remember taking a glance at my cell phone and realizing that I had stayed much longer than I had planned to. I had a meeting on campus, and I had to hustle to get there.

I remember getting into my car and taking a moment to just breath–even if meant I’d be a little late to my meeting. I’ve been with people with dementia in their final hours and as they’ve passed away, but those few hours with Donna were much, much tougher for me.

On a personal note, I related to Donna because I’ve had issues with anxiety and depression. Although I at times felt alone on my journey, looking back I really have never been alone. I could reach out for support. I could connect with people who cared about me, and people have always been there when I needed them.

Donna, on the other hand, was alone. We were with her, but she was alone. She couldn’t let us in to support her. She couldn’t let us in to be there for her. I had this strong feeling that Donna needed us, and I knew we wanted to be with her, but Alzheimer’s wouldn’t let us.

That was the hardest day I’ve had working with someone with dementia. As I drove back to campus, I felt a little bit sorry for myself. My mind was on Donna (and my failure in being there for her) but I had to pull it together for a meeting on something that seemed pretty inconsequential. I was tempted to say I was sick and skip the meeting. I was exhausted. And I felt like a loser, to be honest. I have a ridiculous amount of tools in my repertoire to connect with people who have dementia. Every single one of them had been an epic fail on this day. It was a bad day for me.

Then I realized it wasn’t a bad day for me….because it wasn’t about me. It was breaking my heart that all of my strategies had failed with Donna, but thinking this way made it about me–not about Donna.

Donna had a bad day.

So is it hard to work with people who have dementia? I don’t think it’s harder than working with other people. In fact, I could never work with preschoolers or juvenile delinquents. I’d lose my mind. And I had a very brief career in retail when I was in high school. That’s when I realized how horrible people can be. And don’t even get me started on when I worked at the Chinese restaurant. I lasted three weeks.

Sometimes working with people who have dementia is challenging or frustrating–but I think working with people in general can be challenging or frustrating.

Any frustration I feel working with people who have dementia does not compare to the frustration of having dementia. Sometimes I have anxiety when I work with people who have dementia…because I worry I’m not handling a situation right or that I’m making things worse. But that anxiety is nothing compared to the anxiety some of my friends with dementia feel. So is working with people who have dementia that hard? Nah. Not really.

And am I a saint? Not even close. And I don’t like it when people imply that I must be some sort of angel for working with people who dementia because that suggests that it must be such an unpleasant ordeal that only an angel would do it. That’s just not the case.

Some of the most amazing people I know happen to have dementia. Being able to enter their world has been one of the greatest gifts of my life.

Assholes in Dementialand

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One of my college students, Hillary, had come with me to a particular adult day center once a month for a couple of years. Today was her last day because she was headed to grad school at Syracuse.

One of the guys, who I will call James, was really attached to Hillary. He would rush in, pushing his walker to make sure he got to sit by her each time we came. He once asked her if her eyelashes were natural or if they were “imposters.” Talk about charming… Although he has vascular dementia, he has never forgotten a detail about Hillary. My male college students could learn a thing or two from James.

I make sure to take a picture of them together that day. I would tape it up in my office. It is right over my computer screen, and every time I look at it I smile. I also gave one to James and one to Hillary.

James has been to visit Syracuse two times in his life. He remembers what county it is in and the main highways that run through the city. I ask him if he thinks it will be a good place for Hillary to live for the new few years. He turns to Hillary and looks her in the eye. Long pause… I feel like he is ready to dispense a life lesson, and I’m right.

“Hillary,” he says. Dramatic pause. “No matter where you go in this world, 10% of people are assholes.”

He goes on to explain that 10% of people in Syracuse are assholes, just like 10% of people in Iowa are assholes, just like 10% of people in Korea are assholes. He tells Hillary to watch out for the assholes, but there won’t be any more there than there are here.

That was about two years ago. I cannot tell you how often I think about what James said. When I am in the checkout line in the grocery store and some jerk elbows his way in front of me, I think about how he’s in the 10%. The other day I was running on the trails and some idiot on a bike refused to move over to give me a little space as he passed. He’s part of that 10%. And I’m sounding sexist here. There are plenty of women in the 10% as well, like the employee at Culver’s who stares me down after I ask for a veggie burger as if I’ve ordered her to hand over her first-born child.

Somehow admitting that 10% of the world is made of assholes makes it easier for me to acknowledge I’ve run into one and then move on with my day. I try to focus on the other 90%.

As for Hillary, she is now almost done with graduate school. She loves hearing updates about James, who still asks about her every month. So much for that generation gap thing.

Stuffed Cats and Real Cats in Dementialand

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I once got in a tense argument about whether a stuffed cat was a real cat. For the record, it was a stuffed cat but really it was a real cat.

About ten years ago, I was visiting with a hospice patient on a weekly basis. Linda-not her real name-had vascular dementia (as well as multiple other health conditions) and lived at an assisted living. She was reserved when I first started stopping by, and I had trouble connecting with her.

One day, I notice a stuffed cat sitting on her bed. She sees me looking at it and asks if I like cats. I tell her that I do. She smiles.

“Well,” she says. “You’ll love my Tiger. He is quite a cat.”

I’m not sure if she thinks Tiger was a real cat or not, so I walk over to pet him.

“Be careful,” she warns. “Tiger still has his claws.”

Yep. Linda thinks Tiger is a real cat. I shift gears and start interacting with Tiger as if he is a real cat. In other words, I step into her reality. Linda perks up some, and suddenly we have a connection. I figure out that Tiger is the key to engaging her.

Every time I stop by, I ask about Tiger right after I come in. He’s usually on her bed. Sometimes I pick him up and put him on the windowsill so he can watch the birds. A few times we find a nice sun puddle on the floor for him. One day she mentions that Tiger looks chunkier and accuses me of sneaking him tuna. I confess, and she smiles. I even buy Tiger a toy. Yes, I spend $5 on a toy for a stuffed cat. And Linda is beside herself with excitement, and I’ve forgotten that Tiger isn’t a real, living, breathing feline.

I come by one summer day while her son is visiting. When I ask Linda about Tiger, he rolls his eyes.

He tells me, “I’ve told her time and time again that Tiger has been dead for five years. He got hit by a car on the highway.” Linda looks at him, and then at me. I’m really not sure what to say.

“Actually, Tiger’s okay. He’s right here,” I say tentatively. The son takes a long look at me as I pet Tiger. I’m pretty sure he’s wondering if I’m the biggest idiot he’s ever met.

“You are petting a stuffed cat,” he says. “That’s not a live cat. It’s stuffed.” Let’s just say Linda’s son and I are not on the same page here, and I’m not about to let him break his mother’s heart.

“No, Tiger is a real. Alive and well,” I say. This is awkward. The son is not going to relent, and neither am I. I have now decided I am not going to admit to the son that the cat is stuffed. And once I pick a battle, I’m all in. He glares at me.

“Do you really not know this cat is stuffed? We bought him at Walmart,” he responds. “This is a stuffed cat.” At this point I should take this guy out in the hallway and explain why I am set on insisting Tiger is a real cat, but I don’t think of that at the time.

“Well, Linda knows that Tiger is real, so Tiger is real,” I say. At this point, I have Tiger cradled in my arms. I’m squeezing him tighter and tighter as I get more and more frustrated. If Tiger were alive, I might have suffocated him.

The son stares me down. It’s intense. Linda looks at me, and then at her son. He sighs and walks into the other room. I consider it a victory.

Candor in Dementialand (aka Notes on Whether My Hair is Scroungy like an Alley Cat)

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I sometimes struggle with apathy when making decisions about the big things in life–like my hair. It used to be closer to chin length and now it’s shoulder length.

I’ve asked a few friends if they like it better shorter or longer and no one gives me a straight answer. They say things like, “Oh, it looks good both ways.” They are being nice…I get that. But sometimes I want honesty.

Fortunately, I work with people who have dementia. I was at a Memory Trunks program last week when a gentleman with vascular dementia asked me, “Is your hair longer these days?”

“Yeah,” I responded. “I don’t know if I should be growing it out or keeping it shorter.” He interrupts.

“Cut it. Cut it. Cut it,” he says. “It looks scroungy and there’s no point.” An honest opinion. He looks me right in the eye. For effect, he adds, “SCROUNGY. And pointless.”

I can tell this makes the staff uncomfortable. An employee steps in and says, “You have such pretty hair. It looks great longer or shorter.” But they don’t need to worry. I enjoy the honesty.

I later told my friend Holly that someone with dementia said my hair was scroungy. She told me that I am the least scroungy-looking person she knows. When I told another friend, Jen, she said, “Scroungy? Like an alley cat?” Yeah, maybe.

I’ve been told that I’ve put on weight (truth….). I’ve been asked why I was wearing combat boots (In fact, they were $150 boots I had saved to splurge on). It’s been suggested that I wear lipstick–because men like women who wear lipstick. I’ve been told my voice is annoying.

And I should point out that none of these comments from people with dementia were mean-spirited. They were simply honest observations.

I have to admit that in life there are times that we shouldn’t be completely honest. Sometimes honestly is hurtful. But I think a little honestly is refreshing sometimes. And sometimes I have to credit people with dementia for making sure I don’t take myself too seriously.

A few months back, I gave a presentation on dementia to a small group of professional woman in the morning. I had been in a rush and grabbed piece of toast with peanut butter to eat in the car on the way there. I gave the presentation and thought it went pretty well. Next I went to do some programming for people with dementia at an assisted living. I sat down in a chair and greeted them.

“Good morning,” I said. “My name is Elaine.”

“Elaine,” said a tiny woman sitting several feet to my left in a wheelchair. “You have peanut butter on your breast.”

I looked down, and sure enough there was a huge glob of peanut butter on my shirt. Keep in mind that I had already spoken to a group of 20 women that morning. I am positive that at least ten of those women had to have noticed the giant mass on peanut butter stuck to my shirt. No one mentioned it. I’m assuming they thought it would be awkward and didn’t want to embarrass me, but someone pointed it out within three minutes of my arrival at an assisted living.

They don’t care that I have a PhD. My credentials mean nothing to them, and that’s as it should be. To them, I’m not Dr. Eshbaugh. I’m just a woman with scroungy hair and peanut butter on her shirt. And there’s something about this that I really like.

The day after I was told I have scroungy hair, I made a hair appointment. I didn’t get it all cut off, but I did get it texturized and have some layers cut around my face. I’m hoping I look less like an alley cat.

Til Death Do Us Part in Dementialand

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This is not the post you expect it to be. If you’re looking for a heartwarming tale, you might want to check out “Chicken Soup for the Soul: Living with Alzheimer’s and Other Forms of Dementia.” (Yes, it really does exist, and it’s not a bad book if you’re into that type of thing.) But I’m not sure you’re gonna get warm fuzzies from my post today. In fact, I have no idea how you’re going to feel after you read this post.

In my visits to a nursing home, I met a bubbly nursing home visitor in her 50’s who I will call Jean. Although I tell this story with her permission, I have changed her name. Jean’s husband, who I’ll call Gary, was also in his 50’s, but his appearance would have lead me to guess he was in his 80’s. Gary, who had younger-onset Alzheimer’s, had lived at the nursing home several years. He was in end-stage Alzheimer’s and seemed somewhat stalled there.

He spent most of his time in bed. He had to be turned every few hours to avoid pressure sores. When the staff got him up in a wheelchair, he slumped over to one side–usually unable to keep his eyes open. He fought a constant battle against pneumonia (common among people in end-stage Alzheimer’s due to compromised immunity) and was on a thickened liquid diet to avoid aspiration. He had not spoken for over a year. Jean told me he stopped recognizing her long before that.

Jean worked full-time and stopped by every evening. Sometimes she sat with him and watched Wheel of Fortune while holding his hand. Once in a while, I saw her doing crossword puzzles. She enjoyed talking to other residents and their families. She was bright, caring, and always laughing.

If you’ve spent any time in nursing homes, you know that they can be gossip mills. I found out through the nursing home gossip mill that Jean had boyfriend. Not that she was hiding it. It had just never come up when I made small talk with her.

As I got to know her a little better, she’d mention her weekend plans or what she did the previous evening, casually dropping the name of her boyfriend. I didn’t ask too many questions. I’m sure she had enough judgement in her life, and I didn’t want her to misinterpret my curiosity as disdain. Frankly, it was none of my business.

But I learned more as time went on. Gary was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in his mid-40’s. His mom had younger-onset Alzheimer’s as well, so they weren’t shocked, and they had an idea of the path ahead. They went on a few trips right after the diagnosis. Jean knew these trips would be bittersweet, but they ended up being more bitter than sweet.

Unlike many people who tell their loved ones to never put them in a nursing home, Gary told Jean that he didn’t want her to care for him at home as the disease progressed. He made the choice to put his mother in a nursing home although she repeatedly requested that he never do so. He lived with that guilt, and he didn’t want to Jean to have to do so.

When the time came, she placed him in a nursing home. She visited every evening. A few years later she met someone. She continued to visit Gary every evening. She told me she loved Gary as much as ever, but she no longer viewed him as her husband.

She had taken off her wedding ring long ago because it was too painful to look down at her hand, see the ring, and remember that she had a husband who didn’t know who she was. But when she said she loved him as much as ever, I believed her.

I can’t say Jean’s situation is the norm when a spouse has dementia, but I also can’t say it is rare. In fact, on the very same nursing home hallway where Gary lived, there were two other wives in similar situations. I am not speaking of wives who had abandoned their husbands at a nursing home. I’m talking about wives who visited at least once a day, were active participants in their husbands’ care, and had boyfriends.

It’s common enough that the Wall Street Journal wrote a story about it several years ago:

http://www.wsj.com/articles/SB10001424052748704317704574503631569278424

Even religious authorities are split on whether this is okay or not. I’ve kicked it around quite a bit, and all I can say for sure is this:

If I had dementia, needed 24/7 care, and no longer recognized my spouse, would I be okay with my husband dating someone else? The answer (for me) is absolutely yes. And I would not want him to feel guilty about it for one second. Of course, I haven’t been diagnosed with dementia. Could my thoughts on this change if I were diagnosed tomorrow and saw dementia a real rather than hypothetical part of my future? Of course.

I know that Jean was with Gary when he passed away. Til death do us part. Or something like that.

 

Family Ties in Dementialand

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A friend who works in the health care field sent me a text to tell me that she was reading my blog. She mentioned having experience with a patient who had dementia, but that the woman always showed up at her appointments with a neighbor. Her family wasn’t around–or at least wasn’t interested in her care. My friend was sad that the woman’s family wasn’t there for her.

I sent a text back, telling my friend that the neighbor was this woman’s family.

It’s been a common theme over the past several years in both my personal and professional life.

Family is related to you by blood. Family is created by legal ties. And then there’s family that doesn’t fit into either of the previous categories. But when you need something, they’re around just the same.

I gave a community presentation on dementia caregiving about a year ago. Two middle-aged women came up after the presentation to ask a few questions: What if she’s not sleeping? Is it normal that she’s losing weight? Why does she have so much trouble keeping her balance? How do we get her to move into a facility when she doesn’t want to?

I made the assumption that the two women were partners and that the woman they were asking about was one of their mothers. As it turns out, I was half right.

They were partners, but the woman with dementia wasn’t one of their mothers. Or grandmothers. Or aunts. Or siblings. She was a woman who lived a few blocks down the street.

“How did you come to be a caregiver for a woman who lives a few blocks down?” I asked them.

They explained. This woman had been welcoming when they moved to the neighborhood twenty years ago. Not everyone in the neighborhood was so welcoming to a lesbian couple in the 1990’s. When they started noticing she needed a little extra help, they stepped in. They mentioned that she didn’t seem to have much family.

“But she does have family,” I said. “She has you guys.”

Anthropologists and family scientists call this “fictive kin”–family that is not defined by blood or legal ties. I actually don’t like this term because it makes me think of “fiction,” and there’s nothing fictional about fictive kin.

My students and I talk about family in the courses I teach. I ask them who their family is and what makes them family. We come up with a variety of definitions–not necessarily right or wrong, but maybe a little different for everyone.

One of my students came up with a definition that I can relate to. She said that the first few people you have to text when you get really good or really bad news are your family. Many of my students nodded knowingly.

To be fair, maybe it’s not texting for you. Maybe it’s calling them or stopping by their house. But those people who you can’t wait to share good news with? Those people who support you through tough times even when you don’t ask them to? I’m not sure I can think of a better definition of family.

Sure, I see people with dementia who have little support. But most of them are loved. Some are loved by people who are related to them by blood or legal ties. Some are loved by people who aren’t related to them. And the really lucky ones are loved by both.

About ten years ago, I got to know a hospice patient that I’ll call Lydia. She had Alzheimer’s and end-stage cancer. She was staying at a hospice house, and I visited her a couple times each week. I really didn’t know a lot about Lydia. She had a son, but I knew they weren’t close, and her husband had passed away decades earlier.

One day hospice social worker called me to let me know Lydia’s time was quite limited. I stopped at the hospice house knowing it would likely be the last time I’d get to see her.

As I walked into her room, I was met by Lydia’s lifelong friend Ellen, Ellen’s husband, and Ellen’s niece. Lydia had mentioned Ellen before, and I was excited to meet her. The three of them were sitting around Lydia’s bed, talking about fun times together, and doing a lot of laughing. Lydia wasn’t responsive, but I told them I certainly wouldn’t doubt that she could hear them. Ellen and her niece were drinking wine, which they joked about smuggling into the hospice house (although I’m guessing they probably did ask the staff for permission).

The hospice pastor stopped by. He asked if we’d like to say a prayer. Before he started praying, he asked, “Will her family be coming to say goodbye? Should we wait for them?”

Ellen looked at the pastor, somewhat annoyed, and responded, “Her family is here.” He proceeded with the prayer.

Blood makes you related, but shared DNA can’t make you family. Recounting someone’s life at their bedside while drinking wine at the hospice house? That makes you family in my book.

45 Seconds in Dementialand

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I’ve known Erin Payne-Christiansen since I was in the first grade. She saw me through my awkward middle school years, which lasted until I was about 26. She was with me the first time I got to drive out-of-town after I got my driver’s license. The muffler fell off my Ford Escort on a busy road. We did the logical thing–stopped the car, ran out into traffic, picked up the muffler, and put it in the trunk. Yes, we burnt the crap out of our hands. And I was proud when Erin was named the homecoming queen at our high school. Not only of Erin, but of our high school. We had actually elected someone who was kind and genuine. After high school, she became my college roommate (the first person with whom this only child ever shared a room).

No matter where Erin has lived, it’s always seemed like home to me. Even when I visit her parents’ house 30 years after I first “slept-over,” it feels like home. (On a related note, I can recite her parents’ home phone number more easily than I can my husband’s cell phone number.) Several years ago, Erin returned from living in New Zealand with her husband and moved into a new house. As soon as I stepped into the house, it felt like home–because Erin lived there. She’s just that type of friend.

I went to bed that night in Erin’s basement. It was one of those really dark basements that is perfect for when you want to sleep late.

I didn’t sleep through the night. I woke up. It was pitch black. The world didn’t look any different with my eyes open than it did with my eyes closed. I couldn’t find a clock. I couldn’t locate my cell phone. And I had no idea where the hell I was.

I sat up and looked around. I guess I was looking for clues to try to figure out where I was. Not seeing anything useful (or anything at all, really), I got up and started wondering around. I slammed into something, probably a couch, and kept my arms out to feel for a wall. If I could find a wall, I could likely find a light switch. But I couldn’t. I wandered around a bit more.

Then I stopped and forced myself to think. I kept telling myself there was no reason to panic, but I was in panic mode. And it was moving toward terror mode. There had to be a logical reason I was in this place with no recollection of how I got here. My eyes adjusted a little. I could see shapes. I could see a large TV. A couch. A table.

Finally, I realized I was at Erin’s. I recalled driving down the night before, having dinner, drinking wine before bed. I took a couple of breaths. Eventually I went back to sleep. The whole panicky incident probably lasted fewer than 45 seconds.

45 seconds.

Whenever I see someone with dementia anxiously wandering around looking for clues to make sense of their environment, I think of those 45 seconds.

My senses and recall were able to help me identify where I was and alleviate my panic, but that might not be the case if I had dementia.

I Don’t Live In Dementialand

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What is it like to live with dementia? I have no idea.

I have a string of analogies I use to explain to families and caregivers what it’s like to live in Dementialand, but the truth is that I don’t know what it’s like.

I know someone who works in adult day services. She works with a woman who has younger-onset Alzheimer’s. I’ll call her Tina.

Tina is prone to what can be best described as meltdowns. In fact, that’s what Tina calls them. Her meltdowns are due to the smallest of things. Someone sat on the end of the couch–where she was planning to sit. The pants she wanted to wear were in the wash. Her nail polish chipped. And, one time, someone used the term “tippy toes,” which she found childish and annoying.

She cries. She gets angry. She can’t calm down or stop shaking. After the meltdown dissipates, she says to my friend, “I’m sorry about my meltdown, but you have no idea what it’s like to have this disease.”

And it’s true. Sometimes when I am doing my best at trying to help someone with dementia and failing miserably, they will remind me that I don’t get it. Sometimes they don’t even have to remind me. Sometimes people will cry and I can’t figure out exactly what’s wrong. I don’t know what they’re going through. I visit Dementialand, but I don’t live there.

As a person without dementia, I don’t get it. And as many people as I talk to and as many research articles as I read, I won’t ever really get it–unless I’m diagnosed, of course. I’ve been through the Virtual Dementia Tour and several other simulations meant to make a person feel like they have dementia. It’s a valuable experience and one I recommend, but I know I’m just visiting.

So here’s the point of my blog today…THANK YOU to those of you who have dementia who try to show me and tell me what it’s like, even though we both know I will never really get it.

They try to show me and tell me in different ways. People with dementia have blogs. They write books and poetry. They allow themselves to be videotaped. They try to verbalize, even though it is hard, what it’s like to live in Dementialand. They allow me to spend time with them, just so I can understand a little bit better.

But the truth remains. I visit Dementialand but I don’t live there.