tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55543499630309526052024-03-13T14:01:36.637-07:00Alzheimer's is a BitchEmilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-4068291521087704142013-03-24T20:43:00.000-07:002013-03-24T20:44:11.028-07:00HospiceThe new word this week is "hospice." The nurses are going to find out what kind of help they can get to make sure Mom's not in pain.<br />
<br />
The new medicine Mom is on to keep her subdued is working, and she's been in bed for days. She refuses to eat, not even smoothies. <br />
<br />
The end is near.<br />
<br />
My heart breaks a little more each day, whether I spend any time thinking about her or not. Every day is time and space since we had an actual conversation and connected as mother and daughter. She's already gone. But her body lives, somehow, infuriatingly incompetent. Her mind and mannerisms and tender heart are national treasures, but she wastes away in a hot, stuffy nursing home.<br />
<br />
Mom, I'm so sorry. I wish I could make this better. I wish I could relieve you from discomfort and confusion. I don't want to let you go, but I want you to be at peace. I love you. I want more than anything for you to know how much we all love you. I just wish it was enough to rescue you from this hell. <br />
<br />Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-70944194988119764802013-02-27T22:35:00.000-08:002013-03-24T20:43:51.423-07:00Now whatMom's been in a nursing home for 17 months.<br />
<br />
I just found out that the nurses have called my Dad 5 times in the last week because Mom's been having episodes where she repeats the same nonsense words over and over again and gets worked into a frenzy and screams. Dad said she becomes inconsolable.<br />
<br />
How much worse can this get?<br />
<br />
When will this misery end?<br />
<br />
I want her to be free from suffering, but I don't want to say anymore goodbyes. We've lost her piece by piece until I'm sure there's nothing left. And then I get news like this and I'm grieving over something new.<br />
<br />
If an animal was in this much distress, I'd put it out of its misery. Is that a terrible comparison? I feel like a monster for thinking it, but it just seems inhumane for Mom (or anyone trapped in a body overtaken by dementia) to be stuck in this debilitating state.<br />
<br />
I've always believed that life is a gift from God and that only God is qualified to determine when it ends.<br />
<br />
But "qualifications" are all mixed up for me. Nothing makes sense anymore. Bad things happen to good people. There's no fail safe against suffering. If comfort and peace could be earned, my mother certainly qualifies. From my perspective, Mom got overlooked in the blessing category.<br />
<br />
I feel so alone.<br />
<br />
I'm mad.<br />
<br />
I'm abandoned.<br />
<br />
I can only imagine the magnitude of those same feelings in Mom. God, if you're anywhere at all, let my mom know she is cherished. Not forgotten. The impact of her life far outweighs the damage done by Alzheimer's. Please let her know that, even in some small cavity of her brain. Let her soul be content in knowing.<br />
<br />
<i>May she be at peace. </i><br />
<i>May she be free from suffering. </i><br />
<i>May she be healed. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-88697443592619335922012-09-26T12:42:00.002-07:002012-09-26T12:44:25.700-07:00September, 2012Just when I get used to the new “normal,” the rug is ripped out from under me again. I've written an update on Mom <a href="http://emuf.blogspot.com/2012/09/its-getting-harder-to-look-on-bright.html">here</a>. <br />
<br />
This weekend marks one year from her move into the nursing home.<br />
<br />
What do I do with this ulcer of sadness? I know it’s not honoring Mom to be mopey and depressed, waiting for people to ask what’s wrong and how she’s doing, polishing the rocks of worry and grief, carrying a rain cloud over my head like an umbrella.<br />
<br />
Bloom where I’m planted, that’s what she’d tell me.<br />
Smile.<br />
<br />
Love the people around me.<br />
<br />
Let the experience shape me, make me emotionally deeper (like hose water in the sand box, when we used to build sand castles with moats).<br />
<br />
Be kind. That's what she'd do.<br />
<br />
I don’t know if I’m sadder for Mom or Dad or Olivia or Ian or Alex or Elliot. Or myself.<br />
<br />
I miss Mom. Our friendship is a memory; what’s left is surface level and prescriptive. Friendship still provides context for our interactions, but we can’t share what we used to, like girlfriends. I miss that. I miss her input. I miss her insight. I miss her perspective. I miss her jokes.<br />
I feel the sadness in my sinuses: pressure in hollow places. My head aches. I remind myself to exhale big breaths. I need another good cry.<br />
<br />
Is this what a brain tumor feels like?Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-86306512373714347282011-09-11T07:41:00.000-07:002011-09-11T07:46:58.507-07:00And then all hell breaks loose<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I posted this on my <a href="http://emuf.blogspot.com/2011/09/full-heart.html">happy blog</a> yesterday:</span><br />
<blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;">Grief has widened my perspective. I feel like a funnel, taking in more than I have the capacity to contain. </span>I move forward with open arms, vulnerable but receptive.</blockquote>A few hours later, around 4pm, I got a voice mail from Dad, saying he was taking Mom to the emergency room. They had gone grocery shopping and he left Mom in the car for 10 minutes. When he came back, he thought Mom was having a seizure. She was crying and complaining of back pain. He asked if she wanted to see a doctor and she said yes.<br />
<br />
They were stuck in the ER waiting room for two hours (my husband and I met them there to pick up the groceries from Dad's car...he was worried the meat would go bad). I kept saying prayers asking for strength, patience for Dad, and comfort for Mom. So grateful I'd had a reflective moment earlier in the day. I know it kept me from being completely sideswiped by panic. I wanted to help, and a cold fridge was all that was needed from me.<br />
<br />
A CT scan, X-ray, blood work, and urine test later, it turns out Mom has another bladder infection. What Dad thought was a seizure was just squirming in pain (and the totally disorienting feeling of not understanding the pain or being able to describe it to him).<br />
<br />
I can't imagine how hard it must have been for Mom to describe her symptoms, or for Dad to bring the doctor up to speed on Mom's medical history (doesn't dementia trump all? How can anyone tell the difference between physical pain and emotional bewilderment?). Dad said the staff was great and took really good care of Mom.<br />
<br />
It was 11pm when Mom and Dad got to our house to pick up the groceries on their way home. Mom had been given pain killers and Dad was eager to get some dinner and go to bed.<br />
<br />
Just another day in the life of Alzheimer's: total upheaval.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-54341600446582458392011-09-06T23:32:00.000-07:002011-09-06T23:32:40.655-07:00Need to vent<ul><li>I have one friend, a co-worker, who also lost a parent to Alzheimer's. We talked today at lunch, and it helped. People who understand are hard to come by. </li>
<li>Seeing my mom-in-law and sister-in-law interact makes me jealous. I'm grateful to be included in the sisterhood on my husband's side of the family, but nothing replaces the friendship I had with Mom.</li>
<li>It frustrates me that I can't be the "strong one" all the time. Sorrow feels like being out to sea with a half-inflated life ring. </li>
<li>I simultaneously love and hate visiting the house I grew up in. It brings back so many familiar sensations: safety, comfort, definition. But seeing it in such disrepair is heartbreaking. The house, Mom's domain, has been out of her care for almost five years. There are no pens or post it notes on the kitchen counter. The cupboards are all disorganized. Nothing is how it should be, even in the junk drawer. It's those realizations that kick me when I'm down. </li>
<li>Mom's been having a hard time falling asleep. She can't get comfortable. Dad said she needed him seven times the other night before finally getting to sleep. She's terrified of hitting her head on the headboard or wall (legitimate fear? I don't know). She was panicked, even just describing it to me and my sister. She feels like she's drowning, or falling, or sinking. I think she really believes that her life is in danger. She's completely overwhelmed and bewildered. She leaned on my sister's shoulder and sobbed. I've never seen her cry so bitterly. My heart broke, obliterated, smashed to a million pieces. My sister and I both rubbed her back and cried with her. She looked like a very old, lost, frightened woman. She cried like a child, completely overtaken by her circumstances, with no ability to step back and look at a bigger picture. She is loved. She is safe. She is being cared for. But her 30 and 22-year old daughters couldn't convince her. </li>
<li>Dad told me that she woke up the other night, asking what the people outside her window wanted, and why they were giving her something sweet in buckets. ????????????? I don't know if it was a hallucination or a really vivid dream. Dad told her, "there's no one outside your window." She burst into tears, angry and frustrated that Dad didn't believe her. It made me angry, just hearing the story. Why wouldn't Dad reassure her? Why not just go with it, and soothe her? Why not pretend the people outside her window are harmless, chuckle about buckets of sweetness (how odd!), kiss her forehead, and tuck her into bed? It sounds like a battle of wills. I wonder how much longer Dad can be her caregiver. </li>
<li>I'm afraid for Dad's health. What if he finally loses his patience, his temper, his cool? What if he breaks an arm trying to keep Mom from falling in the bathroom? We're all sunk without Dad. Is putting Mom in a nursing home the final victory for Alzheimer's? We can't lose sight of what's best for Mom, just because it doesn't look the way we want it to.</li>
<li>Are my brothers grieving? They haven't visited Mom much lately. Do they notice huge changes when they see her? She's changed a lot even in six months. How can I be the best big sister possible to them? I feel the weight of first-born responsibility heavy on my shoulders, tight around my neck, aching in my heart. I want them to know how much Mom loves them. Somehow, I feel responsible to tell them but I don't know why or how. </li>
<li>Too many tears to keep typing. I need to go to bed.</li>
</ul>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-47827123601578943092011-08-23T19:49:00.000-07:002011-08-23T19:49:48.199-07:00QuestionToday is my parents' 34th wedding anniversary. I just called my Dad to tell him Happy Anniversary, and I felt myself getting tongue tied and choked up leaving a voice mail.<br />
<br />
It's probably best not to say anything to Mom. I don't want her to feel bad for forgetting. She was always card-maker-extraordinaire, thoughtful-gift-giver, and made every special event in our family meaningful with her attention and special words of appreciation.<br />
<br />
What is a daughter supposed to say in a situation like this? "Thanks Dad, for holding up your end of the bargain, even when you've lost your best friend, partner, lover, and confidant." My heart breaks to even think of it.<br />
<br />
It's an important day to celebrate, but painful in it's own way.<br />
<br />
The message I want to give my parents most is this: I know what unconditional love looks like, sounds like, feels like because of you <i>both</i>.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-49780248153467041342011-08-23T19:03:00.000-07:002011-08-23T19:03:48.829-07:00A RealizationThings that Mom taught me have become sacred.<br />
<br />
My hands remind me of hers: folding laundry, cutting vegetables, watering my garden, hemming a pair of pants with needle and thread. I even see her handwriting in my own.<br />
<br />
I feel sad when the memories trickle in, but also very very grateful. I honor her by doing the things that she taught me to do. She was my earliest role model and my first teacher.<br />
<br />
Alzheimer's has stolen so much from us, but it hasn't swallowed her completely. I still have the opportunity to express love to her.<br />
<br />
This weekend we shared blackberries as I picked them in my parents' backyard. I brushed her hair.We went on a picnic and I helped her dip her Dairy Queen chicken strips in ketchup. I held out my arm to steady her in and out of the car. I buckled her seat belt.<br />
<br />
Even though these mundane things can push me to the brink of frustration and I feel short tempered, I wouldn't trade those little exchanges for anything.<br />
<br />
I love you, Mom.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-36110374336185327252011-06-27T12:08:00.000-07:002011-06-27T12:08:07.471-07:00Loving MomI posted on my regular blog some of the things on my mind lately regarding Mom and Alzheimers. I'm more selective about what I say there, but wondering if it's time to combine these two blogs. <br />
<br />
Do any of you keep the Alzheimer's stuff seperate from your other writing? If only it were so easy to categorize the hard stuff in other areas of life.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://emuf.blogspot.com/2011/06/loving-mom.html">http://emuf.blogspot.com/2011/06/loving-mom.html</a>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-52443807985870358822011-06-04T12:33:00.000-07:002011-06-04T12:33:23.896-07:00Mother's Day 2011I posted photos from Mother's Day on my regular blog: <a href="http://emuf.blogspot.com/2011/06/mothers-day.html">http://emuf.blogspot.com/2011/06/mothers-day.html</a>.<br />
<br />
Try as it might, Alzheimer's can't steal our joy.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-89861017998788309452011-02-04T17:46:00.000-08:002011-02-04T17:46:03.058-08:00Raw<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I found this in my journal from last summer.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Dry, emaciated, thirsty heart </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">despite a deluge of tears.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">No oasis to gather strength.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Just enough time to </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">catch my breath</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">lower my eyes</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">move on in the sandstorm.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">"You're so strong."</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">It’s bitter in my ears.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">It's vinegar on a sponge.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">'Strong' isn’t worth this.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">'Strong' isn’t a package delivered on the doorstep.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">'Strong' is footfall after weary footfall </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">when </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">the destination is too far away to be seen and too far away to imagine.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">"You're stronger than you know."</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I know how lonely I am.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I know how much pain warrants a comment like that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I know that headaches and heartbreaks</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">hurt like hell.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">"You'll be such a comfort to someone else in a similar circumstance."</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Not if I run the other way.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I want nothing to do with this much grief.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I don’t want to prolong the pain.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I want to distract myself </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">to avoid the guilt of enjoyment,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">the self-conscious gratitude I feel,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">knowing not everyone is still able to </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">write </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">read</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">remember </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">dream.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">But what can I say?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I cock my head.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I smile knowingly.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I change the subject.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I'd like to shout.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Oh, you noticed?</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">It's not just me?</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">It's shitty, right?</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">What do I do?</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I'm terrified.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I'm not strong, just bullied into silence.”</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I'm maintaining.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I’m keeping my balance.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I’m remembering to breathe.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">But it takes so much energy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Don't ask me for an update.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Don't act like you know how it feels.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Don't tell me a story about someone who went through something similar </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">(it makes you less credible, not more).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Don't reminisce about the old days.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Don’t use past tense.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">If you say, "She was such a wonderful person," I'll scream.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">You don't know the half of it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Allow me a wide berth.</span></div><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Let me not explain my mood.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Forgive me if I'm abrupt.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Silence is a good gift.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Let me sleep. It's the only thing I do well.</span></div>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-25952829314627982642011-01-31T07:39:00.000-08:002011-01-31T07:39:06.024-08:00Learning PatienceMom’s 58th birthday was last week so my sister and I took her out for lunch. There’s strength in numbers. I told my sister recently that I wish I was as patient as she is with Mom. Sis takes it all in stride and smiles and soothes and makes Mom feel comfortable. I cringe and avoid eye contact and bite my tongue to keep from crying. <br />
Mom needs help getting in and out of the car. She has a hard time with steps and moves slower than she ever has. She fumbles and can barely feed herself. Her speech is broken and often trails off into nonsense as she loses track of what she was saying. She’s easily distracted and comments on odd things. <br />
<br />
The amount of patience it requires to spend time with her is excruciating to me. It’s hard to distinguish the pain of seeing her struggle with the frustration of having to help. Bottom line is that I’m angry. Being around her churns up all my anger over the unfairness of her disease. I try to make Mom laugh and stay light hearted but often it’s a false happiness I model. She can no longer tell that I’m faking it.<br />
My sister told me that her patience took practice.<br />
So I cut myself some slack on our outing and allowed myself to be out of practice. We had fun! Mom is still in such good spirits. She LOVED seeing us and said repeatedly, "My girls! I miss you!" We fussed over her and helped her change into a fleece jacket. She put on her new slip-on shoes with gel soles which she loves. My sister fixed her hair. Mom told us that Dad said to let us help her style it after he blow-dried her hair that morning. It still looked like she'd slept on it. <br />
We said goodbye to Dad around 2:30pm and I said, "don't wait up!" Mom was all smiles.<br />
Mom got into the car without any help, probably because she was excited and didn't over-think the mechanics of maneuvering into the seat. We buckled her seat belt and pulled out of the driveway, commenting on the new neighbor's changes to the property next door. There were backhoes and trucks in their driveway. The lilac bushes I loved as a kid were all gone. Mom said, "I worry about Zelda [the cat] getting out. They have lots of dogs."<br />
We had a late lunch in one of our favorite restaurants. We took a bunch of pictures of each other at the table while we waited for our food. We joked and told Mom stories. She loved listening, like any mother would. Her sense of humor isn't gone and she laughed over our exaggerations, miscommunication with our husbands, cooking foibles, and adventures at work. And when we repeated stories, she enjoyed them just as much the second time around. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_qnhPPwXasGs/TUbWFX0JqhI/AAAAAAAAACw/fUJgJRXJlJg/s1600/Mom+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" s5="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_qnhPPwXasGs/TUbWFX0JqhI/AAAAAAAAACw/fUJgJRXJlJg/s320/Mom+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sister and Mom</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_qnhPPwXasGs/TUbWXLxSWSI/AAAAAAAAAC0/UVFVfX9qfbU/s1600/Mom+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" s5="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_qnhPPwXasGs/TUbWXLxSWSI/AAAAAAAAAC0/UVFVfX9qfbU/s320/Mom+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qnhPPwXasGs/TUbWoUZQO6I/AAAAAAAAAC4/C4l2HadHooQ/s1600/Emily+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" s5="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qnhPPwXasGs/TUbWoUZQO6I/AAAAAAAAAC4/C4l2HadHooQ/s320/Emily+2.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table> We were talking about headaches and I told my sister, "Maybe sneezing really hard would help; you could just shoot it right out your nose." <br />
<br />
Mom frowned and said, "Oh, goodness" with the exact same inflection I'm used to. That's always been her indirect way of saying, "Ick! Stop it!" It was nice to hear that familiar phrase, as if she was good-naturedly scolding me like she did when I was a kid.<br />
After eating, we did some antique shopping. I was worried Mom might break something, but she followed us around the store without help and gently touched the things that caught her eye. I felt like a parent as I supervised her. We laughed over the weird things we saw and pointed out the dishes and fabric that reminded us of family friends or grandparents.<br />
I caught Mom looking at me a few times and when we made eye contact, she smiled really big. It was obvious she missed us and was happy to be with her daughters for the afternoon. It was really healing for me, too: relieved the guilt I was feeling about avoiding discomfort. I genuinely enjoyed myself. <br />
<br />
It was a really nice time. I love and admire you, Mom.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-86525078608875161682010-08-11T08:17:00.000-07:002010-08-11T08:19:03.482-07:00In heaven<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Mom and Dad came over on Sunday, while waiting to get into the walk-in clinic. Mom woke up complaining of an earache. The clinic had a three hour wait, so Dad called my husband and I to see if they could stop by. We were free, and I was glad to see them both. I think it's a treat for Mom when she comes to our home, and it's nice to be able to offer her something as simple as conversation on the couch. It felt really comfortable. I fed them veggies and dip as I finished a batch of fresh bread sticks. Felt very domestic and proud to serve snacks to my parents.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Our two cats were glad to have more attention, and Mom LOVES it when they sit with her. They both joined her on the couch, one curled up on her lap in the crook of her arm, the other alongside her. Lots of happy squinty eyes and purring. </div><br />
"Look Dad, the cats love Mom," I said.<br />
<br />
We stood nearby and watched her pet them both, a little crammed in the corner of the couch, but happy. <br />
<br />
Mom beamed. <br />
<br />
She started singing in her best Frank Sinatra crooning voice, "Heaven. I'm in heaven..."<br />
<br />
Priceless.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qnhPPwXasGs/TGK-B95rQuI/AAAAAAAAACc/bRreiWJKetQ/s1600/PICT0003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_qnhPPwXasGs/TGK-B95rQuI/AAAAAAAAACc/bRreiWJKetQ/s320/PICT0003.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-41539511835053586312010-08-07T16:22:00.000-07:002010-08-07T16:22:21.993-07:00Book Review: Twilight Travels with Mother<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Twilight-Travels-Mother-Strength-Alzheimers/dp/0800759435?ie=UTF8&tag=emilyaj2&link_code=bil&camp=213689&creative=392969" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Twilight Travels With Mother: How I Found Strength, Hope, and a Sense of Humor Living With Alzheimer's" src="http://ws.amazon.com/widgets/q?MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&ID=AsinImage&WS=1&Format=_SL160_&ASIN=0800759435&tag=emilyaj2" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Twilight-Travels-Mother-Strength-Alzheimers/dp/0800759435?ie=UTF8&tag=emilyaj2&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Twilight Travels With Mother: How I Found Strength, Hope, and a Sense of Humor Living With Alzheimer's</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=emilyaj2&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0800759435" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;" width="1" /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Mary Ann Mayo</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Published in 2003 by Revell</div>250 pages<br />
<img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=emilyaj2&l=bil&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0800759435" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important; padding-right: 0px !important; padding-top: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
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Mary Ann Mayo describes the 22 years her mother spent with Alzheimer's Disease, how it affected their relationship, and the impact the disease had on their individual lives. She addresses her own fears of having dementia upon turning 60, the age her mother was diagnosed. She incorporates her research on the disease with her family's experiences and shares information she wishes she had access to while caring for her mom. She also writes about ways to age gracefully and emphasizes the steps she's taken to leave no unasnwered questions for her own children. <br />
<br />
Describing the emotional journey with her mother, Mayo writes of traveling on a winding road:<br />
<blockquote>The pace was leisurely - meandering and lingering along the way. Interspersed thoughout and generally with no warning, a corner would be turned leading to a new precipice; some were steep, others gradual. Occasionally the decline proved a mere detour; other times it necessitated a complete remapping and reorganization of her journey. Unremittingly the voyage continued, with each course correction resulting in greater hesitancy, additional anxiety, and less joy (page 11).</blockquote></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Her persepctive as a daughter is valuable to me and I appreciate the personal experiences she shares (stories of her mother's behavior were the most interesting). Not everything in the book applies to me or my mom. One thing I'm thankful <em>not</em> to relate to was the change in her mother's personality as the disease progressed. She writes that throughout her life, her mother was typically passive agressive but pleasant. In the throes of Alzheimer's however, she became paranoid, demanding, and aggressive. Her mom even verbalized that she never wanted Mayo as a baby. Talk about adding insult to injury.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In the first few chapters, Mayo compares her mom's experience to that of her two aunts (one older and one younger than her mother). The oldest lived to age 90 with a sharp mind but unhealthy body. She was afflicted by a series of strokes over several years, but her body gave up before her mind did. Mayo's mother, the second-born, lived a healthy lifestyle and her body remained in good health, but her mind was weakened and eventually destroyed by Alzheimer's. Several minor strokes had a greater, more debilitating mental impact on her than her older sister's more serious strokes. The younger of the two aunts is alive and considerably well (at the time of writing) in her late eighties. </div><br />
<blockquote>Of the three, she continues on, not having escaped dementia but somehow succeeding in staving it off to the end. Her sisters have passed on, one with a great body but very little functional brain; the other with a functional brain but a body that just quit working (page 49). </blockquote>Comparison of these three sisters forms the basis for Mayo's research, as she tries to understand the influences on each one's health or lack thereof. While examining her relatives aging, Mayo cites the impact of family history, head injuries, education, and an Alzheimer's gene. With her extensive research on dementia, she quotes studies and statisics, but includes exceptions to every "rule."<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I thought it would be easy to keep the content of this book at arm's length and not get emotionally overwhelmed because of the difference in age between myself and the author. However, Mayo spends so much time discussing how to age well, I started feeling like a hypochondriac: <em>I turn 30 next year. It's all downhill from there!</em> I also had a knee-jerk reaction of regret: did Mom have enough vitamin B12 in her diet? Was her depression deeper than I knew? Could this have been avoided? A growing body of information on possible causes and influential factors is mildly comforting, but a recurring message in the book is that every case is highly individualized. The mysteries of the disease don't make coping any easier.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Chapter four focuses on ways to push back the onset of Alzheimer's (including heart health, stress, nutrition, diet supplements, drugs, healthy habits, and faith) and chapter five covers the challenges of diagnosis. Chapters six and seven cover definitions of dementia and Alzheimer's, and the newest research on symptoms and medications (already seven years old, I imagine this information is now outdated, or at least incomplete). Chapter eight is about finding a balance between independence and adequate care (i.e. supervision) for a person with Alzheimer's. </div><br />
Chapter nine discusses caregiving and the excrutiating task of being responsible for a parent who is less and less the person you know and love. Mayo shares aspects of her mother's progression through Alzheimers:<br />
<ul><li>She believed Mayo was trying to steal the family farm.</li>
<li>She re-married several years after being diagnosed, but on the way to the wedding, forgot she had said "yes" to the proposal, and demanded Mayo take her home.</li>
<li>She had several behavioral problems at the care facilities she lived in (power struggles with staff, fights with other residents, etc), and Mayo was called on more than one occasion and asked to make other arrangments.</li>
<li>She told Mayo she did "everything she could to miscarry" when she was pregnant with her.</li>
</ul>Despite these harrowing experiences, Mayo still writes the following:<br />
<blockquote>When Mother died, I missed her. The unrelenting responsibility for over twenty years and the contrant second-guessing of what the best care might be had been part of our relationship, not its totatlity. Those who seek to avoid caring for a loved one risk missing an experience that has the portential to heal, teach and satsify (p 181).</blockquote>Chapter 10 is titled Dying with Dignity. I couldn't read all of it. It's filled with hope and faith and gestures toward eternity, but it's beyond my ability to process right now. When the time comes, this will be a helpful resource, but I'm going to keep it on the shelf until then.<br />
<br />
The most poignant message of the book is to live well mentally, physically and spiritually. Mary Ann Mayo sums it up well by stating, "Alzheimer's is a crash course in learning to live in the moment" (p 24).Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-83745982256355002972010-08-04T09:23:00.000-07:002010-08-04T09:23:34.772-07:00Gardening for MomToday I'm going to Mom and Dad's to do some weeding in their flowerbeds. The dandelions were waist high last time I visited, and while I have some time off work, I'm going to pitch in. Manual labor is the easiest way to help Mom these days. It's so hard to take her on outings or spend time chatting because I lose patience after a few hours. I find myself avoiding eye contact because I don't want her to see how hard I'm trying to hold back tears or biting my tongue. <br />
<br />
Mom has her support group meeting today, so I'll be able to garden uninterrupted. Last time I worked in the yard, she came outside to help, but needed constant supervision. <br />
<br />
I tried to make it as simple as possible, by piling all the weeds I'd pulled on the lawn. Instructions like "put these weeds in the wheelbarrow" baffled her. She lifted the handles of the wheelbarrow. <br />
<br />
"No Mom, put the weeds <em>in</em> the wheelbarrow."<br />
<br />
She lifted the handles again. It must be the order of the words, I thought. <br />
<br />
"Pick up these weeds right here, the <em>weeds." </em><br />
<br />
She lifted a handful of weeds <em>out</em> of the wheelbarrow and started putting them on the lawn. <br />
<br />
<em>Sigh</em>. It's painful to see her try so hard and fail. I try not to think in terms of pass or fail. <br />
<br />
Once we finally got a wheelbarrow full of weeds, I asked her to take the load to the backyard. She was gone for a long time. I ran into the house to use the bathroom. When I came back, she was in the front yard again, but no wheelbarrow. <br />
<br />
"Where'd the wheelbarrow go?" I asked, without impatience.<br />
<br />
She pointed to the backyard and muttered something about needing help (her speech has gotten harder to follow; sentence structure is a tough one for her these days).<br />
<br />
We walked to the backyard together. Still no sign of the wheelbarrow. I asked her to show me where she went. She was at a total loss. We walked up the neighbor's driveway. There was the pile of weeds, near a lilac bush. It was out of sight until we were standing right above it. <br />
<br />
Mom laughed at herself and tried to diffuse the awkwardness by saying, "Oh, your poor mother."<br />
<br />
"It's OK," I soothed. "I'm sorry you had to go hunting for the brush pile!"<br />
<br />
My mind raced. How the heck did she confuse our backyard with the neighbor's driveway?<br />
<br />
I feel guilty about "avoiding" her today, by going when I know she won't be home. A family friend is picking her up at 10:30 this morning and I'll have about four hours to make some headway in the garden. It feels like the best I can offer right now. We both love gardens and flowers and I think it will mean a lot to her to be able to see her flower beds again. Maybe I'm just justifying my choice. Especially after all this recent blogging about her and reading books on AD (which I will review here), I don't have it in me to be emotionally available to her. <br />
<br />
Hacking at weeds and getting dirty and uprooting overgrown shrubs seems more appropriate, at least today. The negative emotions need an outlet.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-78206438122031069302010-08-03T14:31:00.001-07:002010-08-03T15:31:23.618-07:00Is it too soon to tell this story?<span lang="EN"></span><br />
I attended a writing conference last weekend. All 25 participants had a specific writing project in mind, either needing further refinement or ready for publishing. My project, still in conception, is to write about Mom, Alzheimer’s, and to tell my family’s story. <br />
<br />
One thing I realized is that I don’t know where in the story I currently am. The conference presenters talked about book length in terms of word count and chapter summaries, and I honestly don’t even know if my whole story, which I will eventually write, has even happened yet. If I write a book, does it end when Mom dies? What a horrible thought. Does it end with her diagnoses, so I only focus on the “good years?” No, I don’t think so. What makes all those years good is knowing how much of Mom’s sweet spirit is still intact, even several years in to her diagnoses. <br />
<br />
When I think about memoir, I usually think of authors as archaeologists, excavating artifacts and fossils of memory. The events worth writing about seem to be buried, embedded in layers of sediment and sandstone. But in my case, the topics and events I want to write about are still occurring My fossils are still wet and green. Nothing is petrified in this scenario. <br />
<br />
The paleontologists at the beginning of Jurassic Park are working in a desert, covered in dust, using small brushes and delicate instruments, practically tweezing away the solid earth, encasing Velociraptor bones. This might be taking the metaphor too far, but instead of working with brushes in ancient burial grounds, I see myself as an author with a pitch fork in hand in a backyard garden. I'm still turning the compost of my life experiences, letting worms in for aeration, making sure raw materials have enough water and light and time for proper decay. <br />
<br />
Maybe it's too soon to write. Do I have to know the beginning, middle and end of my story before I can begin to tell it?Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-91983004000568974342010-07-20T07:34:00.002-07:002010-08-03T15:39:54.168-07:00Mom in my memoryI'll always think of Mom in context. She was never not doing something productive, so my deepest impressions of her face and her form and her presense are all combined with a specific place or time.<br />
<ul><li>Watering her flower beds on Summer evenings; the sound of hose spray through open windows.</li>
<li>The serious look on her face when she was driving and thinking of something else.</li>
<li>Her basket of stationary and a continual arsenal of encouragement at the ready.</li>
<li>Balancing her checkbook at the kitchen table with bank statement and calculator.</li>
<li>The look on her face and lean of her head when she listened.</li>
<li>The first silent breath when laughing hard.</li>
<li>Tapping a pencil (eraser end) against her mouth while trying to remember.</li>
<li>Meal planning calendar and grocery list on the fridge door with magnets.</li>
<li>"Here kittykittykittykittykitty!"</li>
<li>Her fingernails (I was always jealous).</li>
</ul>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-23924782636091934142010-07-20T07:14:00.003-07:002010-08-03T15:37:05.630-07:00Scent<span lang="EN"></span><br />
Friday morning, July 9, 2010<br />
<br />
I’m sitting on the couch in our living room with a cat on my lap, reading.<br />
<br />
Out of the blue, I smell Mom. It’s very distinct, but I don’t know why. I’ve showered, put lotion with a little sunscreen on my face, and put my nightgown back on. Maybe that’s why: that combination of clean and sleep. <br />
<br />
She smelled like cedar and lilac, like her hope chest and the little sachet she kept in her underwear drawer. Also, a faint whiff of ripe fruit and sour milk before showering. <br />
<br />
The fragrance brings images to mind: her unwashed hair and wrinkly pajamas.<br />
<br />
<span lang="EN">The unmistakable pattern of her breathing during sleep (in her nose, out her mouth, and the little catch in her throat when the air changed direction). </span><br />
<br />
Warm blankets and nest of sheets before getting out of bed. <br />
<br />
Bare feet in the hallway between bedroom and bathroom. <br />
<br />
The perfect footprint left in her flip-flops. <br />
<br />
Her and Dad’s bedroom with an open window and a fan on all night. <br />
The hide-a-bed in the living room where she slept with me when I was sick. <br />
<br />
Her jewelry box and the sad, beautiful music it played when the little key in the back was wound. <br />
<br />
Cats we had when I was a kid who snuggled with us: Whimsy, Louisa, Cara. It was an honor to have a kitty sleep with me when I was the one they chose to be near. Two bodies up against each other, as comfortable as possible, sharing a common nest. That sense of being chosen, feeling warm safe and content is the best way to describe Mom’s smell.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-41447719791437490542010-07-20T07:10:00.002-07:002010-08-03T15:38:19.929-07:00Lost in her own neighborhoodOn June 14, my mom got lost while taking a walk. It was something my family hoped wouldn’t happen, didn’t want to predict, but feared the day would come eventually. She doesn't drive anymore (and hasn't for about three years, since we found out her memory loss is actually Alzheimer's, and not just a goofy stage of menopause). She has always loved walking, and has a regular route she'll take (sometimes twice a day), just to get out of the house for a while. My parents have been in their home for 25 years, so it's a familiar neighborhood. Unless your brain is working against you and one wrong turn can throw you completely off course.<br />
<br />
Dad left for work at noon. Mom was up, showered, and dressed. She was having a good day: did a load of laundry and washed the dishes, keeping herself busy. The weather was beautiful and she wanted to take advantage of the rare sunny afternoon (sunshine has been sporadic this spring). The caregiver arrived at 4pm to an empty house. She started making phone calls to friends, wondering if someone had picked Mom up for an outing and lost track of time. No luck.<br />
<br />
My youngest brother came home at 4:30pm and started looking, driving on Mom's usual route and a few miles past that. He called my sister, who got the word to my husband. Wisely, Hubs didn't say anything to me until I was done with my last client of the day. I work for a financial intuition as a loan officer and was wrapping up a busy Monday: an application I loaded that morning had been approved and I was finishing paperwork so my eager client could go pick up his new car. We finished financing right at closing time. As soon as I locked the lobby doors, Husband followed me back to my cubicle (one of the benefits of working for the same employer as your spouse).<br />
<br />
He said, "You should probably get your things; you're not going to want to work out tonight."<br />
<br />
The look on his face got my attention real quick.<br />
<br />
"They can't find your Mom."<br />
<br />
My ears rang. I asked him to repeat himself.<br />
<br />
I finished my end-of-day routine quickly, stuffed unfinished paperwork into my cabinet, and we headed to my parents' house out in the county. I tried to keep my imagination in check, refusing to picture any worst case scenarios. The scary feeling was physical: my head was spinning and my guts were churning. It didn't seem real. She might be two blocks away, she might be hurt, she might not even realize she's been gone long enough to cause alarm.<br />
<br />
When we got to Mom and Dad’s, there were six law enforcement vehicles outside the house: Search and Rescue and several Sheriff's deputies. Dad pulled into the driveway a few minutes after we did, around 6:30pm. The deputy in charge came inside and asked Dad all the appropriate identifying questions: date of birth, height, weight. Any distinguishing features? What was she wearing? What’s her shoe size? Who is her dentist? We collected recent photos of Mom on the kitchen table.<br />
<br />
The deputy recommended a radio-transmitting bracelet for Mom, to cut down the time of any future searches. He said, "It's the same technology that was used to track bears and wolves in the seventies." Great. "Don't tell Mom that," I thought. Dad asked for the informational brochure.<br />
<br />
The deputy asked about any previous workplaces (we all stared at him blankly, thinking, "She worked <i>here</i>, she‘s always been a stay at home Mom"), friends or relatives she might be visiting, destinations she might inadvertently be headed for. He asked us to search every nook and cranny in the house, just in case. He said to search the perimeter and "outbuildings" to eliminate those options before the search really got underway. He said a border patrol helicopter was on it's way back to the area, available to help if the other officers and K9 search party didn't make any progress.<br />
<br />
A search and rescue specialist came inside for Mom's white sweater (hung haphazardly on the coat rack; we knew she was the last one to touch it) and brought it to the search and rescue dog as a scent sample. The deputy explained that human scent is even more individualized than fingerprints. We saw the dog through the living room window on a long leash, RACING in big circles, plowing through the overgrown flower beds, bounding from front yard to back. The deputy said, "He gets excited because he knows this is real; it’s not training anymore. It’ll take five minutes or so for him to get some energy out and then focus."<br />
<br />
The deputy described how big the search area was since noon was the last time anyone had seen Mom. "She could have as much as a 6 hour head start. That could mean 12 or more miles in any one direction, depending on how fast she’s walking." He was used to searching for 80 or 90-year-olds who wandered away from home or got lost outside their nursing homes, and stopped whenever their energy gave out. He wasn't sure how far away Mom may be, an able-bodied woman in her fifties.<br />
<br />
I said, "Depending on how long ago she left, she may not even be thinking about the return trip yet. She's not aware of the time; probably still enjoying the sun. A two hour walk wouldn't be unusual."<br />
<br />
We all took the deputy's business card so we could call when we found her. He went outside to make phone calls from his truck. As soon as he left the room, Husband said, "Let's be sure to drive in pairs, so one person is free to make the calls. Y'know, and not break any laws." We all laughed. Last week the state made talking on a cell while driving a primary offense. Oh honey, always so practical.<br />
<br />
We disbanded to start searching. Blanketing the neighborhood were eleven family and friends in seven vehicles. Dad stayed home for updates. Husband and I drove east, since I thought Mom would probably want to stay in the sun. While he drove, I made a few more phones calls. Our friends at the local library hadn't seen her. Our middle brother in Seattle had been notified and he wondered if he should come up. We said no, there wasn't anything more he could do, but we promised to keep him updated.<br />
<br />
We drove for about twenty minutes, maybe thirty. Every intersection felt like a gamble. I scanned side streets, trying to see it through Mom's eyes. Could she have thought it would lead her home? I looked closely around every horse pasture, knowing Mom's love of horses and the likelihood she'd want to feed them dandelions. There's very little foot traffic in the county, no sidewalks, and barely even enough room to walk on the shoulder. We only saw a few people on bikes. Someone on foot should stand out.<br />
<br />
Then my sister called. "They found her." She didn't know any details, but she was calling our brothers next. "See you at the house."<br />
<br />
Mom was 13 miles from home, almost to the Canadian border. A border patrol saw her walking slowly, holding her side. He pulled over and talked to her. An ambulance met them and gave her water. The deputy at home drove Dad to her. When he arrived, she was in the back of the aid car drinking water and resting. I was afraid she would be terrified, or ashamed, or oblivious. But she knew she had walked for a really long time. She was exhausted but appreciated the attention.<br />
<br />
When we all got back to the house, in she walked, rosy cheeked and a little wind blown. She didn’t have a hat, no long sleeves, and no sunscreen. Her neck was almost purple with sunburn. She had a big smile on her face, knowing all eyes were on her. We had all just been at my parent's place on Saturday, for my youngest brother's high school graduation. She said, "I didn't know there was another party!"<br />
<br />
Her feet were sore so my sister filled a tub with water to soak them in. She pulled off Mom's socks and put them in warm sudsy water. My sister is the kindest person I know. Mom guzzled water and juice, luxuriating in the pampering and enjoying her spot on the couch (you know how good it feels to sit down after a couple of hours on your feet? I can only imagine the relief Mom felt).<br />
<br />
The officer gave Dad the brochure about the radio transmitting bracelet. He explained again how it is recommended for folks who are likely to wander off. I thought it was insensitive to discuss it front of Mom, but she listened to his description and piped up, "Do I get to wear one of those?! Oh goody!"<br />
<br />
We all sat in my parent's living room for an hour or two, visiting, enjoying each others' company. We bantered and joked and did what my family does best: appreciated each other. As conversation wound down and we prepared to leave, Mom suddenly asked, "am I the reason we're all here?" We looked at each other before responding, not wanting to sound too alarmist, but nodded yes. "We wanted to make sure you were OK, Mom."<br />
<br />
"Well," she said, "glad I could help!"Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-52863989424213440352009-07-24T09:00:00.000-07:002010-08-03T15:39:23.704-07:00EventsDad told my twenty-year old sister, and she told me, that a nurse is coming to the house to interview the family and determine whether Dad's medicaid application is fraudulent or not. Apparently, Dad said to Sister, "I told Mom she's getting worse, and a nurse is coming. She's sad about it."<br /><br />Dad wins the prize for insensitive announcement of the year. As Sister told me about this conversation, I got angrier and angrier. He doesn't realize (or doesn't care) that she and I have to compensate for his rudeness and be extra kind and patient with Mom. It affects Brother #3, too, but Mom doesn't rely on him in quite the same way. He has the excuse of being a teenage boy, and escapes the house more easily.<br /><br />Apparently, Mom left the hose running (overnight?) and Dad discovered it in the yard. He sighed really big, turned the hose off, and went into the house to talk to Mom about it. Mom came outside a little later to dump garbage. She was deflated, and said to Sister, "I got in trouble." She came to her daughter for refuge, or at least to vent. Sister had to be the compassionate parent. Apparently, Dad thinks that negative consequences will teach Mom. He's still in parenting mode.<br /><br />Sister feels like Dad is asking her to betray Mom, and all the covering up she's been doing to make Mom comfortable is about to be ripped away. I've emailed Dad and asked for an explanation of this meeting with a nurse, and what the expectations are for the family's participation.<br /><br />I haven't seen Dad grieve, or pamper Mom out of unbridled love, or even call on his kids for help. He's been very stoic about the whole thing for the last 2 and a half years, but cracks are beginning to show up (and have been evident for a while now) in his mask of self-sufficiency.<br /><br />Stuff I wish I could say to Dad:<br /><br />1) My heart BREAKS for you. This has to be hardest for you, losing your best friend, your teammate, your right arm. At the same time you have to increase your functioning and compassion and critical thinking in order to take care of the person you've lost.<br /><br />2) STOP ACTING TOUGH. Your life is dissolving before your very eyes. You're not fooling anyone with this tough-guy routine. We are all in excruciating pain, but you are unapproachable because you're concentrating so hard on not being incompetant. We are ALL incompetant in this scenario. Let's fling our arms around each other and help each other stand and gasp for breath together and draw strength from each other. To me, that option makes more sense than trying to stand alone and be independantly strong.<br /><br />3) No more family meetings. Lets do something fun together, lets re-forge an umbillical cord of compassion between us. Relationships with your sons are already shit. Instead of making things worse, lets try and use this common pain to bring us together. We miss Mom too. Don't withhold yourself now, when we need more parental love than ever (even if it's imperfect parenting). We all want things to go back to the way they were. We're all stuck in a rut as a result, which makes it that much worse.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-63658953887665121142009-07-17T09:05:00.000-07:002016-05-31T11:43:09.562-07:00Snapshots<span lang="EN"></span><br />
Mom washing Dad’s glasses. He never noticed when they were dirty. She'd ask for them, clean them, and return them.<br />
<br />
The first joke I remember sharing with Mom (10 or 12 years old?), instead of a teaching moment: drinking loudly and seeing her staring at me with wide eyes and crazy eyebrows, realizing how loud I was being. She said, “I feel like I’m sitting next to a camel who’s been in the dessert too long.” I laughed for an hour.<br />
<br />
Before every family photo, Mom would brush my bangs all to one side with her fingers, palm up, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">pinky</span> first, no matter how long I had spent centering and distributing them. <br />
<br />
Her singing to me at bedtime: “There’s just something about that name.”<br />
<br />
<span class="blsp-spelling-error">GNF</span> day camp when I was in middle school, helping to teach 5 Day club curriculum. I introduced her as “My friend, Mom.” Dad commented on it later, because she told him how happy it made her to be introduced as my friend. I tried to clarify for her later, and she told me it was okay if I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">didn</span>’t mean it. She was embarrassed Dad mentioned it. I wish I had reaffirmed it instead of “clarifying” my compliment as just trying to be witty in front of my friends.<br />
<br />
The only time I ever heard my parents fight was behind closed doors. Mom was crying. Their voices were raised, but only enough to be heard through the bedroom door. I never knew what it was about.<br />
<br />
I asked Mom if she and Dad were both virgins when they got married. Mom said yes, “but just barely.” She giggled and started to tell me something Dad had told her about himself when they were dating, but stopped herself. She said, “I’ll tell you when you’re older” (I was probably 14 or 15). I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ve</span> been curious ever since.<br />
<br />
Mom would tell me when my slip was showing under my skirt, or when my shirt was really wrinkled. As Mom, that was her job, and I appreciated her pointing out something about my appearance that I had missed, but it always made me mad. I’d feel picked on and singled out for ridicule. The hypersensitivity lives on. <br />
<br />
When SV married his wife, Mom and Dad and I attending the wedding. A few months later, when they announced they were pregnant, I said sarcastically, “Boy, they <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">didn</span>’t waste any time.” Mom’s way of counteracting my criticism was simply, “the Lord <i>bless</i> them” as if a reward was in order for being fruitful and multiplying. <br />
<br />
When the real estate agent showed us the house Mom and Dad bought in 1986, Ian and I locked ourselves in the shed in the back. We screamed out the windows because we were so scared, and the real estate agent thought we were being stung by bees. We were just afraid of being left behind. We played in the house after that, with a marble we found on the floor (were we that desperate to be entertained?). A houseful of fleas, left behind from the previous owners pets, were ravenous and soon covered Ian and I. The small slab of concrete outside the sliding glass door was crooked, and that’s where we sat as Mom and Dad picked fleas off of us. I wonder what the other houses were like that Mom and Dad considered. I’m amazed we moved in with an introduction like that. The big shed in the back yard was filled with junk (old toys, mattress, a syringe). We <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">weren</span>’t allowed to help Dad clean it out. Eventually, that’s where our goats and rabbits lived.<br />
<br />
Before Alex was born: the back bedroom of the “new house” was the nursery and library. The crib shared space with bookshelves. Eventually, the bookshelves lined the hallways, but the thought was nice.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-37102674679663102022009-07-15T12:45:00.000-07:002010-08-03T15:41:36.073-07:00A few confessions<span lang="EN"></span><br />
<ol><li>I resent any women over 50 who dress stylishly, balance their own checkbook, or manage their own schedules. They are less deserving than Mom in the equation of my snap judgment.</li>
<li>It's embarrassing to be with Mom in public. You can’t tell by looking that her brain is working against her, but her actions are increasingly child-like. </li>
<li>I wish Dad would cut her some slack. He gets impatient really quick and seems to resent her dependence. I get that; I feel it too, but I don’t think he realizes how harsh he comes across, nor how timid Mom is around him compared to being with me or Olivia. I think she’s constantly aware of not living up to his expectations.</li>
<li>I'm terrified of "catching" Alzheimer's. Anytime I forget something, I feel a shiver of panic.</li>
<li>I miss her living vicariously through me. She used to ask about my life and was able to track with events as I anticipated them, experienced them, and relived them with her. Now, she asks, "what else is new?" without remembering the story I just told her.</li>
<li>It's exhausting to be upbeat around her all the time. She is always so happy to see any of us kids when we spend time at home or take her on an outing. But the whole time she and I are together, I'm earmarking evidence of her decline, and grieving on the inside. She sets the emotional tone of our time together (maybe that hasn't changed much over the years), but it's hard to keep up with her and hide the fact that what I'm actually feeling is the exact opposite of what I'm expressing. I can't help but wonder if she's acting too. </li>
</ol>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-21697232415067003932009-07-14T22:03:00.000-07:002010-08-03T15:43:43.603-07:00Things Mom can do best<ol><li>Spread peanut butter on bread (sandwiches I make are always messy).</li>
<li>Fold sheets (how did she get the fitted sheets to lay so flat in the linen closet?).</li>
<li>Peel apples (no waste, no excess).</li>
<li>Scratch my back (no one else uses the right pressure).</li>
<li>Sing harmony, even to songs she's never heard before (how does she know?).</li>
<li>Color inside the lines (Can we trade crayons? Yours seems to work better).</li>
<li>Mend a torn seam (her stitches disappear. Mine look like I've used yarn instead of thread).</li>
<li>Listen.</li>
</ol>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-25750204768081395212009-07-14T12:33:00.000-07:002009-07-14T22:03:37.665-07:00Where do I startIt's hard to know what to say. What my family is dealing with is so fiercely personal, it seems like a violation to write anything down. But at the same time, I'm desperate for feedback, to know I'm not alone, to hear from other people who are dealing with something similar or at least can share a burden of pain with me. I'm giving this format a try: an anonymous, public forum. Seems counter intuitive, but whatever.<br /><br />I don't feel like I can write about what my Mom is going through right now until I bring you up to speed on who this woman is besides the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Alzheimer's</span>. Like an author, I want you to know the main character of the story and value her and all her uniqueness before the plot thickens. I want you to be invested in this story, to give you a taste of just how hard it is that all the things I love about my Mom have been stripped away. Okay, not <em>all</em>. I can't say that. I love her because she's my Mom, but her identity is definitely wrapped up for me in actions and behaviors. Slowly, those <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">descriptions</span> no longer apply.<br /><br />She was born in 1953, to 33 year old parents, a salesman and a bank teller, and a 5 year old brother. She lived in WA state her whole life, attended school here, and grew up in a cocoon of love and support. My <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">grandparents</span></span> were very <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">conservative</span></span> people and Mom was sheltered from most of the cultural and social changes of the 1960s and early 70s (unlike my Dad, who describes himself as a "wannabe hippie"). As a young adult, she taught Sunday School, played the viola, traveled to France on an <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">evangelistic</span></span> trip with her church, and wrote poetry. She lived at home with my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">grandparents</span></span>, studied education in college and graduated with a bachelor's degree in English and a high school teaching certificate. I hate to say it, but Mom's stories about her childhood are boring. As kids, my brothers and sister and I would ask her to tell us what she remembered "when she was a little girl." She sewed clothes for her dolls, collected anything to do with horses, and stayed out of trouble. Compared to Dad's stories of childhood mischief, teenage drug use, and wayward tales of barely making it to his twentieth birthday in one piece, Mom's stories weren't as dramatic and we would lose interest. I picture her childhood to be a lot like my own, but less exciting.<br /><br />One of my favorite stories of all time is my parents' courtship. My Dad did an unusual and chivalrous thing by asking Grandpa's permission to date Mom. Grandpa said, "Sure. But don't even think about marrying her." This threw Dad for a loop. He was trying to take things slow in deference to my traditional and religious <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">grandparents</span></span>. At 22 years old, Dad had recently joined my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">grandparents</span></span> church and noticed Mom right away. He thought he had already made significant progress toward adulthood but Grandpa said, "You have a lot of things to work on; you won't be ready to marry anyone for at least five years."<br /><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Surprisingly</span></span>, this didn't scare Dad off. He and Mom dated for several years, while Dad worked on that long list from Grandpa (get a job, get a car, get a haircut, etc.) Grandpa gave his blessing after only three years since Dad <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">demonstrated</span></span> such good progress, and my parents got married in the fall of 1977. The pictures show an awfully happy couple and lots of smiling family and friends. It was a simple event: my great uncle took photos, Grandma baked the cake, Mom sewed her own dress, the groomsmen wore their best suits instead of tuxes, and members of the church decorated the fellowship hall.<br /><br />I was born four years later, followed by four siblings in the next 10 and a half years. Mom stayed home with us kids while Dad went to seminary and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">pastored</span> a small church. Since Dad had endured a terrible 12 years of public education, graduating in the third percentile of his <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">high school</span>, while Mom excelled in academics and had training as a teacher, they decided to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">home school</span> all five of us. I still remember the first day of school when I was 5. Mom said, "We're going to have a visitor today!" I got really excited and wondered who would come to our house. I was <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">disappointed</span> when I learned the visitor was "Mr. A," and the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">introduction</span> wasn't to someone who would play with me, but the alphabet.<br /><br />My parents played the primary adult roles of my childhood, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">establishing</span> connection with me as an infant, meeting basic needs and reassuring me that I was loved and protected. They also taught me my place in the world as part of a family. They <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">demonstrated</span> and required respect for others, appropriate public behavior, kindness toward animals, stewardship of Earth. They also taught me the practical knowledge I use daily: language, writing, and mathematics. It's hard for me to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">separate</span> what lessons from my parents (Mom in particular) were academic and which were social or moral. I feel very fortunate to have been raised and educated by such emotionally in-tune, intelligent, creative people.<br /><br />I put both Mom and Dad on pedestals of respect. That elevated position has been rattled and challenged more often, the older I get. As an adult myself, I recognize weaknesses of my parents and can see where their best efforts were misguided. But a safe place for me has always been the role of obedient daughter. I think the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">separation</span> of moving out of my family's home and discovering my own identity, and now being married and re-aligning myself to form a new family unit has been especially hard for me. On top of that, the loss of my mom has been that much more painful. If grief can be quantified, I feel like I've been dealt a double blow: I've lost my mother and my favorite teacher. It feels like twice the loss. On the other hand, I think I'm pretty well equipped with patience and grace and affection for my mom precisely because she taught me each of those traits.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5554349963030952605.post-63704879584563378742009-07-11T12:14:00.000-07:002010-08-03T15:43:04.119-07:00Alzheimers' a bitchIf Alzheimer's was a person, this is how I would describe their personality:<br />
<ol><li>Inconsiderate</li>
<li>Disorganized</li>
<li>Fickle</li>
<li>Demoralizing</li>
<li>Helpless</li>
<li>Pitiful</li>
<li>Neutralizing</li>
<li>Needy</li>
<li>Corrosive</li>
<li>Debilitating</li>
<li>Passive-aggressive</li>
<li>Indecent</li>
<li>Selfish</li>
<li>Demanding</li>
<li>Lazy</li>
<li>Aimless</li>
<li>Sluggish</li>
<li>Stubborn</li>
<li>Loner</li>
<li>Chaotic</li>
<li>Homewrecker</li>
</ol>Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17806983408623557776noreply@blogger.com0