The Man of Her Dreams?

Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?
Christopher Marlowe

Mom told me a funny story yesterday. It was about how she met my father. I knew that they had been introduced by a mutual friend, but that was pretty much all I was aware of.

It turns out that she wasn't so crazy about the idea of a blind date, but had finally capitulated and agreed to a double date. The night BEFORE the planned date, Mom's doorbell rang and there was Dad and their mutual friend. It turns out he wanted to check her out first! Well, she agreed to go for a drink with them. She thought he was a knucklehead at first, because he and his friend were drinking beer and kept getting up to use the bathroom all night. Despite that, she still went out with him on the double date the next night. The rest, as they say, is history. It was 60 years on May 30th of this year.

On Books and Reading

Literature is my Utopia.
Helen Keller

Random trivia: "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" sold a record 8.3 million copies in the U.S. on its first day.

1 in 4 Americans admit to not having read even ONE book in the last 12 months.

What does this have to do with anything? Daddy used to love to read. He still "reads". How much is really understanding? Who knows. He has had the same James Patterson book on the table near his chair for months. He picks it up, looks at the pages, and turns them. To all outward appearances, he is reading. I think he can still translate the printed grapheme into meaning on some level, but I doubt there is much comprehension any longer. Certainly there is little, if any, content retention.

The enduring satisfaction of reading is yet another thing that Alzheimer's has stolen from him. I only hope, at this point, that books still make him happy, even if it is only for a few fleeting moments at a time.

FYI

Facts are stubborn things;
and whatever our wishes, our inclinations,
or the dictates of our passion,
they cannot alter the state of facts and evidence
John Adams

Alzheimer's Facts and Figures

There are now more than 5 million people in the United States living with Alzheimer’s.

Every 72 seconds, someone develops Alzheimer's. By mid-century, someone will develop Alzheimer's every 33 seconds.

The direct and indirect costs of Alzheimer’s and other dementias amount to more than $148 billion annually.

By age group, the proportion and number of the Americans age 65 and over with Alzheimer’s disease breaks down as follows:
• Age 65-74: 2 percent 300,000 people
• Age 75-84: 19 percent 2,400,000 people
• Age 85+: 42 percent 2,200,000 people

13 percent, or one in eight, persons age 65 and over have Alzheimer’s disease. Nearly half of persons over age 85 have Alzheimer’s disease.

By 2050, the number of individuals age 65 and over with Alzheimer’s could range from 11 million to 16 million unless science finds a way to prevent or effectively treat the disease.

Alzheimer's Disease, Facts and Figures,
Alzheimer's Association, 2007

Daddy, Gama, and Me

Life is the flower for which love is the honey.

~Victor Hugo

Daddy's mother, my Gama, was born in 1896. That's astonishing to think about. It has nothing to do with anything, just a random factoid. She was, and will always be, one of the people I love most in the world. She died a month before I got married, 22 years ago, and I still miss her.

When I was a teenager in the early 70s she was already an old woman. At the time, though, she still lived in her own home. I always loved her house--it was tiny, and old, but it was hers and that is what made is precious to me. I remember her kitchen, and the windowsill full of African violets she had in the living room. She had a huge old TV, and she watched Lawrence Welk on it every Sunday night. She also had a wonderful back yard that was always full of flowers. She was an absolutely perfect grandmother, and we all adored her.

She lived about 1/2 hour from us, closer to the city. The summer I turned 16, I had a job at a local supermarket, so I could no longer go out to the summer house with the rest of the family. Like Daddy, I stayed home during the week and worked, and went out there on weekends.

Once a week, every week, Daddy & I went to Gama's for dinner. She had no air conditioning, of course, just several large fans. Summer heat never daunted her one bit. Every week she prepared a huge, heavy dinner for the two of us, complete with dessert. I think she was afraid we were living on PBJs and pizza the rest of the week. We weren't.

Gama could COOK! To this day, I have never tasted (nor been able to replicate) anything even close to the beef barley soup she made. After Thanksgiving, she made turkey soup that actually TASTED like turkey, not "chicken-lite". She also made bread. She baked the most light, delicious white bread from scratch, no matter what the weather. She knew we both loved her soup and bread, and she made it for us on a regular basis all through the summer. Pot roast was her specialty; I still use her recipe. Roast beef, roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and all kinds of veggies were the types of meals she made for us.

I loved going there with Dad. It was so precious to me, being with Daddy and having Gama fuss over us. She loved the fussing, and we loved being the fuss-ees. Special days, special meals, ......and yet all ordinary meals on ordinary days. It was Gama's love that made it all special.

Rant

Never be indifferent to injustice.
Che Guevara

I am angry.

Not irritated, not annoyed. Think "rage" of Biblical proportions.

I am furious that my family is suffering due to Alzheimer's. I am even more furious that my father is suffering. I am furious that thousands of other families are suffering just as we are.

Life isn't fair. I realize that. My father has lived a long, productive and wonderful life. I've been blessed to have been his daughter, and to have had him with me as long as I have. That doesn't make me any less angry about the situation.

How can it possibly be that we are now in the 21st century and this disease has not been cured? At this moment there are basically only 2 drugs available for treating Alzheimer's, and all they are able to do is try to prolong the quality of life. We are living in the wealthiest, most highly advanced "civilization" in history, and THIS is how we allow our parents to die? Something is very very wrong with the picture.

How is that we have untold amounts of money to spend on "space exploration" (a/k/a sophisticated spying) and not enough to explore the human brain? Are you kidding me? Who sets the damned priorities?

Why is there limitless amounts of funding for a war nobody with an intellect supports, and yet compatatively minuscule amounts allocated to Alzheimer's research? Not only is the war Iraq eating up American tax dollars that could certainly be put to far more productive uses, that little debacle is killing Americans. So is Alzheimer's.

Why are we worried about being "politically correct" with illegal immigrants, and yet my father, a member of "The Greatest Generation", a true American patriot, and one of many who fought in WWII, being allowed to slip away as he is?

Where is the justice? We supposedly have a representative government, yet I honestly feel that none of the thieves and liars who run our nation, from the local to the national level, represent me, my father, nor anyone else affected by this disease. How DARE they waste our money as they do? They fatten their own wallets, and those of their associates, while a major health crisis murders the elders we should be revering. A former president of this great nation recently died of Alzheimer's. His family has spoken out publicly in support of stem-cell research, and yet the radical, religious right-wing conservatives have been allowed to control medical research. Why? How has this happened?

There are other health and social issues that also need to be addressed. I realize that, and I'm pretty damned angry about them as well. However, to me, this is the burning issue: how can we let our parents die without dignity? How can we prolong their lives, and yet do nothing to secure them quality of life? It's completely unacceptable, and I hold our government responsible. Our elected officials have a lot to answer for, and I am demanding answers!

Anybody got one? I'm listening.

Golf

There are two things you can do with your head down
- golf and pray.
Lee Trevino

Daddy has done both for virtually his entire life.

I have no clue as to when he first started golfing, but it was a serious avocation until disability ultimately cheated him out of playing. In fact, he actually hit a hole-in-one when he was 79 years old. That is so amazing to me.

Of course, being Daddy, he couldn't wait to teach his sons to play as well. How old they were when they first held a golf club I don't know, but I'm sure they were very young.

Daddy golfed at every opportunity. He golfed with my mother, with his friends, with his sons -- in general, anyone who was willing and capable of hitting a tiny white ball with a club. When they visited Europe, Daddy brought his golf clubs along. When my parents were looking for a retirement community in Florida, they chose one in a golfing community. The traveled from their home up north down there when the weather got too chilly to golf, and returned when it warmed up enough for them to golf here. Their townhouse there looked out on one of the courses. I think, in many ways, my parents were happiest during that period of their lives. I know Daddy loved living there.

I wish I had learned to golf from him, but I was never an athlete (and I'm still not, Lord knows) I was also a clumsy, myopic kid. Frankly, putt-putt can challenge me! I doubt I would have been any good at it, but I do wish I could have shared his love of the sport with him the way my brothers do. My youngest brother is a dedicated a golfer as Daddy ever was. It's just one more commonality they share. The elder of the two is more casual about the sport, but still he is interested and plays a round every now and again.

There is a picture hanging in my parents' den that I love. It is a photograph of my Dad, flanked by my brothers, all holding clubs. I believe the photo was taken by my brother-in-law, but on what golf course I just don't know. What I do know is that not only is it a technically great photo, it demonstrates beautifully the love that these three men share: love of a game, and love for each other.

Golf is one more thing that Alzheimer's has stolen from Daddy. He never mentions golfing at all, in any context, and takes almost no interest in even watching a tournament on TV these days. The cruelty of it all is virtually unthinkable.

Gramps

There is no grandfather who does not adore his grandson.

Victor Hugo

Of the 5 of us, 3 have been married. Only my older sister had a child, my nephew. He is now a grown man, married to a woman the whole family adores.

He, too, has so much of my father in him. The single characteristic that strikes me most is his devotion to his family. He deeply cherishes not only our branch of his family tree, but all the members of his blended family -- sisters and brother that are steps- and halves- and a variety of aunts, uncles, and so on.

On his own, he chose the names "Grams" and "Gramps" for my parents, names that I find incredibly endearing. He is, and has always has been, completely cherished by my Mom and Dad. Not that the rest are slackers in the love-and-devotion department when it comes to him, but to Mom and Dad........I can't really explain how much he means to them.

I personally enjoyed watching my parents interact with him when he was a child. The unconditional love, the nurturing, and the spoiling they lavished on him reminded me of my own grandparents. As an adult, their pride in him is boundless.

He has grown into a man to be proud of. He recently drove many hours from his home to help celebrate my mother's 80th birthday. I am sure it never occurred to him not to come. That's only one small example of his devotion. He and his wife are with us, at least for a while, for virtually every holiday, large or small.

He also has my father's gentleness and kindness of spirit. I watch him now, as he witnesses his Gramps' inexorable decline and can only imagine the pain it causes him. He is tender with both of them, and it fills my heart to see the love he feels expressed so sweetly.

Being blessed enough to have him as a part of our family makes me so thankful. Through him, my Daddy and his Gramps will never disappear.

Dance With Me

To watch us dance is to hear our hearts speak.
Hopi Indian Saying

I always loved dancing with my father.

I went to an all-female high school. In my Junior year we had a "Pop Hop", which was a dance for the girls and their fathers. Mom made me a pretty green velvet dress to wear for the occasion. My father was actually the "king" of the affair. I remember standing on the stage in the high school auditorium and crowning him with a cardboard-and tinfoil crown. It was a wonderful night.

Dancing with Daddy at my wedding was almost as emotional and precious to me as when he walked me down the aisle. The marriage has died, but the tenderness of the moments live on.

When my nephew got married a few years ago, I danced with my father. I tried desperately to enjoy every moment, but I knew that I would never be able to dance with my Dad again.

Alzheimer's and disability has stolen dancing with Daddy from me. It enrages me, and breaks my heart.

Sons & Daughters, Sisters & Brothers

We are linked by blood, and blood is memory without language.
Joyce Carol Oates

I have been looking at old family pictures and thinking about my siblings and my father. It occurred to me that they are all like him, in various ways. I'm still wrapping my mind around the "nature/nurture" part of it, but for what it is worth, here is just a bit of what I've noticed.

My older sister has his patience and gentleness of spirit, and his willingness to sacrifice her comfort for the greater good.

My younger sister has his faith and his volunteerism. She also has Dad's auburn hair and sense of humor. Her devotion to the family is limitless.

The elder of my brothers has his love of the water, although my brother is more of a fisherman than a swimmer/boater/water skier. They both absolutely love practical jokes. The one my brother pulled on Mom last summer with a Ziploc bag was a classic.

And my youngest brother? Lord, he is most like Daddy of all. Physically they are identical, and in pictures of them as children you would be hard-pressed to determine who is who. He has quietly "manned-up" and become, in many ways, the father. He automatically takes up the burdens that cross his path, and shoulders them quietly as Daddy always did. He also has that same sense of humor, although it has burned less brightly over the past few years, as the stresses of life bear down on him.

As for me, I am the one they found in the cabbage patch........

The Eye of The Storm

The human heart is like a ship on a stormy sea
driven about by winds blowing from all four corners of heaven.
-Martin Luther

Friday was my day off, and I spent it with my parents. Mom had cataract surgery on Thursday. My older sister cared for them Thursday, Friday was my turn.

When did it happen to us that the children became the caretakers? It's an insidious thing, this situation. It started creeping in as slowly and quietly as the fog at the harbor, but gradually it has built and thickened and deepened. Nothing looks familiar anymore, and we are finding it hard to make our way.

I watched my mother nap for the first time on Friday. That may seem like a small thing, but for a woman who has always been a dynamo it is a big event. She's 80 years old, and she's tired. She's too tired to fight it off, and is yielding to it. It scares me to realize that she is old now, and her body is slowing down.

And Daddy? Poor Daddy. He was having a bad day. He was very confused all day, and wasn't sure who was there and who wasn't. My sister had slept there the night before, and he didn't understand why I was leaving to go somewhere else to sleep that night.

He's losing his verbal/cognitive abilities slowly but surely. He was reading the paper, picking the ponies the way he always does, and came to a word he didn't know. He didn't gloss it over, instead he said "I see this word, but I think it's wrong. POE-LEET doesn't sound right to me." The word was "polite". Later that day, he saw my mother's medicine on the kitchen counter, and he couldn't retrieve the word "medicine". He knew what it was, and what it did, but he didn't have the ability to find the identifying noun to correspond to the object. That is sad enough in and of itself; that he has been a pharmacist all his life makes it heart-rending.

As his brain is failing him, so too is his body. He is terribly frail these days. His legs are in very bad shape from spinal neuropathy. He uses a walker, but he can't remember how to use it correctly. He moves slowly and cautiously now. He has stopped wearing a belt because it makes bathroom visits more difficult for him. He is so thin and fragile that he has trouble keeping his pants up, and Mom had to help him with that. She also had to help him change his pants in the middle of the day, after he had some difficulty in the bathroom. He sleeps a lot now, slipping in and out of naps all day long.

There were rays of sunshine as well. Mom is trying to divest herself of excess baggage, so she is having all of us look through old pictures and take the ones we want. We all enjoyed it, and laughed a bit. It was so touching to see pictures of my siblings as the children we once were, and to be reminded of the happy times we spent together. Yet again, this was a two-edged sword: when we were young, so were our parents. There were also pictures of family members and other loved ones who have passed on, and seeing those was bittersweet.

Mom let me prepare, cook, and clean up from lunch and dinner. I was amazed that she actually yielded control over even something so mundane. Not much of a yielder, our Mom. I purposely cooked too much food, so that there would be sufficient leftovers for Saturday and she only nagged me a tiny bit. I get my control issues from nowhere strange, that's for sure!

I saw sparks of Daddy appear in a flash, with a silly face or funny line. This man who has made me laugh for over 50 years is still able to make me smile at his purposeful goofiness. It was good for all three of us.

Sometimes I feel like Miranda, tossed about in The Tempest that throws me up in an unknown land. Career, divorce, money, health--all these are part of the storm that has become my life, but it is crashing on the rocks of Alzheimer's that is tearing me apart the most. So I put on my big-girl panties and snap out of it, and continue to do what needs to be done to the best of my ability. That's a lesson I learned from both of them.

Then, I come here and cry alone.

My Heroes Have Always Been Women

If I have to, I can do anything.

I am strong, I am invincible, I am Woman.

-Helen Reddy

I became a strong woman because I come from a family of strong women. Grandmothers, mother, sisters, and friends: each a warrior in her own right, each a hero to me.

My mother.......where does the strength come from? How has she managed to live her life for 80 years, do it well, and made it look easy? How does she have the courage to face another day?

She is truly a warrior queen, the goddess Brigid for my life. Her intellect and will have carried her through the ups and downs of life, and she has never faltered. She has risen above hardships that would have vanquished a lesser person. The feat that she achieved of raising all five of us and not crumbling beneath the weight astonishes me. We certainly weren't the Brady Bunch.

Now she stands as strong as ever as she cares for my dying father. She cares for him 24/7 with virtually no relief. Yes, she gets sharp with him at times. She loses her patience repeating things endlessly. It hurts me to hear, but I understand where it comes from. It is her gentleness with him that breaks my heart.

She is so tender and nurturing, so loving and protective of him! She never sleeps a full night through, because she listens for him waking. She calms his fears, and comforts him with love that has lasted 60 years. She cares for him like a hen with one chick, doing anything he needs done, and never complaining. She pushes aside her own health issues, because he is more important. He is fearful and anxious when she is out of his sight, so she chooses to stay by his side every moment she can. She does it all with little help: we, her children, all do our best for them, but it isn't enough. It could never be enough. She has finally consented to have someone come in to sit with him while goes to Mass on Sunday and does her food shopping on Thursday. She also has someone come stay on the very rare occasion she goes out for some reason. She refuses to have any home health aide come in, which drives us all insane. We all know that this is misplaced strength and pride, but we also know we are not about to change her mind.

When I am with them, I invariably leave in tears. The sadness overwhelms me, and I can't cope. Thinking about it now I am crying. How does she have the fortitude to carry on, day after day, watching the man she loves fade away bit by bit?

I fought with her for years, for many reasons (all of them stupid) yet she never stopped loving me. I see her now so differently. She amazes me. She awes me. I hope to someday to become even half the woman she is. She is my hero.

Strong Women, Strong Coffee

Sisterhood is powerful.
-Robin Morgan

I spent the day yesterday with my best friend, the sister of my heart, and her family.

After a very rough day on Friday, the circle of women made up of my friend, her daughter, and her daughter's two daughters was exactly what I needed. Being embraced by that circle helped heal me, calm my fears, ease my sadness, showed me love, and reminded me what joy looks like. They are as much my family as my "real" family is.

I needed knowledge and wisdom, and they gave it. I needed an ear, and they listened with their hearts. They nourished my both my body and my soul and gave me the strength and encouragement I very desperately needed. Two beautiful babies reminded me that unrestrained joy, love, and confidence are alive and well in the world, and that silliness is a vital piece of existence. I saw the wonder of the world in the baby's eyes as she took in all the sights and sounds around her. Two year old "Lola" already demonstrates the courage and confidence of a woman in so many ways, and her laughter is brilliant enough to brighten the world.

Sharing a few hours, dinner, and a cup of coffee renewed my spirit and gave me the strength to face the challenges I need to confront

Road Test

Everything in life is somewhere else,
and you get there in a car.

E.B. White

Nothing much ever rattled Dad, but teaching me to drive sure shook him up a bit. He taught all of us (and I think Mom as well) but I won't speak for the others. I, however, cause him to actually raise his voice and say, "Damn it, watch out for the tree!" I didn't hit the tree.

One of my favorite memories is of my honest and law-abiding father taking me out to practice parallel parking the night before my road test. He had me drive up to the test site, which had me all kinds of nervous. One of the DMV rules was that at no time was a person with a learner's permit allowed in the testing area. I was convinced I would go to jail if we got caught; Daddy was completely unconcerned. He had me make a right turn onto Smith Street, and park behind a red car that was right in front of my grandmother's apartment house. I parked. And parked. And parked some more. He had me park in the same spot over and over and over. Honestly, I was ready to rip the hair out my head by the time he finally decided that I could safely and successfully park.

The next morning found us parked and waiting on line at the test site. I was so nervous! Dad of course was his usual calm self. Well, it finally my turn, and the first task the tester asked me to do was to make a right turn onto Smith Street, and park behind the red car!

Life is good sometimes.

Side Bar

Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?

All right, I know it's August, and no where near time for Christmas, but this popped up in my squirrel-infested brain today, so I am spitting it out through my fingertips tonight.

I shared a room with my younger sister for many years. Like all sisters, we fought like caged tigers half the time, but that was really just to balance the closeness we shared. Well, that and the fact that she could be a royal pain in the ass sometimes! (Just kidding, sis)

I imagine that Christmas is every child's favorite time of year, and she and I were no different from any other kids. Christmas Eve would always find us unable to sleep, restless in our beds while anxiously waiting for Santa to come. Mommy always told us to be quiet and to listen for the sleigh bells, and that when we heard them we would know Santa was finally on his way. Every year, we giggled and whispered and strained our ears for bells jingling. Every year we heard them, first one of us, then the other.

Here's the question: did we in fact hear sleigh bells. or did we just imagine them every year? The power of imagination in children is not to be underrated. However, I can't say for sure if we actually heard anything or not. I prefer to think we did. I can easily picture Daddy slipping outside and under our bedroom window, sleigh bells at the ready. I suppose I cold ask my mother if this is indeed what happened, or if my sister and I just conjured up the jingling out of our fervent young minds. I won't ask her, not now and not ever. I have no need to know.