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The other day it occurred to me, my life had come full circle.
Recently, my husband and I traveled south to visit my sister and her husband at their lake house in North Carolina. Our first day the guys played golf and my sister and I caught up while enjoying the amazing view of mountains and lake. At sunset, we all climbed into their boat and drove to the middle of the lake to admire the beautiful sight. As we all sat their chatting, having a cocktail, relishing our friendship it dawned on me, this was the first time the four of us had been alone together in over twenty-five years. This very event was what we had dreamt about as young twenty something’s with small children. All those years ago we said to ourselves, someday when we are older we will have time to focus on our relationship again. Someday we will take vacations together. Maybe we will even buy houses beside each other and retire. The guys can play golf and the girls can talk without interruption.
How very surreal to be living your dream, to have it come true. To know we had made it through some difficult times, yet, here we were, just as close, still having as much fun as we did when we were all at Purdue University together.
It is a wonderful accomplishment to have shared a lifetime of experiences with my sister and her husband. I know for a fact that not all siblings remain close and that is why I especially treasure the relationship I share with my sister Roxann. We are sisters and more importantly, friends. I know I count her husband as a friend also. My god! I remember helping him decipher his freshman Purdue schedule by writing it out on a paper plate, apparently the only writing surface we could find. How fortunate we are to have each other, to be able to laugh at past silly memories, to understand why certain incidents cause our eyes to go misty. Friendships that stand the wear and tear of so many years go deep into your very soul.
As I sat in that boat enjoying the view of the sunset and my friends, I understood I could not take this moment or the next few days we had for granted. Who knows how many more times we will have the opportunity to share that dream we all had so many years ago. Life can change in an instant; I think most of us, at least those of us in our fifties, understand this. A moment watching the sunset with the couple I have known the longest in my life was rare indeed. 
When I was young and living in the small town of Wabash, Indiana I used to dream of different ways to become famous. During mass I often fantasized a record producer would, for some unknown reason, be in my church, hear my voice and offer me a contract. Or, I would dream a modeling agency would see me as I vacationed with my family and rush over to tell me I would be the next big thing on the cover of Seventeen Magazine. Even though I spent many years with these images in my head those events never took place. Instead, I went to college, graduated, found a job, got married and began the life I lead now.
It has only been recently that I remembered those long ago dreams and realized it is very unlikely my face will grace the cover of a fashion magazine or my singing voice be heard across the airwaves. I’m okay with this reality because I understand if I truly wanted those goals to happen I would have worked a little harder at accomplishing them. With this realization however, I wondered, have I made my mark on this world? When I’m gone will I have left a legacy? After some consideration I recognized leaving my mark does not require me to be famous. Keeping that in mind, I settled on a list of lasting qualities, I believe, I have managed to accomplish.
I have been a good daughter. While growing up I never caused my parents much concern. In turn they gifted me with their love, a comforting home, siblings to have and cherish my entire life and a college education. As an adult I welcomed my parents into my home. I enjoyed their company and we shared some great meals, laughter and many adventures when they graced my doorstep. For six years as my mother slid into dementia, I comforted and counseled her, fought her medical battles, sat through doctor appointments, made more than one run to the emergency room and, fought my own guilt feelings of inadequacy. Finally, on the day she died I held my mother’s hand and read to her the poems she recited to my siblings and me, and sang to her the songs that brightened our childhood days.
Friendship may be one of my strong suits. I love that shared intimacy. And, nothing seals a bond of camaraderie like the struggle of raising children. Many reassuring conversations took place during the frustrations and joys of raising children. I have been there through health scares, holding hands, sending cards and making phone calls to check in. I have consoled woman friends through the everyday difficulties of marriage and they have returned that favor to me. Most difficult of all I have been with my friend as she fought to keep her husband alive, then, in the end, as she graced him with her love and the permission to leave this earth.
Together my husband and I have created and raised two amazing daughters. They are kind to others, responsible for themselves, fun to be with, gifted with creativity, athletic and smart. As parents we gave our daughter many material items. When they were very young it was toys, dolls and stuffed animals. As they grew it became sports equipment, namely downhill skis. We offered opportunities to try new adventures. We bought a boat and took them tubing, cliff jumping and island camping on Lake George in the Adirondacks. All of those material presents brought the most important gift of all; a family. We formed a bond as we traveled for ski races, or huddled together in a small tent to avoid a storm on Turtle Island. We grew as a family having fun together, sharing dinners, laughing, arguing; just spending time with one another.
With this inventory I have concluded my legacy is one of kindness, love, fun, support and a future generation. Consequently, I think my daughters and our family are far more of a mark to leave on this earth than my past dreams of being famous.
I wrote this essay a few years ago, but I felt it was appropriate for today.
I don’t know how old or exactly where I was, but the first time I saw people skiing in a movie I knew that was something I had to do. The whole idea tempted me. It was exciting to think of rushing down a hill over a blanket of beautiful white snow. I could almost feel the sting of the cold air rushing against my face as I carved turns. It was appealing to picture myself at the end of the day wearing a warm fashionable sweater sitting next to a crackling fire, drink in hand, enjoying the camaraderie of good friends. I fantasized about the captivating conversations that would take place. The oneness we would all feel about our love of skiing and winter.
But I was born and raised a flatlander. I grew up in Indiana where hills are few and far between and a mountain is something you might see in a picture. Sure, there were families who traveled away for vacations to Colorado,but mine was not one of them. I remember going to an acquaintance’s house, a friend of a friend. We were all sitting around chatting. Suddenly, there in the basement in a corner, I saw snow skis. My mouth dropped open and I rudely interrupted the conversation.
“You Ski?!”
“Oh yeah, we go every year.”
Then, just as abruptly as our conversation began she ended it and changed the subject. I longed to know more. What was it like? Was it scary or fun? Was it hard to learn? I never really got to talk to her again about skiing, but whenever I saw her in school I was impressed.
As I got older my obsessive flame to ski turned into a smolder but it was still there. Recently, I found a family photo. I am the one in the sweater with a skier on the front. My dream laid out for anyone willing to recognize.
Away at college I met lots of great guys. But the ones who drew my attention were the skiers. In my mind they were a rare breed, exciting, different from the, oh so many basketball players that are prevalent in the Midwest. When I met Paul I knew he was exceptional. I was smitten with his twinkling eyes and devilish smile. Much to my delight he was from New York State where apparently they had mountains. He spent many hours talking about skiing and how much fun it was. I could tell skiing was his passion. I was hooked; but in the ways of life it took us four years to get around to dating let alone skiing.
Eventually our dating turned to something more and in 1985 we celebrated our marriage and moved to upstate New York. Paul kept his promise and taught me how to ski. Before I even hit the slopes he bought me all kinds of equipment. He purchased hats, mittens and a coat and ski pants. He even bought socks made specifically for skiers. He thought if I was cold on my first times out I might not return. What he did not understand was my drive to be a skier. The skier I had envisioned. And, I have become good. But what I took to almost immediately, was the après ski.
Just as I imagined, the camaraderie between skiers does exist. Because our daughters grew up skiing they soon turned to alpine racing. They were members of the Gore Mountain team. We spent many days at Gore and quickly became great friends with the families of the other racers. As parents we experienced many sub-zero days on the slopes. Sometimes skiing, sometimes standing on the side of a race hill watching our children fly past us. At the end of the day we would get together and discuss the day’s events. We may not have always been in our fuzzy, warm, sweaters. In fact, frequently, after a long day of skiing we were known to sit around in our very comfy sweats and PJs. No matter, the friendship that I sought was still there. The drinks warmed us along with the fire and we laughed at inside jokes and funny things that happened that day on the mountain.
Recently, Paul and I attended a fund-raiser for the Gore Mountain ski team. Our daughters no longer race, they have moved on to college, but we still feel a connection. So apparently do many others. In attendance that evening was several of our friends from over the years. Half of those enjoying dinner and drinks no longer had a child in the program. But we appreciate we are a unique group. We have a secret connection. We enjoy the rush of cold air on our faces. We love the silence you hear on a ski slope on a frigid day. We appreciate the awe you feel as you stand at the top of a run and look out over the snow covered mountains, the clouds sitting in the valleys and the sun glinting on the lakes below. It is thrilling to rush down a slope carving turns. We love to play hard during the day, and at the end of it, enjoy a warm fire and our friends. Skiers are optimistic. Who else sees delight in an upcoming snowstorm? They certainly are fun-loving. They laugh at the weather, and each other. They ski outside in the cold all day, most days not realizing the temperature is below freezing, making them a very hearty crew.
I still have that image of skiers in my head from the first time I saw them in the movie. I have never been disappointed. We are everything I dreamed we would be.
Words said in anger wrapped with spite can be cruel and feel like a slap across the face. But what of words never said? I think they can be just as hurtful. When I was growing up my parents believed that if they acknowledged our accomplishments then we would become soft and not develop into hard-working adults. Looking back on those years, I can tell you that theory doesn’t hold much water. With vivid feelings of longing I recall striving to hear the words from my parents that would let me know they thought I was doing well. When the words didn’t come a hole began to creep inside my self-confidence. In the end I went through most of my life thinking I was sub par, nothing special. In high school I was a member of the first girl’s basketball team. Mom came to one game. I was involved in the school plays, Dad never showed. I pulled the float in our homecoming parade. Not even a word of advice from them as to how I should do it.
I know my parent’s loved me, I’m sure they even told me that. My parents demonstrated their love with providing for us even when times were difficult. They always managed to bring the family an amazing Christmas. Birthdays we were singled out for the day and were allowed to choose the dinner menu and what kind of cake we wanted. I know these actions were symbols of their love. Yet, just once, I wanted to hear the words that would let me know they thought I was amazing and they were grateful I was their child. The only time I remember my mother saying I love you and me, feeling she actually meant it was a few months before she passed away from dementia. She looked me directly in the eye and said “I love you, Rosemary” and then smiled. It was a rare moment of cognizance. Tears still fill my eyes when I recall that snapshot of time that I had waited for most of my life.
I don’t normally make New Year’s resolutions. But, this year I intend to make an exception. I have been traveling down the road of change in my life; the 55 year mark has made me stop and evaluate. With those evaluations I have come to some conclusions. I have decided that I will tell my loved ones just that, I love you. But, I also intend to demonstrate that love with gratitude for their actions and for just being who they are. I’ve been wondering, do I thank my husband enough or like my parents let him go with the assumption gratitude is there? I am going to work on changing that. I have two adult daughters and it is obvious they do not need me on a daily basis anymore. Still, I think, more thank you’s need to come their way. I’ll start with sending notes of gratitude; perhaps for taking time out of their day to spend it with me, perhaps for coming over for dinner, maybe sharing a laugh. I want to emphasize that the small gestures are just as important as the large and any gesture that brings a bright spot deserves recognition. And so, I have started. It isn’t easy. Sometimes it can be days later that I remember, wait that was a special moment and I need to be thankful for that. Other times I slide too easily into taking my husband for granted. I have to remind myself that words are powerful and when used to express gratitude or love can be a gift we give to others.
It has been said you can pick your friends but not your family. And, yet I feel I picked mine, friends who, over the years, developed into a second family.
We met because our husbands worked together. There were four families in the beginning and having recently moved into the area all of us were desperate to connect with other couples. At the time the women were all stay-at-home Moms, so we formed a playgroup thinking it was for the children. But, we realized we were just as desperate as our children for companionship and so our group became a mother’s time, too. Eventually, the other two families moved out of the area leaving just the Rome’s and Renaud’s.
Our lives soon became entwined. We shared many of the same attributes, one of them being the age of our children. The Rome’s had Jason, and then we had Catlin. Janine and Matt followed with Kyle and our Kristen rounded out the crew. They grew up together like cousins, sharing meals, bathtubs and bedtime stories.
Janine and I were there for each other through many ups and downs especially because our husbands traveled frequently. At any given time we knew if the day seemed to be stretching on forever or we just couldn’t face another dinner of beans, weenies and toddler conversation we could call one another up for some adult company.
Friday nights were the best with impromptu get-togethers. The pizza would be ordered and the kids would run wild through the house as we adults kicked back with a few beers. We were oblivious to the commotion as we laughed about the week’s events and made plans for our next adventures. Many memories were made during those times and our bond as a new family grew.
It was our times at Lake George that sealed the deal. Almost every weekend during the summer, our two families could be found either camping or picnicking on the islands in the Narrows of the lake. Who wouldn’t connect over setting up tents in a thunderstorm, camping through a hurricane, tube rides, cliff jumping, raft floating, steak night, moonlight swims and roasting marshmallows over an open fire.
Through it all, we were there for one another, for the laughs and the struggles, the good times and the bad. We knew each other’s imperfections and loved each other in spite of them.
As our children grew, we celebrated graduations from high school and admissions into college. We naively assumed we would be there together for the weddings and the birth of our grandchildren. And yes, we had big plans to travel on great vacations together. But, it wouldn’t happen.
Matt Rome died this past September at the age of 55. He lived the last five to six years of his life slowly losing the ability to hike in his beloved Adirondacks. He struggled to continue using his prized possession, a boat kept at a marina on Lake George. The last time he went for a cruise it took Janine, Paul and me, using everything we had, to get him into the captain’s seat. And still Paul had to drive for him. Matt lost his ability to bring tears of laughter to our eyes with his stand-up comedian act. His brilliant mind, the one that could beat us all in any trivia challenge and the one that could solve any computer problem, slowly faded. He became lost in hour upon hour of dizziness. He went from cane to walker to wheel chair to recliner. We forgot what his voice sounded like because that left him too. Eventually, even communication by hand was difficult. Through it all, even into the end, no doctor could figure why.
Our two families rallied together, as did so many of the Rome’s friends, to support Janine, Matt and the boys. In the end it was all we had to offer. Our chosen family is missing an important figure but we are still intact. Our children living adult lives still remain friends. Janine will always be one of my most trusted confidants. As families do, we will regain ourselves and once again we will find times to laugh and have fun together. But, always there will be a toast to our friend, father, husband and chosen family member, Matt Rome.
Lately it seems, I am constantly running into people stumbling through the care of their parents. I realize there are many reasons for this phenomenon. One is of course my age. At mid 50’s most of my friends and acquaintances have elderly parents as I once did. The other is that because I went through this journey with my mother I am open to discuss the emotional ups and downs. The frustrations of dealing with uncaring hospitals and doctors, the joy of finding the perfect fit for a parent with caring doctors and nurses. And the fright of walking everyday down a path that you truly don’t want to be on. Getting a diagnosis for dementia can be heart wrenching for all involved, the parent, spouse and the child.
After Mom moved in with me, I luckily found a geriatric doctor who had established his practice based on making house calls, he did not actually have an office. Dr. C was a kind, calm man and my mother immediately trusted him. Over the course of several visits he took the time to get to know my mother, her past life and to understand my concerns. Eventually, Dr. C instructed me to make an appointment at the nearby dementia clinic. With dread, because I felt I knew what the answer would be, I made the call. The expert there concluded what Dr. C already knew. Mom was suffering from dementia. The question remained, How or should Mom be told?
Following is an excerpt from my upcoming book A Slow Slide into Nothing.
With guidance from Dr. C, we determined it was best for him to tell Mom the truth about her condition. He arrived on one of those summer days that makes me realize why I live in upstate New York. The sky was bright blue, with light green spring leaves just beginning to turn to their darker summer shades. The temperatures and humidity were at a level to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze, as it brushed the hair from my face. I longed to be outside doing something, anything, different from what was happening in my home.
While Roxann and I gently took Mom hands, Dr. C, with his kind eyes and soft voice, gently told her she had dementia. It was brutal to watch her expression change from denial to realization. Mom asked a few questions, then became silent and eventually lost interest in what was going on around her. Roxann and I questioned Dr. C as to what we should do next.
Later that evening, Mom did not seem bothered at all by this news and the three of us avoided the topic like the proverbial elephant in the room. Roxann and I were amazed at how she accepted her fate so easily.
Mom’s reaction became apparent and heart wrenching upon Dr. C’s next visit and for subsequent visits afterwards, each time, Mom would ask him the same question. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe him, the truth was, she couldn’t remember from visit to visit what he had told her. I grieved each time along with her. In a strong voice, determined to handle her own life and the unknown, she would ask,
“What is wrong with me?”
Dr. C would answer every time as gently as he did the first: “Corki, you have
dementia.”
In Wabash, Indiana, where I grew up, the fourth of July was always the middle mark of summer. As a student I knew that there was still as much summer to enjoy as I had relished over the past few weeks. So it was that the fourth was a much anticipated event.
A few days prior to the celebration my mother took us to the store so that we could help pick out our legal fireworks. We bought sparklers and cherry bombs, (I think those were legal) and snakes. Snakes were my favorite, they were just a small cylinder of black which when you lit the top it would grow and curl to resemble a writhing snake. One year when I was still fairly young, my mom handed each of us kids our own pack of matches so we could light our displays. Following my cool older friend I put the match between the cover and the strike pad to light it. In doing this I turned the match just as it lit and the whole pack went up in my hand. The rest of that holiday was spent sitting with the grownups holding ice to the massive blister that had formed on the entire palm of my hand.
Often our family would gather with some neighbors for the day. We would grill some hamburgers and Mom would make her amazing potato salad. Then it was time to turn the crank as we made our own ice cream. My mouth would drool in anticipation of the vanilla flavored delight that was so cold every bite caused an ice cream headache.
The town of Wabash put on a fireworks display in the park. We were lucky enough to be able to see the show from our back yard. Later, as trees matured my Dad let us climb to the roof to watch. We thought that was a grand adventure.
When Paul and I bought our house in Clifton Park, New York, our neighborhood was directly across from the town fields where the fireworks were set off. The neighborhood was “party central” for the town and like my parents we invited our friends for the day. Our girls spent their early childhood watching the fourth of July parade and the fireworks right in their own front yard.
Some of my best memories were fourths spent on the islands of Lake George. Months in advance we would rent our sites. On that day many of our friends, with kids in tow, would arrive early to spend the day boating, swimming and cooking over a campfire. It was our custom to have steaks cooked over an open flame and baked potatoes roasted in the coals. As evening approached we would all pile into our boats and head to the shoreline near the town of Bolton Landing. The fireworks here were set off from a barge anchored not far from land. On a clear night the red and blue lights of the hundreds of boats gathered was almost a show in itself. As the fireworks blossomed into their fiery displays over Lake George, they were mirrored in the cool clear water below. The exhibit was so spectacular that the many “oohs” and “ahhs” it warranted could be heard gliding over the surface of the lake as the booming concussions echoed against the Adirondack Mountains.
Last summer I spent the holiday at my sister’s new home on Lake Chatuge, located on the border of Georgia and North Carolina. Here, too, we were surrounded by mountains. This time The Blue Ridge Mountains. Since this was our first holiday on Lake Chatuge we did not know the routine. Rumor around the cove was that some of the neighbors put on quite a show. At dusk, after our fill of barbecue, we all gathered on the dock beverage in hand. We were not disappointed. We clapped our appreciation both during and after the show and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Lake Chatuge is once again calling. The attendance at this year’s festivities has grown considerably. This just means there are more great memories to be made.
One year ago in February our family gathered to bury and then celebrate the life of our Mother, Grammy, and Great-Grandma. One of my nieces, who holds a special place in my heart because she grew up spending many summers staying with my husband Paul and I, was in attendance with her family, including her infant son, Kian.
I wanted to hold Kian but, with all of the commotion I thought I would bide my time and wait until he was more receptive to unfamiliar arms. Besides, my sister Roxann and I were overwhelmed with still trying to pull off the calling hours, small family service and the celebration of life we had planned for the community, made more difficult as we worked from out-of-state. I felt like a loose thread being pulled from its stitches as I tried to hold myself together while racing from one spot to the next, answering questions, and solving small crisis.
I was also in the grips of the sorrow I felt trying to consume me as I said goodbye to my mother; one that was bittersweet. I knew she had been ready to leave the confines of her dementia ridden body, still, it was sad for those left behind grieving the woman we had missed for years.
Three days later as I settled into an uncomfortable plane seat for the return to my home I actually gasped in anguish. With tears clouding my vision I turned to Paul and choked out, “I never held Kian.” The prior crushing days, in fact, years, of my sorrow accumulated in the knowledge I had missed a wonderful opportunity to hold this precious child whose mother meant so much to me. I grieved for many months at my failed, once in a life time, opportunity.
It took over a year for me to finally be in the same room with the now toddling Kian as we celebrated the family milestone of a nephew’s graduation from high school. Of course Kian was adorable, how could he not be? Still in the stage where everything is new and exciting, he was mesmerized by all of the decorations. Joy filled Kian’s face as he played with balloons placed on the floor for him. His whole body shook with delight as he discovered yet more of the breathtaking orbs on a nearby table. Kian’s wonder and shear happiness enveloped everyone who had the occasion to observe him.
I too, watched with delight. At this point I was bidding my time for that split second when I could grab him and scoop him into my arms when he did not suspect it. I hoped he would give me at least a few seconds of his attention before wiggling free of my grasp. With that plan in mind I turned and became involved in viewing short videos created by his older cousin sitting beside me on the couch.
I felt tiny hands on my knees. Unexpectedly, here was Kian climbing into my lap. He wiggled up, as if he knew this spot of comfort. His small arms wrapped around my neck and his soft curls brushed my face as his head came to rest on my shoulder. Kian stopped the constant motion his little body had been consumed by and sighed. Instinctually my arms surrounded him as my heart thrilled with the weight of this child against me. The tears I had once cried at missing the opportunity to hold him now became ones of gratitude and joy. I clung to Kian and his gift of sweet toddler warmth. We were suspended there, in a crowded room, where the only thing I felt and heard was this baby I had loved and never held.
Kian graced me with his hug for a few minutes, time enough for him to catch his breath, then he was back to exploring.
I tried to secretively wipe the tears from my eyes as the room once again began to buzz around me. Even now, as I recall that my moment, elation still causes mist to cloud my vision; as I relive an instant of interrupted time so well worth the wait.
Prologue
I have been absent from my Blog for a while. In this away period I have been working on editing my book in between the call of my daily life. I am including the prologue to my book, a work in progress.
In the spring of 2007 my widowed mother left her place of birth and a lifetime of living in Indiana and moved to my home in Upstate New York. It had been apparent to me and my siblings for some time that Mom was struggling to live on her own. But, my mother’s independent streak and her fierce Irish-German stubbornness did not allow her to leave her residence of fifty years easily.
When Mom moved in with my family and me, I thought she was still grieving the death of my father, her husband of over fifty years. I had learned Mom no longer participated in the activities she once enjoyed; she rarely ventured out of her home. All signs of depression I assumed. Naively, I believed that once Mom came to live with me she would find a new direction in life from the love my family would give her. I hoped that my relationship with Mom would evolve into the nurturing, mother-daughter connection I had sought for years. Yet, after only a few short weeks it became quite apparent all of my assumptions were completely wrong.
Learning my mother had dementia, although not truly shocking, was not the ending I had in mind for our story together. Eventually, during the six years that she lived with or near me we did develop a new relationship. One I had not considered, but, still based on trust and love. Getting to that final rapport took years of struggle between us. In the beginning it was who is the child; who is the parent? Later, that trust was required to let a loving bond blossom into total faith that decisions made on her behalf were for the best.
My emotional journey also sparked a transition of my faith. My feelings about established religion had been evolving for several years. Soon after Mom moved in with me, I stopped my rare attendance at mass. My choice had nothing to do with my mother. Rather, it was a decision that had been growing within me. I felt more in touch with my idea of God when I was out in nature, or doing an activity with my friends or family. Mass became a ritual that I dreaded and consequently attained nothing from. Yet, the more involved I got with Mom’s care, the more aware I became of an inner voice guiding me. I am by character a non-confrontational person. Still, as I heard myself questioning doctors, working with insurance companies, dealing with family members and lawyers, I found the words coming from my lips sometimes were not my own. I had not thought to say them, yet there they were being said. I began to call my inner guidance my Angels. It was through this realization that my spirituality grew and I connected with these higher beings that were sent to guide and comfort me. I believe it was my Angels who first directed me to begin writing.
I did not write my thoughts down immediately upon my mother’s arrival. It was only after many months that the need to release my growing frustrations began to take shape. I joined a writing group at a local book store because I felt driven by my inner sense, what I call my Angels, to put my feelings into written word. During my first session I met a group of ladies and we formed a lasting bond that strengthened as we each transformed into writers. It was this group and our instructor that gave me the courage to record my feelings. Even then, I did not believe I would take my thoughts and turn them into the book that follows. As my writing developed, I realized my essays could be a comfort to those walking zombie like through the days of unknown dementia care and decisions as I was. Consequently, I continued in my pursuit of finishing this book not only for myself but for others who would walk down the path my mother had taken me. I hope it will bring them comfort and the knowledge they are not alone in their struggles.
To do justice to the 85 year life my mother led I have given you, the reader, a brief history of Mom’s life. I felt that was important so that you too can understand the sorrow I felt in watching this woman, who accomplished so much, slide into nothing.
The essays written about the journey Mom and I took together fall in chronological order. It is my hope that you will garner some camaraderie from my honesty, frustration, laughter, unexpected hurt and overall grief. This book is for all of us struggling together in what I call, The Caretaker Nation.
Rosemary Christle-Renaud 