memories

by

Summer Wandering and Mom


This has been my summer of travel. For pleasure, my husband and I took several days and meandered down the east coast, then we bee-lined across the state of North Carolina to my favorite southern lake for a family Fourth of July party. I went on a working adventure with my daughter to help her move into her new apartment before she starts law school. I discovered, while I traveled for The Scotia-Glenville Traveling Museum, the varied regions around the upstate New York area that until now were unknown to me.

During all of those hours of wandering I let my mind wonder, hoping to be inspired. To my disappointment no words jumped out of me begging to be put to print. But, a realization did occur. I have written, over the course of several years, my feelings, frustrations and the day to day surprises that helping an elderly parent with dementia can bring. Consequently, I feel it is time to share some of my words as they form into my forthcoming book.

Recently, I recalled a conversation I had with Mom on more than one occasion. This was several years before any of us suspected something was wrong with her.

“Rosemary, I seem to be forgetting things a lot.”

“Oh, Mom, that’s normal. Heck I forget things all the time.”

“Yes, but this seems to be more than normal.”

“Mom, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Thus, I brushed her concerns away before she could elaborate more. I suppose I didn’t want to hear about anything being wrong with my mother. So I felt dismay when I recently heard a doctor on a news program say that many people know that they are having early signs of dementia. They realize something is not right. It pains me to think my Mom was alone in this knowledge and that I avoided that conversation more than once.

Eventually, my siblings and I did become aware that Mom was struggling and that something needed to be done. I recall vividly the day I entered Mom’s house to pack her suitcase and bring her to my home for what I thought might be just a long visit. It turned into so much more.

The following is an excerpt from:

A Slow Slide into Nothing

I arrived at the Indianapolis, Indiana airport, rented a car and drove to Wabash. As I pulled the car into the driveway and parked, I realized it was already warm for a day in May. I walked up the sidewalk; I could smell the fertilizer being spread on the fields just outside of town. My nose crinkled and I sucked in and held my breath so I wouldn’t smell the ripe aroma of manure in the air. When I stepped onto the porch, I expected to see Mom at the door, but, instead I had to let myself in. There she sat in the dark living room. I glanced around, remembering the salmon pink limestone fireplace that fills the wall at the far end of the living room, the family portraits, and my wedding picture. I waited for the years of childhood memories to come flooding back but they did not, could not as I looked at my mother. She looked frail, tired, and scared. Her clothing was dirty and full of stains. I was taken aback. How had Mom let herself get to this state? Mom always took pride in her clothing. She had dressed competently for her job as a high school counselor, later sternly as the city court judge. Now she wore clothing that did not match and food had dribbled down the front of her shirt. Seeing her this way was terrifying. I took a deep breath; I struggled not to appear shocked. Mom seemed embarrassed by the way she was dressed; the mess the house was in. Yet, she was unable to make any decisions or act to change it.

In a few short hours, it became apparent that Mom was far worse than I had thought. When she had mentioned on the phone she couldn’t pack her suitcase I assumed, it was not that she couldn’t but that she didn’t want to. I quickly realized she didn’t have the stamina, or the power to decide what to pack. Our past phone conversations raced through my mind, and I concluded she must have been lying to me about her lifestyle. I attributed her condition to depression about my father’s death and her forced retirement after losing her re-election as city court judge. Instead of haunting familiar places and reminiscing, I spent four days visiting Mom’s doctors, getting her car in working order, throwing out rancid food and packing. Mom sat on her bed and weakly told me which clothing she might want to pack. Most of her clothes were not clean, so I stuffed them in a suitcase knowing I would need to do laundry once we returned to my house. Just going through her medication was over-whelming. There were many duplicate prescriptions, some unopened bottles; others were empty with no replacement for them. I was frustrated trying to decide what prescriptions Mom actually needed to take and why.

Over the next few days, besieged with decisions about Mom, I was the picture of business on the outside. But, on the inside emotionally, I was falling apart. I suddenly realized that Mom was now the child and I had become the parent.

On the last day, I helped Mom climb into her packed car. We pulled down the driveway. She barely looked back. I gazed at the house I had grown up in, literally since birth, swallowed my tears, put on a good face for Mom and drove away.

by

A Tiny Rosebush


86th BirthdayI was in the grocery checkout line picking up some last-minute items for dinner.  It was Sunday and our first weekend of skiing and trying out our new seasonal rental was coming to a close.  I was tired, but feeling good with all of the fresh air and renewed friendship that had transpired over the past two days.  As I was piling my items onto the belt something to my right caught my eye.  I turned and there in front of me were miniature rosebushes, the kind you see this time of year in the stores.  In that instant my mood fell and I began to cry.  Not big sobs but my eyes welled with tears.

A tiny rosebush, similar to this one, was the last gift my sister Roxann and I gave to our mother before she passed away last February.  A small token meant to provide comfort and perhaps help guide her way to heaven.  At least that was a tale we had heard.

When my mother died, I was more than ready for her to leave this earth.  She had been struggling with dementia for years and had spent the last six of them either living with me or near me.  During those years I was the one who watched, almost daily, as she slid into dementia.  Consequently, I knew she was ready and most of her children agreed, that her struggle with this life should end.  After she passed and the initial exhilaration of having more free time ran out, I found myself grieving for the mother I once knew.  I grieved for the mother who taught me to cook as I stood in a chair in the kitchen stirring tomato soup.  I grieved for the mother who found her calling working with students as a teacher and counselor.  I grieved for the mother I had hoped I would connect more with me as an adult, but we never quite got there.

Grief is a funny thing.  You can be enjoying yourself and the next moment, because of a song, or a scent or a rosebush, your mood changes and you find yourself sad and crying.  Causing those around you to worry and question what has just happened.  These moments also make me, at least, realize I am not doing as well as I thought; that my recovery over the loss of my mother will continue to take time.  Memories remain with us for our lifetime, both the good and the bad. But, I hope, with time, my sadness will wane and my memories will become more of gladness as I remember the special moments my mother shared with me.

by

Reunion


This weekend I am missing my high school reunion in Wabash, Indiana.  It would have been nice to go, but the cards just didn’t play out.  Reunions often remind me of a few lines from the movie The Big Chill.

“Wrong, a long time ago we knew each other for a short period of time; you don’t know anything about me. It was easy back then. No one had a cushier berth than we did. It’s not surprising our friendship could survive that. It’s only out there in the real world that it gets tough.”

That thought stayed with me.  For many years I pondered it.  My final conclusion, the lines do contain some truth, but the idea behind the lines, that we take nothing from those short friendships, is wrong.  I grew up in Wabash, a place I lived until I left for college.  My family, my friends, the circumstances of what took place while I lived there, that town formed the basis of who I am today.  True, I did only know some of those people a short time.  But, I believe even short meetings with a person serve a purpose.  We learn from each other, the learning experience can be good or it can be negative.  But, we still hopefully, learn from it.

As in my case I moved on.  The friends I knew in high school, I truly do not know anymore.  I do know their memories and the laughs and fun we had.  I do remember the angst of those teenage years.  All memories that contributed to the adult I grew into.

Life is a journey we travel.  I have journeyed far from my small town of birth.  I have traveled through college, and young adulthood; marriage, and babies that grew to toddlers, troublesome teenagers and finally amazing adults.  I have looked back on lessons I learned from my parents that took the years of my own children to realize.  I have made many friends and kept only a few for life.  Some people come into our lives for a short while and we should not regret when it is time to move from that friendship, its purpose being served.  Still, we can hold fast to the memories.

So, this weekend I will be thinking of my friends from my childhood and teen years.  I wish them all well.  I hope they have attained happiness and contentment in their lives, as I have.

by

A Youth Re-lived


Last night I re-entered my youth. My husband Paul and I went to a Doobie Brothers and Chicago concert at SPAC. (Saratoga Performing Arts Center) It is a beautiful outdoor concert hall. There are seats inside under a roof and then a slopping lawn for anyone willing to throw down a blanket. Paul bought us tickets inside.

The Doobies came on first and Paul and I rushed to our seats, massive beer in hand, to enjoy. Music can transcend time and as our favorite tunes from high school and college floated through the air we were once again teenagers. Paul felt himself cruising in his mother’s huge Buick, eight track tape pushed in, windows rolled down and music blaring.  I remembered listening to WLS out of Chicago, hoping one of my favorite Doobie tunes would come on and then I could shift my parent’s red and cream-colored VW van into fourth and cruise through the hot spots of Wabash, Indiana.

It felt great to once again feel so carefree even for a few hours.  The music, and the emotions it brought back, blocked all worries and cares from our 50-year-old brains.

Chicago, the band, was just as exciting.  We loved watching the musicians that were displayed in front of us, each one demonstrating tremendous talent. Man, those guys can still blow a good horn, while moving all over the stage.   It was clear to us why they were still performing after all of these years.  They were good and they loved it.

The best part of the night was at the end when both Chicago and the Doobies came on stage.   I knew, that in my lifetime, I never thought I would see both of those groups performing together.  Paul and I were wide-eyed with excitement.  The energy level just increased as the bands took turns playing each other’s hits.

The evening finally ended and we walked to our car in the cooling upstate New York August air.  We got home around midnight and crawled into bed.  Our 50 something bodies remembering what our brains did not.  But, it will be some time before I forget the thrill of once again being young.

by

Spring Cleaning


Today is a beautiful day in upstate NY.  I am spring cleaning, going through closets.  In one closet I found clothing that belonged to my Mom.  I put them there at the end of  last season.  Her closet, where she lived, was very small and so I would change out her clothing as the seasons changed.  So many of these items brought back a memory of when she last wore it.  I found the Roots Olympic hat we bought her.  She always looked so cute and proud of herself when it sat jauntily on her head.  There was her beautiful camel-hair coat.  I remember when my father bought her that, so many years ago.  She always wore it with pride.   And the light blue cardigan I remember my father wearing.  When he passed Mom began to wear it.  In her later years I think it gave her comfort.  I gave some of the items to family members, I kept the hat.

In my oldest daughter’s closet I found all of her mementos that she had saved.  She has since moved into her own apartment.  These are the treasures left behind.  Ski racing trophies, prom dresses, pictures.  I know I can not decide what to do with these memories so I will leave them for her to go through.  But, I spent some time reflecting on the little girl now grown to a young woman.  Part of me misses those days, when she was always by my side.  But, then I realize what I truly wanted for her has been achieved.  She has grown from my arms and moved out into the world.  She has become the amazing person I dreamt of her being.

In my youngest daughter’s closet I found similar articles.  Trophies, prom dresses.  But since she has not officially moved out of our house, she has left behind items she still needs.  This weekend she graduates from Purdue University.  How did four years go by so quickly?  I know she is itching to find her own place.  I don’t blame her, I remember trying to move back with my parents during summer breaks, it wasn’t easy.  Because she has become independent and self sufficient, she doesn’t need my guidance everyday.  I see in her the courage and ambition to find a career and make a life from underneath my wing.  I encourage her to go.  But I will miss her.