There are just some things you need to say, but you keep them bottled up inside. You don’t want to upset anyone. You want to keep your ship steady as she goes because the world around us is filled with so much chaos and you think if you can just adjust this, tweak that, you might be able to fix your little parcel of the world and all will be well.
But at this moment chaos reigns and there doesn’t seem to be a way to mend fences, reconcile differences, heal broken hearts, and get feet on solid ground. Winter is uncomfortably close, expected to be long and cold. When the buzzards depart Nov. 1 to winter in the south, maybe I wish I was flying away with them. Things that should have been taken care of weren’t. No garden, no harvest. I really wanted a garden. I wanted to put up tomatoes, freeze peppers, make jams and jellies beginning in June with strawberries and working my way through the fruit seasons. Someone has to clean out the rain gutters on the house where trees have begun to grow. Someone has to caulk the windows to keep out the cold of winter. Someone needs to patch the garage roof, find the reason why the security light kicks out the breaker every morning when the light clicks off, cut the dead branches out of the oak tree and that’s just the outside work.
I was searching online for information about senior resources and ended up researching a news headline: “Report: Drug dealers buying prescription painkillers from Ohio senior citizens.” It sounds like there are folks who have it worse off than the rest of us. Seriously? Selling their potent prescription painkillers to street dealers??? The Ohio Substance Abuse Monitoring Network reported, “Drug dealers around Ohio are developing new sources for prescription painkillers by buying them from senior citizens, sometimes as the patients leave pharmacies.” The said report “shows Ohio’s prescription painkiller epidemic is continuing and in some cases, may be getting worse. (http://blog.cleveland.com/health_impact/). The release is dated Oct. 4, 2011. “The network cites reports from Dayton, Toledo and Youngstown of drug dealers buying painkillers from seniors WHO OFTEN NEED THE MONEY TO MAKE ENDS MEET.” (Emphasis mine.) And that reportedly is the Youngstown area.
The drug dealers convince the seniors to go to the doctor, fake pain, get prescriptions for Oxycontin, etc., then take them to the pharmacy to get the medications, and then pay them for the drugs. I can’t…comprehend…This is the literal “last resort” to providing for an individual’s needs??? Why does this smack of irresponsibility? Drug dealing is illegal! Conscience—doesn’t anyone know anything about conscience and honor and doing the right thing? What if their own grandchildren were on the receiving end of those medications…and something terrible happened? Of course, they would never know. Not seeing the faces of the people who will use those drugs makes it alright?
Yet another news story caught my eye over the weekend. More Americans than Chinese are going hungry. Makes me ask if Washington DC really thinks we believe the Great Recession is subsiding. Really? As hard as some have worked to “dumb down America” maybe we’re smarter than “they” think. So, how are we all going to survive the winter?
I started out this blog entry complaining about the windows that weren’t caulked, the garden we didn’t grow, the tree branches, long dead, that fall to the ground when a gusty wind hits them just right.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
Respect is Earned
Mom insisted we should have an honor code. We would respect our dad because without him we would not have been born. We would be courteous, considerate of others and we would keep our troubles to ourselves because everybody has problems and they don't want to know about ours. If we look around, we can always find someone worse off than we are. Mom insisted we should live by the Golden Rule: Treat others the way you want to be treated.
Respect. That's what I've always wanted, to be respected. But it isn't something that is due us, a right. It is something we must earn. We earn respect through everything we say and do. That's a great lesson for young people, but how does it apply in the outside world?
The 1960s was a great time to grow up: the love generation. Or maybe as 1969 rolled around everything at our house was measuring up to the American Dream. Mom had always told me I could do anything I wanted, achieve anything I wanted to do if I was willing to work hard. It wasn't about biology, gender. It was about ability. And she believed I was loaded with ability, qualities I didn't consider special. Wasn't everyone like me? Wasn't I just human like everyone else? I really didn't think there was anything special about me. Besides, boys didn't like girls who were smart.
No, Mom said. I couldn't expect everyone to perform at the same level as me because everyone doesn't have the same abilities I do. I needed to be patient with those who aren't as capable as me. Some people misread me. They thought I was arrogant. (If they only knew!) But actually, don't my children deserve to have good things, too? What is different about their desires for their children and my desires for my children? That makes me arrogant? Oh, well. I digress.
l
The late 1970s were...hm...well, I remember when the steel mills in the industrial heartland locked their doors. I felt terrible for the families who lost everything they had worked for all of their lives. I thanked God it wasn't us. Oh, but I--and many around me--was about to learn some valuable lessons in economics, things like "trickle-down" and "ripple effect." When the mills closed, all of the industry that relied on domestic steel was hit. Domestic steel couldn't match the affordability of the Japanese imports. (Thanks, Uncle Sam in Washington, for giving away the store.) By 1991, my husband's job was on its way to Romania in Eastern Europe. (And you thought the loss of jobs to overseas markets was something new in the new century.)
With no paycheck we couldn't spend. The stores, businesses and professions, with no customers, began to fade away. Population dropped from 112,075 in 2000 to 107,841 in 2010, according to the U.S. Census Bureau as of June 3, 2011. Some other data from the county's census report include: 84.5 percent of 25-year-olds and older are high school grads, 11.8 percent hold bachelor degrees. The per capita income (2009 dollars) is $19,785; median household income, $38,004. Persons below poverty level, 16.4 percent in the county (17,686) at a time when the state poverty level is at 15.1 percent. Women-owned firms in Columbiana County are 28.1 percent and 27.7 percent in the state. Of the $90,592,062 federal dollars sent to Ohio, only $755,832 of it came to our county (2008). The land area of Columbiana County is 532.46 miles. Population is 202.5 persons per square miles (2010).
Admissions at the Kent State branches in Salem and East Liverpool go up when jobs go down. But when they complete their education, do the students stay or do they leave to follow the jobs? It looks like they leave. And what does that do to the fabric of the extended family?
What does all of this have to do with respect? There are different forms of respect, the most important being self-respect because if you don't feel good about yourself, how can you see good in others or in the world around you? When the jobs went away, people were robbed of their self-respect when they could no longer take care of their families and their obligations. When they were told they did not qualify for foodstamps so they should buy food and not pay their bills--AND THEY WERE--how do you suppose they felt? What did they think? Feel? How did they respond?
Yes, this blog entry is all about respect when you read between the lines and walk in the other man's skin for a while.
Funny that I found this article just hours after writing this blog entry. Maybe you will want to check this out: http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/lookout/more-americans-chinese-t-put-food-table-132752601.html
Next time: To Kill a Mockingbird...What is Courage?
(c) 2011 Cathy Thomas Brownfield--ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Why am I so sure that someone somewhere on the planet will think the copyrights that belong to me don't apply to them? If you are interested in using my words, please contact me for permission.
Respect. That's what I've always wanted, to be respected. But it isn't something that is due us, a right. It is something we must earn. We earn respect through everything we say and do. That's a great lesson for young people, but how does it apply in the outside world?
The 1960s was a great time to grow up: the love generation. Or maybe as 1969 rolled around everything at our house was measuring up to the American Dream. Mom had always told me I could do anything I wanted, achieve anything I wanted to do if I was willing to work hard. It wasn't about biology, gender. It was about ability. And she believed I was loaded with ability, qualities I didn't consider special. Wasn't everyone like me? Wasn't I just human like everyone else? I really didn't think there was anything special about me. Besides, boys didn't like girls who were smart.
No, Mom said. I couldn't expect everyone to perform at the same level as me because everyone doesn't have the same abilities I do. I needed to be patient with those who aren't as capable as me. Some people misread me. They thought I was arrogant. (If they only knew!) But actually, don't my children deserve to have good things, too? What is different about their desires for their children and my desires for my children? That makes me arrogant? Oh, well. I digress.
l
The late 1970s were...hm...well, I remember when the steel mills in the industrial heartland locked their doors. I felt terrible for the families who lost everything they had worked for all of their lives. I thanked God it wasn't us. Oh, but I--and many around me--was about to learn some valuable lessons in economics, things like "trickle-down" and "ripple effect." When the mills closed, all of the industry that relied on domestic steel was hit. Domestic steel couldn't match the affordability of the Japanese imports. (Thanks, Uncle Sam in Washington, for giving away the store.) By 1991, my husband's job was on its way to Romania in Eastern Europe. (And you thought the loss of jobs to overseas markets was something new in the new century.)
With no paycheck we couldn't spend. The stores, businesses and professions, with no customers, began to fade away. Population dropped from 112,075 in 2000 to 107,841 in 2010, according to the U.S. Census Bureau as of June 3, 2011. Some other data from the county's census report include: 84.5 percent of 25-year-olds and older are high school grads, 11.8 percent hold bachelor degrees. The per capita income (2009 dollars) is $19,785; median household income, $38,004. Persons below poverty level, 16.4 percent in the county (17,686) at a time when the state poverty level is at 15.1 percent. Women-owned firms in Columbiana County are 28.1 percent and 27.7 percent in the state. Of the $90,592,062 federal dollars sent to Ohio, only $755,832 of it came to our county (2008). The land area of Columbiana County is 532.46 miles. Population is 202.5 persons per square miles (2010).
Admissions at the Kent State branches in Salem and East Liverpool go up when jobs go down. But when they complete their education, do the students stay or do they leave to follow the jobs? It looks like they leave. And what does that do to the fabric of the extended family?
What does all of this have to do with respect? There are different forms of respect, the most important being self-respect because if you don't feel good about yourself, how can you see good in others or in the world around you? When the jobs went away, people were robbed of their self-respect when they could no longer take care of their families and their obligations. When they were told they did not qualify for foodstamps so they should buy food and not pay their bills--AND THEY WERE--how do you suppose they felt? What did they think? Feel? How did they respond?
Yes, this blog entry is all about respect when you read between the lines and walk in the other man's skin for a while.
Funny that I found this article just hours after writing this blog entry. Maybe you will want to check this out: http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/lookout/more-americans-chinese-t-put-food-table-132752601.html
Next time: To Kill a Mockingbird...What is Courage?
(c) 2011 Cathy Thomas Brownfield--ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Why am I so sure that someone somewhere on the planet will think the copyrights that belong to me don't apply to them? If you are interested in using my words, please contact me for permission.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Recovery Begins
I recall some things my mother said, things that are very important to remember. These things are so important that I am recording them...In a novel. I see it as potential Pulitzer stuff. And when I have a complete body of work, the Nobel in Literature. I know. Some people will think that's pretty lofty goals, but I was told that God likes it when we dream big because he likes to achieve big. And since he provided me with a big brother named Jesus, and since those places in the sand where there was only one set of footprints was/is when he carries me, I guess it's OK to dream big.
My mother had Alzheimer's for, well, she was diagnosed in March 2001. Quite a year toward the end of 2001, wasn't it? Well, Mom shared a lot of things with me. As her memory became more impaired she might say, "I can't remember anything." I would answer, "That's OK, Mom. I will remember for both of us." She would smile and say, "OK." One day she said to me, "I am afraid to talk." We were in her room at the nursing facility. (I will never call them homes again.) "Why?" I asked. "I think I'm not making sense. Sometimes I can't think of the right thing to say, the right word. I am afraid I look foolish." "Don't you give that a thought, Mom," I comforted her. "We all love you. We understand. It's OK. I don't want you to ever stop talking to me. Do you hear me?" "Yes." Relief washed over her.
I remember when she said to me with tears in her eyes, "I think we are too close." It was just a few years into the Alzheimer's journey. "What do you mean?" I asked. "Well, when something happens to me you are going to hurt really bad." "Why don't you let me worry about that?" I suggested. "Mom, I want all the memories you can give me. They will get me through the times when I don't have you any longer." "Are you sure?" she asked. "Yes."
The lives of women have changed so much over the centuries...since the beginning of time! Women have been demonized, been designated second class citizens, not intelligent enough or too emotionally fragile to sit on a jury or vote in an election. Often they have been nameless. Never in history or social studies classes did I ever hear the story about Deborah Franklin, wife of statesman Benjamin Franklin. Never in literature classes did we read On the Vindication of the Rights of Women by Mary Wollstonecraft, published 1792. I don't recall a time when we read poetry by Anne Bradstreet or Phyllis Wheatley. The stories of women were not worthy of being recorded.
Early in the summer 2011 I had lunch with my friend and former English professor. I talked...no, I complained about my situation and asked, "How do you break promises to God?" I thought Patti was angry with me. Later I apologized for making her angry. She replied, "I wasn't angry with you. I am upset about the deep hold of patriarchy over you."
Well, that was quite a statement!
One of my sisters-in-law recently asked me, "Are you sure you aren't Catholic?" I have a strong command of Guilt, but no, I'm not Catholic.
Patriarchy may have very good purposes. But it also has done a lot of damage, preventing many women achieving their dreams and goals because of gender: they are "female." Surely everyone understands that intelligence is NOT biological! Why do some men have so much difficulty understanding that intelligent wives are wonderful assets to the family. Why are they so intimidated by intelligent women? And where on earth would a 40-year-old man get the idea in his head that it was OK to correct a 58-year-old woman?
I am not a feminist. But maybe I bend toward egalitarianism. It takes both partners in a relationship to make a relationship work. When times are hard, those two partners have to work together if they stand any chance at all of getting through the hard times and come out on the other, sunny, side together. Not so unlike those early hunter-gatherers who traveled in small bands, following the food, and everyone working together just to insure the survival of human beings. Respect doesn't discern gender. Respect is something everyone deserves if they are willing to work to earn it.
Maybe next time I will talk about Respect.
(c) 2011 Cathy Thomas Brownfield ~ All Rights Reserved.
My mother had Alzheimer's for, well, she was diagnosed in March 2001. Quite a year toward the end of 2001, wasn't it? Well, Mom shared a lot of things with me. As her memory became more impaired she might say, "I can't remember anything." I would answer, "That's OK, Mom. I will remember for both of us." She would smile and say, "OK." One day she said to me, "I am afraid to talk." We were in her room at the nursing facility. (I will never call them homes again.) "Why?" I asked. "I think I'm not making sense. Sometimes I can't think of the right thing to say, the right word. I am afraid I look foolish." "Don't you give that a thought, Mom," I comforted her. "We all love you. We understand. It's OK. I don't want you to ever stop talking to me. Do you hear me?" "Yes." Relief washed over her.
I remember when she said to me with tears in her eyes, "I think we are too close." It was just a few years into the Alzheimer's journey. "What do you mean?" I asked. "Well, when something happens to me you are going to hurt really bad." "Why don't you let me worry about that?" I suggested. "Mom, I want all the memories you can give me. They will get me through the times when I don't have you any longer." "Are you sure?" she asked. "Yes."
The lives of women have changed so much over the centuries...since the beginning of time! Women have been demonized, been designated second class citizens, not intelligent enough or too emotionally fragile to sit on a jury or vote in an election. Often they have been nameless. Never in history or social studies classes did I ever hear the story about Deborah Franklin, wife of statesman Benjamin Franklin. Never in literature classes did we read On the Vindication of the Rights of Women by Mary Wollstonecraft, published 1792. I don't recall a time when we read poetry by Anne Bradstreet or Phyllis Wheatley. The stories of women were not worthy of being recorded.
Early in the summer 2011 I had lunch with my friend and former English professor. I talked...no, I complained about my situation and asked, "How do you break promises to God?" I thought Patti was angry with me. Later I apologized for making her angry. She replied, "I wasn't angry with you. I am upset about the deep hold of patriarchy over you."
Well, that was quite a statement!
One of my sisters-in-law recently asked me, "Are you sure you aren't Catholic?" I have a strong command of Guilt, but no, I'm not Catholic.
Patriarchy may have very good purposes. But it also has done a lot of damage, preventing many women achieving their dreams and goals because of gender: they are "female." Surely everyone understands that intelligence is NOT biological! Why do some men have so much difficulty understanding that intelligent wives are wonderful assets to the family. Why are they so intimidated by intelligent women? And where on earth would a 40-year-old man get the idea in his head that it was OK to correct a 58-year-old woman?
I am not a feminist. But maybe I bend toward egalitarianism. It takes both partners in a relationship to make a relationship work. When times are hard, those two partners have to work together if they stand any chance at all of getting through the hard times and come out on the other, sunny, side together. Not so unlike those early hunter-gatherers who traveled in small bands, following the food, and everyone working together just to insure the survival of human beings. Respect doesn't discern gender. Respect is something everyone deserves if they are willing to work to earn it.
Maybe next time I will talk about Respect.
(c) 2011 Cathy Thomas Brownfield ~ All Rights Reserved.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Passing the Torch
The Hummingbird is gone from us now. Her passing was sudden and unexpected..."failed to thrive." She just wasn't strong enough to recover. And I can't say that I am sorry to see her suffering end. But I do miss her. We all do. This week also saw the demise of her last sibling, the third death of siblings since February 27. Uncle Ed (Ira) passed away Feb. 27, Mom on Aug. 23, and Uncle Dale on Oct. 8. I just hope that's the end for a while. I steeled myself to go into the funeral home last night. Lucille was falling apart the moment she walked in the door. She's one of the Spruce Street Gang. So many losses in that neighborhood in just the past 2-1/2 years, and her own husband is among that number. I shook away my own grief and reached out to comfort Uncle Dale's family.
I do that a lot, put my own feelings aside. I've come to the conclusion that's not a good idea. When you don't allow yourself to feel your feelings, you become numb and lose contact with the person you are inside. I'm trying to change that. At my age, shouldn't I know who I am and why I am, and shouldn't the why I am be more than just taking care of everyone around me? Shouldn't there be something more?
So, the blog that I began to document my mother's journey through Alzheimer's will take a new turn. I will write more about...life. Family. Me. Not that I'm selfish. But maybe I'm too selfless. That's the opposite end of the extremes. I want to be more middle of the road. ;)
Will I pick up more followers? I don't know. I have a grand total of 2. (Bless you both for taking the time and interest.)
(c) 2011 Cathy Thomas Brownfield ~ All rights reserved.
I do that a lot, put my own feelings aside. I've come to the conclusion that's not a good idea. When you don't allow yourself to feel your feelings, you become numb and lose contact with the person you are inside. I'm trying to change that. At my age, shouldn't I know who I am and why I am, and shouldn't the why I am be more than just taking care of everyone around me? Shouldn't there be something more?
So, the blog that I began to document my mother's journey through Alzheimer's will take a new turn. I will write more about...life. Family. Me. Not that I'm selfish. But maybe I'm too selfless. That's the opposite end of the extremes. I want to be more middle of the road. ;)
Will I pick up more followers? I don't know. I have a grand total of 2. (Bless you both for taking the time and interest.)
(c) 2011 Cathy Thomas Brownfield ~ All rights reserved.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Hummingbird has departed
I don't want to mourn the death of my mother. I want to celebrate the life of the woman who gave the gift of life to two sons and a daughter.
When Mom received her Alzheimer's diagnosis in March 2001 she called me in tears to tell me the doctor wanted to speak with me about it. I offered to go to her house immediately, but she said no. She already was at work on her strategy to battle with Alzheimer's. She didn't want to be brain dead and later on, she often said her brain was dead, but it wasn't. She struggled very diligently to beat Alzheimer's at its own game.
I scheduled an appointment and went to see Dr. G. What I didn't know that day is that his mother-in-law had just been diagnosed with Alzheimer's also. Had I known that, I might have understood why he exploded, "Why is everyone so upset about this? This is something that happens to all of us sooner or later, unless we're one of the lucky ones that drops dead on a golf course."
We were upset because this was our mother, the woman WHO GAVE US THE GIFT OF LIFE!!! We expected a heart attack or a traffic crash. Never had any of us ever considered that Mom would develop Alzheimer's Disease. She was a creative mind! She mastered carpentry...built her own kitchen cabinets in 1968 when I was in high school...changed doorways and eventually took out the wall between the kitchen and dining room, opened up the stairway to upstairs which had been closed in when we moved into that two-bedroom house on West Spruce Street when I was 4 years old. She did the electrical wiring, the plumbing, the roof repair. (Sorry, Dad, just the facts. You always said, "I call 'em as I see 'em. I call a spade a spade." Well, I guess I'm my father's daughter at this moment.)
This woman went to the hospital with me and my husband for every birth...four daughters. She had to follow the ambulance from Salem Community Hospital to Akron City Hospital when I was ready to deliver the twins, one natural, the other c-section. The doctor wanted us to be near Akron Children's Hospital in case there were problems. Mom always reassured me. She had a steady hand. "Don't worry until I do, then it's too late," she'd say, when I knew darned well she was worried. She made tomato soup from a single can of tomato paste because that was all she had in the house. And her children raved, "That's the best tomato soup I ever had!" She was the best kind of mom. She raised us with love, acceptance and discipline.
On my wedding day we had tears in our eyes when we looked at each other. I was 19. (And I'm fond of saying that teens are brain dead until they begin to show signs of life again when they are about 22.) "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" she asked. "Yes," I answered.
How could I be anything but at her side when she began her Alzheimer's journey?
When Mom wasn't building something in her house or sewing something on her sewing machine, she was painting with oils. She studied at Kent State University with Dr. Elmer Day. He was amazed at her rapid growth as an artist and told her which paintings to put away, which to sell. But Dad didn't want her to paint. So she stopped. (He denied this, but I'm pretty sure Mom was right about that.) When she gave up painting she displayed her creative skills with quilting. I insisted she make a quilt for me. I have three. When quilting became too difficult, she began to crochet tablecloths and afghans. Not simple patterns. Difficult, advanced patterns. If she had nothing else to do she grabbed a shorthand textbook or a math textbook and worked with those for hours. Every morning, she got up, dressed, poured a cup of coffee and sat down on the sofa with the newspaper to skim through it...obituaries, police news, court news, crypt-o-quote. She copied the crypt-o-quote into her steno pad and worked on it until it was finished. She kept her mind active.
Many times Dad and I talked about what would happen to her when he was gone. He felt it was his responsibility to be her primary caregiver and he did much better than we ever thought he would. When he was hospitalized I stayed with Mom. I remember the night she was home alone. Dad was in the hospital and she called me at midnight to tell me that Dad had gone off and not come home and she was worried because it was so late. I gently reminded her that he was in the hospital. I asked if I should come stay with her. She said, no, she would write herself a note and leave it on the table so she'd find it in the morning. When we hung up, I walked the four blocks to her house (I didn't have a car at the time) and let myself in. She didn't know I was there, but I slept on the sofa that night so she wouldn't be alone when she woke in the morning.
At Dad's last hospital admission, I went to stay with her again. A week later he was gone. I lived with her for four months. I didn't want to put her in a nursing facility. (They are not homes. And they never will be. They are places where people go to wait to die unless they are fortunate enough to get better and go home, or drop dead on the golf course.) I knew my mother. I was trying to keep her in her home where she wanted to stay. My husband didn't want to move to Mom's. Mom didn't want to move to our house. And I was between The Rock and The Hard Place. But as the Alzheimer's progressed, like most patients with AD, she became comfortable with my presence and began to be angry, belligerent.
One morning she came downstairs, happy as can be. She got her cup of coffee, went to the living room, and after a little while said, "We get along so well. Our living together is working well." I agreed. My husband came in and sat down in Dad's recliner. My mother got up, walked through the dining room where I was working on the computer, and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. The same woman did NOT come out of that bathroom. The door opened and released an angry stranger ranting and raving at me. I didn't know whether to sit still and wait until she was finished ranting at my back or whether I should stand up and look at her. I stood up, and slowly turned. I was a bit taller, so she had to look up at me. She began to back down and before she walked away she said, "I want you to go home. I don't want you here." "OK, Mom," I said. "I will take care of that for you.
We moved Mom to a nursing facility (not home) in mid-July. She hated being there at first. Later she said things like, "I don't guess I'll ever go home. I will probably die here."
The long and short of it is that 25 months after she moved to the facility (not home), I got a phone call. "I realize you spent the afternoon with your mother, but she's restless. Her blood pressure is 65/55, her oxygen level is 87 percent. Will you come sit with her a while?" Of course! I contacted my brothers, my children, and we all gathered around her. She had been telling my middle daughter that she wanted to go "home" but she wouldn't tell me. Christie said, "You need to tell Mom, Honey. It's OK." But she wouldn't tell me. (My children call my mother Honey. It was a name Mom loved because she didn't have to share it with anyone else...like Grandma, Gran, Granny. It was HER name. And it fit her so well.) Mom spoke my name to Christie. Christie told her I would be OK. That Christie would see to it, promised she'd always make sure I was OK. "If you're worried about Mom, you don't need to be. I promise. I will take care of her, Honey."
"Mom?" I said. "Are you planning a trip without me, Mom?" I turned serious. "Mom, if leaving us is the best thing for you, it's OK. We don't want you to go. We will miss you like crazy! But it'll be OK. Don't worry about us. It'll be OK. Remember when you told Levi to go to Grandma and stay with her until you get there? He'll be right there waiting for you, Mom. Levi will be right there waiting. You'll get to see Dad. You'll get to see YOUR dad and your mother. It's OK, Mom. It's OK."
We tried to soothe her...held her hands...rubbed her arms. But she pushed us away. I decided she was working at clipping the strings that held her to this world and she didn't want our interference. Toward 3:15 a.m. my daughters went home because their husbands had to go to work in a couple of hours and their children needed them to be at home. Toward 3:30 a.m. I sat beside her, fighting to stay awake. I dozed off for just a moment. As if she'd been watching for that moment she snatched it. My brother Richard tapped me. "She's gone." I looked. The news story on TV was the same one. I couldn't have dozed off for more than a moment. And she was gone.
Alzheimer's is a terrible disease, not so much for the person who has it as it is for the family that loves that person. For months I asked God for two things: Please, be kind to my mother. She has always been loyal and true. And, please, don't ever let the Alzheimer's get so bad that she forgets her family, the people who love her.
Goldie Louise Baker Thomas passed from this world at 3:40 a.m. Aug. 23, 2011. (The death certificate logs a later time, but we were there. We know.) She loved deep and she loved hard. And she was so easy to love.
I miss you, Mom. So much.
Love you forever,
Cathy
Copyright - Cathy Thomas Brownfield ~ All Rights Reserved. May not be used without permission.
.
When Mom received her Alzheimer's diagnosis in March 2001 she called me in tears to tell me the doctor wanted to speak with me about it. I offered to go to her house immediately, but she said no. She already was at work on her strategy to battle with Alzheimer's. She didn't want to be brain dead and later on, she often said her brain was dead, but it wasn't. She struggled very diligently to beat Alzheimer's at its own game.
I scheduled an appointment and went to see Dr. G. What I didn't know that day is that his mother-in-law had just been diagnosed with Alzheimer's also. Had I known that, I might have understood why he exploded, "Why is everyone so upset about this? This is something that happens to all of us sooner or later, unless we're one of the lucky ones that drops dead on a golf course."
We were upset because this was our mother, the woman WHO GAVE US THE GIFT OF LIFE!!! We expected a heart attack or a traffic crash. Never had any of us ever considered that Mom would develop Alzheimer's Disease. She was a creative mind! She mastered carpentry...built her own kitchen cabinets in 1968 when I was in high school...changed doorways and eventually took out the wall between the kitchen and dining room, opened up the stairway to upstairs which had been closed in when we moved into that two-bedroom house on West Spruce Street when I was 4 years old. She did the electrical wiring, the plumbing, the roof repair. (Sorry, Dad, just the facts. You always said, "I call 'em as I see 'em. I call a spade a spade." Well, I guess I'm my father's daughter at this moment.)
This woman went to the hospital with me and my husband for every birth...four daughters. She had to follow the ambulance from Salem Community Hospital to Akron City Hospital when I was ready to deliver the twins, one natural, the other c-section. The doctor wanted us to be near Akron Children's Hospital in case there were problems. Mom always reassured me. She had a steady hand. "Don't worry until I do, then it's too late," she'd say, when I knew darned well she was worried. She made tomato soup from a single can of tomato paste because that was all she had in the house. And her children raved, "That's the best tomato soup I ever had!" She was the best kind of mom. She raised us with love, acceptance and discipline.
On my wedding day we had tears in our eyes when we looked at each other. I was 19. (And I'm fond of saying that teens are brain dead until they begin to show signs of life again when they are about 22.) "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" she asked. "Yes," I answered.
How could I be anything but at her side when she began her Alzheimer's journey?
When Mom wasn't building something in her house or sewing something on her sewing machine, she was painting with oils. She studied at Kent State University with Dr. Elmer Day. He was amazed at her rapid growth as an artist and told her which paintings to put away, which to sell. But Dad didn't want her to paint. So she stopped. (He denied this, but I'm pretty sure Mom was right about that.) When she gave up painting she displayed her creative skills with quilting. I insisted she make a quilt for me. I have three. When quilting became too difficult, she began to crochet tablecloths and afghans. Not simple patterns. Difficult, advanced patterns. If she had nothing else to do she grabbed a shorthand textbook or a math textbook and worked with those for hours. Every morning, she got up, dressed, poured a cup of coffee and sat down on the sofa with the newspaper to skim through it...obituaries, police news, court news, crypt-o-quote. She copied the crypt-o-quote into her steno pad and worked on it until it was finished. She kept her mind active.
Many times Dad and I talked about what would happen to her when he was gone. He felt it was his responsibility to be her primary caregiver and he did much better than we ever thought he would. When he was hospitalized I stayed with Mom. I remember the night she was home alone. Dad was in the hospital and she called me at midnight to tell me that Dad had gone off and not come home and she was worried because it was so late. I gently reminded her that he was in the hospital. I asked if I should come stay with her. She said, no, she would write herself a note and leave it on the table so she'd find it in the morning. When we hung up, I walked the four blocks to her house (I didn't have a car at the time) and let myself in. She didn't know I was there, but I slept on the sofa that night so she wouldn't be alone when she woke in the morning.
At Dad's last hospital admission, I went to stay with her again. A week later he was gone. I lived with her for four months. I didn't want to put her in a nursing facility. (They are not homes. And they never will be. They are places where people go to wait to die unless they are fortunate enough to get better and go home, or drop dead on the golf course.) I knew my mother. I was trying to keep her in her home where she wanted to stay. My husband didn't want to move to Mom's. Mom didn't want to move to our house. And I was between The Rock and The Hard Place. But as the Alzheimer's progressed, like most patients with AD, she became comfortable with my presence and began to be angry, belligerent.
One morning she came downstairs, happy as can be. She got her cup of coffee, went to the living room, and after a little while said, "We get along so well. Our living together is working well." I agreed. My husband came in and sat down in Dad's recliner. My mother got up, walked through the dining room where I was working on the computer, and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. The same woman did NOT come out of that bathroom. The door opened and released an angry stranger ranting and raving at me. I didn't know whether to sit still and wait until she was finished ranting at my back or whether I should stand up and look at her. I stood up, and slowly turned. I was a bit taller, so she had to look up at me. She began to back down and before she walked away she said, "I want you to go home. I don't want you here." "OK, Mom," I said. "I will take care of that for you.
We moved Mom to a nursing facility (not home) in mid-July. She hated being there at first. Later she said things like, "I don't guess I'll ever go home. I will probably die here."
The long and short of it is that 25 months after she moved to the facility (not home), I got a phone call. "I realize you spent the afternoon with your mother, but she's restless. Her blood pressure is 65/55, her oxygen level is 87 percent. Will you come sit with her a while?" Of course! I contacted my brothers, my children, and we all gathered around her. She had been telling my middle daughter that she wanted to go "home" but she wouldn't tell me. Christie said, "You need to tell Mom, Honey. It's OK." But she wouldn't tell me. (My children call my mother Honey. It was a name Mom loved because she didn't have to share it with anyone else...like Grandma, Gran, Granny. It was HER name. And it fit her so well.) Mom spoke my name to Christie. Christie told her I would be OK. That Christie would see to it, promised she'd always make sure I was OK. "If you're worried about Mom, you don't need to be. I promise. I will take care of her, Honey."
"Mom?" I said. "Are you planning a trip without me, Mom?" I turned serious. "Mom, if leaving us is the best thing for you, it's OK. We don't want you to go. We will miss you like crazy! But it'll be OK. Don't worry about us. It'll be OK. Remember when you told Levi to go to Grandma and stay with her until you get there? He'll be right there waiting for you, Mom. Levi will be right there waiting. You'll get to see Dad. You'll get to see YOUR dad and your mother. It's OK, Mom. It's OK."
We tried to soothe her...held her hands...rubbed her arms. But she pushed us away. I decided she was working at clipping the strings that held her to this world and she didn't want our interference. Toward 3:15 a.m. my daughters went home because their husbands had to go to work in a couple of hours and their children needed them to be at home. Toward 3:30 a.m. I sat beside her, fighting to stay awake. I dozed off for just a moment. As if she'd been watching for that moment she snatched it. My brother Richard tapped me. "She's gone." I looked. The news story on TV was the same one. I couldn't have dozed off for more than a moment. And she was gone.
Alzheimer's is a terrible disease, not so much for the person who has it as it is for the family that loves that person. For months I asked God for two things: Please, be kind to my mother. She has always been loyal and true. And, please, don't ever let the Alzheimer's get so bad that she forgets her family, the people who love her.
Goldie Louise Baker Thomas passed from this world at 3:40 a.m. Aug. 23, 2011. (The death certificate logs a later time, but we were there. We know.) She loved deep and she loved hard. And she was so easy to love.
I miss you, Mom. So much.
Love you forever,
Cathy
Copyright - Cathy Thomas Brownfield ~ All Rights Reserved. May not be used without permission.
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Thursday, March 17, 2011
Another jump?
I found Mom in the dining room. She was supposed to be eating lunch. Her spoon was in her hand, resting against the plate, her eyes were closed. My sister-in-law, there for rehabilitation, looked at me. “She’s sleeping.”
Not normal for my mother.
I tried to get her to wake up but she couldn’t. Her nurse lingered nearby, his cheeks flaming. He told me Mom complained that her feet hurt so he gave her a stronger pain medication. He said she had taken it before without problems.
My brothers and I were in agreement: She must have been overdosed on the medication.
There wasn’t much point in staying and watching her sleep. Later in the evening I called to see how she was, was she still sleeping? The nurse had to wake her for her evening meds. He promised to watch over her and call me if they needed me.
Watching her sleep, I was reminded of “Florence.” First let me say, since last July Mom has had four roommates, three of whom died. “Florence” was alert and aware when she moved into Mom’s room. She enjoyed Mom’s HD-TV and Richard mentioned he would program a remote for Florence so they both would have remote control convenience. When I visited again, Florence didn’t do anything but sleep. I remember thinking she seemed to be slipping away and would be gone soon. And it was so.
I worried that Mom, somewhere deep inside her gray matter that the Alzheimer’s hadn’t yet ravaged, had resolved that it was time to begin to clip the ties that bind.
“Mom?”
Her eyes fluttered open. “Yeah?”
“I’m going home to fix supper.”
“OK."
“Don’t leave me, OK?”
“I won’t.”
I remember when my grandmother was sick and Mom said she wasn’t ready to be the family matriarch. I knew my time would come. But I’m not ready. When I walk into her line of sight, her eyes light up with recognition.
The next day I went to check on her. She was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She’d had her hair done and went on the bus with other residents for a ride in the country. She was Mom and I was satisfied that she was OK.
“Hi! Do you know who I am?” I asked.
“My sister?” she answered.
“Nope. Try again.”
“My mother?”
“Nope. Try again.”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you seen Cathy lately? What’s she been up to? Do you know?”
“You’re her! You are Cathy!” She sounds happy to recognize me.
“Yep. That’s absolutely right!” I’ll take it while I can get it. I know the day is coming when she won’t have any recognition of me at all. We are so close I am pretty sure that I will be the last person she can’t remember.
I can’t make up my mind if I am being selfish in holding her here in this world. Would it be better, kinder, for her if she could just go to sleep and not wake up? I just know that I need her to be there even if our roles are reversed. I need to hold onto her. I don’t want to let go.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED FOR THIS ALZHEIMER'S BLOG. For permission of use contact me, the author.
Not normal for my mother.
I tried to get her to wake up but she couldn’t. Her nurse lingered nearby, his cheeks flaming. He told me Mom complained that her feet hurt so he gave her a stronger pain medication. He said she had taken it before without problems.
My brothers and I were in agreement: She must have been overdosed on the medication.
There wasn’t much point in staying and watching her sleep. Later in the evening I called to see how she was, was she still sleeping? The nurse had to wake her for her evening meds. He promised to watch over her and call me if they needed me.
Watching her sleep, I was reminded of “Florence.” First let me say, since last July Mom has had four roommates, three of whom died. “Florence” was alert and aware when she moved into Mom’s room. She enjoyed Mom’s HD-TV and Richard mentioned he would program a remote for Florence so they both would have remote control convenience. When I visited again, Florence didn’t do anything but sleep. I remember thinking she seemed to be slipping away and would be gone soon. And it was so.
I worried that Mom, somewhere deep inside her gray matter that the Alzheimer’s hadn’t yet ravaged, had resolved that it was time to begin to clip the ties that bind.
“Mom?”
Her eyes fluttered open. “Yeah?”
“I’m going home to fix supper.”
“OK."
“Don’t leave me, OK?”
“I won’t.”
I remember when my grandmother was sick and Mom said she wasn’t ready to be the family matriarch. I knew my time would come. But I’m not ready. When I walk into her line of sight, her eyes light up with recognition.
The next day I went to check on her. She was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She’d had her hair done and went on the bus with other residents for a ride in the country. She was Mom and I was satisfied that she was OK.
“Hi! Do you know who I am?” I asked.
“My sister?” she answered.
“Nope. Try again.”
“My mother?”
“Nope. Try again.”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you seen Cathy lately? What’s she been up to? Do you know?”
“You’re her! You are Cathy!” She sounds happy to recognize me.
“Yep. That’s absolutely right!” I’ll take it while I can get it. I know the day is coming when she won’t have any recognition of me at all. We are so close I am pretty sure that I will be the last person she can’t remember.
I can’t make up my mind if I am being selfish in holding her here in this world. Would it be better, kinder, for her if she could just go to sleep and not wake up? I just know that I need her to be there even if our roles are reversed. I need to hold onto her. I don’t want to let go.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED FOR THIS ALZHEIMER'S BLOG. For permission of use contact me, the author.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Pebbles Rippling
We are like pebbles dropped into a pond, one speck in the universe so big we can’t even imagine. So often we convince ourselves that we can’t make a difference for anyone or anything. I am not so sure that is so.
My daughter and her boyfriend were visiting from North Carolina. They brought two puppies with them that we took with us to the nursing home to visit my mother. Mom has always loved dogs and she was really enjoying the puppies, Dakota and Danika. Their mother is a mix (Australian shepherd, collie, lab) and the father is a full-blooded Alaskan Husky. Dorothy, another resident with Alzheimer’s, looked as if she’d like to touch them. I asked if she was a dog person and wanted to hold one of them. Yes. So, I supervised the visitation on Dorothy’s lap. Then I traded puppies so she could get to know the second one, too. A pebble dropped into a pond, rippling.
“Thanks for coming to visit,” she said to each of them.
The aides were bringing an elderly man to the common area. I know he’s afraid of dogs because I’ve taken my collie with me a few times. Ashley and Bobby brought the puppies back to where Mom and I were sitting. When the man was settled in his chair, they took the puppies to him and let him take his time to touch them. A big, old grin came across his face all the way to his eyes and into his soul. He was so excited about those puppies! When they came back across the room he chanted with a smile, “Beautiful dogs, beautiful dogs.” I think he wanted to hold them again. A pebble dropped into a pond, rippling.
He began to sing with a joyful voice. The very first song was Jesus Loves Me. I don’t remember the others, but he sang, one after the other and it lifted MY spirits. I felt like I was witnessing a small miracle. And we know what Jesus said about faith and the mustard seed.
Betty is another resident with Alzheimer’s. She learned to play piano when she was a child, but I hadn’t heard her play in a long while. She got up and disappeared. But when I heard the piano, I knew where she had gone. I excused myself and went after her. She was at the piano, playing. I stood in the doorway listening. She noticed me, which surprised me because my mother can lose me sitting beside her. I went to her.
“I love to listen to you play the piano,” I said.
“Really?” she asked. “I think I’m making a lot of mistakes.”
“We all make mistakes,” I said, “but when I walk through the door and I hear you playing it makes me feel so good!”
“I’m glad you get pleasure from it,” she smiled. “You know, I play for God. That’s why I play. Do you have any requests?”
“Do you know ‘In the Garden’?”
She began to play without a thought. When she finished, “Do you know ‘Amazing Grace’?” She went right to it again. “Do you play polkas?” It wasn’t a specific song request so she was confused. She had the pile of meal menus right there and sorted through the “music sheets.” I didn’t mention that.
“Keep playing, OK?” I asked.
She promised she would.
Pebbles dropped into a pond, rippling.
I returned to the kids and my mom.
My sister-in-law is there as a resident. She hasn’t been well in some time. We took the puppies to her room because she loves dogs, too. We didn’t stay long because she is so ill. Still I tried to encourage her, “Feel better soon.”
Pebbles dropped into a pond, rippling.
My daughter and her boyfriend were visiting from North Carolina. They brought two puppies with them that we took with us to the nursing home to visit my mother. Mom has always loved dogs and she was really enjoying the puppies, Dakota and Danika. Their mother is a mix (Australian shepherd, collie, lab) and the father is a full-blooded Alaskan Husky. Dorothy, another resident with Alzheimer’s, looked as if she’d like to touch them. I asked if she was a dog person and wanted to hold one of them. Yes. So, I supervised the visitation on Dorothy’s lap. Then I traded puppies so she could get to know the second one, too. A pebble dropped into a pond, rippling.
“Thanks for coming to visit,” she said to each of them.
The aides were bringing an elderly man to the common area. I know he’s afraid of dogs because I’ve taken my collie with me a few times. Ashley and Bobby brought the puppies back to where Mom and I were sitting. When the man was settled in his chair, they took the puppies to him and let him take his time to touch them. A big, old grin came across his face all the way to his eyes and into his soul. He was so excited about those puppies! When they came back across the room he chanted with a smile, “Beautiful dogs, beautiful dogs.” I think he wanted to hold them again. A pebble dropped into a pond, rippling.
He began to sing with a joyful voice. The very first song was Jesus Loves Me. I don’t remember the others, but he sang, one after the other and it lifted MY spirits. I felt like I was witnessing a small miracle. And we know what Jesus said about faith and the mustard seed.
Betty is another resident with Alzheimer’s. She learned to play piano when she was a child, but I hadn’t heard her play in a long while. She got up and disappeared. But when I heard the piano, I knew where she had gone. I excused myself and went after her. She was at the piano, playing. I stood in the doorway listening. She noticed me, which surprised me because my mother can lose me sitting beside her. I went to her.
“I love to listen to you play the piano,” I said.
“Really?” she asked. “I think I’m making a lot of mistakes.”
“We all make mistakes,” I said, “but when I walk through the door and I hear you playing it makes me feel so good!”
“I’m glad you get pleasure from it,” she smiled. “You know, I play for God. That’s why I play. Do you have any requests?”
“Do you know ‘In the Garden’?”
She began to play without a thought. When she finished, “Do you know ‘Amazing Grace’?” She went right to it again. “Do you play polkas?” It wasn’t a specific song request so she was confused. She had the pile of meal menus right there and sorted through the “music sheets.” I didn’t mention that.
“Keep playing, OK?” I asked.
She promised she would.
Pebbles dropped into a pond, rippling.
I returned to the kids and my mom.
My sister-in-law is there as a resident. She hasn’t been well in some time. We took the puppies to her room because she loves dogs, too. We didn’t stay long because she is so ill. Still I tried to encourage her, “Feel better soon.”
Pebbles dropped into a pond, rippling.
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