Wrapping it Up

'Some images just can't be erased...or can they?'  

That's  what I wrote on the gift tag attached to my husband's Christmas present.  Inside the box was a pair of sunglasses with holiday-themed pencil erasers glued to them.  Skip knew immediately what it meant.
"Oh how perfect," he exclaimed with a chuckle. Then he put them on and we all had a good laugh; all of us except Mom of course.  She remained oblivious to her surroundings and the conversation.  Mom sat off to the side working to unwrap a Christmas mug.  The tissue paper was nearly off when she began re-wrapping and placing the mug back in the gift bag.
"What did you get?" I asked her.
"I don't know," she answered placing the bag back on the floor beside her.
"Well aren't you planning to unwrap it?" I questioned encouragingly.
"Yes," she answered looking at the wrapped gift like she had not seen it before.  Then she lifted the bag, read the name tag and began the process all over again.  Halfway through (before she removed the protective tissue to uncover the mug) she began stuffing it back in the gift bag, once again placing it on the floor.  It took three attempts before I stepped in to assist her.  Together we unwrapped the mug.  She looked at it, took it in her hands, and without comment placed it back in the bag.
My jaw dropped open in disbelief.  I fought back the growing frustration and impatience.  "Do you like it?" I asked.
"What?"
"Your gift.  Do you like it?" I repeated.
"Yes," she answered without enthusiasm.
I could tell she didn't know what 'IT' was.  I asked her and she seemed confused.  She had forgotten what she had opened.  I lifted the mug from the bag to show her.
"Oh!  It's a mug," she told me.  It was as if she were seeing it for the first time.
I shook my head and went back to the gift opening.  It was futile to get my mother to pay attention, to react, and to understand what was happening around her.  There was simply no way to engage her.
Skip was still amused about the sunglasses remembering the event that triggered the creation of this gift.  The reader might recall my earlier account of how I had protected Skip from seeing...um... 'certain things'  until a few weeks earlier when he had to step in and help Mom get dressed while I was lying flat on my back with a painful pinched sacral nerve.  At the time I felt horrible about Skip  seeing my mother undressed, and while, in retrospect,  I thought it was funny, I wasn't sure that Skip found  it  humorous.  I was glad to see that he could now laugh as we sat opening our Christmas presents.

When we finished and cleaned away the assortment of ribbons and torn bits of paper, I looked over at my mother.  She was tying a ribbon to her walker.  She knotted and twisted it, twirled it around the handle and untied it.  Over and over, she fiddled with the ribbon that was soon to provide her with hours of fun.  At last!  This was a present she enjoyed.  The soaps, candles, mug, the assorted small gifts she might use meant nothing to her.  In fact, she didn't know it was Christmas.

I went to work making our holiday dinner.  I set the table in a festive display with special Christmas colors and my beautiful holiday china.  We sat down at the table and tried to engage Mom in conversation but her aphasia limited her words.  Her palate limited her enjoyment of the meal.  Her diminished understanding of words limited her enjoyment of the table talk. After several attempts to draw her in, I gave up.  Gone was the woman who relished the specialty foods that used to elicit her exclamations of approval; gone was the woman who laughed and joked; gone was the woman who was more excited about Christmas than the children.

That night when the dishes were put away, and the remnants of Christmas celebration were removed, I thought about how this Christmas was probably Mom's last one.  (Of course, I thought that same thing last year too and was happily surprised that she was still with us.)  This year though, I evaluated the situation and decided that in fact, Mom was not with us.  In essence, she had celebrated her last Christmas about four years ago.  Looking back I realized that since then she has not really appreciated the holiday, didn't remember any of the things that happened, could not report where we went, who we saw, what was said, what gifts were received.  It was heartbreaking!  How could we have known then, on that visit to our daughter and son-in-law's home that she would forget everything from that point on; that she would never again be the person she was that day; that she would continue going downhill...sinking slowly into oblivion?  My thoughts made me so sad that the magic of the day was soon replaced with an overwhelming gloom.  I began to think about all of the negative things that we experienced as we cared for Mom.  I remembered her outbursts, her frowns, her compulsive behavior, her lack of manners.  It was easy to become depressed and bitter.

I walked into the hallway to turn off the Christmas lights when a thought occurred to me.  Christmas, to me was about love.  I turned to look at the tree thinking about how each special ornament symbolized the love of friends and family.  I sought out those ornaments that had been given to us by my parents.  I smiled as I remembered the many years when Mom and Dad joined us to share in the joy and togetherness that we experienced as a family opening gifts, laughing, and loving. So many years of memories...such wonderful recollections!  There...right in the middle of the tree was the ornament of the cute little white-haired couple snuggled together in a green and red felt bed.  It represented  Mom and Dad.  Oh...and there was the fisherman ornament. (Dad loved to fish).  There was the ornament of a boy and girl that they bought for us when our children were small.  It was engraved with our children's names.  Suddenly I was awash in sentimentality.  I was remembering so much about the family times, the good times, the years and years that I thought I had forgotten.  I especially thought about my father who was forever clowning around much to our enjoyment. My wonderful parents were always with us, always smiling their sweet smiles, joking, playful, filled with mirth, merriment, and most of all, radiating love.  I missed Dad and yet I knew that the memory of him would never fade away, so in a sense he was there with me just at that moment. I heard his voice, felt his warmth, smelled his cologne.

As I reminisced, I found myself growing happier.  I thought about how we live our lives with all of the good times and some bad times too.  But ultimately our memories seem to reflect more of the good times than the bad -- at least they did for me. I took one last look at the tree filled with those reminders and then turned off the lights.  The magic of Christmases past hung in the air as I tiptoed off to bed.  As I closed my eyes I thought once again about Mom and her gradual detachment from the family festivities.  Then I thought about the fact that even though she was not all here, she would always be with us in our hearts.  Now was not the time to bemoan her fading away but to celebrate the years she was fully present. My last thought before I drifted off to sleep was of my mother painstakingly sewing felt animal ornaments for our tree when our son and daughter were young.  Now they hung on our daughter's tree in their children's playroom; and so, the memories were alive...her presence continuing on into a new generation.

Christmas Memories

I was watching one of the old movies that was the standard go-to for Christmas and found myself misty-eyed at the end.  The saccharine sentimentality got to me and I asked myself, "What is it about this time of year that makes me so emotional? "  As I thought about it, I realized that all of the best recollections from childhood were centered around Christmas.  It was the time of year when both of my parents stopped working hard and took time with us.  We  (my brother and I)  were more important than work, or cooking, or cleaning, appointments, and meetings.  We were the center of their attention.  We were the excitement, the playfulness, the love, the joy wrapped up in their arms and their hearts.  It was reassuring, reaffirming, and re-energizing in a family that was always busy, always going, always striving to achieve. But at Christmas, it wasn't about the classroom grades, the awards, the accomplishments;  it was about the core values of love, of togetherness, of being a family...a caring and sharing nucleus. 

Christmas memories evoked visions of baked cookies and sweet treats, colorful packages wrapped in curled ribbons, and the all-important tinsel-covered tree that stood proudly in the center window of our living room.  My mother was a frugal woman who could stretch a dollar in ways I couldn't even comprehend.  As a child of the Great Depression, she learned the value of economizing and living conservatively.  She couldn't and wouldn't overindulge nor buy us too many presents.  My brother and I knew that there would be a homemade garment under the tree (sometimes pajamas, a shirt for him, or a skirt for me).  We knew that there would be socks, or underwear.  We also knew that there would be one toy for each of us.  We didn't know which package held that surprise but among the socks and underwear, there was one special gift.  For me, the best of these was the year I received my Betsy McCall doll in a red corduroy coat.  How my mother must have saved and stretched her grocery money to afford this was something I didn't appreciate at the time.  All I knew was that I wanted that doll from the moment I saw her on the pages of McCall's magazine.  My mother kept telling me that the doll was too expensive and not to get my hopes up, but on Christmas morning I still felt the excitement and hope that Betsy was sitting under the tree in one of the green and red wrapped boxes.  My father and mother took their places on the sofa facing the tree while my brother and I sat on the floor reading the labels on the packages.  I don't remember anything else about that year.  I couldn't tell you what other gifts I received.  I must have opened everything else first at the direction of both of my parents.  "No, no," they'd call.  "Open that one next." Coaxing us they would point and direct us to the less popular gifts before the 'main' gift was opened...the piece de resistance...the Big One...the special gift that they had debated, saved, and budgeted for.  Looking back now I realize what sacrifices they made for us.  I wonder now, if we showed them the appreciation and the gratitude they deserved.  It is more likely that we whined about wanting something that we didn't get, not fully understanding the financial situation and circumstances.

Today, I think about those days...the simplicity of the festivities of years past is a sharp contrast to the sumptuous celebrations of more affluent times and circumstances and yet they still pull at my heartstrings perhaps even more than those days of elaborate gift-giving and merriment.  

I look at my mother who sits quietly watching the Christmas specials; who might sing along with the assorted carols, and who exclaims how beautiful the Holiday decorations are.  I know that her memories are diminished by the years as well as her dementia.  I know that she has forgotten the excitement, the anticipation of the holiday, the cooking, the parties, and the frenzy that every mother faced when trying to do it all before the special day arrived.  In fact, she isn't sure what time of year it is, what holiday we are celebrating, where she is, or who we are.  Maybe that's  why I have been so sentimental lately...shedding tears at the drop of a hat.  Maybe the fact that I feel like the keeper of the family memories -- the custodian of our history,  places the emotional burden on me that pushes me over the edge.  I am, after all, the last one who remains cogent.  My father  (who had Alzheimer's) is long departed, my brother is suffering from Alzheimer's and of course Mom.   The other day, while wrapping presents, I took out the recorder and began questioning Mom.  

 "Do you remember when we were young and you used to wrap presents for us?" I asked.  

"No," she answered. I reminded her of the Christmases past but it was like I was telling her a story about someone else.  Something I said sparked a memory though.  She began to tell  me about her childhood and how important she felt being given the responsibility of wrapping the family gifts.  She was very young at the time and I am sure that she didn't remember it too accurately, but at least she could speak about the holidays.  She remembered her mother cooking at the stove, and the sights and smells of the holiday dinner. She began smiling broadly and feeling those feelings she had experienced over 90 years ago. It occurred to me that she, too, was the custodian of the memories; for she was the last one in her nuclear family still alive.  Maybe it was that responsibility that forced her to remember even if the memories were minimal.  I was grateful to have the recorder going as she spoke.  Perhaps years from now, we will listen to her recorded voice and feel her nostalgia, enjoy her words, and remember through her eyes the childlike wonder of the holidays.  In her family, there weren't many gifts;  but the small coloring books, the crayons, the little porcelain doll, and the hand sewn aprons were enough to bring joy and lasting memories even in the haze of late stages of Alzheimer's.  Holiday recollections are strong, enduring, and important to all of us regardless of the lavishness or the simplicity of the celebration.  It is the anticipation, the excitement and most of all the togetherness and love that imprints and survives through the years.  That thought makes me smile.  Beyond the emotional sentimentality, there is a deep and joyous gratitude, a legacy of loving families that remains in all of our hearts.  Even if and when memories fade, we still respond with sentimental smiles and happy tears.

White Rooftops and Cinnamon Coffee

As we decorated the house for Christmas today, we looked out the window and saw that big white snowflakes were falling. It was a magical moment.  Here in North Carolina we don't get that much snow and being a native of Southern California, it is twice as exciting whenever the white stuff begins to fall.  I began yelling for my mother to come see.  She didn't understand.  She hustled over to the kitchen counter thinking that it was time for lunch.
"No Mom.  It's snowing," I yelled excitedly.  "Look outside!"
Mom nodded and continued to sit at the counter looking for her plate.
It took a while for her to comprehend.  There was just too much distracting her, but eventually she went to the window and looked outside.  Like a child she smiled a big smile and exclaimed, "Oh look!  It's snowing outside."
"Yes!  That's what I was trying to tell you." I showed her how the ground was turning white.  Mom began singing, 'It's raining it's pouring, the old man is snoring...'
"No, no...it's snowing," I corrected.
Mom continued to sing her song though.  She was stuck in the raining/pouring loop.  Five minutes later she asked me, "Is it snowing outside?"
"Why YES!  Look at that!" I remarked.  (Sometimes I just enter her world.
 It's easier than saying 'I know...I told you that before'.)

I turned on some Christmas music and began to sing along. Skip made some cinnamon coffee and the spirit of Christmas filled the air.  Mom parked herself in the hallway as I began to decorate the tree.  She seemed to understand that something different was happening and I asked her if she knew what time of year it was.  She thought for a while and then, miraculously announced "It's Christmas!" Then I encouraged her to sing along with the Christmas songs but again she took up the Raining/Pouring refrain.

A few minutes later a friend dropped by and Mom began singing her song to my friend.  She was smiling with excitement as she pointed outside.  I had my own song I sang in my head. 
'It sleeting and snowing;
but Mom isn't knowing. 
She doesn't know rain from snow,
But my oh my she's glowing!'

When my friend left I thought that I might try one more time.  "Hey Mom.   You know the song 'White Christmas'?"
Mom blinked at me, so I sang a few bars to remind her.  I figured it would help her understand that it was snowing outside.  She remained silent so I said something about the growing blanket of white. The rooftops were beginning to hold the snow as well as the grass and trees.  What a visual treat!  "Mom, look!" I walked her to the front window.  She looked out in amazement.  A big smile lit up her face.  "Look!  It's snowing outside," she told me.  Then, as if I hadn't heard it before she began to sing...well, you know:  "It's raining it's pouring..."

In the words of Dylan Thomas: 'Do Not Go Gentle...'

I cannot believe that it is December again.  I am not ready for another holiday season and yet, before I know it, it will be over.  I feel like if I blink it will be Spring.  It speaks to the importance I MUST place on each moment.  I have allowed the moments to slip by.  How else can I explain this year?  The days...often filled with frustration, stress, worry and exhaustion have raced by.  Wasn't it Easter just yesterday?  Wasn't I celebrating the arrival of 2017 a moment ago?

Ah, sadly, my mother is slipping away all too quickly.  How do I slow the days down?  How do I hold her last moments (so infrequent) of lucid thought?  I looked back to a year ago.  I wrote about the hectic days, the craziness that precedes Christmas.  At that time my mother was receiving hospice care.  We thought that she was experiencing her last days.  Suddenly, she bounced back -- a full recovery!  It was a Christmas miracle of sorts.  I worried that at any moment she could take a turn for the worse and lapse back into the comatose state she was in that prompted a call to hospice in the first place. But days and weeks turned into months.  My productivity slackened as I spent more time with her, watching, caring, administering, but mostly just sitting.  Her interest in everything had waned.  Her communication was minimized and her comprehension was severely limited. So why didn't the days drag?  Why is it that the less I did the faster the days seemed to fly by?  Isn't that counter-intuitive?

I have gone over and over this past year's events; the conversations with friends, the dinners with family members, the laughter and good times, the deep discussions, and playful moments with my spouse.  I thought about the entertaining we did, the tea parties, the small dinner parties, the funny moments with Mom and the not-so-funny moments that Alzheimer's brings as well.  None of it...NONE of it was more than a moment ago, I tell you.  What a nasty trick the Universe plays on us.  The older we get and the less time we have, the less time it takes to get there.  I am suddenly reminded of the poem by Dylan Thomas which made no sense to me when I was a young girl studying famous poets. The lines resonate with me now: 'Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.'  Well, I am raging indeed!  I am raging for my mother who cannot speak to it herself.  I am raging for myself as I witness the limited time ticking away.  I am raging for all of those people who helplessly witness lost time with loved ones and wish that they could harness the minutes to hold them for just a while longer.  

Tonight as I go to sleep I will focus on the minutes.  I will treasure each second, each breath with a new-found appreciation.  And tomorrow, as I awaken to a new day, I will promise myself to enjoy the time that I sit with my mother doing absolutely nothing but sharing space and air together.  She may not think about it, nor remember it, but I will do so for both of us.  I will look at her gnarled arthritic hands, her face lined with years of expression, from love, disapproval, smiles and frowns, joy and sorrow. I will look at her silky white hair lying limp and thin on her pink scalp.  I will apply lotion to her wrinkled skin hanging with uncertain direction off of delicate bones. I will marvel that a person of 98 years is still able to be as mobile, as agile while she lifts her legs to assist me in putting on her socks.  Her questions, her comments, as limited as they may be will register in my brain and store in my memory.  "Who am I?" I will ask her.  She will answer one of her many ways.  "Are you my neighbor?  Are you my mother? Are you my friend?"  I will smile. "Yes, I am," I will agree to whatever she chooses to define me.  I will take it in, all of it, because it will be a day from now or a year from now that I will look back and rage against the diminishing moments..."Where did the time go?"

Excuses Wrapped in Chocolate

My life is a non-stop sit-com!
It has become a standing joke in our home that at any given moment if one were to check in on us there would be some sort of drama, upheaval, crisis, or catastrophe.  It's just how it is with us.  If there is a rain storm, we are the ones whose sump pump stops working at 2 AM and we have to bail water.  We are the ones with the pipe leaks that cause damage to our ceiling, or a refrigerator that stops working with it full of perishables.  We are those people who never seem to do things in a quiet way.  There's always an issue that requires immediate attention.  If you have followed my blogs you already know this.  If you have read my books like 'Don't Build a House When You're Going Through Menopause'  or the soon-to-be-published 'Calamity Central' you have to agree that there is never a dull moment in the Bryan household.  So it will come as no surprise that when I decide to make a  dinner for company something is going to go wrong.  Being aware of this I plan ahead.  Especially with my caregiving responsibilities, I am careful to allow for mishaps and time things accordingly.  Consequently, when we were meeting our son's girlfriend's parents for the first time, I planned a nice dinner to welcome them to our home, allowing plenty of time for preparation.  I chose a simple menu with one of my specialty desserts.  I hate to brag, but I do make a killer chocolate cake that actually tastes better when it has been baked the day or two before. I figured that I would bake it and put it in the freezer.  As I assembled ingredients I knew that it would be best to bake the cake after putting Mom to bed so I could concentrate on what I was doing without interruption.  Unfortunately, that meant that I couldn't get started until after 8 PM.  

*Note to reader: Stay with me here as I set the stage for the disaster.

 While waiting for Mom's bedtime, I figured that I would put up a bread dough for homemade dinner rolls.  We buy huge bags of flour for my baking and we keep the bag on the floor of the pantry but I scoop out some of the flour into a large plastic bin that is easier to handle.  On this particular night I removed the flour bin and was about to measure out 6 cups of flour when I noticed a moth larva on the lid of the bin.  I immediately panicked knowing that moth larva meant that we had an infestation in the pantry.  This happened to us once before and it took us forever to find the offending grain that attracted the moths.  Meanwhile we had to throw out lots of food, so I was understandably worried.  I began looking around at all packages (most were preventatively packed in sealed containers.)  The flour was the only source that showed possible infestation.
"Skip!" I called.  "I need help!" I needed muscles to help lift the gargantuan bag so that I could examine the contents more closely.  I took a sieve and began to measure out the flour one cup at a time examining it and transferring the filtered flour to a bowl.  After a great deal of time I found no evidence of infestation and then began to do the same to the flour in the sealed plastic container.  Still, there was no sign of moth larvae which meant it was elsewhere in the pantry...lurking until I needed a particular product.  Then, and only then I would be surprised with the remnants of ugly larva shells and throw out a much needed ingredient for a meal I was preparing.  Isn't that always the way?  I was relieved to know that I didn't have to send Skip out for an emergency bag of flour that evening though.  It meant that I could continue with my plan, albeit my entire kitchen was now sporting a layer of flour from all of the sifting and shaking.

I quickly prepared  the bread dough and set it aside to rise. Then I focused on measuring ingredients for the cake.  When all was ready I even began to roll out the rolls before Mom's bedtime, congratulating myself on my efficiency.  There was dough left over so I decided to make some cinnamon buns -- Skip's favorite.  Once Mom was in bed I began my baking in earnest.  The dinner rolls were in the oven baking while I prepared the cinnamon rolls.  I was watching the clock and distracted by the mess in the kitchen with the bowls of flour still sitting out.  (That's my first excuse...there'll be more in a minute.)  I rolled up the sweet rolls and popped them in the oven after the dinner rolls came out and then began preparing the cake that called for 4 eggs.  The last thing to do was to carefully and slowly pour boiling water into the cake batter while the mixer was set on low. That was so the eggs wouldn't cook.   There were no clean measuring cups so I grabbed a small plastic one that is a little light weight and awkward to use.  (That's my second excuse). I boiled the water and poured it in the cup to dispense in the bowl while the rotating paddle worked it into the batter. As I poured the liquid some of the water splashed out and burned my hand.
"ARGH!" I yelled, jerking my hand back and dropping the cup into the mixer.  The paddle hit it with a thunk and a splash, and rather than damaging an expensive mixer I turned it off to retrieve my cup.  With a burned hand I ran to the kitchen sink to run cold water on it, but had to hurry back to the batter before the hot water cooked the eggs.  (My third excuse).  In my haste, distraction, and pain I turned the mixer on high forgetting that the water had not yet been incorporated into the batter. There was an explosion of chocolate that splattered everywhere.  I was covered in chocolate. The walls were covered in chocolate.  The cabinets, the sink, the counters, the canisters, the cups, pots, glasses and bags were all covered in chocolate.  Skip came running when he heard me howling and pointed out that the ceiling was also splattered with chocolate. He ran for a ladder and a sponge mop. I began sponging off all of the other surfaces as my oven buzzer announced that the cinnamon buns were done. I had to stop my cleaning so my baked confections didn't burn. I couldn't figure out why they didn't smell like cinnamon until I removed them and realized that I had forgotten to add the cinnamon to the mix.  What a disaster!
"Um honey?  How would you like something besides cinnamon buns?" I asked sheepishly.
"No.  I like cinnamon buns," Skip reassured me.
Sighing, I tried to think of what to do to save the buns.  Then it came to me. Being resourceful, I began mixing an orange sugar drizzle. "You know, I was thinking that maybe these should be...um...   vanilla orange buns".  Before Skip could protest I sliced off a sample and presented the warm gooey bun for his tasting pleasure.
"Mmmm.  Delicious!" He told me.
Aha!  I saved the buns and actually discovered a new bit of deliciousness.

At the end of the evening I  baked my cake, did two loads of laundry filled with chocolate covered towels and rags, put the flour back in the pantry, packaged the rolls and buns and put everything in the freezer.  I even managed to clean up the pots and pans.  It was 1:00 AM when I climbed into bed with an exhausted sigh.  My mind was clear though; another crisis was handled and aside from a hand that still hurt from the mishap with the boiling water, all was in order. 

 ****

The next morning while Skip sat with Mom, I ran from an appointment to a lunch meeting and then back home with an hour to spare before a phone interview. I saw Mom walking in from outside where she had been enjoying a sunny November day.  She smiled broadly when she saw me (which was a good sign that she recognized me.)
"Hi Mom," I greeted.  "What have you been up to?"
"I was just enjoying the sun," she told me. Then she gave a thoughtful look at me and asked, "Would you like me to help you go outside?"
I smiled appreciatively and told her with utmost sincerity, "Oh that is so kind of you to offer to help me but I have some things to do."  I mused over her offer.  It told me so much in those few words.  Mom was still mobile and confident enough to help others.  The part of her who was always helpful, always ready to do something nice for someone, was still present.  Most of the time it was buried under the numbness of fuzzy thinking and a brain destroyed by dementia.  But every once in a while, it came out and showed itself.  Skip, who overheard what Mom said, looked at me with a puzzled expression.  It was such a strange comment and certainly out of character for her present situation.  He and I exchanged a couple of words about how weird it was and for him, that was the end of it.  For me, however, I thought about it for quite a while.  I was ready to begin my baking again.  I magnanimously invited Mom to sit down and watch in a rare moment of generosity. Normally I was more inclined to grouse about her being in the way and underfoot but this seemed to be something I wanted to do today.  In fact, when I had finished my preparations of a delicious chocolate frosting, I offered the spoon for her to lick clean.  She was so pleased.  With each taste she remarked, "This is delicious!"  It was such a simple exchange but it was so meaningful.  This sweet moment was one to remember, one to cherish.  It just goes to show me that not all days are pandemonium-filled, and along with the craziness there are wonderful moments of sanity.