Dom P, Ancestry, and Me

They were gathered in the kitchen, each with a special task.  I was told to sit outside on our porch and await my birthday surprise.  Yes, this was my birthday weekend.  I was so happy to have the family here even though I was stressed and tired.  Caring for my mother had worn me out. More than anything, I just wanted to sleep undisturbed and unfettered by my caregiving duties.  While I waited, entertained by my two delightful granddaughters, Mom wandered in and out, banging her walker against the door jam and table.  She was hungry.  Dinner was taking too long to prepare.  My son mixed a cocktail for me...the best Long Island Iced Tea ever!  Mom eyed my drink jealously.  "Oh no," I thought.  "You mustn't have this."  I sneaked inside avoiding the bustle of activity as plates and forks clanked on the counter, buzzers sounded, pots bubbled, and meats sizzled.  My daughter and son-in-law were busy elves preparing a feast of flavors in the kitchen.  I found some rum and Coke and mixed a drink for Mom, careful to go heavy on the Coke and light on the rum.  My son and his girlfriend were encouraging me to add more rum but I didn't think it wise to get someone with Alzheimer's tipsy. I laughed to myself devilishly thinking "What difference would it make?"
"This is delicious," she announced as she gripped the glass in both hands and downed the drink with a rare gusto.  Knowing how difficult it was to keep Mom hydrated, I mused that this was obviously the way to get her to drink more fluids.  Wait...she was drinking on an empty stomach!  The Responsible Me kicked in; "Have some chips," I suggested, hoping that they would absorb the alcohol.

When at last the meal was ready, my daughter appeared at the door smiling broadly.  She and the rest of the family had pulled it off.  They had brought a birthday to me since Skip and I couldn't do much in the way of celebrating my birthday elsewhere; not with my mother's condition.  I had said it.  I told them that we couldn't leave Mom alone now.  No...not now.  She was too confused, too easily agitated. Surprisingly, she proved me wrong.  She was in fine form.  She remembered who we were, little facts about the family, and even managed some quick repartee.  Was it the rum?  Maybe it was helping.

We dined on wonderful food as we crowded around the table in merriment and celebration.  Then came the birthday toast.  A bottle of Dom Perignon (provided by my son-in-law and daughter) was brought to the table.  Okay, I've got to admit that this was really special.  I waited with growing excitement as they popped the cork and handed it to Skip to pour. I watched the bubbles (the tiniest ones) floating to the top of the liquid and remembered that the finer the Champagne the tinier the bubbles.  "Savor this," I reminded myself. Skip lifted his glass to wish me a happy birthday in a clever and loving toast.  We all sipped from the fine Champagne.  I took a small taste feeling the sparkling liquid gold tickle my throat and tried to decide if it lived up to its reputation. Yes, I decided.  It definitely did!  It wasn't so much the flavor but the aftertaste.  There was a certain smoothness, an elegance of flavor, a quiet assertion that fine grapes and warm sun had joined together to make an intoxicating refreshment that was to be relished. 
Even Mom was given a small glass."This is strong!" she remarked.  "It's gone right down to my garters," she quipped and then beamed as we all laughed boisterously at her joke. It was a rare moment to cherish -- a 98 year old still able to engage in the merriment.

Cake, Champagne, flowers, and then presents filled the night.  My daughter announced that we would be attending the ballet. Our son and his girlfriend gave me a kit to check my ancestry with a quick saliva test -- something that was non-existent when I was born. (My how times have changed!)  I was thrilled with the prospect of finding out about my ancestry even though I was already certain that I was a confusion of myriad countries and races.  

The party had moved outside to the fire pit.  The granddaughters had been promised this traditional end to our cooler evenings but slowly they began to hang their heads sleepily. With Mom tucked in for the night, I returned to the dwindling numbers around the fire.  I was determined to party into the wee hours but I too became drowsy.  I struggled to make these fading moments last for just a little while longer. The light-hearted chatter almost masked the depth of emotion I felt.  I looked at their faces...each of them so special, so dear.  I listened to their voices; I watched the firelight  reflected in their eyes, and wanted to capture each smiling face in a memory.  This night, this celebration, this shared love; how special and yet how fleeting it felt to me.  I wanted to hug each of them to my heart and cling fiercely.  I suppose when one reaches a certain age sentimentality dominates all family gatherings.  Our numbers are not so large, and we are separated by miles but it is always the same.  We gather for occasions and enjoy.  We laugh, we talk, we share, we support one another.  This enduring bond of love is ever-so-important to me now more than ever.  I am so deeply embroiled in caregiving and finding that stress has become a way of life; and yet I know that my family will rally round and help when help is needed.  It is the best birthday gift of all! 

When the last dish was dried, the last glass placed back in the cabinet, the last surface freed of crumbs and spills, all without my assistance, I thanked everyone and went to bed.  I thought that I would go right to sleep but instead I reviewed the day, the comments, the moments.  Was it possible that my heart was actually glowing?  It certainly felt that way.  Then I remembered the Ancestry Kit.  What would it reveal?  I already knew that it would report in a clinical fashion and would satisfy the question of familial backgrounds but it would not tell me what my ancestors thought.  It would not show how they felt about each other, what emotions were when they gathered together, how they laughed and cried together.  The births, the illnesses, the inevitable passings of one generation after another; this would be understood but not explained; yet here I was, the embodiment of all of this history, all this love.  Now, on my birthday I reviewed this and smiled with a deep satisfaction. They slept -- the whole family...the eldest to the youngest, oblivious to my overwhelming gratitude and affection.

The Last Christmas Cookie

The Last Christmas Cookie

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I finished washing the dishes and putting the crystal away.  I wiped away the spills and crumbs from our New Year's Day celebration and thought about the holiday season.  There was a bittersweet quality to my memories.  It had been a busy, chaotic season.  So often I had thought about my mother's condition as I kept striving to create a memorable holiday.  I had cooked, baked, decorated, planned, wrapped, shopped and cleaned.  I had cared for Mom, saw to her needs, and adhered to her schedule.  It was incredibly stressful.  Her Alzheimer's disease was progressing to the point that I often had to stop what I was doing to take care of issues I had not even imagined earlier.  She required constant supervision while awake. I called it the 'Shiny Object Syndrome'.  Mom was attracted to anything new and different.  She touched, tasted, and took anything that interested her.  If I turned my back something might go missing or worse; something might end up with a thumbprint in the middle or a nibbled corner.  It didn't matter how many cookies she sampled, she would forget and look for more.  Trying to put together holiday treats, gifts, and preparing for parties and entertaining was beyond difficult.  As I thought back about the events of the past month my eye caught a plate I had missed.  It held one cookie.  I was about to toss it in the trash, filled with resolve to remove sugar from my diet when I stopped myself.  It was the last of the Christmas cookies and the symbolic meaning didn't escape my notice.  To me the cookie represented the joy of the season, the memories created, the laughter, camaraderie,  cheer.  Within its tiny circumference was a world of emotions: the happiness and the reminder that the Holidays were over. 

 I thought back to Christmas Day.  We had gathered at my daughter and son-in-law's home to enjoy another wonderful Christmas. I looked around the room filled with loving, smiling faces.  There were our two children, our two grandchildren, our son's girlfriend, our son-in-law, our family dog, and my mother.  It had been difficult thinking about how to get Mom there.  How would we pack all the food, the presents, the dog and five people in one car?  We decided that we would take two cars.  Problem solved!  Now another issue: could Mom navigate her walker around the house?  Could she manage to last the entire day and evening?  Would she be safe?  How would she deal with the car ride?  I was glad that it all worked out regardless of how closely I watched Mom, how I fretted about her dropping something, breaking something, doing something socially unacceptable.  I carefully regarded her choices of foods knowing full-well that she was incapable of making choices and might easily overeat, become sick, and end a lovely day with a quick exit for home.  I monitored her movements, her needs, her facial expressions to determine what she might require, what she wanted, and where she was thinking of going.  I was reminded of those days long gone when the children were babies and visiting was a chore as I supervised, disciplined, corrected, and worried over each action and reaction.  Once again I was thrown in the roll of mother to my own mother.  Yes, she was now a child -- a two-year-old.  

At the end of the day, as I helped Mom into her nightgown and under the covers, I asked her if she had enjoyed the day.  "Oh yes!" she replied.  I reminded her of who she had visited, what she had eaten, and the gifts she was given.  She smiled happily and burrowed beneath the blankets already closing her eyes.  I could see that she was tired.  Her mind had fallen asleep hours earlier.  Now it was time for her body to catch up.  I sat down with my husband, Skip and talked about the day.  I remembered to text our daughter to let her know that we had gotten home safely.  She replied that they were watching movies of old Christmas celebrations from other years when my father was still alive.  Part of me was unhappy to miss that but another was relieved.  I knew that watching old videos would only serve to remind me of how quickly things change...how soon our lives move from child, to adult, to elderly, then (all too often) back to child.  I immediately grew sad.  I thought about those fun times when my parents (even younger than Skip and I were now) would drive to our home to be with us and the children on Christmas Day.  Now, my father was no longer with us and hadn't been for some time.  Soon, Mom would also be gone.  She was still healthy and physically doing well but I had been warned that as Alzheimer's progressed her body would begin to shut down.  Was this her last year with us?  Was this the last family gathering with her?  I wondered how many bonus days we could enjoy.  I found myself thinking forward.  In June, Mom would turn 98 years old.  Would she still be with us?  I grew more and more saddened as I thought of the events that were so important to us...those events that brought us together in celebration.  Now, even if we still had Mom with us, it would be stressful, less satisfying, more work, riskier to take Mom out. 

People have often remarked when they see me with Mom that they wish that their parents were still with them.  I  think of that now.  How I wish that my mother...the mother who once was, could still be 'with' us.  The following  morning as I greeted Mom upon her awakening, I asked her if she had enjoyed herself the previous day.  She gave a blank expression.  I reminded her of the gathering for Christmas.  She replied that she didn't remember.  We talked about the food and the gifts and still there was no spark of memory.  I felt a lump growing in my throat.  I suppressed the tears.  Mom was not 'with' us on Christmas Day.  Sadly, Mom would not be with us for our birthdays, for holidays, for family celebrations, for events.  She would never be 'with' us again.  Yet, we could see her, touch her, hear her voice for now...for another day, another, week, month, year.  There was no telling how long.  I  told myself to cherish each second regardless of the stress, the worry, the bother.  

It is now the beginning of the new year.  I used to look forward with excitement and high expectations, but now I dread it for it brings forth a silent testament of how quickly things are changing...moving towards yet another change, another loss, another sadness.  I thought about this.  My attitude had definitely shifted.  It was like looking at the crumbs from the last Christmas cookie.  A season had ended and for the moment there seemed  little to anticipate with optimism. In fact, I noticed an insidious pessimism creeping and permeating my emotional well-being..  I realized that if not checked immediately it would soon become a debilitating depression.  

It was time to shift my focus.  That last Christmas cookie didn't only represent the end of a year and a wonderful, fun-filled season but the promise of more to follow. I would be baking more cookies before I knew it.  There would be more parties, more gatherings, more fun.  I thought about the saying, "When one door closes another opens" and felt a growing curiosity.  What might it be?  What did the new year hold for all of us?  I made a promise to myself that I would remember to celebrate the minutes and hours of the day, enjoying the moments and not miss a thing.  Even as I was thinking this, I noticed my mother walking over to the counter for the third time in ten minutes.  She had forgotten she had already eaten her lunch and now she was sitting down looking for something edible.  She picked up an unlit holiday candle encased in a decorative glass.  It had been left within her reach and now she tilted it to her lips trying  to drink the contents.  When nothing came out she took her fingers and poked at it aggressively.  I watched in amazement.  I almost corrected her but thought that I would let it play itself out.  She tried again and again to taste the contents of the glass.  Finally, I called to her.  "It's a candle,  Mom.  You don't drink it."

"I know," she answered a little indignantly. 

 I could be angry and frustrated by this or I could find the beauty of the moment because it became something memorable...perversely funny.  Perhaps because I didn't want to cry, I managed to find the humor.  I made the choice.  I couldn't help myself.  Her indignant expression made me laugh. I took the candle from her and placed it back on the counter.  There was no question; she would try it again.  There was so much to fret about...or to cherish and remember.  Just like a Christmas cookie, I would consume it and enjoy it.  It was a fleeting moment but just like the myriad little things that occurred day after day,  I would dutifully record this and hold it as a part of my Christmas memories.

Deck the Halls

Deck the Halls

With Mom and All 

 

I thought of skipping the Christmas craziness this year.  I thought that it would be too much for me to handle.   

A month ago I remember crying sadly at the thought that I would forego the joy that the sight of a decorated house brings to me.  I thought that I would skip the annual event we always hold at our home.  This year would be different.  This year, the halls would not be decked, the stockings would not be hung, the packages would not be wrapped, the cookies would not be baked.  No cards, no letters, no phone calls, no parties.  I looked around.  There was so much to do, so much to think about, so much effort and energy to expend just to bring this tradition to life. "I'm getting too old for this!" I told myself.  I can't handle another thing; not with all that I have to do caring for my mother.  I had almost convinced myself that I was right not to enjoy the spirit of the Season.  But then...  Skip said something to me about the tree, the decorations, the family gathering, the holiday guests and entertaining that we do.  He wasn't going to push it and I knew that he would support whatever decision I made regarding the next few weeks.  I looked within myself.  There was a sadness.  We would be missing so much.  We had already sacrificed and missed out.  I looked at my mother who knew nothing of what time of year it was.  I reminded her that it was the Holiday Season.  She nodded her head without comprehension or memory of Christmases past.  My sadness grew into depression.  The emptiness deepened.  The darkness was about to swallow me up.  I was resigned.  My misery was all-consuming.  I rationalized: being a care giver is draining both physically and emotionally.  It would be easily understood if I explained to everyone that this year...just this once I would not be able to 'do' Christmas, that our annual family party could not take place, that I couldn't bake the Christmas bread, that I wouldn't make the sausage dip or the pine cone cheese balls.  They would kindly accept that the home would be undecorated and that I would not have time to shop for presents. Yes, they would accept it, but...  

I began to realize that I couldn't... I wouldn't accept it myself!

I made the decision.  

"Let the lights be hung, the wreath be placed on the door, the candles lit, the presents wrapped, the cards written, the cookies baked, the tree trimmed.  Let the ornaments, the decorations, the special reminders of the season be placed around each room.  Yes!  Deck the Halls."  Immediately my mood changed.  I was excited, pleased, and exhilarated.  Suddenly I felt youthful and energetic. 

It was the day after Thanksgiving.  I sat down in front of my computer and shopped for Christmas gifts.  Immediately I felt better.  I baked some cookies and called a friend who offered to help us decorate the house.  Arrangements were made.  Within a week Christmas preparations were underway and the house was brimming with Christmas spirit.  What a joy!  

Now with just two weeks to go before Christmas day, I make lists and check off the things I have done and the things left to do.  It takes more organizations than usual.  There is no time to spare.  My mother requires more and more of my time as I watch her closely, trying to protect and run interference. She paces like a caged animal, fingering touching, tasting everything.  I stop her from tumbling down a step as she is oblivious to height changes. I catch her before she touches the hot pot, trips over the dog bone, runs into the table with her walker.  I admonish her for blowing her nose in her shawl or for throwing her panties in the trash can. Safety, cleanliness, humanness...they are things I strive to preserve at great emotional and physical sacrifice and cost.  I am torn between decorating the cookies, and watching Mom, providing her with a distraction, an activity, something that will fill the time.  I compromise.  I will forego the special chocolate bars that everyone expects me to bake.  I will not wrap the packages with elaborate decorations and will use more gift bags.  But there will be no compromise on the traditions -- family traditions will be celebrated regardless.  This is my treat to me, for me, and by me.  

I put Mom to bed singing some Christmas carols as I help her get undressed.  She sings along smiling broadly.  It has been a long exhausting day but as I close her door my spirit is lighter.  I walk back downstairs, pour myself a nightcap and sit down in front of the Christmas tree.  A calmness spreads over me.  There is no negativity.  There is no darkness, sadness, despair.  For a minute I am a child thrilling at the twinkling lights.  I forget everything I have left to do to simply enjoy the moment and the lights...and the joy...and the season...and the knowledge that we are all together.  It is the magic of the season; and it heals, cures, reassures, stabilizes, and reminds me of just how grateful I am to have this time, this moment, this love, this joy, this life.

Thanksgiving

We sit at the table with glasses raised in a toast.  Who will begin?  How will we express the things we are thinking?  

"Here's to our health and happiness," we say.

No. This is wrong.  I look at Mom.  She has begun to eat, paying no attention to the toast or to the fact that we are not eating yet.  She is oblivious to the purpose of the gathering of family. 

"Mom," we remind her.  "It's Thanksgiving.  Lift your glass." 

She smiles and obliges us with the lifting of the glass as she joins in.  Then we go around the table and tell what we are thankful for.  When it is Mom's turn she announces that she is thankful for being here with all of us -- a wonderful moment of cognitive thought and awareness!  

Skip sits next to my mother and helps her cut up her food.  I look over and give a silent thanks for him and his help, his patience, his willingness to assist.  Lately there is so much more work, more angst, more frustration, impatience, and disappointment.  We are both tired and stressed.  So, here we sit on Thanksgiving looking for reasons to be thankful.   Are we happy and thankful that Mom has Alzheimer's?  Of course not! Are we thankful that our lives are topsy turvy and that our personal freedoms are sacrificed:  to come and go, to spend time with others on a whim and at a moment's notice, to go out to a movie as we please?  Are we appreciative that our home has become littered with dropped tissues, with safety assists, with reminder notes, signs on doors, locked doors, removed hazards that might cause unsafe conditions for Mom, with locks removed from bathroom doors, with chips and dings in paint and wood due to Mom's walker banging around the house? Are we thrilled with the extra work, laundry, dishes, and errands for those things that Mom needs? Do we like watching non-stop TV to entertain Mom...TV shows that cater to her taste?  Is it enjoyable being on constant alert to Mom's needs, to any dangers, to potential falls, choking, wanderings?  My answer is not immediately apparent.

I question our decision, our purpose.  I consider the changes and the 'inconvenience.'  There are others who make the choice to NOT be inconvenienced.  Yes.  It is tempting.  But then I think about the value of having Mom with us.  She is a part of our lives.  Regardless of the things that are unpleasant, there is so much value to having her with us.  She is a connection to our past.  She is yesterday's memories. She is a reminder of our origins, the reason I am alive.  She...MY MOTHER...is why I am thankful.  Yes!  In spite of the myriad alterations we have made,  I AM thankful...truly, truly thankful.

As I put Mom to bed after cleaning up the dishes and taking a little break, thinking of the meaning of the day; I wish Mom a Happy Thanksgiving.  It has been a long chaotic day.  I know that she is tired and grumpy.  I am tempted to hurry off as soon as I help her get into her nightgown.  Instead I stroke her hair and rub her shoulders.  I tuck her under her covers and pull the blanket up beneath her chin.  I give her a tired smile but a sincere one.  She looks up at me and smiles back.  

 "Thank you," she says sweetly. I know that she appreciates the care she receives even when she cannot or does not express it.  

"You're welcome."  Again I wish her a Happy Thanksgiving.  She laughs that laugh that tells me she has no idea what I am saying.  She has forgotten the day.  She has forgotten the dinner, the toasts, the company at the table.  But deep down inside I think that she knows.  Rather than a conscious knowledge, she has a 'feeling' of being here, of being loved, of being cared for, of being safe.  This is my Thanksgiving.  She has someone to care for her.  Dear God, I am thankful for this day, this food, this family, this life, this woman who means so much to me.