Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, October 9, 1994 TAG: 9410140024
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: B3 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: ELIZABETH STROTHER EDITORIAL WRITER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
I presume they were glorious years before that because apparently I missed them. As I grew up, every time we went through family photo albums and we'd see my progress from tiny stick girl to, um, prepubescent plumpness, Mother would tell me that I was jealous when the new baby arrived and I sought comfort in food.
I had no recollection of this jealousy, and in fact became quite close to my brother - I played with him, read to him, helped him with his homework, gave him tedious lectures on the dangers of skateboarding from behind an apartment building across the entrance of its parking lot - and still Mother reminded me periodically of this teensy character flaw when I was 4.
Which probably is why, when I was a teen-ager, I used to teasingly try to goad her into saying that I was meant to be the baby of the family, and Jon was merely a "mistake." "It was four years, Mom. You had had each of your babies at approximately two-year intervals before him. You had two boys and two girls - perfect balance, each of us a treasure. Why would you want another kid? Tell us the truth; he was a 'mistake,' wasn't he?"
Unfailingly, she'd smile and say only that, "We always said we wanted four or five."
Yeah, right.
But what a blessing No. 5 has turned out to be. Of her four surviving children, only Jon still lives in St. Louis, the only place she will ever live. And Jon has become her lifeline.
When we got the official diagnosis of Alzheimer's, we already knew Mother could no longer be entirely independent. She wasn't eating enough, even though she always had food in her fridge and cabinets. She turned off her air-conditioning in the middle of a sweltering St. Louis heat wave, putting her in danger of heat stroke. She showed up in a panic on her cousin's doorstep one day, her car sitting in the middle of the street, still running. She was on her way to the grocery store, just a few blocks from her home, and had gotten lost.
When the house next door to Jon's, in the neighborhood where she had raised her family, went up for sale, we snatched it up and moved her in. All of us, but Jon most of all, have been learning ever since to adjust and readjust as Mother slowly leaves us.
More than one kind person has said, when I mention she has Alzheimer's, "It's good that at least she doesn't know what's happening to her." But she does know, I try to explain.
She is losing her memory and her judgment and her personality, and she knows it. She stood one day in her bedroom, after Jon had helped her dress, and started to say something, hesitated, tried again and then again, forming a sound, then stopping, over and over until finally tears came to her eyes and she blurted in frustration, "I can't even remember what I'm thinking long enough to get it out!"
Oh yes, she knows.
Jon and his wife at first took care of her entirely. Mother didn't want to join any group for companionship, though she no longer was able to get out and do the volunteer work she once enjoyed. She insisted she could do her own cooking and cleaning - "I've raised five children; I think I can cook my own supper!" - without realizing that she never did. And she declared repeatedly that Jon had his own life, his own family, she wasn't going to intrude - then mentioned that she hardly ever saw him, she wasn't complaining, but weeks went by without her seeing anyone "over there." It was not unusual, at this point in our phone conversation, for her to call out, "Hi!" and tell me Jon had just come in. I'd giggle, and she'd be mollified - momentarily.
She became much stronger, but increasingly depressed. With the loss of short-term memory, she was lonely whenever someone wasn't with her. There was no lingering pleasure from a phone call or even a lengthy visit. Once she had hung up the phone, or the grandchildren were out the door, she seldom had any memory of the contact. My older brother and sister and I nagged Jon to get her involved in some activity, but he was reluctant to force her into anything - until the day that she sheepishly told him: "Well, heh-heh, I guess I've really done it now."
Her world had shrunk so much by then that she was spending most of her days sitting in a chair, looking out the window and, inevitably, dozing off. She wasn't tired enough to sleep through the night, and started getting up earlier and earlier. She figured she was in trouble now, she told Jon nervously, because one day (recently, we assumed) she had woken up, got dressed (maybe), and gone out for a walk. She didn't realize it was the middle of the night. The police picked her up and brought her home. Heh-heh.
It didn't take Jon but a few days to get her in a day-care program that, despite her initial reluctance, she found was "a good place to be." With her days filled with structured activities, she started sleeping through the night. We've since added five evenings of home care, so Jon can have his weeknights free with his wife and kids. This turned out to be an unexpected boon for Mother, too. She loves to be with her children, but the revered Betty Johnson does better than any of us at keeping her occupied with tasks she still can do, and remaining patient and good-humored.
Mom continues to lose ground mentally, but many days when I talk to her, she sounds happier than she has in years. On her good days, I still can get her chuckling.
And she can be pretty funny, herself.
Like some people with Alzheimer's, she constantly picks things up and moves them, but if anything turns up in an odd place - dish towels in her pocketbook - she quickly denies any knowledge of it. One day Jon noticed a yellow-jacket hole in her back yard, and he wanted her to stay away from it. As he walked her home, he pointed it out and said, "Mom, there's a yellow jackets' nest in your yard here."
Quick as a flash, she answered, "I didn't put it there!"
Cracked him up.
With all the help, Jon remains the anchor of her life, her hold on security. If No. 5 was a mistake, he's the most fortunate one she ever made.
by CNB