If one speaks
honestly about Alzheimer’s disease and its ravages, the details aren’t pretty.
Alzheimer’s changes personalities. During times of conflict, Mom and Dad drew
inward, to protect each other from what they perceived as any assault. Mom
fought to protect the man she’d loved all of her adult life––to defend his
independence and dignity. Dad protected Mom––love-struck by his bride until her
last breath.
In the midst of
difficult times, I often envisioned Alzheimer’s as a silent monster looming
behind Mom and Dad, inching closer and closer, threatening to over take them.
Ibby and Ed saw only each other. They never acknowledged nor succumbed to the
disease. They rose above it, protected by the armor of their love and faith in
God. Ann and I ran frantically ahead pulling them, or behind pushing
them––always trying to shield them from the invisible beast.
At times they
thought their own daughters were the enemy––unable to understand Ann and I were
their allies, and our hearts ached from the decisions we had to make to keep
them safe.
Yes, there were
conflicts, but I choose to remember Ed and Ibby as they were at their core––the
people they were before the disease tried to rob them of themselves. They
taught me to have faith in God, find joy in simple things, and count my
blessings.
Nearly every day,
I drive by my church and the cemetery where my parents lay buried. Attending
church feels like going home to visit them. I sit in pews––still warm from
them. I see Dad’s arm around Mom with her head leaned into the crook of his
neck. I thank God for Ibby, a mother who lived her faith through small lessons,
and for Ed, an honest, hard-working dad. They shared a simple life, a happy
life; they had never needed more.
Thinking about the
end of Mom and Dad’s lives, I realize I don’t want my life to end without
lucidity. But, we don’t get to choose, do we?
If I end up with
Alzheimer’s and my children have to make a decision for me to live in a place
like the locked facility where my parents lived at the end of their lives, whom
will I be? Will I be the person who’s moaning––the person who’s swearing? Will
I be the person who loves everyone’s jewelry and takes it? Will I be the person
who wanders and picks things up, but says I’m not stealing? Will I be the
person who eats other people’s food––the person who paces? Or, will I be like
Mom and Dad, retaining loveliness in the midst of the ugliness of Alzheimer’s
disease––making a rose garden from a load of manure?
My sister and I
have often said, “We will remember all of these things as long as we have
memory.” Just in case I forget, these two sayings are written in script on my
dining room walls surrounding the old dining table: “Live with an attitude of
gratitude,” and “Every ordinary day is extraordinary.” Mom and Dad whisper
these reminders to me as I read them each day.
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