A memoir of loss, memory by memory... To read chapter excerpts, click on chapter titles in the left sidebar. To order Alzheimer's Daughter, click on the picture of book below.
The Story
Alzheimer’s Daughter introduces the reader to my healthy parents, Ed and Ibby, years before their diagnosis, then recounts painful details as our roles reversed and I became my parents’ parent.
Their disease started as translucent, confused thoughts and ended in a locked memory care unit after a near decade of descent into the opaque world of Alzheimer's.
I began writing Alzheimer’s Daughter one week after my mother's death––when I was stunned, realizing Dad had no memory of her or their 66-year marriage.
I write to pay tribute to the undying spirit at Ed and Ibby's core, and with the hope that the story of their parallel decline might be helpful to others.
Sunday, June 7, 2015
How young. How thin. How cute they are. Filled with hope patriotism, and love of God and country.
Alzheimer's Daughter starts with this letter from my mother to my father as their commitment was just beginning.
I'm curious as to why Mom didn't realize how she felt about my dad before he left for the Army. In their case, absence really must have made the heart grow fonder.
They build a long-distance relationship through letters and weekend furloughs. That foundation lasted for 66 years, through Alzheimer's disease, even when they didn't know me or know their own names, until my mom's last breath.
I'm thankful that love formed me and their positive spirits live within me. I hope I'm able to pass that spirit on to others each day, even if it's only through a smile or a kind word.
Monday, June 1, 2015
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Hope
Don't misunderstand. I love my pictures. I collect them, organize them, run them as screen savers and remember with a giggle or a tear special moments.
But, even a decade ago this technology didn't exist. Prior to that time, we planned for a picture, had actual film developed, hoped for the best, and found out maybe a week later if we had taken a good shot.
This picture was taken of my mother in 1943. It was planned. Maybe it was taken by a photographer.
Googling took me to the pages of a 1943 Montgomery Wards Catalog showing the cost of average cameras at that time between $40 and $100 with flash attachment and bulbs. That was a huge amount of money after the Great Depression. I doubt Mom's family, small dairy farmers, could have afforded a luxury item like a camera.
But this event, Mom sitting by her hope chest, with her bridal collection neatly folded within, warranted a picture. She was full of hope for the future and full of love for my dad. That hope never left either of them throughout their 66-year marriage.
They took a chance on a WWII romance and had the dedication to make it last.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Thank You, Lori LaBey and Alzheimer's Speaks Radio
Monday, May 18, 2015
I spend a large part of each day writing. Some of that time is spent connecting with others around the world who share an interest in Alzheimer's Disease. Also, I'm pouring time into a new children's series, Lexi's Triplets. Lexi is my granddog who helps her mom and dad take care of my two-year-old triplet grandchildren. I travel nearly every week from Cleveland to Columbus to assist Lexi and gather ideas to write her stories.
http://lexitriplets.blogspot.com
My life is full, never a minute of boredom. I squeeze time in for reading when my mind is too tired to create new material.
Beyond writing, I crave time to work outside, play in the dirt, creating beauty in my own yard.
This weekend my local granddaughters, age 7 and age 3, had a sleep over. What joy.
Even if we love every day of our work, our lives become a list of tasks to complete........until a sleepover. Every schedule, every list, every predictability is thrown out the window. Nothing takes precedence.
I thought so much about my own mother this weekend––about how her world stopped for grandchildren.
Both girls planted flowers. The three-year-old helped me plant geraniums and giant marigolds around a light post in my front yard.
The seven-year-old planted Impatiens in a redwood flower cart that belonged to my mom.
Later in the day, the seven-year-old asked me to dust off my forty-plus-year-old sewing machine to see if it still worked. I was amazed at her patience, stick-to-it-ivness, and lack of frustration while making a blanket for her younger sister from left-over scraps.
I felt the spirit of my mom shining down this weekend as her traditions were passed on, many hugs given, and I love yous whispered.
Friday, May 15, 2015
Dad, U.S. Army, Horse Cavalry
As a retired teacher there is no greater joy than to be remembered by a former student. This morning I had the pleasure of being invited to an honors breakfast by a young man I had as a student in third grade.
When in my classroom, he was not even as tall as my shoulder, but now he's so tall, I don't even reach his shoulder. This young man starts college in the fall and will study to become a high school math teacher.
He reminisced about learning basic math facts, cursive writing, and how to run a vacuum cleaner in my classroom. But his most vivid memory was of meeting my father.
Our third grade classes were always responsible for the Veterans' Day assembly in early November. Our music teacher dedicated the first two months of school to creating the musical and speaking program which would honor our Veterans. Attending this program was a highlight for my dad. He had remained fit enough that he could still wear parts of his uniform sixty years later.
My student remembered being reluctant to speak to these towering men in uniform, but he bolstered his courage and shook my dad's hand. Today——nine years after that handshake——that's what we talked about.
I'm so thankful for the young students I was privileged to teach, and I'm especially touched that my former student brought my father to mind for me today.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Mom's Favorite Flower
Mom loved all of nature. Dad planted vegetables, and she helped, but her true love was flower gardening.
Each spring, she awaited the blooming of the Bleedingheart. It's an old-fashioned flower, perfectly shaped like a dark pink heart with a drop coming out the bottom. Now, I wish I could ask Mom why she loved them so. It seemed her connection to them was deeper than their beauty. Had her mother grown them? Had Mom's heart bled with the loss of her mother, as mine bleeds for her?
My mother's mother, was the most important influence in my life. She was a humble woman, widowed in her early 50s. She cleaned other people's houses as her source of meager income. Her cookie jar was always full of homemade sugar, molasses, or peanut butter cookies. (I have that cookie jar now, but it's empty most of the time, or filled with Oreos.) I remember having conversations, just the two of us, while eating special lunches she prepared of favorite foods like chicken salad and cucumbers, with mayonnaise cake waiting in the icebox for dessert. After lunch, we'd play our favorite card game, Flinch. She wore simple cotton house dresses with a corset, and clunky black lace-up shoes with stocky inch and a half heels. Grandma never complained. Near the end of her life, she spent about two years in a nursing home because of heart problems. When I visited, she always asked about me, never speaking about her own health issues. Brightness and excitement filled her when I brought my own little children, her great grandchildren, to visit. At her funeral I remember visitors saying, "We never heard your grandma say a bad word about anyone." That thought, about the core of her being, stayed with me. I'm fortunate to have strong, compassionate women who have impacted my life.
I guess the Bleedingheart, because of its name, makes us think of those we've loved and lost.
I love you, Mom. I love you Grandma. Thank you for being role models for me to emulate. I hope I can pass your loving spirit on to future generations.












