Like Sand through the Hourglass

When I was a teenager, I watched the soap opera “Days of Our Lives.” Before each episode, MacDonald Carey would solemnly say, “Like sands through the hourglass, so are the Days of our Lives.”

Today, as I was pondering the passage of time, the hourglass came to mind, as well as, the profound saying that introduced a sappy soap opera. I think the image of the hourglass dwelled within my subconscious mind choosing today to come to the surface.

In my younger years, I imagined that the days of my life were so numerous that time seemed to pass slowly. I’ve noticed that the older, I get, the days, months, and years speed by without ever tapping the brakes.

As we age, we begin to realize that life is fragile and can be finished without warning. With each passing year, our bodies, our priorities, and the texture of our lives change. Friends, acquaintances, and family members move in and out of our lives. Some people may never cross our minds again, while others leave an indelible mark on our hearts.

The most difficult part of life is death of loved ones. Only time and determination can help heal a grief-stricken heart. I believe that as long as someone lives in my memories, they are with me.

The Past: The saddest part of Alzheimer’s disease is that as the memory fades, so does the history that makes each of us a unique person. We embody the history of all our yesterdays, good or bad. Our personality is built around our history. I think that all of us have faced adversity during our lifetime—some more than others. If we overcome adversity and learn from our mistakes, we develop character. Sometimes that character will shine through during the darkest days of dementia. 

 The Present: For a caregiver, quality of life is determined by how we embrace each day. I often found that taking each day a moment at a time, one problem at a time, helped me through the difficult days. A trip to town for ice cream or a walk in the park were good ways to spend some relaxing time with Jim. I also carved out some time for myself—to pursue activities that brought joy into my life whether it was lunch with friends or family, a movie, or a day trip. I lived in the present and tried not to dwell on how the future was going to impact Jim’s health.

The Future: Jim’s dementia relentlessly progressed and the future was bleak. Although, today’s medicine has the potential to slow the progression of the disease, we still await a cure. It is important for a caregiver to continue to live her life to the fullest. We need to plan for self-sufficiency and face the future with courage. Our happiness depends on how much hope and joy we feel as we think about our tomorrows.

As the sands slip through the hourglass, we need to treasure the days we have been given. Sometimes, we have life within life: reinvention, rejuvenation, revival of spirit, and determination to become our best selves moving forward. Is it possible that before the sand runs completely through, we can flip the hourglass over and move forward with more and better days ahead?

 Copyright © April 2024 by L.S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

#ENDALZ

The Right Stuff

I love biscuits and gravy. As far as I’m concerned, it is the best breakfast ever. A few weeks ago, I pulled down the canister of Bisquick and made biscuits that didn’t raise. “The Bisquick is too old,” I told my husband. Nevertheless, we poured sausage gravy on top and ate them anyway.

After I bought a new box of Bisquick, I made a batch of tasty biscuits that didn’t require gravy to make them edible. Strangely, the next batch was hard and heavy. I grumbled and threatened to buy canned biscuits. Just as we finished eating, Harold said, “You have that new box of Bisquick,” and he pointed at the small box nestled between the cereal canisters.

“No wonder they were a flop! I didn’t use the right stuff.” I had forgotten that I hadn’t put the new Bisquick in the canister. No matter what we do, if we don’t use the right stuff, we don’t get optimal results.

I made good biscuits again Monday. Normally, on Memorial Day, I’d be rushing to make it to the ceremony at the Veterans Cemetery in Higginsville, but between the oppressive heat and road construction, my sister-in-law Ginger and I went Sunday to place flowers in front of Jim’s resting place. An unexpected advantage of being at home was that my son dropped by for a visit and joined us for biscuits and gravy. I was glad I’d used the right stuff!

When Jim joined the U.S. Army, he showed that he had the right stuff. He fulfilled his obligation as a citizen by serving a tour of duty in Vietnam. Although he didn’t agree with the war, he loved his country. The war changed his life. Between PTSD, a neck injury, and exposure to Agent Orange, he lived with chronic physical and mental pain until his death from dementia.

On Memorial Day, we think of the people who sacrificed for our freedom. We think about the soldiers who died and those who died inside. We honor those who had the right stuff to risk life and life altering injury to fight for the United States of America. We place our hands on our hearts and pledge allegiance to the flag.

The original pledge of 1892 was recited as “I pledge allegiance to my Flag and to the Republic for which it stands: One Nation indivisible with Liberty and Justice for all.” With these twenty-three words, Americans pledged that we would not be divided and that we wanted liberty and justice for everyone.

Later, of course, “my flag” was changed to “the flag of the United States of America.” The U.S. was a land of immigrants, and this change was to clarify the pledge was to the U.S. flag. The last change in 1954 was to add “under God.”

A lot has been said lately about respecting the flag, but we disrespect it in many ways without a second thought, or being aware that we’ve done so. The flag is not to be used for advertising, printed or otherwise impressed on paper napkins or boxes that are for temporary use and discarded. No part of the flag is to be used in a costume or athletic uniform.

It is important to think about the right stuff that goes into being an American. The right stuff begins on the inside and manifests itself in how we treat others. Anything less and we disrespect the flag and those who risked everything to protect our freedoms.

On Memorial Day, we think about the sacrifices that make this the country it is, but it’s our everyday behavior that makes that sacrifice worthwhile.    

Copyright © May 2018 by L.S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

#ENDALZ

If We Make it through December

While decorating this morning, I put a country music Christmas CD in the player. Merle Haggard’s song “If We Make it through December” brought about a heart-weary nostalgic feeling.

In many ways, that song was the story of our lives in the early, struggling years when our kids were little. Instead of being the joyful time of “Jingle Bells,” December was the most stressful time of the year.

The cold, winter weather became an endurance test. We lived in drafty old houses that were hard to heat and slept under cold-weather rated sleeping bags to stay warm. That is, when we could sleep. I remember Jim getting up all hours of the night to start the car so that it would start the next morning. Of course, it was futile if the roads were drifted shut.

Just to add to the anxiety, there was always the problem of coughing up enough money to fill the propane tank. One year, right before Christmas, we filled our tank just to have it all leak out during a snowstorm. The truck came back and only because the driver was determined, he managed to get close enough to the tank to re-fill it.

Too often jolly, ho-ho-ho people don’t realize how hard the holidays are for those who have lost a loved one. Christmas doesn’t seem the same when someone you’ve always celebrated with is no longer there. When a white Christmas turns into a blue Christmas, it isn’t easy to exorcise that pesky inner Grinch and infuse oneself with the joy of the season.

A decade of Christmases were changed because of Jim’s dementia. The first few years were a blessing in that being a grandpa gave him a new joy in Christmas. Later, I ate Christmas dinner with him at the nursing home. The meal would be a mixture of nursing home prepared and care packages from his mom.

We are all individuals with countless memories of Christmas. Memories could be of a time of separation, grief, heartache, loneliness, and the bitter cold of winter. Other memories could be the elation of happy reunions, the perfect gift—given or received, the look on a grandchild’s face, hugs, a heart overflowing with love, and a landscape of glittery, fluffy snow.

My memories of Christmas are as packed and varied as Santa’s bag. Opening memories are much like unwrapping gifts at random. Which gift shall I open next? Will it be the booby prize? Will it be a heart-leaping memory of joy? Happy? Sad?

Although the song this morning brought back some bittersweet times of December, I choose to focus more on the precious memories I have of Christmas past. As I put up my village this morning, I was reminded of the time when my grandson Colby was just a little kid and helped me with the village.

I put the cotton batting “snow” on a small table. “You take the houses out of the boxes and I’ll set them on the table,” I said.

Colby went to work. He opened the boxes, peeled off the protective tissue, tossed the boxes and tissue in the floor, and handed me the houses. When we finished, we admired the village. Then Colby looked around and said, “We sure did make a big mess, Grandma Linda.”

I had to laugh and agree. “We sure did!”

Christmas wouldn’t have been Christmas without a huge dinner prepared by my mother-in-law. The house would be overflowing with family and the air fragrant with turkey, ham, homemade light rolls, and pies. The table would groan beneath the weight of the food. The house and yard would be overflowing with family. Remembering those special times, makes it easy to feel the jolliness of Christmas.

Now, Christmas is a quiet time at our house. We will have our get-together with the kids and grandkids this Sunday. I plan on going to candlelight services on Christmas Eve. I believe some quiet reflection on the real reason for Christmas may be an excellent way to put it all in perspective. It seems like a good way to blend all memories into a greater meaning of life, love, and the reason for the season.

Copyright © December 2016 by L.S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

Excerpt from “Indelible”: Colorado 1998

Excerpt from “Indelible” (memoir in progress):

The next year we rented a cabin. Camping required loading so much equipment, and Jim had always done that.

“While I load the supplies, you need to pack your duffle bag,” I told Jim.

A short time later, he came out of the bedroom with his bulging bag. “I’m done,” he said. “Let’s hit the road.”

I went in the bedroom to grab my purse and noticed his underwear drawer open. It was empty.

I opened the duffle bag and found it stuffed with boxer shorts and socks, every pair he owned. The remainder of the bag was full of the paper towel squares that he was always folding.

Repacked and ready to go, we were soon on our way to Colorado. By this time, I drove most of the time. 

When we got to Estes Park, we decided to drive my Nissan up Fall River Road. Jim loved to videotape everything and he thoroughly enjoyed the ride. He videotaped every animal, rock, and flower we saw.

We drove the narrow one-way dirt road to the top of the mountain and spent some time at the visitor’s center. Rather than drive to Never Summer Ranch, I decided to take Trail Ridge Road back to Estes Park. As we traversed the winding road along the barren tundra, vertigo set in and I began to get nervous about driving. I pulled into a scenic overlook parking lot.

“Honey, I can’t stand driving this road with those drop offs.”

“I’ll drive,” Jim said. We traded places, and he expertly drove down the mountain with one hand on the steering wheel, totally relaxed. As soon as we got to lower ground, I took the wheel to get us through the more complex traffic in Estes Park.

Copyright © December 2016 by L.S. Fisher

The Wrong Way

Coming into Sedalia, the southbound lane of Highway 65 splits, one lane toward downtown, and the other lane continues through town. I was on my way to line dancing exercise class and used the right-hand lane to go to the Celebration Center.

I was thinking about how early darkness had fallen, when the car in front of me swerved to the right. Immediately, I was gazing into the shadow of death in the form of headlights coming my way. In my thousands of trips through this area, I had never once met a car going the wrong way.

I swerved to the right, and the car passed by on the left. In my rearview mirror, I saw the car turn around and head back in the correct direction rather than continue north in the southbound lane.

There has been more than one fatal accident locally with cars going the wrong way. I know of at least two that involved elderly persons with dementia. In one case, the family knew the man shouldn’t have been driving, but taking the keys away wasn’t easy. The person with dementia may balk at relinquishing them and family may be reluctant to take away a final piece of independence.

One of the phrases Jim used when dementia interfered with his speech was, “You’re going the wrong way.” He told me that all the time, but it wasn’t because I was physically going the wrong way. He was trying to tell me something was wrong, usually because I didn’t understand what he was trying to tell me.

In my opinion kindness, decency, and a positive attitude are going the wrong way. We have been bombarded with conspiracy theories, rumors, and character assassinations. I received a political advertisement in the mail that completely attacked the character of a man running for state office. The odd thing was that his opponent was not mentioned at all.

We’ve been inundated with negativity for so long, that it is having a detrimental impact on our quality of life. People are nervous, intimidated, and angry. I hate to think of the effect on long-term health, both physical and mental.

Perhaps the worst fallout from this exposure to negativity is alienation of family and friends. No one likes to be lumped into a group that has this, that, or another quality. Each of us has a different thought process and different deal breakers. Just because someone thinks differently doesn’t mean you are one hundred percent correct and they are one hundred percent wrong.

I’ve been wrong more than once. Luckily, I was wrong recently.

I sent a photo to an email address I copied from another source. An email came back. “I think you have the wrong person.”

I looked at the address and thought it was correct so I said the photo was attached taken at a recent meeting. “I don’t remember going to that meeting. When was it? My memory sometimes gets the best of me.” My heart sank. Oh, no, forgetting a meeting that occurred less than a week ago was not a good sign.

I swallowed hard and read the email to my husband. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “She was fine that night.” I had to agree with him. She was articulate, involved, and as spunky as ever.

As I sat there mulling over the situation, I noticed that I had left out a dot. I apologized to the person I had sent the photo to in error, and explained my mistake. I received a reply, “That ‘dot’ will get you every time!” I definitely sent it the wrong way…to the wrong person. Or was it the right person?

I have no idea who the unintended recipient was, but I appreciated his or her sense of humor. It was a lesson learned as far as I was concerned.

Maybe I’ve been looking at this entire political process the wrong way. I will admit I’ve have had a little fun when people share articles without reading them because of a misleading headline. The article may say exactly the opposite of what they presume it said, but they blow their stack over another perceived “outrage.”

Humor can ease a lot of angst. Don’t all of us need that now?  

Copyright © November 2016 by L.S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

Work in Progress

We writers often refer to our “work in progress” or WIP for short. When we speak these words, often in a self-depreciating way, we are referring to our current project. I’ve often said my attention span is too short to write a novel. Oh, I’ve started a few all right, even completed a draft of a mystery novel, but according to writing experts my WIP has a major flaw—the heroine turns out to be a villain.

I don’t believe a story should be predictable. I watched a movie this afternoon and within the first ten minutes I knew how the story was going to end. Of course, it took two hours before it got there, but it ended just as I knew it would. After all, it was a Hallmark movie and people have expectations. They want the movie to end with a sigh of contentment, not with a “I sure didn’t see that coming” response.

Real life isn’t anything like the movies with the predictable happy ending. It isn’t even like a well-written book that ties up all the loose ends. Life is unpredictable and more like looking into a kaleidoscope with ever-changing patterns.

When we’re young, we all have expectations as to what we want to be when we grow up. It was hard for me to accept that being a princess wasn’t going to happen.

After the reality of adulthood sets in, we still have things we want to do, places we want to see, and goals we want to reach. Some of us have a bucket list. It may not be written down. It may reside merely as a niggling sense of incompleteness in our lives. Unfinished business.

Life happens and plans change. Then change again. As we age, things either come together or they fall apart. Or both. Everything might be perking along without a single issue, and then life slaps us in the face or bonks us on the head.

The defining moment of change in my life was when Jim developed dementia. We had plans that didn’t include life as we knew it coming to a screeching halt. We had retirement dreams that involved travel flush with mountain time, southwest desert time, and, knowing Jim, long drives revisiting his childhood places. I never had a chance to see the bridge they lived under in Texas where Lyndon Johnson visited them, lending a helping hand.

Our dreams were sabotaged by a rare type of younger onset dementia. Jim changed from the decisive, intelligent, jokester, master musician, and loving, warm man he had been into a person dependent on others for his most basic care.

Being a primary caregiver is on-the-job training for a job no one wants. It isn’t that we don’t want to take care of our loved ones, it’s that we would give anything if the circumstances did not exist. We wish we could rewrite life’s story. Edit out the hurt and pain. Replace hard times with good times. Create that happy ending.

Dementia brings a life fraught with adversity: sadness, unfathomable challenges, and sometimes full blown anger at a disease that is robbing us of a person we love. Adversity is a two-sided mirror. If we look at life’s challenges one way, we see defeat. If we look at adversity another way, we see strength. Most of us will dig deep and find strength we never even suspected we had.

Odd as it may seem, adversity determines what we become. It is what gives us the passion to adopt a mission in life. Alzheimer’s wasn’t even on my radar, but taking up the purple banner has defined who I am. It has made me the person I am today—an advocate, Alzheimer’s volunteer, and blogger.

Writing has always been as important to me as breathing. The first time I put pen to paper was to write a story about a pet pig in elementary school. No one would want me to suffocate beneath the weight of an unfinished novel, my work without progress. I should have written it until “The End” was at the bottom of the last page, but I didn’t.

On the other hand, a blog is an endless work in progress, just like I am. A match made in blog heaven.

Copyright © January 2016 by L.S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

November is Caregivers Month: Caregiving Isn’t for Sissies

November is Caregivers Month, and I thought it was a good time to share my caregiver story.

I was eighteen years old when Jim and I were married in Honolulu, Hawaii. He was on R&R from Vietnam, and I was on Christmas break after two semesters of college.

We struggled financially for many years. Entertainment was hamburgers at Griffs, an occasional drive-in movie, jam sessions, fishing, camping, or traveling in one of our old vans and sleeping at rest areas. We were short on money, but took pride in paying our bills and putting a little aside.

Jim was always there for me. He was my strength, my companion, and my best friend. Jim had bouts of depression, and I worried about him. Our marriage never wavered; our love for each other was never in doubt.

We finally gained financial security and built our home. Just as we thought life was going to be easier for us, Jim began to have cognitive glitches shortly after he turned forty-nine. His forgetfulness didn’t seem as strange as his loss of mechanical skills. The man who once fixed our van with a piece of baling wire, couldn’t change the oil.

For years, we had gone to bed an hour early and read. It was our quiet time, our time together. Jim lost his ability to read. He became eccentric in the way he dressed, and compulsive about taping every program on TV.

By the time he was diagnosed, I realized the Jim I had loved for twenty-five years was turning into a different person. The man who had always been protective of me and so aware of my needs, began to turn inward. Surely there was a simple explanation—a stroke, a vitamin deficiency, depression. The day the doctor told us that tests results showed Jim had dementia, I asked, “What could cause that?” The answer was shocking: dementia of the Alzheimer’s type.

We knew that whatever happened, we were in this together. We cried for hours as we faced the new reality. We were not satisfied until tests exhausted all other plausible possibilities. Somewhere along the line, I realized that I was going to have to get a grip on the grief and make some sense out of this tragedy.

My first step in the right direction was to learn as much as I could about Alzheimer’s and caregiving. Knowledge became power and helped bolster my confidence. I took caregiving classes, read numerous books, watched documentaries about Alzheimer’s.

I became an Alzheimer’s Association volunteer and advocate—first locally and then nationally. Most people thought I was crazy to take on volunteer work when caregiving took so much of my time. Jim only slept about four hours a night and I spent a lot of my sleepless nights working on Memory Walk, or writing letters to my legislators or to the editor of the local paper. Alzheimer’s made me feel out of control, and being a volunteer gave me a purpose and direction at a time when I desperately needed it.

Jim wandered off constantly and to keep him safe, I put him in a long-term care facility. My caregiving did not end when he went into the facility. I was comfortable bathing Jim, providing his personal care, feeding him, and watching TV with him. We would stop at Dairy Queen, go to the park or just drive around.

Aphasia made Jim silent, but that also meant he was a good listener. Sometimes a sparkle in his eyes let me know that he understood at least part of what I told him.

Jim had more company than anyone else in the facility. Our sons and extended family made sure he had a steady stream of loved ones to check in on him and spend time with him. Throughout the ten years of Jim’s dementia, we learned to cope and adapt to the myriad of changes Jim went through. The one constant that never changed was our unconditional love for Jim.

I lived life in the present without looking back to what he had been because it made me sad. I learned to not think too much about the road ahead or I would worry about what was coming. I could hug him close and kiss him. I could place my head on his chest and hear the irregular beat that was so distinctly Jim’s heart.

Jim left this world in 2005, and I miss him still. I miss the youthful Jim, and even more, I miss the Jim he would have been in old age.

copyright © November 2014 by L.S. Fisher

earlyonset.blogspot.com

  

Tis the Season to be Joyful—or Stressed

Holiday Lights in Branson

We all hold tightly to traditions that lift our spirits. Some holidays are so special they create golden glows in our memories. It may be challenging to remain joyful about the holidays if you are a primary caregiver for a loved one with dementia.

Much of the season may be spent running interference between your loved one and relatives, friends, or neighbors that just don’t get it. You may need to make adjustments to protect your loved one and your sanity. With careful planning, even these difficult times may seem like small miracles on your own street.

After spending ten holiday seasons as a primary caregiver, I had time to learn how to survive the holidays. I would like to share a few tips I learned—mostly from trial and error.

• Keep it Simple. Less is better in all things holiday. Just because you have a thousand points of light, don’t string them everywhere. Avoid going overboard with decorations, food, and celebrations.
• Don’t Shop Till You Drop. Slash your gift list to immediate family. Consider the advantages of shopping online or purchasing gift cards. If you enjoy shopping, find someone to stay with your loved one and plan a weekend away. Shop. Relax. Shop. Relax. Repeat the relaxing as often as necessary.
•  Strive for Peace and Joy. Go back to the basics and the reason for the season. Read inspiring holiday stories. You can enjoy a tin of popcorn and watch a movie on TV. If your loved one can’t make it to the grandchildren’s holiday program, have mom or dad record it and watch it at home.
• Jingle Bells. Enjoy traditional Christmas music with your loved one. You may love the Trans-Siberian Orchestra, but your loved one will more likely enjoy “White Christmas” or even “Frosty the Snowman.” Music can trigger happy memories.
• Keep Traditions You Love. Only you know which traditions you keep because you enjoy them. If you spend hours baking or making candy just because everyone expects you to do it—stop!
• Allow More Time. When you are a caregiver, it just takes more time to get things done. You will want to avoid getting frazzled and cranky because you ran out of time. Plan ahead and let your loved one with dementia help you. How about letting her slather icing on sugar cookies? Does it really matter if they are perfect? Maybe he would like to stick bows or nametags on packages for the grandkids.
• Give the Gift of Love. If you are so stressed out trying to make the holidays perfect for everyone, you forget the most important thing. Slow down, take a deep breath, laugh and find happiness in the moment. Remember the greatest gift of all is love.

In the early stages, I would drive Jim around town to look at the holiday lights. In the late stages, Jim would spend hours looking at the little fiber optic tree I put in his room at the nursing home. Feeding him on Christmas day is, believe it or not, a memory I cherish. I remember holding his hand while we watched the little tree whirl round and round and listened to the same Christmas songs we sang in elementary school.  Even the most poignant times have turn into precious memories.

Copyright Dec 2011 L.S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

Nontraditional Holidays

The best holidays are a marriage of tradition and new tradition. A traditional holiday can cause unnecessary grief and stress when a loved one has dementia. The family get-together that used to the highlight of the year can become the most depressing day of the year.

Our holidays were always split between Jim’s family and mine. Thanksgiving was the time my family gathered at the old home place for turkey, dressing, gravy, pumpkin pie, and all the side dishes and trimmings. After dinner, the kids (big and small) would go outside to mill around and maybe play a game of touch football. One year, Jim videotaped the game. Ever the showoff with his video skills, he brought it inside and played it on my mom and dad’s TV. We were all laughing at the game until my dad yelled, “Oh, my god! That’s my new tree,” when a couple of kids scuffled over the ball taking the spindly sapling to the ground.

The old home place groaned when filled with eight of us “kids” and our families, Mom and Dad, and the invitees that didn’t have a family dinner of their own. We felt sorry for those folks and thought that with the size of our family, it would never happen to us. Even the most distant cousin was a welcome guest at our traditional dinner

.

The first time I went to the dinner alone was when the reality set in that Thanksgiving dinner would never be the same. Jim was in the nursing home, and I knew the more than hour drive and crowd of rowdy family would no longer be a pleasant experience for him. It was a long lonely drive but once I arrived, the family time was worth the change in tradition

.

Eventually, my family decided to rotate homes for the annual get-together and changed the time to September. We were on our own for Thanksgiving for the first time in decades. After my mother-in-law passed, my other home for the holidays was gone. My kids, in the meantime, had both developed their own traditions.

The past few years, I’ve enjoyed a traditional thanksgiving with my friend who was on his own after his mom passed away. The holiday has been different, but with the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, some of it seemed the same. It was still Turkey Day—for days on end. More like Turkey Week. How much turkey can two people eat?

Isn’t it time for a new tradition? You bet. This year we are grilling steak. Sometimes, a nontraditional holiday can take on a life of its own and possibly become a new tradition. We can enjoy the meal without the aftermath of enough food to feed an army. Cleanup will be easy and we will have more time to be thankful for all the blessings life has brought our way.

A little non-tradition may be the pumpkin pie spice of life you need to bring joy back into your holidays. Maybe a little less reflection on what used to be and more hopeful thought to new possibilities. I hope you find peace and happiness during the holidays regardless of how you celebrate.

 

Copyright © November 2011 by L.S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

  

A Vietnam Veterans Tribute

The Sedalia Democrat hosted a Tribute in honor of the 50^th Anniversary of the Vietnam War. Leading up to the event, Latisha Koetting tracked down family member to tell the stories of the men whose names are inscribed on the Vietnam Memorial on the courthouse lawn. I’ve been saving the newspaper stories because the stories of these young men tug at my heart.

During the course of the event, three local veterans told their stories. James “Smitty” Smith told about adopting a daughter while serving in Vietnam. He spoke of his struggles to go though different embassies and how surprised he was that he had to take the baby out of the orphanage. He found a place for them to live until eventually he sent the baby home with another soldier. His daughter Teresa, who works for homeland security, was present and spoke about how she owed her existence to the Vietnam War and how grateful she was to her mom and dad.

Jim Clark told a humorous account of his time in Vietnam although he had serious injuries. He said that he liked to tell tall tales sometimes so he told a friend one time about the day he was injured. He was in a field without cover and he spoke of trying to hide behind a watermelon. His story was that he took out his knife and cut the buttons off his shirt. “Why did you do that,” he said his friend asked. Clark’s answer, “So I could get lower to the ground.”

The final speaker, Gregg Davis, spoke of living through the loss of his legs and other injuries. He told of how his men ripped up their shirts to make tourniquets for him and another wounded Marine. Gregg was vocal about the damage caused by Agent Orange and the government’s lack of response. He spoke of the name-calling and how the Vietnam Veteran’s were treated after they came home.

It was Gregg’s story that made me think of Jim. I’m sure Jim would have agreed with Gregg’s views a hundred percent. I can’t remember who said it, but one of the speakers said a veteran told him, “I died in Vietnam; I just didn’t know it.” I believe that is true for a lot of the Veterans. I know the war was a big transition for Jim, and he was a different person when he came back.

Jim’s picture was included in a tribute video along with more than sixty Vietnam Veterans who have died since the war. Latisha Koetting made an observation that it seems like the Vietnam Veterans are dying at a younger age that previous veterans. This agrees with my own thinking. I’m afraid we aren’t going to see many old Vietnam Veterans. I can’t help but wonder what part Agent Orange had to do with Jim’s physical problems, and I know that PSTD had everything to do with his depression and emotional problems. It only leaves the question as to whether the war had anything to do with the rare form of early-onset dementia that Jim had.

These thoughts and the tribute must have been the reason I had a dream about Jim last night. I dreamed Jim wore a brown sweater that was much too big for him. He pulled the sweater across his chest one side over the other. “I don’t feel like me in here,” he said, with his hands over his heart. I straightened the sweater and buttoned it for him. I put my arms around him and held him close to me. “Now do you feel like yourself?” I asked. He smiled and said, “Yes, I do.”

When I awakened from the dream, I felt like I had been holding Jim while he slipped into the world of dementia. The feeling of loss was as strong as ever, but the unbearable thought was his loss of self.

The tribute was sad, but it was also long overdue. Jim would have appreciated the tribute, but he would have left before “Taps.” The sad tune always made him think of funeral duty during the year after he returned from his tour of duty in Vietnam. The war changed everything for Jim and for our family. I think he died there, but just didn’t know it.

Copyright © Oct 2011 L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

My Recollections, Our Memories

“Mom and I went to the Mennonite restaurant to eat, and there was a hearse parked right in front of it,” I said to my brother, Donnie. I had stopped by the nursing home to visit him while I was in town. “I couldn’t help but wonder if a coffin was in the back—in this sweltering heat! Mom said, ‘Even hearse drivers have to eat.’” I told Donnie about my covert glance into the hearse, and we shared a laugh about my concern.

Donnie’s speech is slurred from strokes, and I have to listen closely to hear what he has to say. The hearse story reminded him of a memory. “Do you remember when Butch Gardner bought that old hearse? He thought he was really going to get the girls to go out with him, but none of them would ride in the hearse.”

I laughed at the memory of the hearse. “That wasn’t Butch that owned that hearse,” I said, delving into my own memory. “It was a guy named Bruce—he was Claude and Leroy’s cousin. He was a good-looking guy, and I did go out with him in the hearse. Mom and dad disagreed on whether I could go or not, but they finally let me. The date turned out to be the two of us and a whole carload of kids in the back.”

“Yeah, I remember riding in the back,” Donnie said. “I thought it was Butch.”

“Remember, we went to a creek and went swimming. That was my ‘date’ in the hearse.”

“I think that was our club that went to the creek in the hearse,” Donnie said.

“I believe it was too,” I said. A big group of us country kids formed a club and went on different activities together. Butch was in that club, so that’s probably why Donnie thought the hearse belonged to him.

“Do you remember the skating party?” I asked. “That was the second time I ever saw Jim. I told Jim our club was going to be at the skating rink and he met us there. He wore a shirt with the sleeves ripped off.”

Donnie nodded and I knew that he too was remembering Jim. After Jim and I greeted each other, he went to get his skates. I sat on a bench next to Claude to lace up my skates. “Is that guy bothering you?” Claude asked. I’m sure he thought Jim was some kind of local punk. “If he is, just say the word and I’ll straighten him out!”

I reassured Claude that I knew Jim and had invited him to the skating party. I was touched since Claude was a mild mannered kid and Jim was a former Golden Gloves boxer.

Donnie and I laughed over our shared memories.

In a serious moment, Donnie said, “I think I know more people that have died that I know who are alive.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. The memories I had just shared about Claude and Jim, once a shared memory between the three of us, is now mine alone. Both of them are gone.

I kissed Donnie on the cheek, feeling good about our visit. Some days he is depressed or upset, but today we had found a happy place in our shared memories.

Our visit made me remember how vivid Jim’s memories were before dementia erased them. Before dementia, little slices of life lived in Jim’s memories long after I had forgotten them. I thought about how sad it was when our memories were gone, and how lonely I felt when Jim couldn’t remember our special times together.

Our memories are flawed because we each see life from an individualized perspective. Certain moments in life are etched into our brains with clarity, while others are fuzzy and out of focus. The older we get, the more memories become so buried that we may never retrieve them again.

Memories may be distorted by time or disease, but if we voice our recollections, those reminiscences are a way to reconnect to a shared past. After stories are erased from our brains, they can linger forever in our hearts.

Copyright © July 2011 L.S. Fisher
http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

Long Term Care Decision

One of the most difficult decisions a family has to make is determining when it is time to place their loved one in a long-term care facility. The decision is emotionally charged and financially draining.

Our first choice is to keep our loved ones at home and, in fact, 70% of people with dementia are cared for at home. In the early stages of the disease, this is the most appropriate care. As the disease progresses, the primary caregiver must remain vigilant to changes that could make homecare unsafe.

Many times family members will ask me how I knew it was time to place Jim in long-term care. My final decision was complicated, but at crunch time, two important aspects became the deciding factors.

First, Jim only slept about four hours a night, and I was physically exhausted. During his waking hours, it became imperative to be watchful. Providing twenty-four hour a day care for an adult is different than watching over children. As Jim’s reasoning process deteriorated, each day brought new challenges as I coped with escalating situations about driving, wandering off, relentless pacing, anger issues, and depression. He became the telemarketers’ best friend as he agreed to purchases for products we didn’t need or want.

The second deciding factor involved his safety. Even though I hired caregivers, installed an alarm on the front door, and felt like I sometimes had the proverbial eyes in the back of my head, he still managed to wander off from time to time. I took him to a facility for day care only to have them call to tell me they couldn’t keep track of him. He had picked up his guitar and headed off down the road toward the highway.

Eventually, I realized that if Jim wandered off in extreme weather and I didn’t find him in time, we wouldn’t have to make a nursing home decision. I didn’t want my husband to be lost and alone without the ability to find his way to safety.

It was a heartbreaking moment when I admitted defeat. I always knew that Jim couldn’t help being the way he was, but dementia had become the victor. It was time to do what was best for both of us—his safety and my sanity.

My sons and my mother-in-law knew the time had come to find a safe environment for Jim. Other than those three, I didn’t seek or want anyone else’s input. The more people involved in the decision making process, the more complicated it becomes. Too often it is the family members who haven’t helped in the day-in-day-out caregiving that least understand why long-term care has become necessary.

My friend, Ted, kept his wife at home until the stress sent him to the hospital for open-heart surgery. The doctor told Ted to either find a home for his wife or start making his funeral arrangements. That may seem a little extreme, but often the caregiver is the one who dies and then someone else has to make the long-term care decision.

The only people who truly understand how hard it is to be a primary caregiver are those who have been one. Visiting a person with dementia for a few hours or even a few days does not create true understanding. Sometimes our love for the person with dementia throws us into denial.

A diagnosis of Alzheimer’s is hard to accept and if you haven’t seen the day-to-day changes, it is easier to believe the physician has made a mistake. One visitor told me, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with his memory. He talked about his childhood friends and remembered every detail about Oregon.” Short-term memory goes first, and yes, at that time Jim could remember things that happened thirty years ago, but sometimes couldn’t remember our sons’ names.

The only way to know if it is time to place your loved one in long-term care is to look at the day-in-day-out situation and base the decision on what is best for the person with dementia and the primary caregiver.

Stay fully engaged with your loved one once he or she is placed in a home. Rather than second-guessing the long-term care decision, use smiles, hugs, and thoughtful gifts or treats to make your visits a joyful occasion for both of you.

Copyright © May 2011 by L. S. Fisher
http://earlyonset.blogspot.com/

A Pac-Man Kind of Morning

Sunday morning I awoke to a sound that catapulted me into a déjà vu moment: Mario Karts. The Super Nintendo belonged to Jim and Mario Karts was his favorite game to play. My youngest son was sitting on the floor in front of the TV showing his three-year-old how to play.

“Put this game in, Daddy,” my grandson said.

So Rob popped in a different Mario game. While Rob played the game, my grandson was looking at the pictures on the other games. “Oh, put the pirate game in!”

“That’s actually Donkey Kong on a Pirate Ship.” But Rob put it in and started it up. Within a few minutes, that game was forgotten when another game pak caught my grandson’s attention.

“Play Race Cars,” was soon followed with, “Football!” My grandson happily pushed buttons on the football game and got all excited when he heard “First down!” It didn’t matter if it was his team or the other, he felt like he was part of the game.

“These games are pretty primitive,” Rob said. Compared to the realistic new games, they are indeed.

Rob picked up Ms. Pac-Man and started it. My seven-year-old granddaughter decided to play. She quickly caught on and alternately ran from the ghosts until Ms. Pac-Man gobbled a power pack and then she chased them.

“The Christmas we got the Pac-Man game we stayed up all night playing it,” I said.

“That was on the Atari,” Rob said. “It had a joy stick.”

I couldn’t remember what the old players were called and Rob reminded me that our first player was an Odyssey. “You played Pong on it by twisting dials,” he said.

The video games were never my thing, but Jim and our sons played many spirited games. They were competitive with each other and with their individual high scores.

My granddaughter became discouraged when she couldn’t clear the Ms. Pac-Man screen. “Try to beat your own score,” Rob told her.

It was the smaller score to the left of the high score still recorded from long ago. I don’t know whether the score was Jim’s or one of the kid’s. “I bet I could beat that high score in one game,” Rob said. Soon he had the first screen cleared and moved to the next level. It wasn’t long before a new high score replaced the old one.

What else could you expect from the son of the Game Master? Jim played for many years after he developed dementia. Some of the caregivers I hired to watch him while I worked played games with him. Jim was still a formidable player.

Jim passed down his love of playing games to our sons, and they, in turn, passed it on to our grandchildren. The game sounds brought back memories and I could feel Jim’s presence and imagine his big smile and laughter at small hands on the same game controls he had held so many times. Jim would have loved to see his son and grandchildren play the games he used to play.

This morning was a glimpse of what might have been but never was. Just another example of how each day dawns a little differently, and each sun sets a little askew.

Copyright © November 2010 L. S. Fisher
http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

When Puzzle Pieces Don’t Fit

When Jim developed dementia, I thought it would be a good activity for us to put jigsaw puzzles together. I set up a table and we worked on a 750 piece puzzle. Jim always felt good when he could fit a piece into the puzzle. Sometimes, he bent pieces trying to force them into places where they “almost” fit.

I went to a Business Women of Missouri conference this weekend and was particularly impressed with speaker Mary Gage’s comparison of life to a jigsaw puzzle. She gave some blog-worthy information in her motivating session. One of the things she talked about that I thought was relevant to my life was how sometimes a piece don’t seem to fit, and we just have to lay it aside and put it in later when we find where it belongs.

She asked if anyone ever tried to put a puzzle together without looking at the picture. Not a single hand was raised. No, we all want to know what the picture looks like before we start putting the pieces together. Besides, if we are honest, it makes it a whole lot easier. We don’t waste time trying to place a piece of grass at the top of the puzzle when we know from the picture that it goes at the bottom.

As with many conferences, my “ah-ha” moment didn’t come from the speaker, but rather from a stranger sitting across the table from me. We had a puzzle on our table, and as a group, we were asked to put the puzzle together. Well, it wasn’t a jigsaw puzzle, or I’d still be sitting at that table trying to do my part. It was one of those children’s puzzles with probably less than 30 pieces in it.

We chatted while we put the puzzle together, and the woman said she was a “puzzle person” and that one time she had planned an exercise with puzzles. She had taken two puzzles with the same picture and mixed them together. The idea was that the pieces would be interchangeable and make two puzzles when they were done.

I’m not sure what the point of the exercise was, but she learned that just because two puzzles have the same picture, doesn’t mean the pieces are interchangeable. What she discovered was that the pictures were identical on the boxes, but pieces were shaped differently.

So where is my “ah-ha” moment in this story? People with Alzheimer’s have the same picture on the outside that they had before they developed the disease, but they are trying to fit pieces from a different puzzle into their life’s picture. It’s like they’ve been handed a different box of puzzle pieces to fit into the puzzle they already have. The pieces no longer fall into place, and even if you put one aside, you won’t find a place for it later.

We all know from past experience, that unless the pieces are a perfect fit, you can’t force them into place. A misfit piece leaves a gap, and you know immediately it won’t work. Occasionally, you will find a piece of a puzzle that seems to fit, but it may stand out from the surrounding pieces because it is the wrong color and doesn’t complete the picture.

While Jim and I worked on our puzzles, he would sometimes pick up a piece and walk away with it in his hand. He would lay the pieces down in out of the way spots and sometimes I couldn’t find them. In the completed puzzle all the pieces we had fit neatly together, but sometimes as many as five pieces were missing.

We know where we want our lives to go, and we plug away at the pieces until we find where they belong. But isn’t our personal life’s big picture fuzzy and not a finished image? I believe that our pictures change and our puzzle pieces are constantly adapting to the uncertainty.

When a person has Alzheimer’s, he struggles every day to fill in missing pieces of this puzzle called life. By being supportive, you might help your loved one find some of the misplaced pieces and fit them where they belong.

Copyright © August 2010 L. S. Fisher
http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

Already August

I turned the calendar this morning and found it hard to believe it is already August. Before this month is over, kids will be back in school, and we’ll all be wondering what happened to the summer and all the plans we made in the springtime.

When I was in elementary school, it seemed to me that summer lasted for a long time. The first day of school some kids had changed so much over the vacation we might not recognize them at first glance.

Now that we are adults, we don’t usually see drastic changes over three months’ time. It’s hard to notice a few more “laugh lines” or that the sun is glinting off more gray hair than the last time we saw someone. And unless you are in the educational field, you most likely see your co-workers nearly every day and don’t have much occasion to be shocked by a change that happened while you weren’t looking.

August is State Fair month. It is usually extremely hot or stormy. What is it about the State Fair that brings out the worst in the weather? Is it because all us wimps are used to air conditioning and suddenly find ourselves in the great outdoors—walking around on hot pavement—without any shade. What’s not to love about that?

It seems like time goes by faster than it ever did. Not only is summer almost gone, but with surprising speed we’ll be into 2011. Here we are ten years into the twenty-first century and I still sometimes want to put “19” in front of the year.

August was once a time of birthday celebrations. Jim would have been 65 years old later this month. He lost the battle with dementia more than five years ago—and never made it to his 60th birthday.

At one time, in my youth, I’m sure I thought anyone in his or her 60s was ancient. Now, it doesn’t seem old at all. I have three older siblings who are in their 60s, and I’m getting pretty darn close to it myself. I have a little time left, but as fast as time goes by, we’re going to have to call the fire department before anyone lights the candles.

Growing older is like anything else—there is good and bad. On the plus side, I think we older people don’t worry so much about what others think of us. We still like to look good, but we would rather have a few wrinkles than have a surgeon pull our faces into a plastic mask. Some of us wear our gray hairdos proudly, or else we just cover the gray with whatever dye suits our fancy. See a man with a bald spot and you’ll often see one that shaves it all off as if he had it planned all along. Another plus side to getting older—our eyesight begins to fail us and (guess what!) that makes everyone look better. We can’t see the flaws like we once could.

On the downside, we find we can’t always ignore some of the things we used to. Last night when I woke up with a heavy feeling in my chest, I debated whether it was from all the acidy tomatoes I had eaten, or whether I needed to call 911 to get emergency medical help. I look at myself in the mirror and think, I may not feel too old, but I am for sure old enough to have to consider a heart attack as something not too far out of the realm of possibilities.

Another down side—you may only pack on a pound or two a year, but we know what that means. The more candles on the cake, the more likely we are to be packing extra pounds around the old midsection. That in turn causes health problems—diabetes, high cholesterol and triglycerides, high blood pressure, and on and on and on. We wind up with problems in body parts that we didn’t even know we had. Thank goodness for Google and all the health networks available with all the symptoms, side effects, and health alerts that any aging computer savvy middle-age-going-on-senior might have.

Here it is already August—and the next thing you know it will be autumn. Probably in the next week or so Halloween decorations will be in the stores. Time passes by, we flip the calendars and wonder what happened to summer. It used to seem like it lasted so long and now it just flashes by with the speed of life.

Copyright © August 2010 L.S. Fisher
http://earlyonset@hotmail.com

Remembering Furry Friends

Between Memorial Day and writing two stories about pets to submit to Chicken Soup for the Soul, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about special pets our family has had over the years. This was further reinforced by seeing two families giving away pets in Wal-Mart’s parking lot today.

I couldn’t help but think about the time we did that. Lacy was a stray dog came to live at our house. She promptly delivered a litter of puppies and then got hit by a car. We had six puppies to hand feed. I named one little long-haired puppy Ragamuffin, and figured I might as well get used to her because I didn’t think we could give her away. Today, I was trying to remember the names of all the puppies, and was a little surprised that I couldn’t. I remembered the long-haired male was Jiffy. Two little puppies looked so much alike we named them Eppie and Popo. I’m blank on the other names.

I remember when we took them to the parking lot a family came over and their little boy started manhandling the puppies. I cringed inside and worried about the puppy when the boy walked off clutching him around his middle.

Ragamuffin was shortened to Muffin, a name that suited the loving sweet-natured dog. She was a member of our household for several years until she disappeared one Thanksgiving Day. I was heartbroken and swore I would never let myself get that close to a dog again.

Jim and I were lying in bed reading on a cold February night when Eric announced he had adopted a puppy at the pound and had named him Tuffy. Jim was really upset with him and said, “Take that dog back!” Eric showed the puppy to his dad, but Jim said, “I’m not holding it!”

Eric picked up the dog and was gone for a while. When he came back, Jim said, “What did you do with the puppy.”

“I dumped him,” Eric said.

Jim jumped out of bed and started getting dressed. “We have to go find him! He’ll freeze to death!”

“I’ll go get him,” Eric said. “He’s out in the garage.”

“You go get him right now,” Jim said, “and bring him here.”

Well, Jim held “Tuffy” and decided his name had to be Bubba. Along with renaming the dog, he staked a claim as owner. Eventually, Eric gave him the dog.

When Jim went on vacation to visit his family in Idaho, he called every night checking on us, but mostly checking on Bubba. His cousin told me, “I could understand Jim being homesick for you and the kids, but he’s coming home early because he misses his dog!”

Jim and Bubba were inseparable. Even after Jim was in the nursing home, I could mention Bubba and a sparkle lit up Jim’s eyes. “I took Bubba to the vet today,” I told Jim one night at the while I fed him. Jim had become silent, but his eyes shifted away from the TV and toward me. “You know what the vet told me? He said Bubba needed to go on a diet.” Jim smiled slightly. The vet had been telling us for years that Bubba was too fat. Well, he did weigh 90 pounds, but he was really big boned and had ten pounds of fur we had sheared off in the summertime.

“You know what I told him?” I asked Jim. He gave me a look that showed he was really listening to the story. After all, I was talking about Bubba, his best furry friend. “I told the vet ‘Bubba is twelve years old. He is fat, has always been fat, and always will be fat. I’m not about to put him on a diet now!’” Jim laughed. Yep, that was the way it was with Bubba. He had never gone hungry and there was no need to try it in his old age.

Bubba died while Jim was in the nursing home. I talked about Bubba from time to time and never indicated that he was gone. In Jim’s heart, his dog Bubba was always happy enough to wag his whole body, just like always.

It is hard to lose a pet, and sometimes you don’t think you ever want to go through the heartbreak again. But when you don’t take that chance, you miss out on so much. Jim thought he didn’t want another dog, but dementia couldn’t erase the spot in his heart reserved for Bubba.

Copyright © June 2010 L. S. Fisher
http://earlyonset.blogspot.com/

Alzheimer's Weekly - Young Hope, Tracy's Story

I first met Tracy Mobley in Washington DC at the Alzheimer's Public Policy Forum. It didn't take long for me to discover what an amazing woman she is. Most of us would crumble if given an Alzheimer's diagnosis at 38 years old. Tracy became a spokesperson and took action to help others diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's.

Tracy wrote a book based on her journal--Young Hope: The Broken Road. Tracy has quite a sense of humor. When I asked her to submit a story for Alzheimer's Anthology of Unconditional Love, I'm not sure what I expected. I don't think I expected a story called "Thank God for Pizza Pockets and Husbands." But then, knowing Tracy, I shouldn't have been surprised.

Tracy collected blocks for a memory quilt that she pieced together honoring our loved ones with Alzheimer's. She made Jim's block herself! I was so touched by her thoughtfulness. Tracy worked diligently to set up Camp Building Bridges for children whose parents have Alzheimer's.

With all her accomplishments, Tracy is a truly humble person. If you ask her what is important to her, I'm sure she would say being a good mom to Austin, a good wife, and faithful to God.

In Tracy's Poem, "The Alzheimer's Prayer", she says:

One more thing, Dear Lord, before I forget,
if I can no longer speak
Will You let them know I love them
and though I may have changed, I am still the same me

Alzheimer's Weekly chose Tracy's film as their pick from the winners of the 2010 Neuro Film Festival. You may not have had a chance to meet Tracy, but watch James Dreyer's film for a glimpse into her life.

Alzheimer's Weekly - Tracy's Entry

copyright (c) April 2010 L. S. Fisher
http://earlyonset.blogspot.com
Baby Boomer Blog: http://boomerobics.blogspot.com

Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

Jim liked to play the lottery, and insisted he would eventually hold the winning numbers and become a millionaire. I always said I didn’t want to win.

“That doesn’t make sense. Of course, you want to win!” he insisted.

“No, I don’t. It would just mess up my life,” I said. I had read too many stories about people who won a million dollars and used their newfound wealth to spend themselves into bankruptcy. Too many people think a jackpot is an infinite amount and when they live a multi-millionaire lifestyle, a measly million didn’t go as far as they thought it would.

Well, Jim never hit that jackpot, and I simply don’t play, so there is no danger of me becoming wealthy overnight. Still I was surprised to read a story in the paper a few days ago about someone who wasn’t thrilled by winning $1 million.

Grigory Perelman, a 43-year-old unemployed Russian man, solved a mathematical problem that seemed to be unsolvable and was awarded $1 million for his wisdom. On the surface he seems to be one smart fellow, but he hasn’t accepted his prize money, and isn’t sure he will.

Okay, I’ll be the first to admit I’m not a mathematical genius, but it seems to me that if you had the choice of (a) being unemployed with little or no income or (b) being handed $1 million, odds are you wouldn’t have to be a genius to choose (b).

The International Mathematics Congress isn’t too surprised since Mr. Perelman previously snubbed the Fields Medal, considered to be the equivalent of a Nobel Prize in Mathematics. They are willing to give him time to think about the award and are hopeful he will accept it. I think Perelman should turn the problem into an algebraic equation that plots out his life if he accepts the million versus what happens if he declines.

This story made me stop and think about my long-term attitude that I didn’t want to win the lottery. I can’t see myself turning down $1 million if someone offered it to me. I can’t help but wonder, what is Grigory thinking?

In reality, Jim was the type of person who would turn down $1 million if he thought the money would compromise his principals. When Jim was in Vietnam, he turned down a purple heart because he didn’t consider his wounds to be severe enough to warrant the medal. He received an Army Commendation medal and never told anyone. I learned about it when I saw his discharge papers years later. By then, Jim had dementia and couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell me why he received the award.

Yes, I could imagine Jim turning down $1 million, but not me—the person who didn’t want her life ruined. I’m much too practical to scoff at instant riches.

On the surface, Grigory Perelman might seem to be foolish to the nth degree, but we don’t know about his life, his expectations, his principals, or how much he wants to remain his own man, a private person.

Apparently, not everyone wants to be a millionaire. Geniuses among us realize riches aren’t measured by dollars, but you don’t have to be brilliant to figure that out.

Copyright (c) April 2010 L. S. Fisher
http://earlyonset.blogspot.com
http://boomerobics.bogspot.com

The Best Days of Our Lives

As we wade through the quagmire of life, nostalgia can slam into us with the force of a tidal wave. During the hardest times, it is easy to suffer a case of the used to be’s or might have been’s.

Unlike physical life, your emotional well-being benefits more from the occasional tidal wave than the predictability of the tide. Occasional teary eyes about losses can be a healthy release, but constant sadness wears you down and takes a toll on your health as grief robs you of any good days.

Dementia can be a sad and lonely disease. During the ten years of Jim’s dementia, I lived only in the present. I learned to accept him as he was at that moment without comparing him to the man he had been, or worrying about the changes ahead. I didn’t want to become emotionally entangled in reminiscences of better times. While I was a caregiver, any other time, even rough ones, might seem like the best days of my life.

Now, nearly five years after Jim’s death, I don’t dread memories as much. They still sneak up on me and catch me off guard. Yesterday, I opened my patio door to let some fresh spring air into my home, and lit a candle to add a subtle berry scent. Lighting the candle made me pause as a rush of memories washed over me.

A few minutes later, I was putting away the nametag from the Alzheimer’s Action Summit and a basket with Jim’s driver’s license and old eyeglasses caught my attention. I picked up the license and looked at his picture, saw his vital statistics, and noted with sadness that the license expired in 1998. When the picture was taken we didn’t know Jim would develop dementia. Jim is gaunt in the photo, and I remember how concerned we were for him at the time. Inexplicably, he had gone through a period of weight loss, and my heart ached when I held him in my arms and could feel his ribs.

It is strange how some of the smallest routine moments can catapult us into another day or time of our lives. In retrospect, your recollections may be dominated with only good, or entirely bad, memories rather than embracing life’s balance. If you remember only the bad, you let past failures or traumas ruin your present. If you remember only the good, you lose the value of lessons learned and will repeat the same mistakes. Memories, like life, need balance.

Looking back at your life is like looking at a picture of a scenic landscape. A gnarled, barren tree may make the picture more appealing than perfection. You don’t feel sorry for the tree—you just see it as a natural development of time and weather.

We all develop our own version of gnarled trees. It may be the result of hard economic times, poor health, addiction, broken relationships, death, or a myriad of calamities.

Sometimes an entire forest is decimated by a wildfire, and we see only smoldering remains of a previously lush, living landscape. The circle of life embraces us and gives us comfort even when we seem to be surrounded by charred ruins. After the healing power of time, shoots push through the soil, and fast growing trees and shrubs cover the blackened earth.

Part of the secret of letting go of the past is to acknowledge you can’t go back and change what has already happened. You don’t need to long for how your life was at one time, or regret how different your life could have been if you had made better choices. You can only move forward with confidence that the best days of your life are ahead of you, and the best one of all is today.

copyright (c) March 2010 L. S. Fisher
http://earlyonset.blogspot.com/

Dick Clark and a New Decade

I hardly ever stay awake to welcome in the New Year, but I did this year. Of course, the only reason for me to watch TV until midnight is to witness the ball drop in New York City. Dick Clark, known for years as America’s oldest teenager, looked amazingly handsome, but his slow, measured speech was hard to understand.

Dick Clark’s faltering words reminded me of the changes in Jim’s speech when dementia caused him to develop aphasia. Jim’s hesitant speech was filled with repetitive phrases and eventually turned into silence. Late in the disease, it was hard to remember the days of intriguing conversations and shared jokes.

Dick Clark’s impaired speech was caused by a stroke in 2004. Eighty-year-old Clark has made an amazing recovery.

“They were debating on TV this morning about whether it is really a new decade,” my friend said.

“I’m no mathematician, but I can tell you that the decade will start next year,” I replied.

I learned the lesson of time from a Trivial Pursuit game years ago. The question: What date is the first day of the 21st century? I didn’t even need to think about it—I had always puzzled over why the years started with 19, but the show on TV was “The Twentieth Century.” I thought the trick was that the 2000s were the 21st century.

“January 1, 2000,” I said.

“Wrong,” my brother-in-law Dennis replied. “January 1, 2001.” After a lengthy discussion, we decided the card was a misprint. After all, Henry Salveter, our cooperative attorney at the time and one of the smartest men I ever knew, always said he was born the last day of the last month of the last century and his birthday was December 31, 1899.

Later that night, I lay in bed thinking about it and suddenly realized the card was correct. When time began, the first year would begin at 0 and twelve months later would be 1. In grammar school we all learned that 101-1=100. Lo, and behold, the new century would begin in 2001.

I discussed the turn of the century, before it happened, with my brother Mitchell. He mulled it over in his logical way and asked me, “When do you think the parties will be?”

During the countdown to 2010, I noticed Dick Clark missed a few numbers, repeated a few, but was back on track by the time the ball dropped and he said, “Welcome to the new decade.”

Technically, it’s not a new decade, but logically, you would not say welcome to the decade of 2011-2021, would you? It doesn’t really matter what happened between years 0-10.

If Henry Salveter knew that 1900 began a new century, and Dick Clark says that 2010 is a new decade, it’s good enough for me.

It is best if we use our hearts to define time. The decades we’ve lived through are our past and what makes us who we are. The decades in the future define who we will become. But in the grand scheme of things, it is today that is most important.

Happy New Year and have a great decade. And, hey, if 2010 doesn’t work out for you—just start your new decade next year.