Jim always liked to talk to crows. That’s not really as strange as it seems since they talked back. When he was a teenager, his aunt and uncle in Kansas City had a pet crow. One day the crow got out of the house and Jim helped his uncle comb the neighborhood searching for Jim Crow. A neighbor called and said a bird was on his roof yelling “Help me! Help me!” Sure enough it was Jim Crow.
On our many trips to Colorado, we camped at Moraine Park. One day I was in the tent enjoying an afternoon nap until my solitude was disturbed by voices. I thought it was children playing, but when I stepped outside the tent, Jim was sitting on a moraine talking to the crows. They were having a lively conversation in high pitched crow talk.
Last year, Ginger and I went to visit the spot where my sons scattered part of Jim’s ashes, per his request. Maybe, “request” is too mild a word. He instructed me—showing me the exact spot. As Ginger and I hiked to the quiet little meadow, a noisy crow followed us up the trail and perched in a tree nearby.
In the early shade of evening we walked across the bridge to the parking lot. “Did you notice the crow?” Ginger asked, pointing to the persistent bird.
“Yes, I thought it a little strange that he followed us to the meadow and back to the car.” I unlocked the door and we climbed in my Oldsmobile Alero.
“Me too,” she said.
“If Jim was here, he would talk to the crow.” I rolled down the windows to let the heat escape the car.
“I think he is here,” she said. And we grinned at each other as she spoke aloud the very thought I had been thinking.
The crow watched us as we drove away, calling loudly. It sounded like he said, “Y’all come back.” But I could have been mistaken because I never could understand crow talk the way Jim did.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Sedalia Democrat Article: Author Finds Winning Feeling Second Time Around
A link to a Sedalia Democrat article written by Heath Hooper:
"Linda Fisher knew she wanted to be a writer since her first pass at college." Read the entire article at www.sedaliademocrat.com/news/first_9332___article.html/writer_fisher.html - 57k
"Linda Fisher knew she wanted to be a writer since her first pass at college." Read the entire article at www.sedaliademocrat.com/news/first_9332___article.html/writer_fisher.html - 57k
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Of Boston and Baggage
What was I thinking to squeeze a week long conference into my busy schedule? I spent Friday night and Saturday morning frantically packing for my journey. With airlines so persnickety about the amount of luggage you can carry, more thought must go into the packing process.
I chose my medium-sized suitcase because I didn’t want to exceed the fifty pound weight limit. I plopped it on my bathroom scales and it weighed in at 36 pounds. The suitcase was so jammed that my purchases in Boston would have to be limited. And darn the luck, our hotel was attached to a mall. Thinking ahead, my co-worker, Brenda, opted for a large suitcase lightly packed.
This was my first trip to Boston, a city of historical beauty, the freedom trail, brownstones, Fenway Park, and the World Champion Celtics. It is a bonus to enter a city during a historic event. I captured a picture, in my mind and on my cell phone, of the Celtics riding the Ducks in a green and white tickertape parade. I was caught up in the excitement of the enthusiastic crowd.
I might have known things were going way too smoothly. We mailed two boxes of conference materials and checked out of the hotel. Brenda hooked up her laptop to print out our boarding passes. Our flight had been cancelled. Now we would leave three hours later and arrive at Kansas City after 10:00 P.M.
We rolled our luggage up to the ticket counter, and I heaved my bag onto the scales for weigh-in. I breathed a sigh of relief when the red LCD stopped on 44 pounds. Brenda wasn’t so lucky. Her bag was six pounds overweight. “That will be $50.” Brenda opened her suitcase, pulled out a large shopping bag and began cramming items into it. The shopping bag saved her $50 when her lightened suitcase weighed in at 49 pounds.
The lesson learned is that excess baggage comes at a cost. The Alzheimer’s journey requires us to share our load in order to complete the trip. The weight we are willing to carry around on our shoulders is self-monitored, and the cost is not only more than $50; it is immeasurable.
I chose my medium-sized suitcase because I didn’t want to exceed the fifty pound weight limit. I plopped it on my bathroom scales and it weighed in at 36 pounds. The suitcase was so jammed that my purchases in Boston would have to be limited. And darn the luck, our hotel was attached to a mall. Thinking ahead, my co-worker, Brenda, opted for a large suitcase lightly packed.
This was my first trip to Boston, a city of historical beauty, the freedom trail, brownstones, Fenway Park, and the World Champion Celtics. It is a bonus to enter a city during a historic event. I captured a picture, in my mind and on my cell phone, of the Celtics riding the Ducks in a green and white tickertape parade. I was caught up in the excitement of the enthusiastic crowd.
I might have known things were going way too smoothly. We mailed two boxes of conference materials and checked out of the hotel. Brenda hooked up her laptop to print out our boarding passes. Our flight had been cancelled. Now we would leave three hours later and arrive at Kansas City after 10:00 P.M.
We rolled our luggage up to the ticket counter, and I heaved my bag onto the scales for weigh-in. I breathed a sigh of relief when the red LCD stopped on 44 pounds. Brenda wasn’t so lucky. Her bag was six pounds overweight. “That will be $50.” Brenda opened her suitcase, pulled out a large shopping bag and began cramming items into it. The shopping bag saved her $50 when her lightened suitcase weighed in at 49 pounds.
The lesson learned is that excess baggage comes at a cost. The Alzheimer’s journey requires us to share our load in order to complete the trip. The weight we are willing to carry around on our shoulders is self-monitored, and the cost is not only more than $50; it is immeasurable.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Gifts for Father's Day
I watch Father’s Day ads on TV and think about how many years it has been since I’ve bought a gift. My dad and father-in-law both died in 1990, so my husband became the recipient of Hallmark cards and aftershave. Of course, during his nursing home years, I usually bought Jim NASCAR or Kansas City Chief tee-shirts for all special occasions.
As the big day for dads nears, I began to think about what these three special dads have taught me. My dad, Robert Capps, passed on his work ethic to all eight of us kids. He taught us to give a full day’s labor for a day’s pay. He encouraged us to stay in school and get an education so we could have a better, easier life than he and Mom. My dad wasn’t a religious man, but he taught us honesty, compassion, self respect, unselfishness, and ethical behavior. He always wanted a better life for us kids. He said, “It’s as easy to love a rich man as a poor man.” My two sisters and I never listened to that. In the first place, we didn’t know any rich men, and living in the Ozarks, we weren’t in danger of ever meeting any. Maybe that was his point. He also wanted us to be independent.
My father-in-law, William Howard “Bill” Fisher, taught me to laugh and find humor in unexpected places. His personality was totally different from my dad. Bill played music and his idea of a good time was to have a jam session with his family and friends. Their extended family could usually be found in a campground alongside a creek with good fishing. The Fishers traveled, moving from house to house, state to state. Bill was sentimental and somewhat superstitious. He saw life as mysterious and intriguing. I once lost a contact lens, back in the days when they cost a lot of money. Bill had a dream and knew exactly where to look for it the next morning.
Jim inherited good qualities from both his parents. He was happiest when he was driving down the road and taught me to love travel. Jim was the most generous person I ever knew. Jim would not only give someone the shirt off his back, he would give away his last $10 if someone else needed it.
I came home one day to find Jim digging in his mom and dad’s yard.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked.
He leaned against his shovel, wiped the sweat off his brow and said, “I’m going to build Mom and Dad a house. That trailer is falling apart, and they can’t live there anymore.” Our mobile home was in better shape, and we had barely begun construction on our home. We put our house on hold, and built a small, solid house for his parents.
Most important, Jim taught me about true and enduring love. Jim was generous with his love, and family always came first. I knew that no matter what, he was always on my side.
I have no father to buy presents for this Father’s Day, but these three fathers left valuable gifts behind. On Father's day, I will pause and cherish their legacies.
As the big day for dads nears, I began to think about what these three special dads have taught me. My dad, Robert Capps, passed on his work ethic to all eight of us kids. He taught us to give a full day’s labor for a day’s pay. He encouraged us to stay in school and get an education so we could have a better, easier life than he and Mom. My dad wasn’t a religious man, but he taught us honesty, compassion, self respect, unselfishness, and ethical behavior. He always wanted a better life for us kids. He said, “It’s as easy to love a rich man as a poor man.” My two sisters and I never listened to that. In the first place, we didn’t know any rich men, and living in the Ozarks, we weren’t in danger of ever meeting any. Maybe that was his point. He also wanted us to be independent.
My father-in-law, William Howard “Bill” Fisher, taught me to laugh and find humor in unexpected places. His personality was totally different from my dad. Bill played music and his idea of a good time was to have a jam session with his family and friends. Their extended family could usually be found in a campground alongside a creek with good fishing. The Fishers traveled, moving from house to house, state to state. Bill was sentimental and somewhat superstitious. He saw life as mysterious and intriguing. I once lost a contact lens, back in the days when they cost a lot of money. Bill had a dream and knew exactly where to look for it the next morning.
Jim inherited good qualities from both his parents. He was happiest when he was driving down the road and taught me to love travel. Jim was the most generous person I ever knew. Jim would not only give someone the shirt off his back, he would give away his last $10 if someone else needed it.
I came home one day to find Jim digging in his mom and dad’s yard.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked.
He leaned against his shovel, wiped the sweat off his brow and said, “I’m going to build Mom and Dad a house. That trailer is falling apart, and they can’t live there anymore.” Our mobile home was in better shape, and we had barely begun construction on our home. We put our house on hold, and built a small, solid house for his parents.
Most important, Jim taught me about true and enduring love. Jim was generous with his love, and family always came first. I knew that no matter what, he was always on my side.
I have no father to buy presents for this Father’s Day, but these three fathers left valuable gifts behind. On Father's day, I will pause and cherish their legacies.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Red Roses in a Blue Plastic Bottle
The Veterans Cemetery has a rule that during certain times of the year, live flowers in non-breakable vases are the only acceptable decorations. The day before Memorial Day, I look over the fresh flowers at Wal-Mart.
Sentimentality wins out and I purchase a half-dozen red roses to put in front of Jim’s niche. The roses may not be the most practical choice. If the day is hot, they may wilt before the ceremony is finished. But my heart is set on the red roses. A single long-stemmed red rose was Jim’s way of saying “I love you” on anniversaries, Valentine’s Day, and for no reason at all.
Do you think I could find a plastic vase in the entire Wal-Mart Supercenter? I risk my groceries to stop at Big Lots, but they don’t have any plastic vases either. At home, I find a plastic jar that I decide I can use if my last ditch stop at the Higginsville Wal-Mart ends in failure.
Once we pull off I-70 on the way to the cemetery, my sister-in-law, Ginger, and I storm into the store; two women on a mission. First we look in the obvious places and find the normal grave arrangements along a wall. Picnic supplies are jammed onto shelves nearby.
“How about these water bottles?” Ginger asked.
“They have possibilities,” I said.
The bottles are translucent red and blue, and don’t have logos or ounce markers on them. The price is good—two for $4. They look much like vases, or at least will if we remove the lids.
We put the bottles into the cart and head for the craft section where we select white wired ribbon and some decorative pebbles. In the parking lot, we take scissors to the roses and put pebbles in the bottom of the blue bottle. The arrangement seems a little top heavy so Ginger continues to stuff pebbles into the bottle on the ride to the cemetery. By the time we put a ribbon on the improvised vase, we have a red, white, and blue floral arrangement.
A light rain falls, and we think the ceremony may be cancelled. The rain dwindles off, and the stars and stripes proudly line the white fence, and the service flags atop the columbarium whip in the gusty breeze.
Of course, when I place Jim’s roses in front of his niche, I notice about half the decorations are artificial arrangements or potted plants. Jim’s roses look nice and smell good and are worth the extra effort. Ginger and I sit a stone bench for the ceremony, and watch the roses open up to embrace the day and proclaim that love is the one thing that doesn’t die.
Sentimentality wins out and I purchase a half-dozen red roses to put in front of Jim’s niche. The roses may not be the most practical choice. If the day is hot, they may wilt before the ceremony is finished. But my heart is set on the red roses. A single long-stemmed red rose was Jim’s way of saying “I love you” on anniversaries, Valentine’s Day, and for no reason at all.
Do you think I could find a plastic vase in the entire Wal-Mart Supercenter? I risk my groceries to stop at Big Lots, but they don’t have any plastic vases either. At home, I find a plastic jar that I decide I can use if my last ditch stop at the Higginsville Wal-Mart ends in failure.
Once we pull off I-70 on the way to the cemetery, my sister-in-law, Ginger, and I storm into the store; two women on a mission. First we look in the obvious places and find the normal grave arrangements along a wall. Picnic supplies are jammed onto shelves nearby.
“How about these water bottles?” Ginger asked.
“They have possibilities,” I said.
The bottles are translucent red and blue, and don’t have logos or ounce markers on them. The price is good—two for $4. They look much like vases, or at least will if we remove the lids.
We put the bottles into the cart and head for the craft section where we select white wired ribbon and some decorative pebbles. In the parking lot, we take scissors to the roses and put pebbles in the bottom of the blue bottle. The arrangement seems a little top heavy so Ginger continues to stuff pebbles into the bottle on the ride to the cemetery. By the time we put a ribbon on the improvised vase, we have a red, white, and blue floral arrangement.
A light rain falls, and we think the ceremony may be cancelled. The rain dwindles off, and the stars and stripes proudly line the white fence, and the service flags atop the columbarium whip in the gusty breeze.
Of course, when I place Jim’s roses in front of his niche, I notice about half the decorations are artificial arrangements or potted plants. Jim’s roses look nice and smell good and are worth the extra effort. Ginger and I sit a stone bench for the ceremony, and watch the roses open up to embrace the day and proclaim that love is the one thing that doesn’t die.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Early Onset Project: Share Your Alzheimer's Stories
The Early Onset Book Project seeks submissions for a book devoted to young onset dementia. Many books have been written about Alzheimer’s, but Alzheimer’s Anthology of Unconditional Love: Early Onset Dementia will provide a rare opportunity to demonstrate how the disease affects families from different points of view. This book will bring to life the challenges of living with dementia and show the courage of persons with dementia and their families.
Writers do not need to be professionals. Stories written by the primary caregiver or the person with dementia are often the most compelling. I will edit stories, if necessary, before submitting them to the judges who will select approximately thirty stories for the collection.
The Early Onset Project is an exciting opportunity to educate our legislators that Alzheimer’s is a neurological brain disease and not a normal part of aging. The book will be formatted much like Alzheimer’s Anthology of Unconditional Love: The 110,000 Missourians, with slice-of-life stories, pictures of the person with dementia (if submitted), and informational articles. Missouri advocates distributed copies of Alzheimer’s Anthology of Unconditional Love: The 110,000 Missourians with Alzheimer’s to all Missouri legislators in Jefferson City and Washington, D.C.
During our legislative visits at the Alzheimer's Association Public Policy Forum, Sarah Wilson of the Mid-Missouri Chapter compared Alzheimer's to another disease that affects so many people. "When a family member has cancer, that person takes chemotherapy, and the rest of the family provides support for them. With Alzheimer's, it's like the whole family is taking chemotherapy."
Those of us who have lived with dementia understand that analogy. When my husband developed dementia at age 49, advocacy and writing helped me cope. He had aphasia and could not express his feelings, so I became his voice.
Writing our experiences has a cathartic effect and helps promote spiritual healing. Once we record the events and emotion, we realize we did our best and love makes us stronger than we ever thought we could be. I have a presentation on this subject and will publish a book, Writing as Therapy: Rocks and Pebbles, in 2008 or 2009.
Your personal stories give a voice to the 500,000 people with early onset dementia and their loved ones. No one can tell your story but you. Please share a slice-of-life moment with The Early Onset Project and let your voice be heard.
For more information about submissions for the Early Onset Project, visit http://www.lsfisher.com/, or www.alz.org/mid-missouri/
To download complete submissions guidelines: http://www.lsfisher.com/projectearly.html
The submissions deadline has been extended to October 31, 2008. If you have any questions, please email me at earlyonset@hotmail.com.
Writers do not need to be professionals. Stories written by the primary caregiver or the person with dementia are often the most compelling. I will edit stories, if necessary, before submitting them to the judges who will select approximately thirty stories for the collection.
The Early Onset Project is an exciting opportunity to educate our legislators that Alzheimer’s is a neurological brain disease and not a normal part of aging. The book will be formatted much like Alzheimer’s Anthology of Unconditional Love: The 110,000 Missourians, with slice-of-life stories, pictures of the person with dementia (if submitted), and informational articles. Missouri advocates distributed copies of Alzheimer’s Anthology of Unconditional Love: The 110,000 Missourians with Alzheimer’s to all Missouri legislators in Jefferson City and Washington, D.C.
During our legislative visits at the Alzheimer's Association Public Policy Forum, Sarah Wilson of the Mid-Missouri Chapter compared Alzheimer's to another disease that affects so many people. "When a family member has cancer, that person takes chemotherapy, and the rest of the family provides support for them. With Alzheimer's, it's like the whole family is taking chemotherapy."
Those of us who have lived with dementia understand that analogy. When my husband developed dementia at age 49, advocacy and writing helped me cope. He had aphasia and could not express his feelings, so I became his voice.
Writing our experiences has a cathartic effect and helps promote spiritual healing. Once we record the events and emotion, we realize we did our best and love makes us stronger than we ever thought we could be. I have a presentation on this subject and will publish a book, Writing as Therapy: Rocks and Pebbles, in 2008 or 2009.
Your personal stories give a voice to the 500,000 people with early onset dementia and their loved ones. No one can tell your story but you. Please share a slice-of-life moment with The Early Onset Project and let your voice be heard.
For more information about submissions for the Early Onset Project, visit http://www.lsfisher.com/, or www.alz.org/mid-missouri/
To download complete submissions guidelines: http://www.lsfisher.com/projectearly.html
The submissions deadline has been extended to October 31, 2008. If you have any questions, please email me at earlyonset@hotmail.com.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Memorial Day: Honoring America’s Heroes
While in Washington, DC, for the Alzheimer’s Association Public Policy Forum, my grandson and I visited Arlington Cemetery in Virginia. The only other time I was there was with Jim more than twenty years ago. My recent visit brought back memories of the prior visit with my husband long before we knew anything about Alzheimer’s.
With more than 250,000 gravesites on 657 acres, Jim and I did what most reasonable people would do—took the bus tour so we wouldn’t miss the highlights. As it turned out, the highlight for Jim was Audie Murphy’s grave.
We were on the last bus tour of the day so we had to quickly visit each site and board the same bus. The bus stopped for the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns. Everyone hustled past the Memorial Amphitheatre, except Jim. I hung back to see where he was headed.
“We’re going to miss the changing of the guard,” I said.
Jim stood in front of Audie Murphy’s plain grave marker videotaping. “This is what I wanted to see more than anything,” he said.
After several minutes, we walked toward the crowd and saw part of the ceremony. This incident stands out in my memory as an example of Jim’s unique view of life. He was a person more intrigued by a simple grave marker than by a ceremony. He appreciated the grace and beauty of endless rows of marble stones
“I would like to be buried here,” he said.
“That’s not a good idea,” I argued, “because I wouldn’t be able to visit your grave.”
He smiled and put his arm around me. It was just a passing thought and not something he dwelled on.
On Memorial Day, I will travel to the Missouri Veterans Cemetery which has the grace and beauty of Arlington on a much smaller scale. At 1:00 p.m., they will have a ceremony to honor our heroes buried there.
I knew Jim well enough to know that had he seen the Missouri Veterans Cemetery, he would have preferred it to Arlington. Jim’s ashes are in a niche in a columbarium which overlooks a small lake. While the ceremony goes on, I imagine that, in spirit, Jim will be fishing in the lake and pretty much ignoring the crowd, being his own person, doing his own thing.
With more than 250,000 gravesites on 657 acres, Jim and I did what most reasonable people would do—took the bus tour so we wouldn’t miss the highlights. As it turned out, the highlight for Jim was Audie Murphy’s grave.
We were on the last bus tour of the day so we had to quickly visit each site and board the same bus. The bus stopped for the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns. Everyone hustled past the Memorial Amphitheatre, except Jim. I hung back to see where he was headed.
“We’re going to miss the changing of the guard,” I said.
Jim stood in front of Audie Murphy’s plain grave marker videotaping. “This is what I wanted to see more than anything,” he said.
After several minutes, we walked toward the crowd and saw part of the ceremony. This incident stands out in my memory as an example of Jim’s unique view of life. He was a person more intrigued by a simple grave marker than by a ceremony. He appreciated the grace and beauty of endless rows of marble stones
“I would like to be buried here,” he said.
“That’s not a good idea,” I argued, “because I wouldn’t be able to visit your grave.”
He smiled and put his arm around me. It was just a passing thought and not something he dwelled on.
On Memorial Day, I will travel to the Missouri Veterans Cemetery which has the grace and beauty of Arlington on a much smaller scale. At 1:00 p.m., they will have a ceremony to honor our heroes buried there.
I knew Jim well enough to know that had he seen the Missouri Veterans Cemetery, he would have preferred it to Arlington. Jim’s ashes are in a niche in a columbarium which overlooks a small lake. While the ceremony goes on, I imagine that, in spirit, Jim will be fishing in the lake and pretty much ignoring the crowd, being his own person, doing his own thing.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Alzheimer’s Association 20th Annual Public Policy Forum
This was my eighth trip to Washington, DC, to ask for increased research funds for Alzheimer’s. It becomes frustrating when nothing seems to happen. NIH funding for Alzheimer’s research has remained flat for the past five years, and Maureen Reagan’s $1 billion goal appears to be unattainable.
It is our job as advocates to educate our legislators and remain visible. We wore our purple “beauty queen” banners which made us hard to forget. Sandra Day O’Connor and Newt Gingrich both testified at the Congressional Hearing on Alzheimer’s. One of the senators said, “This is the biggest group I have ever seen at a hearing.” The room was crowded and people stood along both walls and in the back. Mrs. O’Connor said, “This is a problem that cries out for help.” She said research was closer than ever to finding a way to dissolve the plaques which are the hallmark of Alzheimer's.
My grandson, Colby, traveled to Washington, DC, with me for his second Public Policy Forum. The Alzheimer’s Association asked us to focus on two main issues this year. We asked for $125 million increase to the $644 million spent on Alzheimer’s research, and to phase out the Social Security disability two-year wait for Medicare benefits. The two-year wait places a hardship on people with early onset dementia during the time when medical treatment is most helpful.
It is more urgent than ever to find a cure for Alzheimer’s as the baby boomers age. “A cure can save Medicare and Medicaid $60 billion a year,” Colby told his parents on the ride home from the airport. “I learned a lot,” he said. And he did. He learned that 500,000 Americans have developed Alzheimer’s before age 65 and more than 5 million people in the United States have Alzheimer’s.
“Why do you stay involved?” is a question I hear frequently. Alicia, who has early onset Alzheimer’s told our representative's legislative aide, “Linda doesn’t have to do what she does since her husband passed away.”
I don’t have any choice but to remain involved. Advocacy didn’t end when Jim died! Through my involvement with advocacy, I’ve become friends with many people who have early onset dementia, and I care about them and their health. I worry about what the future holds for Alicia, Charley, Tracy, Karen, Bill, David, Lynne and many others. I ache for the caregivers because I know how emotionally and physically challenging their journey will be. I grieve for the man whose wife held his hand and led him from session to session at the Public Policy Forum; the lost look in his eyes haunts me and revives memories of Jim.
Alzheimer’s is a disease, not a normal part of aging. We need to advocate for a cure and for programs to help those living with dementia. It is time we have Alzheimer’s survivors to honor at our Memory Walks!
It is our job as advocates to educate our legislators and remain visible. We wore our purple “beauty queen” banners which made us hard to forget. Sandra Day O’Connor and Newt Gingrich both testified at the Congressional Hearing on Alzheimer’s. One of the senators said, “This is the biggest group I have ever seen at a hearing.” The room was crowded and people stood along both walls and in the back. Mrs. O’Connor said, “This is a problem that cries out for help.” She said research was closer than ever to finding a way to dissolve the plaques which are the hallmark of Alzheimer's.
My grandson, Colby, traveled to Washington, DC, with me for his second Public Policy Forum. The Alzheimer’s Association asked us to focus on two main issues this year. We asked for $125 million increase to the $644 million spent on Alzheimer’s research, and to phase out the Social Security disability two-year wait for Medicare benefits. The two-year wait places a hardship on people with early onset dementia during the time when medical treatment is most helpful.
It is more urgent than ever to find a cure for Alzheimer’s as the baby boomers age. “A cure can save Medicare and Medicaid $60 billion a year,” Colby told his parents on the ride home from the airport. “I learned a lot,” he said. And he did. He learned that 500,000 Americans have developed Alzheimer’s before age 65 and more than 5 million people in the United States have Alzheimer’s.
“Why do you stay involved?” is a question I hear frequently. Alicia, who has early onset Alzheimer’s told our representative's legislative aide, “Linda doesn’t have to do what she does since her husband passed away.”
I don’t have any choice but to remain involved. Advocacy didn’t end when Jim died! Through my involvement with advocacy, I’ve become friends with many people who have early onset dementia, and I care about them and their health. I worry about what the future holds for Alicia, Charley, Tracy, Karen, Bill, David, Lynne and many others. I ache for the caregivers because I know how emotionally and physically challenging their journey will be. I grieve for the man whose wife held his hand and led him from session to session at the Public Policy Forum; the lost look in his eyes haunts me and revives memories of Jim.
Alzheimer’s is a disease, not a normal part of aging. We need to advocate for a cure and for programs to help those living with dementia. It is time we have Alzheimer’s survivors to honor at our Memory Walks!
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Sedalia Democrat Article: Alzheimer's Advocate Receives Award for Work Against Disease
This is a link for an article in The Sedalia Democrat about the Alzheimer's Association Missouri Coalition first annual Advocate of the Year Award:
http://www.sedaliademocrat.com/news/advocate_7818___article.html/forum_walk.html
Thank you for this honor! Linda Fisher
http://www.sedaliademocrat.com/news/advocate_7818___article.html/forum_walk.html
Thank you for this honor! Linda Fisher
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Mushrooms in the Ozarks
Those of us living in the Show Me state tend to get excited about tangible things, which most definitely include morel mushrooms. Due to the heavy rain this year, morels are being found in record numbers. My sister-in-law has been combing the woods and shared her abundant supply with me.
I grew up in the heart of the Ozarks where mushroom hunting should qualify as a sport. During my years of hunting, I’ve been chased by bulls, came within a hairs’ breath of stepping on a copperhead, came eyeball-to-eyeball with a snake hanging out of a tree, jumped creeks, balanced on a log to cross a ravine, slid down embankments—just to mention a smattering of the dangers involved. Rather than suffering from post traumatic stress disorder because of my innumerable misadventures, I think of mushroom hunting with fondness.
At mushroom time, the woods come alive. Dogwood, redbud, and wildflowers burst into bloom. Mayflowers open their umbrellas, birds chirp, twitter, whistle and squawk, squirrels chatter and dance precariously on limbs, the scent of wild onions and garlic fill the air. There’s something refreshing about carrying a walking stick and pushing aside nature’s ground cover to find a perfect morel poking up through the leaves.
It is best to hunt with a partner so that when you wander into dangerous situations, someone has your back. I was always confident hunting with Jim and knew he would see that nothing would harm me. I remember one year Jim found a patch of mushrooms and didn’t pick any of them. He led me to them and let me “find” them. If you aren’t a mushroom hunter, you don’t realize how symbolic that is of true love.
You notice I didn’t say anything about hunting mushrooms this year. For all my fond memories, I haven’t braved the snakes and ticks to find those little darlings. It’s something I long to do, but haven’t been motivated to do. In life, we constantly balance memories against reality. The sun is shining today, and we had more rain yesterday. Wait—is that the siren song of a great spring mushroom hunting day I hear outside my patio doors?
I grew up in the heart of the Ozarks where mushroom hunting should qualify as a sport. During my years of hunting, I’ve been chased by bulls, came within a hairs’ breath of stepping on a copperhead, came eyeball-to-eyeball with a snake hanging out of a tree, jumped creeks, balanced on a log to cross a ravine, slid down embankments—just to mention a smattering of the dangers involved. Rather than suffering from post traumatic stress disorder because of my innumerable misadventures, I think of mushroom hunting with fondness.
At mushroom time, the woods come alive. Dogwood, redbud, and wildflowers burst into bloom. Mayflowers open their umbrellas, birds chirp, twitter, whistle and squawk, squirrels chatter and dance precariously on limbs, the scent of wild onions and garlic fill the air. There’s something refreshing about carrying a walking stick and pushing aside nature’s ground cover to find a perfect morel poking up through the leaves.
It is best to hunt with a partner so that when you wander into dangerous situations, someone has your back. I was always confident hunting with Jim and knew he would see that nothing would harm me. I remember one year Jim found a patch of mushrooms and didn’t pick any of them. He led me to them and let me “find” them. If you aren’t a mushroom hunter, you don’t realize how symbolic that is of true love.
You notice I didn’t say anything about hunting mushrooms this year. For all my fond memories, I haven’t braved the snakes and ticks to find those little darlings. It’s something I long to do, but haven’t been motivated to do. In life, we constantly balance memories against reality. The sun is shining today, and we had more rain yesterday. Wait—is that the siren song of a great spring mushroom hunting day I hear outside my patio doors?
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