Ambassador to Ambassador

I am an Alzheimer’s Ambassador and will participate in Memory Day later this month. On this special day, hundreds of Alzheimer’s advocates converge on the state capitol to discuss Alzheimer’s impact on the state of Missouri.

Besides being an Alzheimer’s Ambassador, I am a grassroots advocate for rural electric cooperatives. Earlier this week, my coworker, Brenda, and I participated in the legislative conference and visited our legislators on behalf of Central Missouri Electric Cooperative.

After a breakfast meeting, we trekked up the hill to the capitol. We took a shortcut through the Truman Building and stopped for a cup of coffee with my brother who works there. When we moved on to the capitol, we met other advocates leaving who informed us that everyone was on the floor, so we probably wouldn’t get to see our representatives. We dropped off cards at our representative’s offices and stopped at the office of Senator Delbert Scott.

“He’s in his office but is headed to the floor,” his legislative aide said.

The senator stopped to shake hands with us. “Would you like to walk with me?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. “We will do a walk and talk.”

We discussed cooperative issues while we walked down a flight of stairs. When we reached the “Admittance by Invitation Only” door, he invited us in. He pointed to a bench and told us to sit there as long as we wanted. We wrote our names on a form, and settled in to see how the senate works.

Before long a group of oriental people came through a side door. A distinguished looking gentleman sat next to me on the bench while several others stood behind us. All cameras were trained in our direction. That really made us feel special.

Brenda and I took off our coats exposing our photogenic sweaters—mine a bright blue and Brenda’s a stunning tangerine. We looked like peacocks in a room of dignified dark suits.

Senator Scott introduced Brenda and me as his special guests. We stood to be recognized. The senate president pro tem stood to introduce Zhou Wenzhong, Ambassador from China, who was visiting Missouri in regard to St. Louis becoming a trade hub.

The distinguished gentleman to my right stood and the Missouri version of paparazzi kept their cameras rolling. I wanted to shake his hand, but wasn’t sure about Chinese protocol and didn’t want to offend him.

The senate recessed to visit the Chinese Ambassador in the lounge. The ambassador stood to leave, but turned to me and extended his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you,” he said. After our handshake, he shook hands with Brenda.

Another man in the group shook hands with us too. “I don’t know who you are,” he said, as if he should have, “but I’m sure you are honorable people to be here.”

For just a moment, I was taken aback, and felt like a star-struck gate crasher. Just by chance, Brenda and I experienced a historical moment in Missouri history.

We were on the evening news and our moment is caught on a State of Missouri archive tape. As a friend of mine said, “You’ve had one minute of fame and fourteen more to go.”

I don’t expect anything like this experience to happen again. What are the odds that another foreign ambassador would be at the Missouri State Capitol at the exact moment I am there?

It is likely that several Alzheimer’s Ambassadors will be among the hundreds of advocates visiting the state capitol on Memory Day. Some of the ambassadors are already my friends, and I will meet more at the state capitol. One thing is for sure, their participation in Memory Day is proof they are honorable people.

A Mechanical Groundhog? The Shadow Knows

I saw a news article that PETA wants to replace Punxsutawney Phil with a mechanical groundhog. Call me a traditionalist, but I can’t picture a mechanical groundhog heralding the onset of spring.

With Groundhog Day coming up soon, my thoughts have turned to shadows. Shadows are personal, individual and attached to us for life. A shadow is mysterious and much more than a patch of shade. Sometimes a shadow seems to have a life of its own.

I conducted my own un-scientific experiment when I was a child. I really thought if I moved fast enough, my shadow might not make the same motion.

It does no good to run from your shadow. It’s always right behind you, touching you, taunting you.

We can cast a shadow or have a shadow cast over us. The biggest shadow in my life was when Jim developed dementia. Sometimes I felt like burrowing into a hole and hiding from the shadow.

Just like the groundhog, we have to face our real and metaphorical shadows. When I was younger, I was always confused about how the whole shadow thing worked on Groundhog Day. Doesn’t it seem more logical that if the sun shines it is an indication of better weather? That’s not how it works though. If the groundhog doesn’t see his shadow, spring is right around the corner.

I’ll have to admit that I disagree with PETA on a lot of issues, but this one is just over the top. Let’s face it—the job market is limited for groundhogs, and Punxsutawney Phil has the best one of all. If I were Phil, I’d be mad as blazes that PETA wanted to ruin the cushiest gig known to groundhogs worldwide.

Life might be tough for a lot of groundhogs, but Phil is an exception. He lives in a heated burrow and only has to show up for work one day a year. Almost makes you wish you were a groundhog, doesn’t it?

All the regular groundhog’s hearts must be filled with envy for Phil’s so-called unethical treatment. Maybe PETA should ask the official representative of the Groundhog Club to interview a few of the lowly groundhogs. Since the groundhog guy understands “groundhogese” he might be able to convey their true opinion of Phil’s unethical treatment.

Groundhog Day is steeped in tradition and folklore, and Phil is the groundhog on the most watched list. Come on, PETA, don’t you know the whole country is on edge waiting for Phil’s prediction?

Did you know that 90% of the time, the groundhog sees his shadow? I sure hope Phil doesn’t see his shadow this year. It wouldn’t hurt my feelings if ice storms, blizzards, and frozen water pipes are shoved forward to next winter.

There are a few things you don’t do in life. At the top of the list is “Don’t mess with groundhogs”. OK, so maybe it isn’t at the top of the list, but on February 2, it should be.

Jim used to give a crazy laugh and in a deep voice proclaim: “The Shadow Knows!” One day when I asked him what the heck that was supposed to mean, he explained that “The Shadow Knows” was a radio show he listened to when he was a kid. Well, just like the old radio program, the shadow knows what the weather will be. The imposter’s shadow would not be the same as Phil’s, and Mother Nature would not be amused.


Groundhog Clipart: Copyrighted by Bobbie Peachey http://webclipart.about.com

Pants on the Ground

I missed the original American Idol show where General Larry Platt performed his show-stopping “Pants on the Ground.” Our pastor played the video at the beginning of his message the following Sunday and ended with a stirring rendition of his version—“Made from the Ground.”

After a few Google searches, it became obvious to me that the General had become an overnight global sensation. What was Larry Platt doing the other 62 years of his life? He isn’t called General because he was in the military—he was a general in the war against injustice. He was a civil rights activist who was beaten on the Bloody Monday March. He was recognized September 4, 2001, for his heroic efforts during the civil rights movement. In other words, he was an unsung hero for the things he believed in his heart to be important.

We all know these unsung heroes. They are the people who not only support the cause they believe in, they throw heart and soul in the effort. They brush obstacles aside with super-human strength.

I have been fortunate to know many of the unsung heroes in the battle against Alzheimer’s. I’ve know people with the disease who looked beyond their own tragedy and found a mission. Tracy Mobley, diagnosed at 38, worked tirelessly on Camp Building Bridges for children whose parents have Alzheimer’s or a related dementia. Tracy pieced together a Memory Quilt in honor of people with the disease. She’s an advocate and volunteer for the Alzheimer’s Association.

Caregivers are heroes too. Karen Henley’s life is focused around caring for her husband, Mike. She doesn’t seek recognition for her labor of love. Caring for a loved one with Alzheimer’s is one of the most challenging jobs a person can undertake. Caregivers know the meaning of unconditional love.

Alzheimer’s staff and volunteers are the rank and file soldiers. Alzheimer’s staff shares their expertise with the volunteers to increase the size of the army.

Penny Braun began her work with the Alzheimer’s Association as a volunteer. She went on to become the first executive director of the Mid-Missouri Chapter. She turned a one-person office into a fully staffed dynamic entity serving 29 Missouri counties. Penny is a hero in the war against Alzheimer’s.

Volunteers make up the largest force in any organization. When it comes to Alzheimer’s volunteers, I think of Ted Distler’s smiling face. For many years, Ted has motivated, prodded, and led hundreds of people into being involved in Memory Walk. Ted works tirelessly to support other caregivers and to share his experiences and knowledge with his community.

If good works ever went viral like the catchy tune and words of “Pants on the Ground” these special people and millions of other motivated volunteers would become household names.

The General himself said that he hoped “Pants on the Ground” didn’t overshadow his civil rights work. That makes the General a pretty smart man as far as I’m concerned. Instant fame didn’t make him forget that life isn’t just one shining moment, it involves years of plugging away at the causes you believe in.

I hope General Larry Platt’s inspiration to the world isn’t just the tune, but the man singing it. Otherwise, the pants on the ground merely drag out our tracks and erase the footprints of our legacy.

Where is the Sun on This Foggy Day?

For the past three days fog has thrown a gloomy blanket over my world. I can’t see the sun, but, by golly, I know it’s there.

The haze is depressing and has awakened a philosophical streak in me. It reminds me of the fog that cast a net over us when Jim was diagnosed with “an Alzheimer’s type of dementia.”

During that dark time, determination and faith became the saving grace that kept the fog at bay. The knowledge that no one had defeated Alzheimer’s left us crushed beneath the miasma that took our breath away.

Fog makes me uncomfortable, and I feel threatened when driving with limited visibility. The only way to see the road is to dim the lights and cast them downward. If you leave the lights on bright, swirling grey clouds make you dizzy and you can’t see a safe distance ahead.

I’ve battled with fog a few times, and one night I thought the fog was going to win. I left the nursing home after spending time with Jim, headed for my son’s house. I took a shortcut to the highway on a narrow blacktop road and hit a spot where dense fog obstructed my view. When I could no longer see the pavement, I stopped and hoped I wasn’t parked in the middle of the highway.

I called Eric and told him I wasn’t sure where I was and couldn’t see anything. “I’m afraid a car will come along and hit me,” I said. I was beyond worried—I was scared and headed toward panic.

“Just stay put for a while and it will lift,” he said. “If the fog is so thick you can’t see anything, no one else will be moving either.”

Unfortunately, I never had much confidence in every driver having common sense. Time seemed to stand still while I waited for the fog to lift. I looked at a solid wall of grey, my stomach tied in knots.

Eventually, the fog cleared, and I resumed the journey to my son’s house. After my visit, I was apprehensive about driving home. Eric got in his truck and led the way. Following his taillights was reassuring, and the fog didn’t seem to be so scary.

Life can leave us feeling like we are all alone and lost in a fog. Alzheimer’s can seem like a solid wall blocking our path.

When circumstances bring us to a complete halt, we need to pause, take a few deep breaths to stave off the panic attack, and have faith the fog will lift. The darkness will end and the sun will burn through the haze.

Fog’s life is limited, but the sun always shines. Fog may obscure the reassuring sunlight, but at the perfect moment golden rays will burst forth in all its glory.

Inconvenient Winter Wonderland

Old Man Winter has hit with a vengeance and sub-zero temperatures make life hazardous for all of us. Our entire country has been hit with record-breaking lows.

Caregivers must be vigilant to keep their loved ones with Alzheimer’s safe. My heart goes out to the caregiver in Nashville who put her 81-year-old husband to bed Sunday night and woke up to discover he had wandered outside. His frozen body was found in his own yard the next morning.

Here in the Midwest, our Christmas snow is still on the ground and added to on a regular basis. This winter wonderland is starting to inconvenience me. Our roads were graded to a thin layer of ice, and I drove the scenic, long route to work each morning to avoid the hill to west of my house.

The first time I had to drive on slick roads this year, snow whipped onto my windshield and the wind shaped snow into tall drifts that threatened to block the roads. I didn’t meet any cars and I figured there was a good reason they stayed home.

While I negotiated the slick roads, I thought about how competent and confident Jim was on snow and ice. When he was in the early stages of dementia, I still trusted him more than I trusted myself on the slick roads. I never had to drive on it until he could no longer drive.

My hands shook by the time I pulled into my garage, but the trip had gone without incident. Jim taught me well. I do know how to drive on bad roads. I know it is important to keep up momentum without driving too fast or too slow. It irritates me to be on a slick highway and have people whizzing around me in their pickups and SUVs going ten miles over the speed limit. They are not just flirting with disaster—they throw slush on my windshield.

Wednesday morning a winter storm warning was in effect. I packed my duffle bag with clothing and other essentials in case I couldn’t get home after work. It’s hard to know when meteorologists will get the forecast right, but it doesn’t take much snow and wind to blow giant drifts across our roads.

My mom called and asked me, “Are you snowed in?”

“Nope, I’m snowed out,” I said.

I spent two nights at Best Western. I’m not used to cleaning off my car in the mornings and misjudged just how long it takes. The inconvenience of cleaning my car was certainly much better than being stuck in a snowdrift.

When I got word that the snowplows had made it down our road, I came home last night. My brother-in-law, Terry, used the snow shovel to clear my driveway so I could get my car into the garage. Staying at the hotel was nice, but it sure feels good to be home.

Looking out my window, the pristine snowy scene is worthy of a Currier and Ives Christmas card. Instead of just enjoying it, I’m thinking of the inconvenience. Can I drive safely on the roads? Should I just relax and spend the day at home? Winter wonderland, beautiful to view, but not so great for driving.

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.

Wrap It Up

There has to be a scientific explanation why time goes by faster as we grow older. Maybe we just gain momentum and pick up speed as we race through life.

Another year is almost gone, and we individually and collectively reflect on it. TV tributes abound for famous people who died this year: Michael, Farrah, Bea, Eunice, Ted, Walter, Soupy… Everyone that touches our lives becomes part of us. Sometimes we take celebrity deaths personally, but grief over a superstar is only a fraction of what we feel when something happens to loved ones in our inner circle.

When I was a primary caregiver, the days felt like they had too many waking hours and not nearly enough sleeping hours. Yet, I wanted to grab time and slow it down. Time was the enemy during Jim’s slow, steady decline into the land of dementia.

Like it or not, our world changes every day. My son told me a few nights ago that I should get a texting plan for my cell phone. I do something really weird with my cell phone—I talk on it. I believe a conspiracy is afoot to force me to get with the program. I haven’t had this much pressure since the kids were embarrassed about the dial telephone hanging on the kitchen wall.

My phone has been out since Christmas day, but I have my cell phone to keep me from feeling cut off from the world. I don’t have Internet because I’m on dialup. I can live without checking my email, commenting on Facebook, or even posting my blog. It’s an inconvenience, but I’m not losing any sleep over it.

Our changing world has made us dependent on the World Wide Web. How did people find destinations before GPS systems or Google Map? It is eerie to plug in an address and see images of your house on the screen. Well, they haven’t mapped out here in the boonies where I live, but my son’s house is not only pictured, you can see their mower kicking up grass clippings. You can become a little figure and walk through the neighborhood.

My granddaughter was playing with Goggle Map and found herself in Hawaii. “Can you find Fort DeRussy Chapel?” I asked. We walked through the surrounding neighborhood, and I saw a lot of familiar landmarks—including the Ilikai where Jim and I spent our honeymoon.

Maybe we should all just become virtual tourists. Think of how much stress, strain, time, and money we could save. I get emails daily about upcoming net meetings. People work from home, and come Monday, I’m going to be mighty jealous of them.

Embracing change and moving forward is the secret to a happy and productive life. We can’t live in the past, but the past lives in us.

We each produce, direct, and star in our own reality show. We faithfully tune in each day to experience the next installment. Life, like any good show builds on the previous episodes making the plot more intricate. Characters worm their way into our lives, and we love them just as they are. Once we accept their flaws, we find them endearing.

When we wrap up the past, we open endless possibilities for an unfolding future where adventure waits to happen. In life, we can’t fast forward through the bad parts or play the good times in slow motion. We should grasp each moment, and live it to the fullest.

I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to the New Year just as eagerly as ever. I hope your reality is filled with health, happiness, and love.

Sparkle Bright with Fairy Dust

If I hadn’t been so busy the week leading up to our family get-together, I would have been better prepared. I spent my day off this week writing articles about Alzheimer’s, so my “to-do” list turned into the “didn’t-get-done” list.

Saturday, I woke up at 6:30 with the idea of getting an early start. My philosophy turned into what gets done is done, and what doesn’t just will not happen this year. While I jumpstarted myself with coffee, my daughter-in-law made biscuits and gravy for breakfast.

My granddaughter stayed with me while the rest of the family went to town. I wrapped presents behind closed doors and handed her gifts to place beneath the tree. I vacuumed and worked on laundry. My granddaughter helped me fold clothes, sort through paper plates, and bring up more decorations from the basement. “Grandma Linda, you sure have a lot of stuff down here,” she said. She read from labels on plastic storage boxes, “Here’s Thanksgiving, St. Patrick’s Day, and more Christmas.”

The day flew by, but when the rest of the family arrived everything was ready. My youngest granddaughter was Santa’s helper and distributed gifts. My four grandchildren range in age from 2 to 15, and have a variety of interests. The older two prefer doing their own shopping so it made more sense to give them pre-paid credit cards. Santa’s helper prefers Barbie dolls and princesses. My youngest grandson likes trucks and cars.

In the midst of tearing Christmas paper and prying gifts out of the packaging, shiny pieces of foil flew from the Peter Pan book and sprinkled the carpet. “Ooops! Glitter is all over the floor!” my niece said.

“That’s not glitter, that’s fairy dust,” I replied. “Cathy Rigby put it inside the book when she signed it.”

Cameras flashed as we captured moments—revving up Monster Trucks to jump Matchbox cars and assembling the Barbie TV Cooking Show set. It’s hard to believe that Barbie can cook in those high heels and wearing that mini skirt.

After we—I mean the kids—played with their toys for a while, everyone began to gather up paper, boxes, and debris scattered throughout the house. A heroic attempt was made to scoop up the fairy dust, but it was everywhere so I volunteered to vacuum later.

Considering the chaos yesterday, everything is remarkably back in order. I have a lot of leftovers, but microwaved biscuits and gravy hit the spot.

After church this morning, I switched on the fiber-optic tree, put my feet up and read the paper. I haven’t vacuumed yet, and fairy dust winks at me from the carpet. Yesterday my house was filled with love and laughter. Today is silent, peaceful, and a time to reflect on all the magic that has graced my life.

With family time behind me, Christmas seems to be over. The bright sparkle of fairy dust and the lighted tree remind me that Christmas isn’t just a “holiday season”—it’s a way of life.

Alzheimer’s Support Group: HBO Screening

We watched Momentum in Science Part II at our last support group meeting. When a new person entered the room and introduced herself, she said, “My dad is in the film.” She didn’t know if he was in the segment we were going to watch. I sat close to her and ask her to let us know if he was in this segment. Toward the end, she said, “That’s my dad.”

I had watched the entire HBO Project before, but picked up more information from the second viewing. An interesting chapter in this part was the DeMoe family story. Six siblings are being studied to try to learn more about familial early-onset Alzheimer’s. Out of the six, only Karla does not have the gene that will cause the type of Alzheimer’s that ended their father’s life at age 58. My heart ached for the five with the disease, but the saddest person was Karla. She has taken on responsibility for her brothers and sisters and already misses them as they spiral into the Alzheimer’s abyss.

Researchers believe they can find more effective treatments and possibly an immunization. The immunization trial was put on hold after some of those studied developed encephalitis. Immunization showed promise. It did a marvelous job of removing plaque, one of the hallmarks of Alzheimer’s.

When we think about diseases that have been eradicated by immunization, it would seem this would be the best case scenario for Alzheimer’s. It would certainly mean a life-changing difference for families like the DeMoe’s who have a new generation with a 50/50 chance of developing Alzheimer’s.

Dementia is devastating for the entire family. Karla is as much a victim of Alzheimer’s as her siblings. She is more aware of their personality erosion than they are. Her siblings will make peace with the disease, but Karla has already begun to grieve their losses.

Each person with dementia is an individual whose life has been decimated. The effects of Alzheimer’s types of dementia explodes outward with the power of a bomb blast and attempts to destroy the lives of those closest to ground zero.

My life was forever changed with Jim’s dementia. And as heart wrenching as Jim’s disease was for me, I think about the DeMoes and my friend Karen Henley whose husband Mike has familial Alzheimer’s. Karen’s life has been forever changed by her husband’s illness, and she must carry a burden in her heart for the possibility that her children may not be safe from the same disease. How much lighter would her burden be if an immunization could protect her children?

During discussion following the screening, we talked about some of the people who had taken part in experimental treatments. The immunization study consisted of giving several small doses of the drug. One woman whose husband received the injections said, “People kept asking how he was and we would say he is holding.” Holding is about as good as it gets with Alzheimer’s. The couple was disappointed and angry when the treatment ended.

Jim was on an experimental drug. I asked my sons for their opinion before enrolling Jim in the Phase III trial. My youngest son said, “Dad would be the first person to want to try it.” Jim was on the drug several months, but it had too many side effects and was never approved.

“My dad has changed so much since the film was made,” our guest at support group said. “He is frailer now.” I knew what she meant. Over the ten years Jim had the disease, his physical appearance changed dramatically.

Families like the DeMoes and Henleys are in the minority. Most people do not know the reality of living with dementia until it strikes their family. Jim was the first and, thankfully so far, the only person in his family to develop the rare form of dementia he had.

According to the film, Alzheimer’s is the second most dreaded disease after cancer. More than five million Americans have Alzheimer’s and the number of cases is expected to double every twenty years. Researchers are exploring many promising avenues, and work diligently toward changing Alzheimer’s from a hopeless disease to a manageable one.

***

For information about drug trials or to become Alzheimer’s advocate visit www.alz.org.

Widows Don't Wear Black

Tuesday was my first day at work after a week’s vacation. When I opened my mail, I saw an advertisement that Senator Jean Carnahan would be at Sedalia Book and Toy to sign The Tide Always Comes Back. I had met her during my annual pilgrimages to Washington DC for the Alzheimer’s Association.

On the drive to the bookstore, I scolded myself for giving in to temptation. Hadn’t I spent several hours cataloging more than 250 books in my home library the day before? Didn’t dozens of unread books sit on my shelves? No amount of mental chastisement kept me from being one of the first people in line to buy the former Missouri senator’s book.

Jean became an accidental senator when her husband was elected to that office posthumously. Taking office so soon after her husband’s death in a plane crash, Jean jumped into the challenge of representing her state and didn’t dwell on widowhood. In The Tide Always Comes Back she wrote: “Sure, I’ve checked those marital status boxes on printed forms, but I have never thought of myself as a widow in the traditional sense. For so long, society has identified widows as poor, sniveling souls unable to face the world.”

I read this passage to Brenda, a co-worker who was recently widowed. “I just filled out a form at the doctor’s office and wondered why they needed to know that I was a widow. I almost didn’t mark the box,” she said.

The average widow is fifty-five years old and remains a widow for fourteen years. Seven hundred thousand women are widowed each year. At one time widowhood was a way of life, but modern women do not wear black for a year and enter into a dignified state of mourning. The truth is most widows are back on the job shortly after the funeral. We see strong women reel, fall to their knees, and then bounce back at astonishing speed.

Many people read my blog and do not realize I am a widow. I interject stories about Jim and caregiving so that others may benefit from our experiences. When I think of widows, I remember Jim’s reaction after his Aunt Mary, and then his mother, were widowed. “I think widows are secret gadabouts,” he said. His theory was reinforced when my mother was widowed a few months later.

Not long ago, my mom and Aunt Labetta dropped by work to visit me. Aunt Labetta put her arms on our shoulders and said, “Here we are—three widows.” It’s strange to think of myself as a widow and it’s not easy to identify either of those two active, laughing women as widows. They travel, occasionally make a run to the casino, and play guitars together.

I don’t know any traditional widows. The widows I know are resilient and unafraid of life. Often, death of a loved one reinforces the importance of living life to the fullest. Marriage that lasts until “death do us part” leaves a sense of fulfillment.

The years Jim and I spent together will always be a major part of me. The give and take of marriage, the ups and downs, and Jim’s devastating dementia have shaped my personality and endowed me with a life’s mission. I do not write about Jim and the life of a caregiver due to unrelenting grief. Writing about life helps me heal and gives me hope that my future is full of adventure, excitement, accomplishment, and love.

The traditional widow is a stereotype. Like Senator Carnahan, I do not think of myself as a widow. I think of myself as a woman who was fortunate enough to have enjoyed enduring love, suffered great loss, and rebounded to a full rich life.