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.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
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?
Sunday, April 27, 2008
On a Slow Train to Chicago
The whistle makes a soothing mournful sound in the coach section of Amtrak. The rain snakes across the windows blurring the trees with their tease of green. Water pools in every dip of land from the April rain that has been falling for the past two days. Miniature lakes are surrounded by grassy meadows. The Missouri River is grey and turbulent from the flooding streams. A barge pushes a load beneath the grey metal structure of a bridge.
The leisurely train ride affords a chance for people, like me, who take advantage of every quiet moment, to write. My laptop fits nicely on the tray and an electrical outlet lets me work long after a battery would shut down. I spend most of the twelve hour ride from Sedalia to Chicago working on a new book, Writing as Therapy: Rocks and Pebbles.
As the train passes through small towns and past St. Louis, I think about how this leisurely mode of travel would have suited Jim. He inherited wanderlust from his parents’ vagabond lifestyle and was happiest on the road. Jim always said the best part of any journey was traveling down the highway. He was just as happy throwing a sleeping bag on the ground as he was staying in a motel. Jim preferred travel by car much more than flying, and I know he would have enjoyed the train ride.
Although the train outpaces the trucks on the interstate, train travel is not for those a tight deadline or people with no patience. Sometimes the train pulls to a side track and waits for a freight train to pass. Or, may even back up and hook onto a train having engine trouble and pull them along to their next stop. Sometimes cranky children cry or someone shouts into his cell phone and disturbs the quiet. Most of the time, it is peaceful and the seats are comfortable.
Something about the train makes me long for the days when Jim taught me to think about the journey and not just the destination. When the whistle blows, the sound makes me lonesome for those youthful days. The rain weeps, but I smile in remembrance of our journeys.
The leisurely train ride affords a chance for people, like me, who take advantage of every quiet moment, to write. My laptop fits nicely on the tray and an electrical outlet lets me work long after a battery would shut down. I spend most of the twelve hour ride from Sedalia to Chicago working on a new book, Writing as Therapy: Rocks and Pebbles.
As the train passes through small towns and past St. Louis, I think about how this leisurely mode of travel would have suited Jim. He inherited wanderlust from his parents’ vagabond lifestyle and was happiest on the road. Jim always said the best part of any journey was traveling down the highway. He was just as happy throwing a sleeping bag on the ground as he was staying in a motel. Jim preferred travel by car much more than flying, and I know he would have enjoyed the train ride.
Although the train outpaces the trucks on the interstate, train travel is not for those a tight deadline or people with no patience. Sometimes the train pulls to a side track and waits for a freight train to pass. Or, may even back up and hook onto a train having engine trouble and pull them along to their next stop. Sometimes cranky children cry or someone shouts into his cell phone and disturbs the quiet. Most of the time, it is peaceful and the seats are comfortable.
Something about the train makes me long for the days when Jim taught me to think about the journey and not just the destination. When the whistle blows, the sound makes me lonesome for those youthful days. The rain weeps, but I smile in remembrance of our journeys.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
L. S. Fisher, Alzheimer's Anthology: Book Signing at Barnes and Noble, Columbia, MO, April 13
Linda Fisher, Author
Alzheimer’s Anthology of Unconditional Love
Invites YOU to a Book Signing
Barnes and Noble
Columbia, MO
Sunday, April 13
1:30 – 3:30 PM
A Voice for Missourians with Alzheimer’s
In Missouri, an estimated 110,000 people have Alzheimer’s or a related disorder. Caregivers, family, and friends bring the number of Missourians directly impacted by the disease to more than a half-million.
Alzheimer’s Anthology of Unconditional Love
Invites YOU to a Book Signing
Barnes and Noble
Columbia, MO
Sunday, April 13
1:30 – 3:30 PM
A Voice for Missourians with Alzheimer’s
In Missouri, an estimated 110,000 people have Alzheimer’s or a related disorder. Caregivers, family, and friends bring the number of Missourians directly impacted by the disease to more than a half-million.
Alzheimer’s had never affected anyone close to me until my husband Jim began his downward spiral into the abyss of dementia. A diagnosis of Alzheimer’s is frightening and the prognosis is devastating. Alzheimer’s has remained a mystery, the cure illusive.
How could Jim have dementia when he was only 49 years old? The concept was unfathomable that small mental glitches could escalate into massive cell death that would erase my husband’s memory and skills. Jim once repaired our van with a piece of baling wire, but two years into the disease he could not focus enough to screw in a light bulb, twisting it first one way and then another.
Jim was a talented singer and musician who could play a multitude of stringed instruments. Eventually he could not play his guitar, and his voice was stilled by aphasia.
Alzheimer's Anthology of Unconditional Love is a collection of stories that give a voice to Missourians who have experienced this life altering disease. When our loved one has dementia, we embark upon an unwilling journey into an uncharted world. It is the death of our dreams, our plans, and the birth of unconditional love. Alzheimer’s brings about role reversals as we struggle to provide care for people who once took care of us.
The stories in the collection capture the effect Alzheimer’s has on caregivers, sons, daughters, in-laws, children, grandchildren, and healthcare workers. The writers range from a Pulitzer Prize nominee to unpublished authors.
Tracy Mobley, diagnosed at 38, wrote a story filled with humor and laced with the tragedy Alzheimer’s has brought to her family. Charles Schneider describes the shock of being diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s.
For those beginning the journey, these true slice-of-life stories will help them realize they are not alone. We all walk together, holding hands, giving each other hugs and encouragement.
I look forward to seeing you April 13 at the Columbia Barnes and Noble Bookstore.
Linda Fisher
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Everybody’s Talking
I visited my sister-in-law in the hospital yesterday. I left her room and outside the door a lady sat on a bench, cell phone to her ear carrying on a lively conversation. Around the corner through a patient’s open door, I saw an elderly woman’s visitor talking into her cell phone. About half the people you see in Wal-Mart are talking on cell phones. With more than 219 million active cell phones in the United States, that’s a lot of conversation.
Cell phones are everywhere. Ringtones interrupt sermons, speeches, training, work, corporate board meetings, live theatre, movies, and funerals as people forget to turn off their electronic devices. I was at a conference one time where the announcement was made, “If your cell phone rings, you pay $5.” The speaker was the first person to pay.
Cell phone plans provide an economical way to stay in touch with family and friends. With free nights and weekends it is easier to communicate with everyone you love.
When you talk to someone with Alzheimer’s, phone conversations can be deceptive. Often people with dementia continue to carry on polite conversation and give yes and no answers. It is frustrating for caregivers and family who live close by when the long distance relatives say, “Dad sounds fine to me. I think you are overreacting.”
Early in Jim’s disease, he always forgot to relay phone messages, so we installed caller ID. When he talked on the phone, he could make polite conversation. Even people who knew him well might not notice anything strange about his conversation. He interjected “I’m just fine,” “You don’t say?” and other polite phrases at appropriate intervals. After he hung up the phone, I would ask who he had been talking to, and his response was usually, “I have no idea” or “You know them.”
Our satellite TV account was in Jim’s name, and they called constantly with offers to upgrade our package. Jim always said yes, and when I called to cancel the expensive channels, they didn’t want to talk to me. Jim died three years ago, and I still can’t get his name off the account but they finally added mine.
I frequently receive phone calls offering me truck driving jobs. Just a few days ago an upbeat male voice said, “We just reviewed your resume and have an excellent truck driving job for you.” I did not submit a resume, but I am listed in the city directory with an occupation of driver. I’m pretty sure that information came from Jim, because after he could no longer drive, he referred to me as his “driver.”
While I worked on my blog post today, I received a phone call from Karen Waterhouse who plans to submit a story for the Early Onset Project. Karen has benefited from a combination of traditional medical treatment and a combination of herbs. She told me about the 22nd Annual Alzheimer’s and Related Dementia Wisconsin State Conference she will be attending in May.
Karen called because she could not find my email address. Just as we ended our conversation, she said, “I have a plan on my cell phone so it doesn’t cost me to call on weekends.”
To hear Karen’s voice, feel her energy and optimism, made my day. I’m so thankful that I have gotten to know so many people with early onset dementia. These personal friends keep me motivated to continue advocating for a cure for Alzheimer’s in a way that statistics never could.
The ability to communicate with family and friends needs to be weighed against the cacophony of disruptive ringing cell phones. So, if I walk past you in Wal-Mart with my cell phone to my ear, I just might be involved in an important conversation.
Cell phones are everywhere. Ringtones interrupt sermons, speeches, training, work, corporate board meetings, live theatre, movies, and funerals as people forget to turn off their electronic devices. I was at a conference one time where the announcement was made, “If your cell phone rings, you pay $5.” The speaker was the first person to pay.
Cell phone plans provide an economical way to stay in touch with family and friends. With free nights and weekends it is easier to communicate with everyone you love.
When you talk to someone with Alzheimer’s, phone conversations can be deceptive. Often people with dementia continue to carry on polite conversation and give yes and no answers. It is frustrating for caregivers and family who live close by when the long distance relatives say, “Dad sounds fine to me. I think you are overreacting.”
Early in Jim’s disease, he always forgot to relay phone messages, so we installed caller ID. When he talked on the phone, he could make polite conversation. Even people who knew him well might not notice anything strange about his conversation. He interjected “I’m just fine,” “You don’t say?” and other polite phrases at appropriate intervals. After he hung up the phone, I would ask who he had been talking to, and his response was usually, “I have no idea” or “You know them.”
Our satellite TV account was in Jim’s name, and they called constantly with offers to upgrade our package. Jim always said yes, and when I called to cancel the expensive channels, they didn’t want to talk to me. Jim died three years ago, and I still can’t get his name off the account but they finally added mine.
I frequently receive phone calls offering me truck driving jobs. Just a few days ago an upbeat male voice said, “We just reviewed your resume and have an excellent truck driving job for you.” I did not submit a resume, but I am listed in the city directory with an occupation of driver. I’m pretty sure that information came from Jim, because after he could no longer drive, he referred to me as his “driver.”
While I worked on my blog post today, I received a phone call from Karen Waterhouse who plans to submit a story for the Early Onset Project. Karen has benefited from a combination of traditional medical treatment and a combination of herbs. She told me about the 22nd Annual Alzheimer’s and Related Dementia Wisconsin State Conference she will be attending in May.
Karen called because she could not find my email address. Just as we ended our conversation, she said, “I have a plan on my cell phone so it doesn’t cost me to call on weekends.”
To hear Karen’s voice, feel her energy and optimism, made my day. I’m so thankful that I have gotten to know so many people with early onset dementia. These personal friends keep me motivated to continue advocating for a cure for Alzheimer’s in a way that statistics never could.
The ability to communicate with family and friends needs to be weighed against the cacophony of disruptive ringing cell phones. So, if I walk past you in Wal-Mart with my cell phone to my ear, I just might be involved in an important conversation.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Walk a Mile in My Skechers
I usually don’t look at the J C Penney One Day Only sales because I can almost always find a “must have” item, usually shoes. I am especially susceptible to buy-one-and-get-one-half-price shoe sales. Can you believe one of those sales was going on today? Wouldn’t you know they had a picture of a pair of white Skechers similar to the two black pair and burgundy ones I own and love?
So, like a true shoeaholic, I entered Penney’s holding my four-year-old granddaughter’s hand. After a cursory look at clothing, we meandered to the shoe department. On prominent display was not just ONE pair of Sketchers different from the ones I had, but FOUR.
“I would like to try these, these, these, and these,” I told the sales clerk.
While the clerk searched the storeroom for the shoes in my size, my granddaughter selected a pair of pink house slippers with a fluff of fur and Disney princesses on the toes.
We found a bench to try on our shoes. I slipped off the burgundy Skechers I was wearing to try on the natural colored pair with a lacy pattern. “The mirror is over there,” the sales clerk said.
“Those look cool with your black socks, Grandma Linda!” My granddaughter said with the enthusiasm of the very young. She pronounced the white pair with mesh ventilation and the black lacy pair as “Cool!”
I tried on a shiny brocade shoe with a water lily design, and my granddaughter said, “Those are precious, Grandma Linda!” She smiled at me, her face lit with joy, a beautiful child in a pink glitzy shirt, with silky blonde hair held back in with a poofy pink bow. I felt a pang that because of Jim’s dementia, he never had the opportunity to share these happy moments with his grandchildren.
Sometimes when I was immersed in the daily responsibilities of caregiving, I felt my joy had been stolen. When someone who had never taken care of a person with dementia offered simplistic views or started a sentence with “If I were you,” I knew that even if they walked a mile in my shoes, they could not begin to grasp the heartbreak of being a caregiver.
Yet, love for my family made me realize that life goes on, and many, many happy moments are yet to come. The sales clerk and I smiled at the Skechers being described as “precious.”
“OK, precious or cool? I’m only buying two pair. You are my fashion consultant, and I want to know which two pair to buy.”
Without the slightest hesitation, she pointed to the white mesh pair, “Those, and,” pointing to the natural pair, “those.”
“Not the precious ones?” I asked, running my fingers along the silky finish of the shoes.
“No. The cool ones.” Well grandmas want to be cool.
I left the store with a bulging bag of shoes and could easily walk a mile in my cool pair of Skechers along a path where moments of joy pop up like wildflowers to remind me how precious life is.
So, like a true shoeaholic, I entered Penney’s holding my four-year-old granddaughter’s hand. After a cursory look at clothing, we meandered to the shoe department. On prominent display was not just ONE pair of Sketchers different from the ones I had, but FOUR.
“I would like to try these, these, these, and these,” I told the sales clerk.
While the clerk searched the storeroom for the shoes in my size, my granddaughter selected a pair of pink house slippers with a fluff of fur and Disney princesses on the toes.
We found a bench to try on our shoes. I slipped off the burgundy Skechers I was wearing to try on the natural colored pair with a lacy pattern. “The mirror is over there,” the sales clerk said.
“Those look cool with your black socks, Grandma Linda!” My granddaughter said with the enthusiasm of the very young. She pronounced the white pair with mesh ventilation and the black lacy pair as “Cool!”
I tried on a shiny brocade shoe with a water lily design, and my granddaughter said, “Those are precious, Grandma Linda!” She smiled at me, her face lit with joy, a beautiful child in a pink glitzy shirt, with silky blonde hair held back in with a poofy pink bow. I felt a pang that because of Jim’s dementia, he never had the opportunity to share these happy moments with his grandchildren.
Sometimes when I was immersed in the daily responsibilities of caregiving, I felt my joy had been stolen. When someone who had never taken care of a person with dementia offered simplistic views or started a sentence with “If I were you,” I knew that even if they walked a mile in my shoes, they could not begin to grasp the heartbreak of being a caregiver.
Yet, love for my family made me realize that life goes on, and many, many happy moments are yet to come. The sales clerk and I smiled at the Skechers being described as “precious.”
“OK, precious or cool? I’m only buying two pair. You are my fashion consultant, and I want to know which two pair to buy.”
Without the slightest hesitation, she pointed to the white mesh pair, “Those, and,” pointing to the natural pair, “those.”
“Not the precious ones?” I asked, running my fingers along the silky finish of the shoes.
“No. The cool ones.” Well grandmas want to be cool.
I left the store with a bulging bag of shoes and could easily walk a mile in my cool pair of Skechers along a path where moments of joy pop up like wildflowers to remind me how precious life is.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Green Apple Gum
Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of Jim since I met him in 1968. He died almost three years ago and remains with me through memories of the life we shared. Sometimes the little things, or pebbles, become lost in the big rocks, or major events. When something triggers our thoughts, we discover a pebble hidden by the shadows.
As I exited church last Sunday, I caught the scent of green apple gum. I smiled, and I assume that everyone just thought I was happy, or being friendly. In that moment, I could feel Jim’s presence beside me, and he definitely was not happy.
When our kids were small, they thought green apple gum was the best tasting gum available. Jim would not tolerate the gum in the house, or even worse, the car.
“Who’s chewing that stinky gum!” he would shout, as he glared into the rearview mirror at the kids. The offending child would roll his window down and spit the gum out. It became a joke in the family that Jim could not tolerate the smell of green apple gum. This is a man who liked limburger cheese, which in my opinion, smells like road kill. A small piece of green apple gum made his stomach roll, and he would retch if exposed to the smell very long.
One time we drove to Kansas with our friends, Rick and Sandy. We stopped at a rest area to get gas, and Sandy who had heard of Jim’s legendary aversion to green apple gum, bought some. “This will be so funny!” she said as she paid the clerk.
“Sandy, he won’t see the humor in it,” I warned her.
As soon as Rick pulled his van out of the parking lot and headed down I-70, Sandy started shoving green apple gum into her mouth until she had such a wad of it she could hardly chew it. As soon as the smell released, Jim whipped his head around and shouted, “Who’s chewing green apple gum!”
“I am,” Sandy said meekly, aware now that it really set him off. Without being told, she opened a window and threw the gum out.
That was the last time I smelled green apple gum until Sunday at church. I shook hands with the pastor and left the building. Jim would have hunted down the person with the green apple gum and informed them they were polluting his air space. That was the Jim I knew and loved, and the one that sometimes exasperated me.
I have never chewed green apple gum, and never will. I don’t have the low tolerance for it that Jim had, but a whiff of green apple gum pelts my senses with a pebble of memory. Green apple gum triggers a random remembrance of the complex and very human man who shared my life for 37 years and still lives in my heart.
As I exited church last Sunday, I caught the scent of green apple gum. I smiled, and I assume that everyone just thought I was happy, or being friendly. In that moment, I could feel Jim’s presence beside me, and he definitely was not happy.
When our kids were small, they thought green apple gum was the best tasting gum available. Jim would not tolerate the gum in the house, or even worse, the car.
“Who’s chewing that stinky gum!” he would shout, as he glared into the rearview mirror at the kids. The offending child would roll his window down and spit the gum out. It became a joke in the family that Jim could not tolerate the smell of green apple gum. This is a man who liked limburger cheese, which in my opinion, smells like road kill. A small piece of green apple gum made his stomach roll, and he would retch if exposed to the smell very long.
One time we drove to Kansas with our friends, Rick and Sandy. We stopped at a rest area to get gas, and Sandy who had heard of Jim’s legendary aversion to green apple gum, bought some. “This will be so funny!” she said as she paid the clerk.
“Sandy, he won’t see the humor in it,” I warned her.
As soon as Rick pulled his van out of the parking lot and headed down I-70, Sandy started shoving green apple gum into her mouth until she had such a wad of it she could hardly chew it. As soon as the smell released, Jim whipped his head around and shouted, “Who’s chewing green apple gum!”
“I am,” Sandy said meekly, aware now that it really set him off. Without being told, she opened a window and threw the gum out.
That was the last time I smelled green apple gum until Sunday at church. I shook hands with the pastor and left the building. Jim would have hunted down the person with the green apple gum and informed them they were polluting his air space. That was the Jim I knew and loved, and the one that sometimes exasperated me.
I have never chewed green apple gum, and never will. I don’t have the low tolerance for it that Jim had, but a whiff of green apple gum pelts my senses with a pebble of memory. Green apple gum triggers a random remembrance of the complex and very human man who shared my life for 37 years and still lives in my heart.
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