Lauren Holland, a student at Wofford College, came across my Writing as Therapy blog post and sent an email two weeks ago about the Living Words program. I answered her email and casually goggled Wofford College to see where it was located. My Goggle search informed me that Wofford is in Spartanburg, SC.
That information made me smile because that’s where my good friend, Ralph Winn, lives. I met Ralph at the 2000 Alzheimer’s Association Public Policy Forum in Washington, DC. Ralph and I, both board members at our local associations, were attending the forum with our respective executive directors. We hit it off at the executive directors’ reception. “Oh, you are a board member, too,” Ralph said with a charming southern accent that immediately made me realize he was indeed a southern gentleman. “I guess we are crashing this party,” he said. Ralph figured he might be distinguished as the oldest participant at the meeting, but he was determined to be an advocate for his lovely wife who had Alzheimer’s.
The next morning I was free to explore Washington, DC, while my executive director was in a meeting. I called the front desk and asked to be connected to Ralph’s room to ask him to go with me. He wasn’t in his room, so I decided he might be people watching. Sure enough, I found him sitting in a big comfy chair in the lobby. That day we toured the Smithsonian and our friendship was born.
Today, I received a second email from Lauren in Spartanburg, SC. This time Lauren mentioned their website and I decided to visit the site to learn more about the Living Words program. This therapeutic writing workshop is for individuals with dementia and a caregiver or friend who accompanies them. I read blog entries, sample stories, program descriptions, and followed a link to a newspaper article about a father and daughter reconnecting because of the program.
I know from personal experience that writing is cathartic and have always recommended it as a way to cope with stress and grief. I knew from the stories submitted by Tracy Mobley and Charles Schneider to Alzheimer’s Anthology of Unconditional Love that writing helped my friends with dementia. Tracy tells me that writing helps her express herself better than speaking. Writing gives her more time to think about what she wants to say. Writing is not easy for her, but it is well worth the effort.
The Living Words website chronicles the writing program in sufficient detail to allow the implementation of this program in other communities. The website serves as a template for support groups, facilities, or other organizations to help families touched by Alzheimer’s benefit from writing.
Participants are not pushed into writing, but gently nudged into exploring their memories or stretching themselves to creatively answer writing prompts. Workshops are conducted with humor and encourage camaraderie between caregivers and their loved ones with dementia as they share their ideas, thoughts, and reminiscences with each other. Living Words is a concept with the potential to use the therapeutic benefits of writing to improve quality of life for families living with Alzheimer’s.
Visit Living Words website at www.livingwordsprogram.com and see if you can be inspired to offer a similar program in your community.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Life is Good
I found myself in a funk—tired, rundown, and overdrawn on vitality. To regain my normal optimistic outlook on life, I decided to take a mini-vacation with nary a single plan to clutter up my do-nothingness. Usually the idea of taking three days off work in the middle of a Missouri July means chilling out under the air conditioner.
Wednesday, I went to Kansas City and wore one of my “Life is Good” T-shirts for luck. I ventured into Dick’s Sporting Goods to see what kind of mid-summer bargains they might have. I practically glowed with optimism when I found my favorite T-shirts on sale and snapped up four “Life is Good” long-sleeved T-shirts. Well, I figured I couldn’t wear them until fall, but knew I’d get my money’s worth then.
When I was in Boston last year I visited the original Life is Good store. That’s where I heard the Bert and John Jacobs’ story. These two guys made their start by selling T-shirts out of the back of a van. With a creative idea and a vanload of optimism, their achievements must have exceeded their wildest optimistic dreams.
Sometimes in my life, it’s been hard for me to remain optimistic, but it is in my nature to look for the good in life. That is part of what helped me make it through the ten years of Jim’s dementia. I sought out the good times, the quiet times, the loving times. I found that by cherishing those small moments of joy, I could make it through the bad times.
As we travel the river of life, we hit snags, whirlpools try to suck us downward, and sometimes we wind up high and dry on a sand bar. When we navigate through dangerous rapids we find ourselves in mortal danger as we cling to life.
We can recognize the dangers of a river, but often don’t recognize the risk of stress. Warning signs are everywhere—high blood pressure, chronic fatigue, depression. We need to find a calm, quiet place and mentally regroup. We all need respite from the pressures of life. If we don’t take time for ourselves, our inner optimism will die from lack of use.
My mini-vacation became respite from work and hot weather. A friend and I had a backyard barbeque Thursday evening and as we relaxed in lawn chairs a cool breeze sprung up. Who would have thought we would have 70 degree weather on a mid-July evening?
Today, I awoke to 60 degree weather and guess what? I broke out one of my Life is Good shirts. I removed the tag and realized that my shirt is named “Acoustic Jake.”
I still find joy in life’s small treasures. I find comfort in reading inspirational books like Joel Osteen’s Your Best Life Now and Become a Better You. This morning, my uplifting reading came from a tag off my Life is Good shirt. These words surround the logo on the tag: “Do what you like. Like what you do. Optimism can take you anywhere.”
Life is good.
http://www.lifeisgood.com/
http://www.joelosteen.com/
Wednesday, I went to Kansas City and wore one of my “Life is Good” T-shirts for luck. I ventured into Dick’s Sporting Goods to see what kind of mid-summer bargains they might have. I practically glowed with optimism when I found my favorite T-shirts on sale and snapped up four “Life is Good” long-sleeved T-shirts. Well, I figured I couldn’t wear them until fall, but knew I’d get my money’s worth then.
When I was in Boston last year I visited the original Life is Good store. That’s where I heard the Bert and John Jacobs’ story. These two guys made their start by selling T-shirts out of the back of a van. With a creative idea and a vanload of optimism, their achievements must have exceeded their wildest optimistic dreams.
Sometimes in my life, it’s been hard for me to remain optimistic, but it is in my nature to look for the good in life. That is part of what helped me make it through the ten years of Jim’s dementia. I sought out the good times, the quiet times, the loving times. I found that by cherishing those small moments of joy, I could make it through the bad times.
As we travel the river of life, we hit snags, whirlpools try to suck us downward, and sometimes we wind up high and dry on a sand bar. When we navigate through dangerous rapids we find ourselves in mortal danger as we cling to life.
We can recognize the dangers of a river, but often don’t recognize the risk of stress. Warning signs are everywhere—high blood pressure, chronic fatigue, depression. We need to find a calm, quiet place and mentally regroup. We all need respite from the pressures of life. If we don’t take time for ourselves, our inner optimism will die from lack of use.
My mini-vacation became respite from work and hot weather. A friend and I had a backyard barbeque Thursday evening and as we relaxed in lawn chairs a cool breeze sprung up. Who would have thought we would have 70 degree weather on a mid-July evening?
Today, I awoke to 60 degree weather and guess what? I broke out one of my Life is Good shirts. I removed the tag and realized that my shirt is named “Acoustic Jake.”
I still find joy in life’s small treasures. I find comfort in reading inspirational books like Joel Osteen’s Your Best Life Now and Become a Better You. This morning, my uplifting reading came from a tag off my Life is Good shirt. These words surround the logo on the tag: “Do what you like. Like what you do. Optimism can take you anywhere.”
Life is good.
http://www.lifeisgood.com/
http://www.joelosteen.com/
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Thinking with My Heart
This week I received email newsletters from two trusted sources, Alzheimer’s Weekly and the Alzheimer’s Association, about a Swedish/Finnish study. The crux of the study was a marriage, so to speak, between dementia and committed relationships. I perked up when the researchers concluded that widows (like me!) were three times as likely to develop dementia as married women. I read new studies the same way I read a horoscope—I pick out the parts I like and bah-humbug the rest.
The researchers say that social involvement will help offset the dementia risk of living alone. That’s good news for me since I am by nature a social being. I have been an Alzheimer’s Association volunteer and advocate for the past fourteen years. I’m an officer in a local business women’s group. Talk about an active club! We move from one project to the next, and have monthly meetings, weekly friendship luncheons, and several great conferences each year. Last, but certainly not least, I’m president of the Columbia Chapter of the Missouri Writers’ Guild. Oh, and did I mention I work full-time as office manager at a rural electric cooperative? So, I think I have “social” covered.
When the Alzheimer’s Association first unveiled their Maintain Your Brain program, I had mixed emotions. My friend, Diane and I were delegates at an assembly meeting in Chicago when we first heard about the program. Diane’s husband had recently died from early onset dementia, and she was concerned that people would begin to think that dementia was brought on by unhealthy habits. I had to agree with her.
Yes, we all want to do things to keep our minds healthy, but what about people like Jim? He read, played the guitar, knew the lyrics to hundreds of songs, and he was only forty-nine years old. He certainly was not at risk for dementia.
After I learned more about the program, I liked the common sense idea behind the science. Maintain Your Brain can be condensed into a few basic categories: stay mentally, socially, and physically active, and while you’re at it, eat brain healthy food. How to develop these simple, but effective, brain healthy habits can be found on the Alzheimer’s Association website at http://www.alz.org/we_can_help_brain_health_maintain_your_brain.asp.
Heart and brain health are connected in many ways. So think with your heart, but before you sign up for e-harmony.com consider other factors that can reduce your risk of dementia. A good rule to keep in mind is that if it’s good for your heart it’s good for your brain.
The researchers say that social involvement will help offset the dementia risk of living alone. That’s good news for me since I am by nature a social being. I have been an Alzheimer’s Association volunteer and advocate for the past fourteen years. I’m an officer in a local business women’s group. Talk about an active club! We move from one project to the next, and have monthly meetings, weekly friendship luncheons, and several great conferences each year. Last, but certainly not least, I’m president of the Columbia Chapter of the Missouri Writers’ Guild. Oh, and did I mention I work full-time as office manager at a rural electric cooperative? So, I think I have “social” covered.
When the Alzheimer’s Association first unveiled their Maintain Your Brain program, I had mixed emotions. My friend, Diane and I were delegates at an assembly meeting in Chicago when we first heard about the program. Diane’s husband had recently died from early onset dementia, and she was concerned that people would begin to think that dementia was brought on by unhealthy habits. I had to agree with her.
Yes, we all want to do things to keep our minds healthy, but what about people like Jim? He read, played the guitar, knew the lyrics to hundreds of songs, and he was only forty-nine years old. He certainly was not at risk for dementia.
After I learned more about the program, I liked the common sense idea behind the science. Maintain Your Brain can be condensed into a few basic categories: stay mentally, socially, and physically active, and while you’re at it, eat brain healthy food. How to develop these simple, but effective, brain healthy habits can be found on the Alzheimer’s Association website at http://www.alz.org/we_can_help_brain_health_maintain_your_brain.asp.
Heart and brain health are connected in many ways. So think with your heart, but before you sign up for e-harmony.com consider other factors that can reduce your risk of dementia. A good rule to keep in mind is that if it’s good for your heart it’s good for your brain.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Music Therapy Stimulates Memories
Music stimulates our memories and unveils feelings we thought we had forgotten. Have you ever noticed how a song can bring back a flood of emotions? A familiar melody can take us back in time, and although our physical appearance might shriek middle-age, our emotional age is the era of the song.If you don’t think music can transform you internally, pay attention to the songs that give you happy feet. Even if your body isn’t up to the dance moves of your youth, your heart hears the music and your feet want to dance.
Throughout the years of our marriage, Jim played his guitar nearly every morning. He called it his therapy. At work I often listen to KDRO radio, a local station that plays country music and almost every song makes me think of Jim. One of the saddest things about dementia was when Jim began to have trouble playing his guitar. One day he asked me to tune his guitar. Jim, the man with perfect pitch, wanted tone-deaf me to attempt something I had never done in my life. I knew his request was beyond my abilities, but I called his brother and he took care of it.
Music has been a family tradition in my mom’s family. I grew up thinking that all normal families played guitars and sang. On Saturday nights my mom and her brothers, neighbors, and friends sat on wooden kitchen chairs and played music for hours. On those Saturdays at Grandma and Grandpa Whittle’s house, my Aunt Venetia always sang my grandma’s favorite gospel songs.
My mom, Aunt Labetta, Jimmy (my brother), cousin Reta, and Gene Branch play music at the nursing home one Saturday a month. Recently, I dropped by Good Shepherd Nursing Home in Versailles to listen to the music. I wound my way through the halls to the dining room where they were set up on the stage. Several residents tapped their toes and sang along with the songs they knew. At the front of the room, my Aunt Venetia sat dozing in her wheelchair while my cousin Jan attended to her.
My mom and Aunt Labetta, as always, dedicated a special song to their sister-in-law. Aunt Venetia is in the late stages of Alzheimer’s, yet she perks up when she hears the music she’s loved her entire life.
When Jim was in the nursing home, his favorite channel was GAC. His eyes were glued to the set when his favorite entertainers performed. His foot would tap in time to the music that he once effortlessly played.
With the special bond music has to our memories, it is no wonder that eyes sparkle at certain songs. Sometimes the sparkle is caused by unshed tears, but often it’s just memories dancing in our brains that bring life to our eyes.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Home Videos: I Cried Until I Laughed
Yesterday, I decided to sort some of our old home videos. Jim was the cameraman and captured every vacation and important event on tape. Sometimes, I would get irritated with him for turning our lives into reality TV. Usually, I preferred to unpack while he played the tapes for the family.
While Jim was in the nursing home, I couldn’t bear to watch any of the tapes. By then, he had lost his ability to carry on a conversation. He was my best friend and I missed how we shared our deepest thoughts and feelings, our hopes and fears. After aphasia stole his conversation skills, he became more and more silent and spoke only a few words in repetitious phrases.
Jim had meticulously labeled each tape with his initials, JDF, and when, where, or what the tape contained. I picked up a tape labeled: Colorado 1988 and popped it into the VCR/DVD player. My screen was filled with majestic mountain scenery, deer, elk, and coyotes as Jim taped one of our animal watch evenings in the Rocky Mountain National Park.
Jim taped our campfire breakfast the next morning, and to keep him from running the video camera while driving the curvy mountain roads, I taped our drive through the park. Jim, as usual, narrated. I turned the camera on Jim and he began to talk about our plans for the day. “We’re having the time of our lives,” he said.
Tears welled up as I watched Jim on the video and was reminded of the man he was before we knew anything about dementia. He spoke in his quick-witted manner, relaxed, and happy in his beloved Colorado. The mountains worked their magic on him giving him an inner happiness and peace that he didn’t have in our normal world. I was beginning to think that watching these films was depressing and a really bad idea.
“We are going to the Big Horn Meadow,” Jim said. “I’m going to feed the chipmunks.” Jim was pretty good to follow all the rules and regulations in the park, but he had always fed the chipmunks.
“Why not? It’s only a $25 fine—per offence,” I said.
“We can afford $25,” he answered.
Jim’s bantering from more than twenty years ago chased away my tears, and I found myself laughing out loud. Somehow in my memories, I had forgotten Jim’s great sense of humor.
During one of our hikes, Jim had the camera, and he said, “I’ve dropped back to film because Linda doesn’t like for me to film her from behind. Ooops,” he said as the camera caught my rear view. He swung the camera aside and then back, “Ooops. And ooops.”
As we drove up Fall River Road next to a sheer drop off, Jim teasingly asked me if I wanted him to get closer to my side of the road so I could get a better picture. “Oh, no,” I said, “I’m fine.”
When the tape came to an end, I popped in a couple of tapes marked “Idaho” to see what they were. At least that’s what I told myself. One of them was a trip Jim took to Idaho without me. Jim shot footage of his cousin Joe in Idaho and in the next segment the camera zoomed in for a close-up of a McDonald’s sign. “Hey, honey, guess where I am! This is the only McDonald’s I ever liked to eat at.”
“Estes Park!” I said from my seat on the couch where I still held the remote in my hands.
“Estes Park!” he said…as if I wouldn’t immediately know.
There’s no danger that I will ever forget Jim as long as I’m breathing, but memories are limited. Most of the moments caught on film were buried so deep within my brain I would probably have never retrieved them. Watching the tapes are a way of reminding me of the wondrous moments I’ve lived, even if nostalgia makes me cry until happy memories make me laugh.
While Jim was in the nursing home, I couldn’t bear to watch any of the tapes. By then, he had lost his ability to carry on a conversation. He was my best friend and I missed how we shared our deepest thoughts and feelings, our hopes and fears. After aphasia stole his conversation skills, he became more and more silent and spoke only a few words in repetitious phrases.
Jim had meticulously labeled each tape with his initials, JDF, and when, where, or what the tape contained. I picked up a tape labeled: Colorado 1988 and popped it into the VCR/DVD player. My screen was filled with majestic mountain scenery, deer, elk, and coyotes as Jim taped one of our animal watch evenings in the Rocky Mountain National Park.
Jim taped our campfire breakfast the next morning, and to keep him from running the video camera while driving the curvy mountain roads, I taped our drive through the park. Jim, as usual, narrated. I turned the camera on Jim and he began to talk about our plans for the day. “We’re having the time of our lives,” he said.
Tears welled up as I watched Jim on the video and was reminded of the man he was before we knew anything about dementia. He spoke in his quick-witted manner, relaxed, and happy in his beloved Colorado. The mountains worked their magic on him giving him an inner happiness and peace that he didn’t have in our normal world. I was beginning to think that watching these films was depressing and a really bad idea.
“We are going to the Big Horn Meadow,” Jim said. “I’m going to feed the chipmunks.” Jim was pretty good to follow all the rules and regulations in the park, but he had always fed the chipmunks.
“Why not? It’s only a $25 fine—per offence,” I said.
“We can afford $25,” he answered.
Jim’s bantering from more than twenty years ago chased away my tears, and I found myself laughing out loud. Somehow in my memories, I had forgotten Jim’s great sense of humor.
During one of our hikes, Jim had the camera, and he said, “I’ve dropped back to film because Linda doesn’t like for me to film her from behind. Ooops,” he said as the camera caught my rear view. He swung the camera aside and then back, “Ooops. And ooops.”
As we drove up Fall River Road next to a sheer drop off, Jim teasingly asked me if I wanted him to get closer to my side of the road so I could get a better picture. “Oh, no,” I said, “I’m fine.”
When the tape came to an end, I popped in a couple of tapes marked “Idaho” to see what they were. At least that’s what I told myself. One of them was a trip Jim took to Idaho without me. Jim shot footage of his cousin Joe in Idaho and in the next segment the camera zoomed in for a close-up of a McDonald’s sign. “Hey, honey, guess where I am! This is the only McDonald’s I ever liked to eat at.”
“Estes Park!” I said from my seat on the couch where I still held the remote in my hands.
“Estes Park!” he said…as if I wouldn’t immediately know.
There’s no danger that I will ever forget Jim as long as I’m breathing, but memories are limited. Most of the moments caught on film were buried so deep within my brain I would probably have never retrieved them. Watching the tapes are a way of reminding me of the wondrous moments I’ve lived, even if nostalgia makes me cry until happy memories make me laugh.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
He Wouldn't Harm a Fly
It must have been a slow news day for the president to create such a whoop-la-la by smacking a pesky fly. Especially when you consider the nasty little creatures carry life threatening diseases on all six of their dirty little feet. Spreading diseases isn’t enough for adult flies—they lay their eggs in places where the larvae can burrow into flesh and damage internal organs in unfortunate animals.
I wonder if the PETA guy that protested the president swatting a fly has ever been bitten by a horsefly. Well, I have and they hurt. Although the lowly fly causes pain and suffering for just about every other living animal, PETA is supplying the president with a special trap that will not harm the flies. The idea is to take the trapped flies outside and set them free.
All this concern about small creatures reminds me of an incident that happened when Jim was in the early stages of dementia. We were headed to town in Jim’s Nissan pickup. I was driving, and Jim sat beside me. We had just turned onto the blacktop when he began to pull against his seatbelt and leaned forward into his seat.
“No!” he shouted. “You’re killing them!”
For some unknown reason a mass of caterpillars were creeping across the blacktop. “No! No!” he shrieked. “You are running over the worms.”
“I can’t miss them,” I said. “They’re everywhere.”
Jim was really upset about the creepy crawlers, but I just ignored his protests. Why he was so upset, I really don’t know. It was just one more glitch in his thinking.
I can honestly say I cannot recall one time that I was deliberately cruel to any animal. I make it a habit to swiftly deal the fatal blow when necessary. Maybe it’s just me, but I have a tendency to kill flies, ticks, spiders, or any other critters I find in my house, or on my body. If PETA considers killing annoying, disease-carrying bugs mass murderer, then I plead guilty.
Oh, wait. No one really cares if I kill flies because I am not the President of the United States. Sometimes it pays to be an ordinary person instead of the rich or famous whose every indiscretion is caught by a watchful camera lens and published on You Tube.
I found a tip on the Internet that makes me think PETA may be on to something with that trap. Flies follow each other in their constant hunt for food. If you catch a few flies in the trap, their buzzing will attract more flies. Once the trap is full of flies, you can get rid of them.
Maybe you are the kind who couldn’t harm a fly and will set them free. Or you may be a person who plans to terminate those suckers and rid the world of disease carrying pests.
I wonder if the PETA guy that protested the president swatting a fly has ever been bitten by a horsefly. Well, I have and they hurt. Although the lowly fly causes pain and suffering for just about every other living animal, PETA is supplying the president with a special trap that will not harm the flies. The idea is to take the trapped flies outside and set them free.
All this concern about small creatures reminds me of an incident that happened when Jim was in the early stages of dementia. We were headed to town in Jim’s Nissan pickup. I was driving, and Jim sat beside me. We had just turned onto the blacktop when he began to pull against his seatbelt and leaned forward into his seat.
“No!” he shouted. “You’re killing them!”
For some unknown reason a mass of caterpillars were creeping across the blacktop. “No! No!” he shrieked. “You are running over the worms.”
“I can’t miss them,” I said. “They’re everywhere.”
Jim was really upset about the creepy crawlers, but I just ignored his protests. Why he was so upset, I really don’t know. It was just one more glitch in his thinking.
I can honestly say I cannot recall one time that I was deliberately cruel to any animal. I make it a habit to swiftly deal the fatal blow when necessary. Maybe it’s just me, but I have a tendency to kill flies, ticks, spiders, or any other critters I find in my house, or on my body. If PETA considers killing annoying, disease-carrying bugs mass murderer, then I plead guilty.
Oh, wait. No one really cares if I kill flies because I am not the President of the United States. Sometimes it pays to be an ordinary person instead of the rich or famous whose every indiscretion is caught by a watchful camera lens and published on You Tube.
I found a tip on the Internet that makes me think PETA may be on to something with that trap. Flies follow each other in their constant hunt for food. If you catch a few flies in the trap, their buzzing will attract more flies. Once the trap is full of flies, you can get rid of them.
Maybe you are the kind who couldn’t harm a fly and will set them free. Or you may be a person who plans to terminate those suckers and rid the world of disease carrying pests.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Murphy's Week
This week has been really long and totally wrong. Monday was my day off, and I don’t have any complaints about it.
Murphy’s Law was in full force beginning Tuesday, which seemed like a bad Monday to me. I started down the stairs to take towels out of the dryer. I flipped the switch and the stairwell light burned out. Why is it that when one light burns out it starts a chain reaction? When I turned on my closet light, it went out too. It’s always dangerous for me to choose my outfit for the day when I can’t see into the depths of my closet.
At work I spent the morning putting out fires instead of working on month end. At noon, I made a trip to Dollar Tree to buy table decorations for an upcoming meeting. I was proud of my efficient shopping until I couldn’t find my car keys. I finally set my packages on the ground and thoroughly searched each compartment of my new purse. No keys. I patted down all my pockets, first the raincoat and then my slacks. My son has a set of keys so I knew (as a last resort) I could call him. One time when he bailed me out, he happened to pull on the door and it wasn’t locked. I don’t like repeating mistakes so I checked the car door. It opened, and I fully expected to see my keys in the ignition. They weren’t! Now what? Then, I saw them in the cup holder.
You would have thought that would have been enough excitement for one day. After work, I went to the gym to de-stress, and when I came out I noticed my trunk lid was up. I must have pushed too many buttons when I locked the doors. I walked over and casually closed it like I always leave my trunk open even in a rain shower.
The good thing about Wednesday—it had to be better than Tuesday. I forgot my closet light was out until I flipped the switch and nothing happened. Still, I managed to get dressed and out the door on time. At work, I jumped into month end. I was a woman on a mission: Make up for yesterday when everything seemed to go wrong.
An hour later I wanted a cup of coffee and headed down the hall to the kitchen. I was preoccupied with work, but noticed one shoe was clicking and the other wasn’t. I looked at my feet and discovered I had on two black shoes but they definitely weren’t mates. One was my Liz Baker shoe with about an inch heel and the other was a Clark shoe with flat rubber soles. And I thought my limp was because of my bad knee!
I pondered what to do about this wardrobe malfunction. My first thought was to sit at my desk and keep my feet out of sight. That didn’t seem like such a great idea since I had plans to go to friendship lunch at noon. I couldn’t imagine walking into Bandana’s with mismatched shoes on my feet.
Following the suck-it-up-and-deal-with-it philosophy, I walked into my boss’s office. “I need to go home,” I told him. I knew it wouldn’t be a problem to go home, but I didn’t want to just disappear for half an hour.
“Is something wrong?” he asked. His concern was so touching that I couldn’t lie.
“Not really,” I said. “I just need to change my shoes. They are both black, but they aren’t mates.”
On the way home, I thought about how my week had been going. I was beginning to feel pretty silly, but blamed my problems on brain overload. I’m sure it has nothing to do with my impending birthday or that nonsense about senior moments. I saw how dementia changed Jim, and I know the difference.
I decided to go with the Clarks which are the most comfortable shoes I own. As I drove back to work, I decided the burnt-out bulb was the reason I pulled out mismatched shoes. After all, if anything can go wrong, it will. Isn’t that the basis of Murphy’s Law?
We’ll skip the rest of the week including almost running out of gas and pumping it in the middle of a thunderstorm. One great thing about today—the week is winding down to its overdue end. When I wake up in the morning, it will be a brand new week and I can scoff at Murphy’s Law.
Murphy’s Law was in full force beginning Tuesday, which seemed like a bad Monday to me. I started down the stairs to take towels out of the dryer. I flipped the switch and the stairwell light burned out. Why is it that when one light burns out it starts a chain reaction? When I turned on my closet light, it went out too. It’s always dangerous for me to choose my outfit for the day when I can’t see into the depths of my closet.
At work I spent the morning putting out fires instead of working on month end. At noon, I made a trip to Dollar Tree to buy table decorations for an upcoming meeting. I was proud of my efficient shopping until I couldn’t find my car keys. I finally set my packages on the ground and thoroughly searched each compartment of my new purse. No keys. I patted down all my pockets, first the raincoat and then my slacks. My son has a set of keys so I knew (as a last resort) I could call him. One time when he bailed me out, he happened to pull on the door and it wasn’t locked. I don’t like repeating mistakes so I checked the car door. It opened, and I fully expected to see my keys in the ignition. They weren’t! Now what? Then, I saw them in the cup holder.
You would have thought that would have been enough excitement for one day. After work, I went to the gym to de-stress, and when I came out I noticed my trunk lid was up. I must have pushed too many buttons when I locked the doors. I walked over and casually closed it like I always leave my trunk open even in a rain shower.
The good thing about Wednesday—it had to be better than Tuesday. I forgot my closet light was out until I flipped the switch and nothing happened. Still, I managed to get dressed and out the door on time. At work, I jumped into month end. I was a woman on a mission: Make up for yesterday when everything seemed to go wrong.
An hour later I wanted a cup of coffee and headed down the hall to the kitchen. I was preoccupied with work, but noticed one shoe was clicking and the other wasn’t. I looked at my feet and discovered I had on two black shoes but they definitely weren’t mates. One was my Liz Baker shoe with about an inch heel and the other was a Clark shoe with flat rubber soles. And I thought my limp was because of my bad knee!
I pondered what to do about this wardrobe malfunction. My first thought was to sit at my desk and keep my feet out of sight. That didn’t seem like such a great idea since I had plans to go to friendship lunch at noon. I couldn’t imagine walking into Bandana’s with mismatched shoes on my feet.
Following the suck-it-up-and-deal-with-it philosophy, I walked into my boss’s office. “I need to go home,” I told him. I knew it wouldn’t be a problem to go home, but I didn’t want to just disappear for half an hour.
“Is something wrong?” he asked. His concern was so touching that I couldn’t lie.
“Not really,” I said. “I just need to change my shoes. They are both black, but they aren’t mates.”
On the way home, I thought about how my week had been going. I was beginning to feel pretty silly, but blamed my problems on brain overload. I’m sure it has nothing to do with my impending birthday or that nonsense about senior moments. I saw how dementia changed Jim, and I know the difference.
I decided to go with the Clarks which are the most comfortable shoes I own. As I drove back to work, I decided the burnt-out bulb was the reason I pulled out mismatched shoes. After all, if anything can go wrong, it will. Isn’t that the basis of Murphy’s Law?
We’ll skip the rest of the week including almost running out of gas and pumping it in the middle of a thunderstorm. One great thing about today—the week is winding down to its overdue end. When I wake up in the morning, it will be a brand new week and I can scoff at Murphy’s Law.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Wild Turkey Alarm Clock
Living in the country is sometimes a mixed blessing. The peace and quiet was interrupted this morning by the loud, obnoxious gobble, gobble, gobble of a wild turkey who seemed to be outside my bedroom window. I looked at the clock and thought I could sleep for two more hours and still be getting up early for a Saturday morning. The turkey thought differently.I have to admit that in all the years I’ve lived in this house, I’ve been awakened by barking dogs, cat fights, thunder, and several other annoying morning noises, but not once has a turkey been close enough to the house to gobble me awake. I knew turkeys lived in the nearby woods. When Jim was building our house he was up at the crack of dawn every day to work on the project. As soon as Jim began hammering, the turkeys began to gobble.
Missouri is overrun by turkeys. They are awkward in flight, and seem to make up their minds to fly across the road just as a car is swooshing by. My sister wound up with a tom turkey in her lap one time when he crashed through the windshield.
Turkeys are more pleasant to watch when they strut in the fields, where they belong. Each morning on my way to work, I look at the field I think of as a deer and turkey haven. Deer and turkeys seem to frequent the same type of habitat. Some mornings I’ll see five or six deer and a dozen turkeys.
A few weeks ago, I saw an unusual sight. In a misting rain, a friend and I were approaching the toll bridge near Lake Ozark. A turkey crossed the road with about a dozen poults lined up behind her. The traffic stopped while the turkey family meandered across the highway.
All these ruminations about turkeys should have put me back to sleep, but the persistent turkey outside my window gobbled every time I drifted off. I peeked through the blinds expecting to see him in my yard. I’m not sure what I would have done if he had been in my line of vision, but I was seething murderous thoughts.
Finally, I decided to get up and make coffee. While the coffee brewed, I put on a light jacket. I walked to the road and retrieved the paper out of the box. On my return trip, I heard wings flopping and saw a huge bird flounder off a limb of the oak tree. He flew ungracefully across the gravel road, barely clearing the fence, and out of sight into the field.
For a moment, I puzzled over what the heck that awkward bird could be. Suddenly, it dawned on me that my turkey alarm clock was going off duty. It never occurred to me that turkeys roosted in trees.
I walked into the house and poured myself a cup of coffee and carried it into the living room. I opened the patio doors to a world of chirping birds and barking squirrels. With my early start on the day, I had plenty of time to relax over coffee and the paper.
Yes, indeed, living in the country is a mixed blessing. I’m up earlier than I planned, but it’s shaping up to be a beautiful day.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
The Alzheimer’s Project
When Jim was first diagnosed with dementia of the Alzheimer’s type, I knew nothing about the disease. One day shortly after Jim’s diagnosis, I watched an HBO special on Early Onset Alzheimer’s. The show followed a brother and sister with the genetic form of Alzheimer’s. The sister was in the end stages, and the brother was beginning to need help dressing himself. I remember the gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach when his wife fastened his belt. As the sister lay dying, the younger generation, a boy and girl in their teens, talked about their fifty-fifty chance of developing early onset Alzheimer’s. That show was a crash course on the relentless disease and how it affects the entire family.
With families of 5.3 million Americans traveling the Alzheimer’s journey, HBO has developed a documentary called “The Alzheimer’s Project.” HBO opened their airways to non-subscribers to make this program available to the general public. Anyone with Internet access can watch the programs on the Alzheimer’s Association website at http://www.alz.org/.
Many reviews have been written about “The Alzheimer’s Project” and this is not going to be one of them. I’m only going to talk about my reaction to the series.
I did well on Part I, “The Memory Loss Tapes,” until the death scene. Too many things about that scene brought back the emotional tumult of Jim’s death. As I watched the family’s faces, I remembered the inner struggle to face the reality of our journey’s end.
My first reaction was HBO should not have shown that scene. My friend, Ted, whose wife is in the final stages of the disease called me to make sure I knew about the series. He said, “They are telling it like it is.” I had to admit he was correct.
I imagine not everyone at HBO was in agreement about showing the death scene. I had the same internal struggle about including the final story in Alzheimer’s Anthology of Unconditional Love. I was afraid “The Aftermath” would be too depressing, but something compelled me to share Jim’s death and my reaction. Caregivers and people with Alzheimer’s have enough to deal with to make it through the day-in-day-out struggle with dementia. Did I want to let them know that the death of their loved one is the final insult? That was the moment I realized that no matter how much I had done, the disease won.
Part II, “Grandpa Do You Know Who I Am” shows how young people see the disease. I think about how my grandchildren never knew what Jim was like before dementia. Their image, like some of the children in the film, is of a different person whose brain has been destroyed by disease.
The “Caregivers” is helpful with its real live experiences, and we plan on showing this film at our support group. Knowledge is power and the more we know about the disease, the better caregivers we are. Jim had aphasia early in the disease and wasn’t able to tell me what he was thinking or how he felt. I was blessed by becoming friends with people with Alzheimer’s who retained their communication skills. I learned so much about how a person with Alzheimer’s feels from my friends with the disease. I truly appreciate their insights, fears, and hopes.
“Momentum in Science,” both parts, assures me that progress is being made toward diagnosing and understanding Alzheimer’s affect on the brain. One of the researchers featured in the film, Randy Bateman, MD, from Washington University, accompanied our Missouri Delegation on legislative visits at the Public Policy Forum in 2008. I was impressed with his down-to-earth manner.
The early HBO series helped me understand Alzheimer’s, but the Alzheimer’s Project has a much wider scope with its marriage of personal stories and the hope of scientific breakthrough. Unless science moves forward and finds a cure for Alzheimer’s and related dementias, death is the conclusion of the disease. I look forward to the day when we have Alzheimer's survivors walk a victory lap at Memory Walk. Until then, the only survivors of Alzheimer’s are the caregivers and families.
With families of 5.3 million Americans traveling the Alzheimer’s journey, HBO has developed a documentary called “The Alzheimer’s Project.” HBO opened their airways to non-subscribers to make this program available to the general public. Anyone with Internet access can watch the programs on the Alzheimer’s Association website at http://www.alz.org/.
Many reviews have been written about “The Alzheimer’s Project” and this is not going to be one of them. I’m only going to talk about my reaction to the series.
I did well on Part I, “The Memory Loss Tapes,” until the death scene. Too many things about that scene brought back the emotional tumult of Jim’s death. As I watched the family’s faces, I remembered the inner struggle to face the reality of our journey’s end.
My first reaction was HBO should not have shown that scene. My friend, Ted, whose wife is in the final stages of the disease called me to make sure I knew about the series. He said, “They are telling it like it is.” I had to admit he was correct.
I imagine not everyone at HBO was in agreement about showing the death scene. I had the same internal struggle about including the final story in Alzheimer’s Anthology of Unconditional Love. I was afraid “The Aftermath” would be too depressing, but something compelled me to share Jim’s death and my reaction. Caregivers and people with Alzheimer’s have enough to deal with to make it through the day-in-day-out struggle with dementia. Did I want to let them know that the death of their loved one is the final insult? That was the moment I realized that no matter how much I had done, the disease won.
Part II, “Grandpa Do You Know Who I Am” shows how young people see the disease. I think about how my grandchildren never knew what Jim was like before dementia. Their image, like some of the children in the film, is of a different person whose brain has been destroyed by disease.
The “Caregivers” is helpful with its real live experiences, and we plan on showing this film at our support group. Knowledge is power and the more we know about the disease, the better caregivers we are. Jim had aphasia early in the disease and wasn’t able to tell me what he was thinking or how he felt. I was blessed by becoming friends with people with Alzheimer’s who retained their communication skills. I learned so much about how a person with Alzheimer’s feels from my friends with the disease. I truly appreciate their insights, fears, and hopes.
“Momentum in Science,” both parts, assures me that progress is being made toward diagnosing and understanding Alzheimer’s affect on the brain. One of the researchers featured in the film, Randy Bateman, MD, from Washington University, accompanied our Missouri Delegation on legislative visits at the Public Policy Forum in 2008. I was impressed with his down-to-earth manner.
The early HBO series helped me understand Alzheimer’s, but the Alzheimer’s Project has a much wider scope with its marriage of personal stories and the hope of scientific breakthrough. Unless science moves forward and finds a cure for Alzheimer’s and related dementias, death is the conclusion of the disease. I look forward to the day when we have Alzheimer's survivors walk a victory lap at Memory Walk. Until then, the only survivors of Alzheimer’s are the caregivers and families.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Honor our Everyday Heroes
Memorial Day is a time to pause and think about heroes and to honor those who have died in our nation’s wars. At least, that was the original purpose.
It stands to reason that we would use the day to also honor other loved ones. My Grandma Whittle called the holiday “Decoration Day.” She and Grandpa loaded up a picnic lunch and went to Big Rock Cemetery to decorate graves.
After Jim and I married, we made our annual pilgrimage to the cemeteries where our loved ones were buried. Sometimes it was a strain on our budget to buy the flowers to decorate the graves, but it brought a sense of peace as we continued the traditions of our youth.
Our first stop was always Mt. Carmel. From there we went to Big Rock Cemetery, stopped at Stover Cemetery, and then drove back to Sedalia to decorate graves at Crown Hill. We made a complete circle and headed home with a heart full of memories.
When Jim first developed dementia, I drove our usual route while Jim placed the flowers on the graves. When Jim went in the nursing home, I went alone. Decorating graves without him was not an experience I cared to repeat.
Memorial Day 2005 was the first time I participated in the ceremony at the Missouri Veterans Cemetery at Higginsville. I haven’t missed a year since Jim’s death.
I was a little bummed about a conflict this year. My granddaughter is graduating kindergarten Sunday. My youngest son’s family lives in the Lake of the Ozarks area, the opposite direction from the cemetery. I told my older son, Eric, that I was going to the graduation. “I’ll miss the Memorial Day ceremony,” I told him.
I was disappointed, but I know Jim would have never chosen a ceremony for the dead over one for the living. He often wondered aloud what good it did to make someone a hero after they died. Jim always said, “Dying doesn’t automatically make you a hero.” Instead, he would tell our sons when they were small, “You are my hero.”
Jim never considered himself to be a hero. He was tightlipped when it came to Vietnam, and I never knew Jim had received an Army Commendation Medal until he could no longer tell me why he received the award. The commendation was nowhere to be found, and the Army couldn’t produce it when I asked.
“Why would you miss the ceremony when the graduation is Sunday and Memorial Day is Monday?” Eric asked.
“I don’t know why I thought Memorial Day was Sunday,” I said. “After all, it’s always been Monday.”
On Memorial Day, I’ll drive to Higginsville cemetery to place flowers in front of Jim’s niche. I’ll be there with my sister-in-law, Ginger, and with other families to think about and honor our loved ones. When we pause to honor our fallen heroes, we should honor our everyday heroes too. We all know people who face life’s challenges with bravery.
I think about how Jim told our sons they were his heroes, and how prophetic his words would become. They truly became his heroes when they cared for him with love and respect as he faded away.
For most people, decorating graves is an afterthought as they travel home from a weekend at the lake. Others spend the weekend shopping at Memorial Day sales or pigging out at backyard barbecues.
I always thought it ironic that Memorial Day has become a party weekend, not a somber occasion to remember the dead. Maybe it makes more sense to use Memorial Day as a time to celebrate life and honor the living as well as our fallen heroes. After all, we are surrounded by everyday heroes who deserve recognition for facing life with courage.
It stands to reason that we would use the day to also honor other loved ones. My Grandma Whittle called the holiday “Decoration Day.” She and Grandpa loaded up a picnic lunch and went to Big Rock Cemetery to decorate graves.
After Jim and I married, we made our annual pilgrimage to the cemeteries where our loved ones were buried. Sometimes it was a strain on our budget to buy the flowers to decorate the graves, but it brought a sense of peace as we continued the traditions of our youth.
Our first stop was always Mt. Carmel. From there we went to Big Rock Cemetery, stopped at Stover Cemetery, and then drove back to Sedalia to decorate graves at Crown Hill. We made a complete circle and headed home with a heart full of memories.
When Jim first developed dementia, I drove our usual route while Jim placed the flowers on the graves. When Jim went in the nursing home, I went alone. Decorating graves without him was not an experience I cared to repeat.
Memorial Day 2005 was the first time I participated in the ceremony at the Missouri Veterans Cemetery at Higginsville. I haven’t missed a year since Jim’s death.
I was a little bummed about a conflict this year. My granddaughter is graduating kindergarten Sunday. My youngest son’s family lives in the Lake of the Ozarks area, the opposite direction from the cemetery. I told my older son, Eric, that I was going to the graduation. “I’ll miss the Memorial Day ceremony,” I told him.
I was disappointed, but I know Jim would have never chosen a ceremony for the dead over one for the living. He often wondered aloud what good it did to make someone a hero after they died. Jim always said, “Dying doesn’t automatically make you a hero.” Instead, he would tell our sons when they were small, “You are my hero.”
Jim never considered himself to be a hero. He was tightlipped when it came to Vietnam, and I never knew Jim had received an Army Commendation Medal until he could no longer tell me why he received the award. The commendation was nowhere to be found, and the Army couldn’t produce it when I asked.
“Why would you miss the ceremony when the graduation is Sunday and Memorial Day is Monday?” Eric asked.
“I don’t know why I thought Memorial Day was Sunday,” I said. “After all, it’s always been Monday.”
On Memorial Day, I’ll drive to Higginsville cemetery to place flowers in front of Jim’s niche. I’ll be there with my sister-in-law, Ginger, and with other families to think about and honor our loved ones. When we pause to honor our fallen heroes, we should honor our everyday heroes too. We all know people who face life’s challenges with bravery.
I think about how Jim told our sons they were his heroes, and how prophetic his words would become. They truly became his heroes when they cared for him with love and respect as he faded away.
For most people, decorating graves is an afterthought as they travel home from a weekend at the lake. Others spend the weekend shopping at Memorial Day sales or pigging out at backyard barbecues.
I always thought it ironic that Memorial Day has become a party weekend, not a somber occasion to remember the dead. Maybe it makes more sense to use Memorial Day as a time to celebrate life and honor the living as well as our fallen heroes. After all, we are surrounded by everyday heroes who deserve recognition for facing life with courage.
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