Mom and Dad: Heartbreak and Laughter

There are times when one of my Parents does or says something so different from who they were that it catches me off guard.  Moments that shine such a bright spotlight on symptoms of the disease it breaks my heart.

Dad’s favorite joke to tell us kids was, A boy raised his hand and asked the teacher, “Teacher?  Is natural gas lumpy?”  She said, “No.”  The boy said, “Uh oh…, I think I’ve messed my pants.”  Dad went through a period where he thought that since passing gas was something everyone did he could do it whenever he felt the urge.  This was terribly embarrassing to Mom, but gave Dad the giggles.  One afternoon, Dad was feeling particularly gassy and was really whooping it up, until…  Yep, one was lumpy.   He and Mom quickly went into the bathroom to assess the damage and clean up the mess.  Mom scolded, “I told you to quit doing that!”  As that old joke flooded back into my mind, I heard Dad say, in the most plaintive voice I’ve ever heard from him, “I’m sorry.”  I choked out tears and laughter in great big hiccuping sobs.

Mom has always kept lists:  shopping lists, music for Sunday service lists, to do lists, etc.  As Alzheimer’s worked its wily ways, she started keeping lists of the things she wanted to remember to ask someone else about.  There are lists of things to ask friends and family who might call, lists of things to ask me or my brother, lists of things to find that might be in a box, questions, concerns, or just something she wants to remember to share.  I sit down with Mom and go over these lists with her, answering questions, resolving issues, planning shopping trips, finding phone numbers of friends/family, revising lists.  Each list starts out specific for the store or to ask me or my brother.  As we go through the lists, I notice that each list ends up melding into the others.  She had written down to ask about this DTV stuff she keeps seeing on the news on every list – they need to buy a new TV, perhaps Dan can fix it, maybe I’ll drive them to the store to get a new TV, maybe her brother knows something about it…  On one list she had it written down twice.  Even her list making abilities are being taken away.  Another piece of who she was…  another piece of my heart broken.

For years, Dad has collected the tabs off pop cans.  It got to be a game for him, trying to get the tab off any can of pop he saw, whether it was in use or not.  A few times it was even dangerous – I caught him sticking his finger into a can trying to loose one that had fallen in; another time I caught him using a very sharp knife in an attempt to pry out the flap thinking it was the tab he sought.   All through this, those little tabs have held great meaning for him.  Handing him a few of them was like handing a quarter to a kid and turning him loose in the penny candy aisle.  They worked as rewards and incentives.  While he couldn’t remember why the church collected them, he knew they did and looked forward to turning them in every Sunday.  Every time I’d hand him one, he’d say, “I don’t know why they need these, but they do, so I take them.”  One Sunday, there was a big to-do about gathering all that had been collected together and turning them in to the Ronald McDonald House.  There were many little baggies full of these tabs and they were taking them away.  It effected Dad, deeply.  Later that week, when I tried to hand him a few tabs, hoping to elicit a smile, he shoved my hand away and said, “Those are no good anymore.  They took ‘em.  They’re no good.  They’re junk.”  Mom said something about there being someone there in the facility who collects tabs – I didn’t catch what she said over the sound of sobs choking me…  sobs I could not let out…  Is this Divine intervention?  Is this God’s way of keeping Dad safe, preventing him from cutting himself while trying to get those tabs?  Isn’t it funny the things they remember?

Mom was always the navigator.  On road trips, Mom manned the map watching for exits and street signs.  She was also very quick to find a directory in a building so she could get to the right floor.  She has lost the ability to look for landmarks, look for directional arrows, find a directory, recognize where she is.  Every time I see that lost, confused look on her face I get a lump in my throat.

I left my heart on the floor of Lowe’s when she called to ask me if the deer were kangaroo.  (That story can be found >here< )

Throughout their progression, there have been many wonderful moments.  They bring joy to my life and laughter to my heart.  Just when I think I’ve gotten a handle on the whole thing, I am reminded of how relentless this disease really is.  I see another piece of their used-to-be vanish.  I grieve another loss.  I marvel at what they do remember, old and new.  I love them more than ever before.

Dad remembers a family reunion we attended just a few weeks ago.  While he seems to think it happened last year, he vividly remembers being rained upon.  We had just sat down to eat when the clouds opened up and spilled a lake on us – everyone was soaked to the bone instantly.  Dad remembers that experience – he finds it funny, but it enters his mind frequently, especially when we are going outside.  “Were you there?  Everybody wet!  Wet, wet!  Down to their toes wet.”  I smile, remembering looking over at the port-a-pot thinking, “This is the only time in my lifetime that a port-a-potty seemed like a good place to be for reasons other than gotta go!”  Mom and Dad rode out the deluge sitting in her brother’s car.   Dad remembers being wet.  Mom remembers the mad dash for cars by some, the even madder dash by others to cover the food.  Neither was successful – everyone was soaked and the food was drowned, but we all had a great time.  It’s a memory that will last for years to come, maybe even for Mom and Dad.

Tags: Alzheimer's, Alzheimer's care, caregiver, caring for elderly parents, elder care, life lessons, senior care