Category Archives: Memories

January 31, 2012 · 11:04 am

It takes a dementia village?

A new community for those suffering with dementia is being built in Switzerland. It’s been nicknamed by locals as “Dementiaville” and what makes it unique is that it is a fully-functioning village designed to mimic the 1950’s era. Caregivers will dress up as gardeners, shop assistants, hairdressers, etc. while taking care of the residents, who will be free to roam throughout the village and who will reside in home settings with a retro flair. It’s a fascinating concept and I’m eager to see how it works out.

I think my dad would have liked a community like this. I often thought of him as being stuck in a time warp, because even when he was mentally sound, most conversations with him centered on topics of the past, such as World War II, Hollywood’s silver screen era, the Kennedy family and the great crooners like Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby. I’m sure it’s natural for many people as they get older to start to feel out of touch with the modern world around them, but for my dad, I felt like he really had a soft spot for say, the early to mid 1960’s. I’m not sure if he would have preferred New York City, where he first lived after immigrating to this country from Ireland, or if he would have liked Los Angeles better, where he met my mom and raised his family.

I once wrote about my dad for a college paper: “He would have liked nothing more than to step back in time and never leave the past.” It sounds like with this new residential concept for dementia patients, my dad could have done just that.

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January 30, 2012 · 9:01 am

How I almost was named Bernadette

I’m an only child, so my parents only had to play the name game once when deciding what I would be known as in this world. It’s an important task, and as my parents were older than the average age at the time, I believe they put quite a bit of thought into it.

Dad holding me just days after I was born.

My mom thought I was going to be a boy, based upon her gut feeling and discussions with acquaintances, who claimed they could “just tell” by looking at a pregnant woman whether she was going to have a boy or girl. If I had been a boy, my parents had decided upon the name Scott.

But instead my parents ended up with a baby girl. My dad offered up the name Bernadette, after the saint who purportedly saw visions of the Virgin Mary. It’s a good Catholic name, but I’m glad for once that mom intervened and suggested Joy. It was certainly a lot easier to spell when I was learning to write!

I don’t think dad was too crushed over losing out on the baby name game. My parents picked Kim as my middle name, and my dad and his relatives all took to calling me “Joy-Kim” so he put his own personalized stamp on it.

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January 29, 2012 · 3:42 pm

Dad’s need to meditate

As I had dinner in an extremely loud restaurant last night and listened to the din of frenetic human activity around me, I thought about how my dad and I both enjoyed and required solitude. I’ve written before about our enjoyable visits to the library. We were both comfortable in our own worlds and spent a lot of time quietly reflecting. My mom tends to have quite the opposite nature, and could easily talk enough for all three of us!

Back when my dad was well, he would drop my mom off to grocery shop or run other errands, and when she reminded him she might be awhile, he would say, “That’s okay. I’m just going to sit here and meditate.”

As the dementia took greater hold over his mind, dad could no longer be trusted to be alone while my mom did her errands. But he hated going into stores and having to follow her around. This made a tedious but necessary chore an extremely stressful event for both mom and dad.

I wonder if all of those times he wandered away, he was trying to find his quiet place again, a place where he could be at peace and away from his troubled mind. I remember when I viewed his body at the funeral home, how calm and peaceful he seemed to be be. I told my mom he seemed “comfortable” and that was a state I had not seen him be in for many years. For those suffering with dementia, we can only hope that death does free them from the demons that plague their minds in this life.

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January 28, 2012 · 3:10 pm

A psychic connection?

I have not told my mom yet about The Memories Project as she has a lot on her plate right now, and my mom is about the least tech-savvy person I know, so it will take a detailed explanation for her to understand what this project is about. She’s proud of her technophobia, which she will happily tell you if she gets the chance. In fact, she came up with a little ditty that she would tell all of the nurses and caregivers that were assisting my dad when he was alive. It goes like this:

Don’t text, read a textbook instead.
Don’t Google, giggle instead.
Don’t Twitter, leave it to the birds.

I told her she should get it copyrighted.

Anyways, my mom and I were talking the other night, and out of the blue she asked, “Do you remember how your dad loved to sing in the shower? It was usually some Irish tune, like ‘Danny Boy.’ He had such a good voice.”

That really threw me for a loop, as I had just written about this small but distinct memory about the shower the week before on this blog. It made me feel that there is some kind of deep connection there, whether one wants to call it psychic or not. Most of the time I’d like for mom to stay out of my head but in this case, it struck me as a very special moment.

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January 27, 2012 · 3:09 pm

A favorite family meal

My mom cooked many memorable dishes over the years that my dad and I would devour eagerly, but when we wanted take-out, we gravitated to Pioneer Chicken. I have such vivid memories of the simple joy of sinking my teeth into the extra crunchy batter, which seemed to have a hint of nutmeg, and letting the greasy coating and the meat almost melt into my mouth. The quirky logo is forever burned into my brain, and the heavenly smell and taste of that fried chicken is one of my fonder childhood memories.

My mom would call the order in and my dad would go to pick it up. My stomach would be growling with anticipation. We would always order white meat and breasts and drumsticks, no pesky wings. There were fluffy rolls and mashed potatoes with gravy, but they were easily forgotten. After a brief supper prayer, all hands descended upon the golden chicken and a series of slurps, smacks and chewing ensued.

But the best part of those fried chicken meals was the fact that my dad was always worried about his cholesterol, despite being at least a pack-a-day smoker. So he would “discard” his crispy chicken skin onto a plate in the middle of the table, and my mom and I would help ourselves to those greasy, calorie-laden bits of yumminess. Afterwards, we would rip open the lemon-scented hand wipes that came with the meal and erase the grease from our hands, while we enjoyed the lingering effects of our food comas.

Alas, “real” fried chicken will forever be a memory for me, as I was diagnosed with Celiac Disease years ago and have to be on a gluten-free diet. And I have naturally gravitated to a more vegetarian diet over the years. But as a child, Pioneer Fried Chicken was the ultimate junk food. I definitely preferred it over a McDonald’s happy meal. Food can definitely bring a family together.

And if I’ve whetted anyone’s appetite for the Pioneer Chicken experience, The franchise was sold in the 1990’s and most locations were converted into Popeye’s stores. But there are still a few Pioneer locations open in California, though I’ve heard some are not offering the authentic fried chicken recipe. Where can you find the real Pioneer Chicken? In China, where the chain goes by the name, “California Chicken.”

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January 26, 2012 · 3:25 pm

Trips with dad to Liquor Barn

It may seem odd to have happy childhood memories about hitting the liquor store with your dad, but I do have fond memories of our trips to Liquor Barn. I did a Google Search and was surprised to see that the chain still exists, albeit not anymore in Southern California where I grew up. The store was a giant warehouse stocked floor to ceiling with adult libations. This was not the sleazy, bars-over-the-windows shack that some people associate liquor stores with. It was very clean, quiet and frequented by a polite suburban clientele.

My dad was mainly a beer drinker, though he did like a nice glass of brandy now and then. We went to Liquor Barn to find the imported beers he couldn’t find anywhere else. I loved looking at all of the colorfully-labeled bottles, and the way the sun would glisten off the clear bottles filled with gold, amber, emerald and sapphire colored liquids. I remember dad being happy when he could find a rare import, instead of being stuck swilling Michelob or Dos Equis.

Near the end of his life, when dad was still living at home, my mom would “allow” dad to have a half a beer at night, hoping it would help him sleep through the night, as the dementia caused his internal clock to go haywire and he would often get up and roam in the middle of the night. Honestly, I probably would have let him have the whole bottle, as long as it wasn’t going to have a negative interaction with any medications he was on at the time. My dad was a simple man who enjoyed simple pleasures, and in the end, Alzheimer’s robbed him even of those things.

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January 25, 2012 · 1:45 pm

Dad wanting to be a movie star

On a recent trip home, about a month before my father passed away, my mom brought out a few shoeboxes of old family photos. Most I had seen before, but there was one photograph of my dad that stood out to me. It looked more like a headshot than a candid pose as most of the other photos were. When I showed it to my mom she said that it was the photo dad sent to the Hollywood movie studios, to try to get into the movies.

I knew dad had a lifelong love for the cinema, having escaped war-torn Belfast as a child by becoming a fan of the silver screen. Among his favorite actors were Humphrey Bogart and Jack Nicholson. If I had a dollar for every time I remembered dad watching “Casablanca” I’d be a wealthy woman by now. I just watched “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” again, having seen it several times before. This time, I viewed the movie from a slightly different perspective, as there are some similarities that I noticed of the mental health facility depicted in the movie and the care center that my dad was placed in at the end of his life. There’s always the issue of medication and its use in controlling patients’ behaviors, the staff’s handling of patients, how patients get along with one another and the level of freedom provided to the patients. These facilities are filled with moments of humor and tragedy, just as depicted in the movie.

Anyways, my dad’s glamour shot is a keeper, even if he never landed a film role. He was lucky enough to have kept his pitch-black hair most of his life, and while typically shy, his personality shines through in this image. It’s always interesting to see one’s parents as they lived before they became mom or dad, to get a glimpse into their hopes, dreams and ambitions. In the end, I’m glad dad didn’t become a movie star, because then he may never have been my dad.

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January 24, 2012 · 3:11 pm

Dad’s obsession with the $20

Well after my dad lost the ability to make change at the store or pay for a meal, he became obsessed with money. In particular, it was always $20 that someone owed him, usually my mom. She would play it off and say she was holding it for him. He became increasingly distrustful and paranoid. At one point, he started carrying around a huge wad of bills (mainly dollar bills) that would precariously jut out of his shirt pocket, ready to fall to the ground at any moment. He also would carry multiple wallets (he ended up losing most of the contents in those wallets over time.) My dad was never that organized but now he was a mess.

The altered relationship with money is a common manifestation of Alzheimer’s. I can only fathom dad was desperately trying to stay in control of something in his life, even if it was only reclaiming an imaginary $20 bill or carrying about a sweaty, crumpled wad of bills all the time. Even when he moved to the assisted living facility, he still talked about that $20.

On my last visit home while dad was still living there, he was fixated on collecting change. He would “count” it, or at least arrange it in various formations before putting it back in his pocket. I remember sitting in the guest room, listening to my dad’s mind unravel in the bedroom next door, the constant jingle-jangle that my mom tried to drown out with the radio as she cooked dinner. I wanted to go to dad, talk to him, take his troubled mind off the obsession with change. But I felt uncomfortable and awkward in the face of such odd behavior. So I left him alone, and the tense house continued to be filled with the maddening sounds of dimes and nickels and pennies and quarters colliding with one another. I regret not attempting to ease his distress, even if just for a moment.

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January 23, 2012 · 3:22 pm

Dad’s love of all things ‘Titanic’

Many reports of the recent cruise ship tragedy off the coast of Italy have drawn parallels to the Titanic. 2012 also marks the 100th anniversary of the Titanic’s sinking. That made me think about my dad’s obsession with the Titanic. The ship was built in his hometown of Belfast, Northern Ireland, and was a source of pride for the working-class people of that city. The Titanic set sail on its ill-fated maiden voyage on April 10, 1012; my dad was born April 10, 1932. Of course, the ultimate tragic fate of the legendary ship has been recounted in numerous books, movies and documentaries. While my dad of course mourned the massive loss of life, he could still appreciate the mystique of the story, with the lavish accommodations, the eclectic mix of passengers, the feeling of adventure those must have felt embarking on such a trip.

The Titanic leaves Southampton, England on her maiden voyage to New York City, April 10, 1912. File photo.

If there wasn’t a massive tome about the Titanic on my dad’s bedside table, then he was watching a PBS documentary on the subject. He loved to relate the details of the voyage that he learned about, as if he had been a passenger himself. I think it was like a fantasy world he delved into, long before his mind was ever crippled by dementia.

And how do I know that my dad didn’t retreat to a fantasy world just like that once the dementia did take hold. Maybe the real world increasingly became an irritating distraction to this alternative world he was slipping into. If so, I hope it was all champagne and caviar and song and dance, with no icebergs in sight.

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January 22, 2012 · 3:00 pm

Dad’s bad luck with cars

Maybe it was dad’s European roots, but he was not obsessed with cars like most red-blooded American men are. I barely remember the lime-green LTD that my parents had when I was a baby and toddler. It was the typical late 1970’s gas-guzzling boat. Eventually it broke down and when I was about five or six we went car shopping.

I don’t remember much about the process. What I do know is that we ended up with a new car, albeit the cheapest car on the lot: a white Chevrolet Nova with burgundy-colored vinyl interior. It was a lemon from the beginning. I don’t know if my dad even made it home before the car broke down. When he returned the car to the dealer, the mechanics told him the flywheel had been put in backwards, a very unusual occurrence, according to the technicians. Looking online now, there seems to be much debate as to whether that is even possible. At any rate, after the delay, we were finally tooling around town in our symbol of mediocrity. It didn’t have air conditioning or power controls for the windows and doors. I remember at one point, the passenger side door just wouldn’t open anymore from the inside, so my dad always looked like the perfect gentleman, as he had to open the door for us.

Chevy Nova. Photo: CharJens/Flickr

As I was doing a bit of research for this post, I discovered that our family joke about our dumpy car was not based on fact. I had grown up hearing that the Nova cars didn’t sell well in Spanish-speaking countries because “Nova” in Spanish means “no go.” This site provides a detailed debunking of this urban legend.

Buick Skylark. Photo: McLellan's Automotive History

Well, the Nova proved to be a fairly dependable piece of junk, surviving until I was almost a teenager. My dad made sure to squeeze every last bit of life out of it before it went to the junkyard. He surprised us by getting another car, this time a used one, without letting us see it beforehand. We quickly found out why. He ended up getting a white Buick Skylark with burgundy interior, which looked like a clone of our Nova! I don’t think my mom ever let my dad live that one down.

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