June 5, 2012 · 8:43 pm

Being quiet in the tunnel

As a kid, one of my favorite family rituals was the rule about being quiet when we drove through tunnels. I don’t know who or why we started this rule, but I was adamant about everyone obeying it.

Usually, my parents would oblige. My mom would usually hush Dad up as we approached the tunnel, then I would let out a big “Shhh!” just as the light faded as we entered the dark tunnel. I got such a kick out of the silence and the darkness.

I remember one time, Dad started whispering while we were in the tunnel, just to get a rise out of me. I got really steamed but Dad tried to play Mr. Innocent, saying he was only whispering, and not really talking. I remember pouting for quite awhile that day!

I had not thought about the “tunnel rule” in ages but I was reading something recently that described Alzheimer’s as entering a tunnel that you never come out of. It is an accurate description. The disease is like a long tunnel that gets darker and darker, forcing you to stumble around lost and frightened, with no end in sight.

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June 4, 2012 · 7:04 pm

Visit to the local museum

I had not thought about this weekend ritual in ages, but there was this tiny art museum located in a park in the town I grew up in. Mom would always drag us in every time there was a new exhibit. At one point they started charging a nominal admission fee (like a buck or two) and I remember Dad grumbling under his breath.

Dad loved certain forms of art with a quiet passion, such as classic films, music from the crooners like Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra, and literary works. Visual art was not his cup of tea. I remember Dad high-tailing it as quickly as he could through the several small exhibit rooms before hitting the door with relief and heading for a long cigarette break under a shady tree. Mom would linger on and on, to the point where the museum staff (usually a retiree) would start flickering the lights to politely shoo us out.

I was somewhere in-between the extremes of my parents. I was not into the abstract modern art as much as I was into portraits. I liked inventing stories behind the faces painted on the canvas.

As an adult, I go occasionally to the big city museum and enjoy the exhibits. But I do feel that impatience of my Dad stir within me. Not because I need a cigarette, since I don’t smoke, but just the pull of work demands and life. There’s always somewhere to rush to, something that has to be done. We rush so much that we barely see the beauty before our eyes, even when we are standing still in front of a piece of art.

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June 3, 2012 · 6:30 pm

The scent of the departed

I just talked to Mom, and she’s still missing Dad a lot, which is understandable, since he has been gone less than six months. Everyone’s grief process works a bit differently. I have a feeling Mom will grieve herself into her own grave. She is good about getting out of the house so she can interact socially with other people, which is very important.

But she admitted to me that she had not been able to go through any of Dad’s belongings yet, other than what had come from the nursing home. She keeps most of her clothes in a separate closet, but she says when she does have to open their shared closet, she feels like she can still catch a scent of Dad lingering in the clothes that haven’t been worn in well over a year.

Scents of people are a funny thing … they linger in the memory. I’ll always remember my dad’s scent of cigarettes and aftershave.

It makes me think about how many people’s scents I’m hit with on a daily basis, going to work on the subway. Perfume, cigarettes, alcohol, sweat, babies … it runs the gamut of human experience.

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June 2, 2012 · 7:18 pm

Saturday night supper, revisited

I’m getting ready to have dinner and was thinking back on some popular family dinners from my childhood. I’ve written before about how Mom’s homemade chili was a huge hit. A rare dip in temperatures here in Atlanta has me thinking about hearty casseroles. Like a lot of moms, my mom would scour the newspaper, can and box lids for recipes we might like. The one she found on a can of Campbell’s soup was by far our favorite.

I don’t remember the name of it surprisingly, but it was basically shredded chicken (sometimes my mom would cook chicken breasts and shred them, sometimes she would just buy the chicken chunks in a can), dressing (or stuffing, depending upon your preference, anyways, that yummy stuff served at Thanksgiving) along with cream of chicken soup. You layered the chicken, dressing and soup and baked the mixture in the oven.

It was so simple, but it was so delicious! Sure, it wasn’t the healthiest of meals but it was a great comfort food dish. And none of us had a weight problem, so we could indulge in dishes like this now and then without too much guilt.

Dad and I always had second helpings of this dish. I don’t remember there ever being leftovers. Dad, who sometimes was absent-minded when it came to compliments on Mom’s cooking, never failed to say, “That was good!” when this chicken casserole was on the menu.

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June 1, 2012 · 6:59 pm

Trying to escape old age

Like a lot of people, my parents had their daily regimen of vitamins. As far back as I can remember, there was a tiny cup of various capsules, some hard and chalky, others clear and filled with liquid. As a child, the colors and textures fascinated me. My parents were pretty lucky in that they were not dealing with any chronic diseases that required daily medication. These were simply supplements, vitamins and cod liver oil and whatever else my mom read was good for you. Dad had a thing about choking, and he would balk at the horse pills Mom would offer up sometimes. He would demand the ones that were coated in something smooth. He also would complain about the fragrant belches that were a side effect of the garlic capsules.

As for me, I had one tiny chewable vitamin each day to take. My favorites were the Flintstones and the Bugs Bunny varieties. I can still remember the distinct taste those vitamins had, kind of like a sweet tart with a mineral aftertaste.

Who knows if those handful of pills my parents swallowed daily did any good. Perhaps they helped keep my dad alive all the way to 79 years of age, even if his mind failed him the last few years. It is pretty impressive he dodged both cancer and heart issues despite his almost lifelong smoking habit.

Mom still has nice skin, is at a healthy weight and only takes medication now once a week for her osteoporosis. Perhaps the supplements have kept her healthy for the most part as well?

I’m on the fence about all of those supplements. Plus, just like Dad, I’m not a big fan of swallowing pills. I do take acidophilus pills daily and a multivitamin when I remember. And funny enough, I take an allergen-free gummy vitamin, because it’s easier for me to digest. So it’s like I’m a kid all over again.

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May 31, 2012 · 7:27 pm

Life in a box

I found out today that a former co-worker of mine has died. I had no idea he was ill, as I did not keep up with him after he left the company we worked together at. What I do remember of him was his white shock of hair, a warm smile and an easygoing spirit. Apparently some of his friends were having a life legacy box created for him. An organization has members who are woodworkers donate their time to create beautiful wooden boxes, which can be personalized. They can then be filled with mementos, letters, photos, etc. to honor one’s life. These boxes are delivered to those in hospice. The box is passed on to family members once the person passes. I think it is a beautiful concept.

It made me think about how Alzheimer’s, and I’m sure many other diseases, can overshadow one’s legacy. Years of decline, both physically and mentally, can strip away so much of what makes a person unique. What’s left behind is this shell of a person, who often seems numb and distorted from suffering and the medications designed to ease the suffering. But to allow those final images to dominate our memories allows the disease to win.

I thought about what I would put in a box for Dad. Definitely something green, probably a symbol of a shamrock to represent his birthplace. Maybe some rosary beads since he was Catholic. A picture of my parents when they were dating. A picture of Dad holding me as a baby. I would include a photo of the Titanic, because he loved to study the history of that ship. I’d probably put a cigarette in there, because so many of my memories of Dad include him smoking. (My mom still hasn’t thrown away the last pack of cigarettes that Dad had at home.) Can’t put a pint of beer in a box but maybe a Guinness coaster or ad, since that was one of his favorite brands. Maybe a tiny bottle of Old Brut, the cologne he wore the most. I’d throw in a Bing Crosby CD.

It’s kind of funny how my memories of Dad are a distinct mixture of virtue and vice.

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May 30, 2012 · 7:09 pm

The dirty neck incident

When I was in third grade, my teacher was Mrs. French. She was a bit younger and flashier than most of the other teachers at my elementary school. She was very tan, with a classic 80’s perm. She liked to wear gold jewelry. She seemed to treat the boys nicer than the girls. In addition to her flashy dress, she also could show flashes of anger.

I remember turning as red as a tomato in the face over what I call the “dirty neck incident.” I’m not sure if it was really part of the curriculum to lift the collars of students and look for dirt, but as we were getting ready to go to recess or lunch one day, we were all lined up so Mrs. French could do her inspection. Now, I was the fairly typical kid in that I didn’t jump for joy when it was time to take a bath, but once I was surrounded by bubbles via the pretty pink Mr. Bubbles bottle, and had my toys and soap crayons to play with, I was fine. Also, my mom is a bit of a clean freak. So I doubt that it looked like coal had been rubbed on my neck. Still, Mrs. French wrinkled her nose and said, “You need to wash your neck better.”

I mumbled something about washing my neck last night when I got a bath and slunk away from her grip. I’m sure other kids got cited as “dirty” as well, but I don’t remember. By the time I got home, I was almost in tears and told Mom about the incident. I think she was most upset that her cleaning skills would be called into question. I remember my mom scrubbing my neck that night until it turned as red as my face earlier that day.

Dad, who had plenty of run-ins with mean teachers via the nuns who used to hit his knuckles with a ruler, had a different mindset. “Why is the teacher worried about their necks? Isn’t she supposed to be teaching the kids reading and writing and arithmetic?” I had to side with Dad on this one. Sure, good hygiene is important, but since Dad did manual labor all of his life, a clean neck was not a top priority for earning a living.

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May 29, 2012 · 6:25 pm

Wanted for shoplifting

I’ve written previously about how my Dad’s “burrito incident” was a big sign to Mom and I that Dad was having mental issues. But many decades before that, Mom and I were accused of shoplifting at a local grocery store we frequented.

Mom and I would do the shopping, then Dad would handle the check-out process. For whatever reason, Mom didn’t want to go through the line with Dad, so sometimes we would wait outside for him. I guess she didn’t want to wait in the car because she was afraid of carjackers. Anyways, when it was raining, we would linger inside the store, usually in the front waiting area. If the checkout line was unusually long, Mom and I would wander over to look at the greeting cards. I liked showing Mom the pretty cards or the funny ones. It was just how we passed the time away. Other than getting a few fingerprints on cards that we weren’t buying (and Mom’s OCD made sure everyone’s hands were clean at all times) I can’t see how we were doing any harm.

I guess a new manager came on board and became suspicious of a middle-aged mom and her 10-year-old daughter. One fateful night, when we met up with Dad just outside the store, an employee followed us out and asked if we were all together. They wanted to know why we were hanging out in the card aisle. We were all surprised by the interrogation but Mom is forever the peacemaker and tried to smooth things over. Dad was none too happy about his family being accused of thievery.

He went back to the store that week and told the manager we weren’t going to shop at that store ever again. The manager didn’t seem too concerned, which ticked Dad off, as we had been regular shoppers there for years.

I can still remember the humiliation of that incident, and how I felt the same sickening lurch when I heard about Dad stealing the burritos. I also felt the same strong instinct to defend the family reputation, to prove that we were honest people.

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May 28, 2012 · 5:00 pm

A visit to the cemetery

With it being Memorial Day, I remember how my family used to visit the
local cemetery in our town. We didn’t know anyone buried there, it was just a quiet place for us to walk and reflect. Dad loved the history of cemeteries, and would look for the oldest graves, or would seek out those who had been casualties of war. He would spin a yarn about how they may have been lost, which battle of World War II or Vietnam they might have met their end in, etc. Of course, we didn’t know the real stories, but as a child, it didn’t matter to me. Dad was well-versed on war history, so he was able to make his stories convincing.

Mom, being the sentimental type, would mourn over the tiniest graves, those belonging to newborns or small children who had probably perished from disease or accident. These would make me sad as well, because it was hard for me to understand someone so young could die.

Every day of my dad’s final hospital stay in Albuquerque, I would pass by a cemetery. I found it morbidly ironic, throwing a fleeting glance over at the weathered stones, thinking that my dad could be joining their ranks at any moment. I never had time to take a stroll through the cemetery, as by day’s end, spending several hours by my father’s bedside while trying to console my mom, I was emotionally spent and just wanted to retreat to my hotel room.

But when I visit most towns, especially one with a deep and rich history, like Savannah, I make a point of visiting the cemetery. It’s certainly not everyone’s cup of tea, but there is something very peaceful and spiritual about visiting a land filled with the dead.

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May 27, 2012 · 4:47 pm

Putting Dad out of his misery?

There is a New York magazine article by Michael Wolff that I first saw thanks to Eva’s blog. In the lengthy piece, Wolff talks about his mother’s decline in health, both physically and mentally. He talks about the physical, emotional and financial toll it takes on him and his siblings. He laments how modern technology has extended people’s lives in terms of years but not necessarily in terms of quality of life, and how we as a society are turning a blind eye to this brewing epidemic until it touches our family directly. He makes some good points, though some readers may be put-off by the fact that he and his family apparently have plenty of financial resources to provide the best around-the-clock care possible for their ailing mother. Wolff’s piece also seems more focused on his woes versus his mother, who seems to be a fascinating person experiencing a tragic ending to her life.

Ultimately though, Wolff ponders whether families should be able to decide when it is time for an ailing family member to die a death with dignity, versus lingering for years with a disease like Alzheimer’s. Call it what you will: euthanasia, death panels, etc. It’s obviously a very controversial issue.

My dad holding me as a baby. Such a happy photo.

I can understand both sides of the debate. I don’t feel that the last year of my dad’s life had much value. He wasn’t in a terrible state of pain or suffering the entire time, but between the medications and the dementia, he seemed incapable of feeling any kind of emotion. He was wearing diapers and living with strangers. The dad I knew would have hated the idea of it. But would he have preferred I slip him some medication that could have ended his suffering? Dad had a fear of death. Even if it were legal, and I had Dad’s best wishes (and his written approval) it still would be a heartwrenching decision to make. Having participated in two (quite legal) euthanasias this year for beloved pets, I’ve experienced firsthand how having the power to decide life or death comes with its own special pain. Ending one’s suffering does not eliminate or lessen the pain and grief that comes with losing a loved one.

There are no easy answers. We can try our best to ensure our loved ones die with dignity, but ultimately, how much control do we really have?

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