Noah Calhoun

Two friends recommended "The Notebook" to me in the same week, so I finally gave in. I listened to the audio book, while driving up and back to Mom's house, and I also watched the movie. Oh my goodness, bring a box of tissues.

I'm sure I would have enjoyed this book, if I read it 14 years ago, when it was first published and was a hot best seller. I remember my niece going on and on about this great love story. But, I never put it on my list of books to read.

I have been blessed to marry the love of my life. My best friend. So listening to a great love story is a sweet experience. A reaffirmation of what I have.

But this novel has a different message to teach me, as I listen to it now, something I never would have learned if I read it in 1996.

It is how Noah, the elder man, speaks with his wife, Allie. Allie has Alzheimer's disease. Most of the time she doesn't know who he is.

He speaks with love and compassion, giving her answers and words that will make her happy and calm. He doesn't blurt out "I'm your husband, d*&%-it, remember me." He doesn't shake her up with words, relations, and emotions that will only bring up feelings of being confused, lost, and upset. He is a calm breeze blowing through her stormy mind.

Sometimes she catches him giving her half-answers. "You didn't answer my question." she'll say. This is the sin of omission that nibbles at us care-givers. The half-truths we tell. The fiblets we give that keep our loved ones from becoming angry, agitated, or sad.

"Where is J__?" my Mom asks.
He's gone out, we'll see him later.
He's out, he's gone from us and this life, we will see him later, but not yet, not yet.

mummu

My Mother's morning aide called me, Mom was in a panic and crying because she had no money in her purse. From what I can gather, Mom had been frantic and worried, perhaps up half the night, because she had little or no cash on hand. I knew Mom was down to her last few dollars, but I would be with her tomorrow, running errands and going to the bank, so I wasn't worried, but I guess she was.

Apparently Mom had been scouring the house, looking for all the loose change, her old coin collections, commemorative coins, and whatever she could find to put into her purse.
The aide said that she had calmed Mom down, rubbed her back, and told her that I was coming tomorrow and would take her to the bank.

Great - now the aide knows where Mom hides her stuff, and what stuff she hides.

Then the aide told me that Mom had called her "Mummu".
"What does that mean?"
It means my Mother called you "Grammy". It means, while you were comforting her, she thought of you as a grandmother she hasn't seen since she was 15 years old. I know you are my age, her daughter's age, not her grandmother's age. You are providing comfort and care that echos back to her relationship with her Mummu, you are taking care of her in a way that only Mummu did. Mummu doted on her, as do you.

I was happy last week when she finally started calling you by your name, not "that woman" or "one of those women". I hope she remembers your name again.

yes mother

"Yes mother" she replies with snide sarcasm.
"You're not my mother" she yells at me.

I try, I really do try, to be calm and respectful when talking to my Mother.
I try not to ask her questions that leave her frustrated - looking for an answer that will never come. I try, I really do. But, she is so confused and angry.

We go to the ATM to withdraw cash to use at the grocery store. She stuffs the wad of twenties into her purse, her open purse that she won't zip up, her purse that she leave in the baby seat of the grocery cart.
Mom, please zip you purse.
"Yes mother" she whines.

Where does this attitude come from? Was this my reply to her when I was a kid? I don't think so. We didn't have an adversarial relationship when I was growing up.
Who is this 'mother' that she is angry with?
Why does she have to be so mad and angry with me?