scary stories

I've finally gotten use to Mom's stories, in that they contain a mixture of information from ten different stories. Everything is a jumble. I can understand that now. I don't try to correct her.

It's like that game, Mad Libs, fill in a person's name, add a town's name, put in some relative's name, write a month, fill in a school, pick a year. Put it all together and you get a story. Except when Mom tells it we try not to laugh out loud.

This week there was a new twist to her stories, and it makes me scared.

Mom taught second grade for many years. She loved second graders. They are curious, they love to learn, they are missing front teeth, they don't swear, and they will sing silly songs without hesitation.

She also loves picture books; she loves the short stories and the beautiful illustrations, and all the Caldecott Medal and Honor books. Barbara Cooney, Jan Brett, Tomie de Paola, Jan Yolen, Trina S. Hyman, and Mary Azarian are just some of her favorite children's authors and illustrators. Even after she retired from teaching she would still attend the children's literature festival, listen to the authors lecture, and buy new books.

As I look back now, I'm glad that I brought Mom to the Eric Carle Museum of Picture Book Art. It was a unique 70th birthday, ending with a walk through the Dr. Seuss sculpture garden.

So there is a house, an empty house, empty of life, but full of stuff. There are books, books, and books. Mom had about 18 feet of shelves just for picture books. Skinny thin children's books. She had already culled out the books she didn't want any longer. She had already given her grandchildren piles of books when they were little. These shelves contained her favorite children's books.

I contacted the local elementary school: what the library can't use, give to the teachers, and what they don't want, put aside for the used book sale. Books aren't any good unless someone is reading them, pass them along. I knew that this was what Mom wanted done with these books.

I just found out that someone from the elementary school has written Mom a thank you letter, I haven't seen it yet. It made enough of an impression on her that she told her friends about it.

But, Mom also told her friends, that the people at the school were really happy to see her, when she brought the books over, all the books that she carried over in her large tote bags.
This is the scary part of the story. Mom didn't bring these book anywhere. She didn't go to the school. She didn't help sort them or pack them up. These images are not real. She is not shuffling random old facts together to make a new story. She has imagined herself doing something, and telling us she did it. Her dreams are becoming her reality.

This is scary, a scary story indeed.

handwriting

My Mother has very distinctive handwriting. Everyone recognizes Mom's writing. I think that Mom's handwriting was one of the first hints I had, as a kid, about Santa's helpers.

Because of the second grade teacher and artist part of her personality, her penmanship has always been very important.

When I sent out letters to Mom's friends, letting them know of her new address, many said their interest was piqued the minute they saw the envelope. The return address label was from her, but the writing of their name and address wasn't in Mom's unique script.

When we moved Mom into her new apartment, I made sure she had stationary, cards, note paper, thank you cards, birthday cards, envelopes, and her address book; so she could write to people and tell them her news. I gave her mailing envelopes so she could send those children's history books to the little cousins on the other side of the world. Last week I brought her a box of Christmas cards. I brought her the 'lap desk' she uses when she writes from the bed or the sofa.

All this remains untouched. She is not writing letters. She is not sending cards.
You will not get a thank you note for the lovely bouquet of flowers. You will not get a thank you card for the books and dvd you sent her. You will not be getting a birthday card or Christmas card. You will not be receiving any mail from Mom.

I think putting pen to paper frustrates her. "I'll do it later." she tells me.
Just watching her write a check or a birthday card this autumn was a frustrating and difficult task. I don't think she'll be writing any more letters.

What prompted this blog post? I was flipping through my recipes and found my Mother's handwriting; her neat, beautiful, unique handwriting. Another part of her that has gone.

what about Christmas

What is Christmas all about?  How do we deal with dementia and Alzheimer's during the holidays? 

 

What is Christmas all about? Is it all for the children? Is it about family and gathering loved ones? Is it about remembering your favorite charity and filling food baskets at the food pantry?

 

 Is it about baking cookies, writing cards, and singing carols? Is it about the fulfillment of the promise of the coming of the messiah? Is it about hope and joy? Is it about peace and love? 

 

 Last year, Mom was hesitant about staying overnight at my house for Christmas Eve, and then visiting with my husband's family for Christmas dinner. 

"I don't know these people." she said nervously.  

Yes you do Mom, it's just the family for dinner. And this was her worry last Christmas. 

 

Mom, you have known my in-laws longer than I have. My husband and I grew up in the same town, our folks knew each other through various groups and organizations. I have always been so happy that our in-laws have a friendly and supportive relationship w.r.t. my husband and kids. But, to her they were all new strangers. 

 

This week I asked Mom to come stay overnight at our house for Christmas Eve, to have brunch with my kids. (I didn't even mention going to visit my in-laws.) She balked, she quickly gave me excuses why she didn't want to go: it's too cold, what if it snows, what if it's bad driving, it's too far, she doesn't want to leave her cat, she wants to sit right there. 

 

 Do I want to add to her stress and distress? Am I being selfish? Am I being selfish wanting my Mother with me for Christmas? 

 

I also know if I don't pick her up, and someone tells her it's Christmas day, she's going to be mad at me for not picking her up. ("Where the h*ll are you? "When is someone going to pick me up?" Reference post 7/26/2010) 

 

Reminding her that I'll be there tomorrow or that I was there last night won't make a difference. She'll still fell mad, sulky, and neglected. 

 

What is Christmas all about? Is it about hope and joy? Is it about peace and love? OH YES, we need a little Christmas, right this very minute!