My name is Carrie

I really hate Alzheimer's!!! You have to go through so much loss and then your loved one really dies. The grieving seems to go on forever.

My mother was the consummate planner. Her funeral was all planned out, everything paid for, songs picked--there was really nothing to do but donate her furniture and clean out her apartment. She was a humble woman, never one for a lot of "stuff" around. Packing out the apartment was not difficult but it was painful.

As we were packing out her apartment, my sister realized that we didn't have the jewelry my mother had worn the day she went to the hospital. I called and was informed that her belongings were in the safe. I drove over and picked up a small padded envelope after showing my identification.

When I got back to mom's apartment, I opened the envelope. In the envelope was a watch (she always wore one even though she couldn't tell time anymore), a pair of gold earrings (a woman was not dressed without her earrings), her mother's ring and her medic alert necklace.

We had to fight to get her to wear that medic alert. We wanted her to wear a medic alert bracelet, but she ranted and raved and wouldn't have it. She did not want people to think she was sick. We waited a few months and tried again (sometimes that worked and she'd forget that she didn't want to wear an item). This time she agreed to wear a necklace because that looked pretty. So we ordered that and she wore that medic alert for years.

I turned it over and read the back: pacemaker, hypertension, glaucoma, memory impaired: My name is Carrie. The part of the inscription that made my heart ache was: My name is Carrie. It seemed so lonely. That a woman who had been so strong, vibrant, and loving could be reduced to: "My name is Carrie." That doesn't say much about her.

How about: I was born in 1913--the middle child of 13 children and lived in the segregated south until my family moved to Ohio for work and to escape the opressiveness of segregation. The next move was to New York. I had 4 children, was a single mom who worked 2, sometimes 3 jobs to make ends meet. I worked tirelessly in my church, organizing the youth choir and was in charge of all plays and pageants. My children always said that I was the world's greatest cook. They loved my biscuits, cakes and pies. I loved to cook and our house was always the center of family gatherings--there was always love, fun and laughter in our home. While the children were growing up, we lived on the 4th floor of a 6th story walkup. It was a one bedroom apartment. The 3 children shared the bedroom (boy up top in the bunk bed and the 2 girls shared the bottom bunk) and I slept on the pullout in the living room. We didn't have a lot of money but Central Park was in walking distance and we picnicked there very often in the summer. I absolutely loved Christmas and during the holidays, I'd stop on the way home and bring the children some chestnuts from the corner truck. As money was tight, we'd get our Christmas tree sometimes as late as Christmas Eve. There weren't a lot of gifts but the children were still so happy--eyes full of wonder on Christmas morning. They'd wake up while it was still pitch dark and I'd make them go back to "sleep" if only for a little while. I took my job as a mother very, very seriously. I tried to model good behavior and instill strong values into my children and was a strict disciplinarian. I worked for the City of New York as an institutional aide in a group home. I loved children--my own and others. I survived 98 years--long enough to lose my mother, father, all of my siblings and many friends. I saw many changes inour world--some easier to understand than others. I remember asking my daughter what this "world wide web" was. She explained to me, but I really didn't understand. Before Alzheimer's I loved keeping up with current affairs and read the newspaper every day. I loved radio more than TV and attended church every Sunday. My family loved me very much and always doted on me. I got a lot of attention because I was the matriarch. They knew that I love flowers--I got flowers all of the time. Even new furniture (if I thought I needed it or not). When I'd ask them why I deserved all that they did for me, they told me "Because you're the best mother in the world." I just shook my head when they said that. Though I tried my hardest, I doubt that I was the best mother in the world. The last several years have not been the best because I had trouble remembering even the simplest of things. My world continued to get smaller but I was comfortable, had everything I needed and I was cared for and loved.

I know you can't get all of that on the back of a medic alert, but writing it down makes me feel better. She had a life worth remembering. Sometimes I'll be doing something and it'll pop into my head that she's gone. I stop what it is I'm doing and take a deep, deep breath, and think about her. She is gone, but she will be with me forever. I was scrolling through my phone the other night, looking for a phone number and "Mom" popped up. My heart stopped for a minute. I thought, "I should delete that", but I couldn't do it--Not yet....

She's Really Gone Now

My mother died at 9:35 am on November 30th. I miss her terribly. I thought it would be different. I thought I was ready. Funny, how little I really knew.
She got sick on Monday, November 21st and was taken to the hospital from her Alzheimer’s Day Care Center. At first we thought it would just be a short trip to the hospital—then back home. She’d made many such trips—mostly dehydration. This would prove not to be the case this time.

I had just made a trip to New York the week before for my cousin’s funeral (my mother’s niece). It was unexpected, she was young and the family was reeling. We did not tell my mother, but I visited her on the Saturday before she went into the hospital. She was tired (her aide said she’d had a restless night—trying to get to her mother and father who were across the street—they were in trouble and needed her). So, she was tired but in good spirits, happy to see me. She ate her lunch and I painted her nails. She thought they looked pretty. We sang some old songs from church and I marveled that she no longer knew what day, month or year it was but she remembered songs from 40 years ago, verbatim. I gave her a kiss and told her I’d bring back better manicure tools next time I came—not knowing this would be the last time I would see her alert.

At the hospital—at first responsive, she dropped into a non-responsive state and after several tests it was found that she’d had an infection (probably urinary) and the infection was now throughout her body. The doctors spoke of “sepsis” and stated that if they were treating a younger person, they’d remove their colon, but my mother (at 98 years old) would never survive the operation.

After some consultation, we decided to move her to hospice, where she would be medicated for pain, and allow nature to take its course.

She was moved to hospice on November 28th and passed away on November 30th. I spent every hour, minute, and second with her. She was far away and I can only hope that what the medical staff said was true—that she could hear me and that hearing was the last thing to go. I held her hand, sang to her, read to her from the bible and told her what a great mother she had been. It was sad and lonely and I was honored and priviledged to be with her. After all she was with me when I took my first breath—it seemed absolutely fitting that I be there when she took her last.

As she exhaled that last breath and I waited for the next inhale, I knew it wasn’t coming. Everything seemed suspended—so still. I waited for what seemed like an eternity—my hand on her arm. I rang the call bell. The nurse came in, checked her pulse and looked at me and said “I’m sorry, she’s gone.” I started whimpering like a little puppy. “Gone, gone where”, I sobbed. That was silly. I’d studied and read a great deal about dying and I understood it in my head, but what I knew in my head was not translating to my broken heart.

I bent down and kissed her, smoothed her hair and took a long look at her. She was so peaceful. I picked up the phone to call my sister.

The Holidays

Christmas used to be my mother's favorite holiday - We even called her "Mrs. Christmas". Our house was always full of the excitement of the season. I would get so excited I would spike a fever. My sister and brother remember the holidays differently but I was always excited about the gifts we would get. They say we were poor and didn't have much under the tree--I remember only the majesty of the season, my mother rushing around buying things (if even from John's Bargain Stores--the equivalent of our Dollar Store of today), and the pure, raw excitement within me.
Things have changed - My mother doesn't know that it's Christmas even though we keep reminding her.
I got to New York a few days before Christmas and went to visit my mother. She was excited to see me and I knew that she knew who I was. I identified myself (so that may have helped) but her entire little face lit up with joy when she saw me--that was enough to make my year--talk about day. I stayed and talked with her for a while, then left to go to my sister's house where I'd be staying.
On Christmas day we took gifts and a wonderful Christmas dinner my sister had prepared. She loved her gifts--a warm hat, a long fleece robe. We talked about Christmas and how happy we all were to be together. We took pictures and even though she did not smile for the camera, at least we got images of this special day.You can see her in all of her 97-year glory showing off her new Christmas hat in the picture that accompanies this post.
We stayed for quite some time and on the way out we all gave my mother a kiss - She said to me, "See you on Christmas". That's kinda how it is these days.

My Mother Called Me Today

I was rushing out to a luncheon date when the phone rang. "Hello", I breathed into the phone. "Hi Deanie, it's Mama", the bright, cheery voice said. I was stunned and dumbstruck for a moment. I quickly recovered and said "Mama, you called me. I'm so happy to hear your voice". My mother hasn't been able to call me in 10 years. Alzheimer's robbed her of her ability to connect to others many years ago.

I had purchased her a special picture phone from the Alzheimer's store over a year ago. The phone contained 3 pictures; me, my sister and my mother's niece. Each picture was pre-programmed with the appropriate phone number. To call us, all you had to do was lift the receiver, and punch the picture of the person you want to call. Still, my mother has not been able to call me. I hate Alzheimer's!!!

You can imagine how happy I was to hear her voice.

"I'm at Aunt Helen's house", she said. "I've been here in Brooklyn a week". "I'll be going home soon, though". Now, I know that she was home because her phone number came up in my Caller ID, but I didn't correct her. I was too happy that she'd called. We chatted for a little bit--our basic conversation these days, what's the weather like, what are you doing...As the conversation was coming to a close, my mother said "Ok, Thanks for calling".

With tears in my eyes, I said "Ok, Mom, take care. I love you". And I do.

God's Grace

I’ve decided to return to my weekly Friday calls to my mother. It’s been hard to do of late because the conversations are so superficial. No more in depth discussions about current events, family members and life in general. Basically, it’s “How are you mom?”, “How’s the weather?”, How was work this week?” (she thinks that she’s going to work when she goes to her Alzheimer’s day care three times a week—so we humor her)—Stuff like that. When I hang up the phone, I’m always sad—wishing for those great conversations we used to have.

Well, I’ve been reading Alzheimer’s books lately—books by people who have loved ones dealing with this disease—books by doctors on how to relate to Alzheimer’s patients—books by people with Alzheimer’s. I try to temper my reading by reading one Alzheimer’s book followed by a novel—something to rest my mind. I’m finding that reading these books is really helping me. I’ve started searching for a different way to relate to my mom and I think I’m starting to find my way.

Last Friday I read her a poem. She’s always loved poems and plays. In our church, she was in charge of holiday plays and programs that the children performed—She loved that. The poem I read her last Friday was one that she had read at her 90th birthday party. On that Friday phone call, she did not remember that she’d read it, but she loved the poem and it seemed to lift her spirits.

This Friday I sang her a song. It was a song from my young church choir days. I sang solo and the name of the song was Grace. I remembered the chorus so I sang it to her. It went like this:

Grace, Grace
God's Grace
His Grace is sufficient for me...
Grace, Grace
Amazing Grace
His Grace is sufficient for me

I could hear her singing beneath my words and so I slowed down so we could sing together. When I finished the chorus—Guess what? She recited the first verse!!! I was so excited. All by herself she said:

Grace woke me up this morning
Grace started me on my way
Grace will make you love your enemies
And what is more I know grace will brighten up your day

I couldn’t believe it! It was so wonderful to have her recall something that even I could not remember. As soon as she said the words, I knew that they were correct. I praised her. I said “Mom”, you’re doing better than I—I couldn’t even remember those words—Good job”. It was like music to hear her laugh.

It is so nice to find new ways to relate to my mother. It brings me joy and when I hung up I had a smile on my face.

Happy Birthday, Mom

Today is my mother’s birthday. She is 97 years old. We used to have a big celebration each year but have stopped that now. The last party we had was for her 95th birthday. We had it in September. Why? Because August is really ridicously hot in New York and since Mom doesn’t remember when her birthday is anyhow, September (which is usually cooler) is as good a time as any to celebrate it. The celebration is what’s important.

We gave her a big party when she was 90. She was almost all there for that one and really enjoyed the attention. She has always been a ham. She’d picked a poem to read, we had a great cake, a beautiful scrapbook that the whole family contributed to and we all danced the night away. When she turned 95, we had another celebration but by that time she didn’t seem to understand what was going on. If God blesses us and she’s here for 100 years, we will have another celebration. We’ll celebrate on a small scale from now until then.

In celebration of her time on this earth, I want to share what she’s done for me. She was never the most demonstrative mother and I don’t remember a lot of hugs and kisses, but I never doubted that she loved me.

She read the Sunday comics to me—Every Sunday morning, complete with funny voices

She encouraged me to read – Making it really hard to pick the lock on the trunk where she kept her steamy novels like Peyton Place.

She encouraged me to get a good education. I enjoyed working side by side with her in the evenings as she cleaned office buildings as a part-time job. She never missed an opportunity while we were working to tell me how I should never have to do this—“Get your education—do not expect anyone (read "any man") to take care of you.”

She made the holidays, especially Christmas, a great time of wonder by building up the most hysteria I can remember. I’d get so excited, I’d actually run a fever.

She instilled in me a love of God and church by making sure that we spent hours in church every Sunday and that we also spent hours practicing for the Children’s Choir, Easter pageant, Christmas pageant, and any other pageant she could come up with.

She instilled in me a sense of honesty by making sure that if I ever lied to her my punishment would be so swift and intense that I’d never want to do it again.

She made me believe that I could be anything I wanted. I don’t know if she believed it, but she sure made me believe it.

She demonstrated to me how important family was by always being there for us and for her family.

She inadvertently made me the scrapbooker that I am by constantly telling me family stories—stories that I never tired of hearing. Years later, I would begin chronicling my family history in big, heavy scrapbooks to be passed down for generations.

She made it easier for me to understand the importance of having a life of my own apart from my children’s lives as I watched her life diminish as her children developed lives of their own.

She transferred her fierce sense of independence to me and I have had to grow into the understanding that it is ok to need someone sometime.

I see her sense of style manifested in my closet—from shoes, to coats, to dresses.

She has passed down to me a sense of organization—true I’ve taken it to a whole other level—but it started with her influence.

She taught me many things about moderation (“You need to know your limits”), decorum (“What will the neighbors think?”) and manners (“You will address adults as Mr. & Mrs”). Some of her teachings played out as I raised my children and still echo in my head today as I move away from that gorgeous Coach bag—I need to know my limits.

None of us are who we are alone – Thanks Mom – Happy Birthday - I love you

What Are You Grateful For?

We're coming into the season. You know. The season of being grateful, brotherly love and shop until you drop.
This is my favorite time of the year. Somehow I find a way to rise above the mass marketing shouting at me at every turn and then burrow below to find the joy I felt as a little girl.
I loved the family gathering at Thanksgiving--all of the special dishes my mother made so well, the kisses and hugs from my cousins, aunts and uncles, the Macy's parade. And all of this as a prelude to my favorite time of the year, Christmas. Well, more on Christmas in a blog to come. Today I am grateful.
I washed my windows yesterday and as I was doing that, I thought of my mother. She always washed her windows before Thanksgiving and put up fresh curtains. The house was cleaned from top to bottom--everything sparkled.
She can't do that anymore and I'm not even sure she remembers Thanksgiving is coming, but I am going home for Thanksgiving anyway. Even though today she is not the mother I remember, I am grateful for the mother that she was. She taught me all that I know about being a good person. She taught me all that I know about being a loving mother and wife. She taught me all that I know about being compasionate and helpful to others. And for that, I am grateful.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.