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.