The More...The More

Her nails, strong and beautiful. 

Apparently not unlike her heart that continues to beat this afternoon. 

 (And hopefully, not unlike our faith in God's wisdom, loving-kindness and sovereignty...)

The more her self-care diminished,

her sense deserted her,

her speech failed her…

the more helpless 

she becomes,

the more I think I understand her.

How is that possible?

(Or IS it?)

“No,” they tell me

by their silence and 

careful, well-intentioned statements of sympathy. 

I suspect they are correct.

7-29-2016

Bonus Hour

A clean washrag

warmed with water

gently laid on her eye

(matted by disuse and time)

softened and removed

the obstruction.

Unexpectedly

both eyes sprang open

fixing their sight on my face;

holding my eyes

by their power.

A bonus hour

(rare and unheralded)

passed
replete with emotions,

wordless communication,

and irrepressible joy.

As quiet the hour’s coming

was its ending;

its afterglow
timelessly pulsating

in my heart.

        7/16/2016 - rlg

Reality

I'm well aware of the awkwardness and discomfort my amateur attempts at poetry may create.  However, with someone in the U.S. developing Alzheimer's disease every 66 seconds and 1 of 3 seniors dying of Alzheimer's or another dementia, there are realities that must be reckoned with!  Hear then THIS reality.

multiple falls
unobserved
discovered
dutifully recorded
curtly reported
verbally impaired
mental skills questionable
pain variably
undetected
misinterpreted
ignored
dismissed
till she no longer walked but
was lifted
and shifted
then bed's exclusivity
claimed her
leaving
her pain (and ours)
still variably
undetected
misinterpreted
ignored
dismissed
(rlg, 7/4/2016)

UPDATE:

Someone whom I invited to try out this poem said, "That is beautiful and so sad.  (((Hugs)))"

To that, I responded:  "I need to make it less sad.  I'm not sad."

I'm trying to figure out how to do that (make it less sad).
And I also confess that sometimes I AM sad.

The Hours Passing

Her breathing
   regular
   and deep
The room
   calm
   and peaceful
The hours
   passing
   and profound
My heart
   quiet
   and content
(6/16/2016, rlg)

 Incidentally:
The roses

pale

      and pink.

(Seen in our neighborhood while walking Tuesday morning.)

Happy Birthday, Mother

The Dairy Queen ice cream cake (chocolate chip cookie dough)

was sliced and served up on hot pink plates.

Colorful Happy Birthday napkins were distributed. 

Three times we sang as her fellow-residents wandered in...

Happy birthday to you;

Happy birthday to you;

Happy birthday, dear Elda;

Happy birthday to you.

 Now and then a smile played at the corners of her lips.

Her eyes met mine.  Silently.  Quizzically.

Only the day before I'd finished  reading Anne Lamott's Small Voices.

I'd copied these words from page 266 into my journal--

anticipating this hour;

determined to shine my best light on her...

 "It is so lovely to celebrate the life of a person who is still here, 

a chance to shine our best light on her as she shone her light on us, 

before the light goes out." 

 Dementia is dimming her lights, but my love for her is brighter than ever!

Happy 89th birthday, Mother.

...

Here is Your Mother

And he (Jesus) said to this disciple, "Here is your mother."

And from then on this disciple took her into his home.  (John 19:27)

This is MY mother.

She is sitting in the hall of the nursing home

where I visit her at least 3-4 times a week

for 4-5 hours a visit.

When I read these words of Jesus to "this disciple" in the Gospel of John,

I can't help being conflicted about my mother's situation.
I am one of four siblings.
Our father lives independently just a few blocks from our mother
and eats lunch with her everyday.
I live an hour's drive away, the closest of the four of us....

It's complicated.

I Love You Sooooooo Bad...

Dementia has claimed a large part of my mother.

What remains captivates my heart and mind.

The hours I happily spend with her are filled with an odd assortment

of curiosity, compassion, concern and companionship. 

Thursday, she was unusually alert (for her).

I wheeled her outside to enjoy the flowerbeds and pleasant sunshine.

I fed her a snack - juice and a frosted cookie.

I played familiar music from my computer - Gaither, George Beverly Shea,
Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, the DeZurich sisters, etc.

We listened to several versions of the ABC song.

We enjoyed watching each other suck on a DumDum lollipop.

Orange and butterscotch.

We joined her fellow residents to play a familiar game of balloon toss.

Mother was able to raise her hands to meet the balloon more than once or twice!

I wiped a tear mixed with joy and admiration for her effort.

I fed her supper.

It was hard to leave.  I kissed her and said, "I love you, Mom."

And then I heard it as plain as day--

"Oh! I love you SOOOOOOO bad!"

Rarely do her words make much sense anymore,

but I understood every one of these.

Free Verse

 
 There is a grief that begins imperceptibly

and builds so slowly it could easily be ignored

were it not for occasional 
unpredictable and uncontrollable breakouts.

Such grief as this extends long, expands widely,

and anticipates an end where other griefs begin.

rlg, 8/13/2015

Yes, I am grieving.  It doesn't matter grief's source.  Grief is grief, I believe, though its types may vary.  Today, sitting by her bed, I tried to describe mine.  On paper.  This (above) is the best I can do for now.

"Sorrow and grief drive you into God 

and show you resources you never had and never knew you needed." 

 (Tim Keller, Twitter)

Presence

This morning while packing my bag for the hours I will spend with my mother, I realized there was little I could pack that would meet the reality of the present.  In the past months, I have packed puzzles, books, yarn, clay, crayons, photo albums, and all sorts of other activities that we have shared.  My laptop has provided entertainment, too--cute videos of children, songs of the DeZurik sisters straight from her past, and hymns to soothe the soul.

But lately, she has little interest or energy to spend on "activity".  And as I looked about my home wondering what I could take, words from the Lord to Moses crossed my mind.  I stopped to find them in Exodus 34:14.

The LORD replied, "My Presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.

It is enough.  Presence!  How desperately I need His Presence--and with it, rest.

And today I will give her the gift of MY presence.  It will be enough.

A holding of hand.

A smile or a tear.

A cup of water.

A foot rub, perhaps.

I will share her space and be as present as I can be.

Dementia

"Dementia is wicked," she wrote reflecting on a difficult week with her father.  

I understood what she was saying.

I responded: 

Dementia IS wicked.  

But (for me, at least) it is also endlessly and all-at-the-same-time

fascinating, challenging, tender, demanding, and sad.  

My mother's condition is drawing out the best in me, I believe.  

Qualities I never would have guessed myself to have...

Then again, maybe that's because they AREN'T "my qualities" 
but His remarkable grace.

A care-giver helps Mother with next week's meal choices...