Handsome

"I just wanted you to know,"  she said gently and quietly as she pulled me aside, "your dad was so handsome!"

My "new" friend of the last several years has never met Dad, she only knows of the path we walk today.  She has heard me speak of him, seen my tears when obstacles prevented me from getting to visit, tried to understand with me about this monster disease, listened as I've grieved the pain of losing him.

Someone else had shown her a photo of our family from the early 90s.  Dad was healthy, full-faced and smiling.

....

Thank you, my friend, for honoring my father by that simple comment.  My sudden tearfulness may have been misinterpreted for something else, but it brought such joy to hear someone else speak of him.  You blessed me more than you could know.

"The Experience of Dementia as a Journey"

"The Experience of Dementia as a Journey"
Author Unknown

I am going on a long journey by train. As I begin, the city skyscrapers and country landscape look familiar. As I continue my journey, the view reminds me of times gone by and I feel relaxed and comfortable. The other passengers on the train appear to be feeling the same way and I engage in pleasant conversation with them.

As the journey progresses, things begin to look different. The buildings have odd shapes and the trees don't look quite the way I remember them. I know that they are buildings and trees, but something about them is not quite right. Maybe I'm in a different country with different architecture and plant life. It feels a bit strange, even unnerving.

I decide to ask the other passengers about the strangeness I feel, but I notice that they seem unperturbed. They are barely taking notice of the passing scenery. Maybe they have been here before. I ask some questions but nothing seems different to them. I wonder if my mind is playing tricks on me. I decide to act as if everything looks all right, but because it does not, I have to be on my guard. This places some tension on me, but I believe I can tolerate it for the remainder of the trip. I do, however, find myself becoming so preoccupied with appearing all right that my attention is diverted from the passing scenery.

After some time I look out the window again, and this time I know that something is wrong. Everything looks strange and unfamiliar! There is no similarity to anything I can recall from my past. I must do something. I talk to the other passengers about the strangeness I feel. They look dumbfounded and when they answer, they talk in new language. Why won't they talk in English I wonder? They look at me knowingly and with sympathy. I've got to get to the bottom of this, so I keep after them to tell me where the train is and where it is going. The only answers I get are in this strange language, and even when I talk, my words sound strange to me. Now I am truly frightened.

At this point I figure that I have to get off this train and find my way home. I had not bargained for this when I started. I get up to leave and bid a pleasant good-bye. I don't get very far, though, as the other passengers stop me and take me back to my seat. It seems they want me to stay on the train whether I want to or not. I try to explain, but they just talk in that strange language.

Outside the window the scenery is getting even more frightening. Strange, inhuman-looking being peer into the window at me. I decide to make a run for it. The other passengers are not paying much attention to me, so I slip out of my seat and quietly walk toward the back of the car. There's the door! It is difficult to push, but I must. It begins to open and I push harder. Maybe now I will get away. Even though it looks pretty strange out there, I know I will never find my way home if I do not get off the train. I am just ready to jump when hands suddenly appear from nowhere and grab me from behind. I try to get away. I try to fight them off, but I can feel them pulling me back to my seat. I realize now that I will never get off this train; I will never get home.

How sad I feel. I did not say good-bye to my friends and children. As far as I know they do not know where I am. The passengers look sympathetic, but they do not know how sad I feel. Maybe if they knew they would let me off the train. I stop smiling, stop eating, stop trying to talk and avoid looking out the window. The passengers look worried They force me to eat. It is difficult because I am too sad to be hungry.

I have no choice now. I have to go along with the passengers because they seem to know where the journey will end. Maybe they will get me there safely. I fervently wish that I had never started out on this journey, but I know I cannot go back. 

"Oh, My Darlin' Clementine", cough syrup, and Old Spice

The tune floated down the hallway to my ears.  I couldn't catch the words---probably some made up words to help the school children remember math facts---and NOT the original lyrics, I hope, which are actually quite disturbing to ponder!
But I did linger a minute longer to drift back to those long car rides when Dad would have us sing along with any song he thought of, one of which, of course was always "Clementine."  He often would harmonize and if he hit a wrong note, would have to endure our good-natured teasing and howling, indicating that we inferred he was not singing, but howling like a wolf.  That teasing would nearly always end in laughter.  Makes me smile even now to think of Dad's laughter--a sound like no other!

....

My mind has been with my dear Tennessee family in recent days.  Photos of a visit to "far-flung" relatives, prayers for protection for a soldier serving in Afganistan, knowledge of a cousin's joyous and long-awaited wedding, chemotherapy treatments for another beloved, unbelievable and miraculous healing for a critically ill patient, grief for family members gone on to heaven---and the pain those left behind are experiencing, especially after more than 65 years together...I was surprised at my own tears, when in a room smelling faintly of Old Spice aftershave combined with stale cigarette smoke (ask me how I know that familiar scent!) amidst wheelchairs and walkers and the people that don't want them, but can't live life without them,  I sat beside my dad and listened to a little gospel band.  Dad would have called the band "good ole boys"---hats and toe-tapping cowboy boots and lots of guitar-picking and even a harmonica; they reminded me so much of my own *favorite* country singers and their number one fan, their proud Mama.
"I've got a mansion just over the hilltop," was the first song and I couldn't stop the tears thinking of how much she must be enjoying her mansion in that bright land where we'll never grow old....


.....


I took a swig of cough syrup right out of the bottle.  I thought about the first time I watched Aunt Vi do that herself.  I was appalled that she wouldn't "measure" out a teaspoon---how could she judge the correct dosage?  Wasn't she afraid she'd take too much?  Now I realize she'd been "down the road" a few times and didn't *need* to be accurate, her estimations were accurate enough.  I had to chuckle that now I must think I too can judge the correct amount---either that or I'm too lazy to get a spoon, which would be very much UNlike Aunt Vi.  I doubt there was a lazy bone in her body.