Pure Pleasure

Fun is a commodity in short supply in homes where Alzheimer’s lives. Who can tell what will bring our loved ones pleasure? Well, if we pay close attention, sometimes they tell us themselves.

Searching for pleasant activities for our loved ones with Alzheimer’s is like seeking the end of the rainbow: you’re not even sure it’s out there to be found. One by one, the usual pastimes fall away. Reading a book, watching TV, sewing, crafts, even talking on the telephone—now these things bring more confusion than pleasure.

I tried working simple puzzles with Mom. I got out old photographs. I named farm animals and we (well, usually it was only I) made barnyard noises together, and at least once a week I heaped all the napkins and washcloths in a pile in front of her so she could  fold them, painstakingly, one by one by one.  All those activities were successful at some times, and decidedly not at others. So I spent lots of time searching my brain for rainbows I just couldn’t see.

And then, one particularly frazzled evening, I discovered that sometimes Mom could find her own entertainment.

It wasn’t unusual for Mom to be grumbling nonstop while Dad was trying to watch the evening news. The louder Dad turned the volume, the louder Mom talked. This night she was upset about illegal birds on the fence and dirty rats (squirrels, actually) on the lawn. I was preparing dinner as quickly as possible, when she called me out of the kitchen.  “Look, Child!” she said. I looked. She was staring at a closeup of the weatherman on TV.

talking teeth“Look, Child! Look at his teeth!”

I looked again and, since some comment was clearly in order, I said, “Oh my! What nice teeth!” As the weatherman bowed out and the news anchor returned, I had an inspiration. I said, “Look, Mama. Look at his teeth.”

Thus began an hour or so of dental reviews. Mom watched for people on TV to open their mouths; when they did, she had a prompt comment on their teeth. I chipped in my opinions a few times, and we were entertained ‘til almost bed time. I never knew when Mom might begin another tooth pageant, so on ragged evenings I learned to start them myself. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not, but it was another tool in the arsenal. And Mom discovered it.tooth examPlease know I’m not suggesting you try doing dental reviews to entertain the person you’re caring for. The point, of course, is that something caught Mom’s attention and I capitalized on it. She was alert and comfortable and calm for a while. That’s entertainment.

I noticed other pastimes Mom initiated. One day at the megamart, she stopped beside a display of artificial flowers. Leaning over to put her nose against the petals, she drew a deep breath. “Oh, they smell good,” she said. “Smell!” I did. From that day on, we often stopped to smell the flowers, real or artificial.

artificial flowersSometimes when Dad and I were talking, I could tell Mom wanted in on the conversation. She rocked forward and back in her chair, looking from me to Dad to me to Dad. When she was finally ready to say something, it was often a compliment. Maybe something like “Child, I like your hair.” One day, instead of simply saying “Thank you!” I returned the compliment. “I like your sweater today!” With another word to use, “sweater,” she commented on my sweater, whether I was wearing one or not.  Back and forth we found other things we liked about each other. Sometimes Dad joined in, too. If Mom ran out of words, we just started all over again. During times when she was anxious, I could often calm her with a compliment. And sometimes a whole conversation would ensue.

Did these diversions always work? No. But when they did, they were pleasurable to all of us. Mom was able to take off the blinders Alzheimer’s had thrust on her and look at the world around her. She wasn’t nervous or scared, searching for words or wondering what was going to happen next. And yes, I was willing to examine every tooth, smell every flower, and compliment her ‘til the cows came home just for the pleasure of seeing her that way: engaged, comfortable, with life in her eyes.

compliment quoteI spent much of my time as a caregiver protecting Mom. As I watched her, I was asking myself “Everything ok? Everything ok?”  Sometimes I’m sure my caution prompted some of her anxiety. But my close attention also helped me understand something miraculous: Mom could still find pleasure, and I could help her enjoy it.

I urge you to watch, too. The key, of course, is to notice what they notice, and mirror their reactions back to them. Take your pleasure wherever you and your loved one find it. Run with it and don’t look back to see if people are watching. If they are, they’re seeing miracles.

The Lord upholds all who fall, and raises up all who are bowed down. You open Your hand and satisfy the desire of every living thing.  (Ps.145:14,16  NKJV)

Father, we thank You for the miracles You give us every day. Please continue to open our eyes to the help and comfort You are faithful to send us as we walk the Alzheimer’s road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Surprise! Can Help You

You can often win cooperation from the one you are caring for by using the element of surprise.  What I mean by surprise is this:

You don’t have to announce everything that’s about to happen.

****************

Some days, Mom’s go-to answer was “No.”  “No” from breakfast to bedtime and everything in between. In spite of her refusals, life had to go on.

I remember well the times I felt extreme embarrassment when I went out in public with my mother. Her clothes were seldom fresh. Her shoes, white tennis shoes dotted with green shamrocks, were tan—brown in places—with spots of indistinguishable color. Worse than her clothes was her physical appearance. Her hair brought to mind a dirty door mat sitting crooked on her head. Her fingernails were long and tobacco-stained. The crust of untreated conjunctivitis lined the edges of her eyes.

As we walked into the grocery store or post office or bank, I usually felt a red-hot blush sweep up from my neck to my forehead. I thought I saw the greeter, the clerk, the customers staring at us, aghast at Mom’s appearance and wondering why I didn’t take better care of her. Of course, most of them had no way of knowing how difficult it was to get Mom dressed at all.

We know that Alzheimer’s wants it all. Not content to steal its victims’ memory, knowledge, judgment, and physical and emotional health, it will also take every shred of their dignity.

If we let it. We need a strategy. 

The subject of a caregiver’s embarrassment and imagined judgment from others is an important one which has been discussed on this blog and will be again. But the point I’m making here is this: I found a way to ease the struggle. Surprise!

shoes on the floorHere’s an example. A typical morning might include a conversation like this:

I start with great enthusiasm and a big smile. “OK, Mama, let’s get your shoes on!’

“I don’t need any shoes.”

Uh-oh. “Well,” I say with a hopeful chuckle, “you don’t want to go outside barefoot, do you?”

“I don’t want to go outside.”

“But we’re going out to breakfast!” I say.

Mom smiles. I knew that would work. I smile back.

I put her shoes on the floor beside her feet, kneel down, and reach for her left foot.  Faster than she’s moved all morning, she pulls both feet back and hides them under her chair.

“I don’t need any shoes.”

So we’d wait a few minutes and repeat the whole process again. And again. Sometimes it was lunch time before we made it to breakfast. Sometimes we didn’t get to breakfast—or the bank or the store or wherever—at all.

Lack of cooperation is something most caregivers experience. It can move from the level of frustration—“I don’t need any shoes”—to danger—“I don’t need those pills.” Here’s my suggestion:

Don’t announce what you’re going to do. Let your loved one be surprised!!

As a new caregiver, I thought I could keep Mom calmer by telling her in advance everything that was about to happen. As the disease worsened, however, I could see that my explaining what was going on became another source of confusion for her. She began to fight any change I suggested.

So I stopped suggesting and started surprising. I learned that—to use our example—sometimes the easiest way to put Mom’s shoes on her was to put the shoes beside her chair, kneel in front of her, lift her left foot, and put the shoe on it. Without stopping or even looking up, I’d move to the other foot. When both shoes were on, I’d make eye contact, smile, and talk to her about something that had nothing to do with shoes.

ballet shoesWhat happened? Here’s how I explain the success of the method:  When our loved ones refuse to cooperate, I believe it’s because their power-word is—and always has been—“no.” I think some vestige of memory or instinct leads them to protect themselves from the unknown. Whether with their mouths or their actions, they just say no.

But in the case of our shoe-example, Mom had no chance to say no. I believe the surprise of me lifting her foot consumed all Mom’s attention.  My saying nothing about shoes, either before or after, let the event slide by too quickly for her to complain. And because her mind couldn’t take in or process the actions I took, she was as surprised the next day as she was the first.

[The surprise method can be effective in many situations. I was especially grateful I could use it to get Mom in the bathtub.  A later post will explain that process in detail.]

Maybe my reasoning is flawed as to why this simple method works, but I can tell you from my own experience and that of other caregivers I’ve shared it with — it does work. Not all the time, but blessedly often.

dignity and shoesAnd it preserves dignity. Our loved ones with Alzheimer’s reach a point where they don’t know how they look or smell or act. They no longer understand the concept of dignity and wouldn’t know if they lost it. But we know. Caregivers know. If we let those living with Alzheimer’s descend below the level of their God-given human dignity, we have failed them. Once I understood that, my embarrassment at Mom’s appearance turned to new respect for her.

The last gifts we can give our loved ones live on after they themselves are gone: their dignity, our respect.

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In You, O Lord, I put my trust;
Let me never be put to shame.
Deliver me in Your righteousness, and cause me to escape;
Incline Your ear to me, and save me.
Be my strong refuge,
To which I may resort continually;
You have given the commandment to save me,
For You are my rock and my fortress.  (Ps. 71:1-3  NKJV)

Dear God our Father, You chose to create each one of us. You created each of us in your likeness. Please help us to care for our loved ones; may we look at them and see You.

WHAT Do You Want?

When I started this series, Just the Facts, I intended to suggest several answers for each of the questions journalists might use to get the facts for a news story on Alzheimer’s: Who, what, when, where, why. Yes, the subject is Alzheimer’s, such an unpredictable disease that each question has many possible answers. But, I thought, if we could gather lots of answers to each question, we’d have a wealth of information to share with each other.

I realize now: That won’t work.

bird too many

The thing is, Alzheimer’s is such an unpredictable disease, not only does each question have multiple answers, but the questions themselves are everywhere. A plethora of questions each with a superabundance of answers.

  • It’s not simply “Who gets Alzheimer’s?” but also
    “Who should be the primary caregiver?” and
    “Who makes the decisions about care, me or the doctor?”
  • We wonder not only “When do I take away the car keys?” but also
    “When is the right time to move my loved one to a care facility?” and
    “When is it ok to let her skip a meal?”

So…let’s change our approach. Let’s look at only one answer to only one question at a time. I hope you’ll trust me to share the best answers I found to the questions that seemed most critical on my caregiving journey.

Let’s look at “What?” first. The question here is: “What do you want?”

bird open mouth

In the beginning, before Mom gave up trying to keep her world in order, my father would ask her the same question many times a day. “What do you want?”

In the morning, she might answer, “My shoes.” In the afternoon, “That magazine I was reading.” At dinnertime, “My napkin.” And just before bed, “Toothpaste.” Dad always helped her find what she needed.

But as Alzheimer’s claimed more and more of her mind, Mom could no longer ask us for the specific help she needed. For example, she’d look at her feet but say nothing, apparently not remembering the word “shoes.”

Bird feetDuring that period of the disease, Dad and I did a lot of guessing. Deciding she might want her shoes was pretty easy. But when she stood at the window and pointed outside, or sat in the car and rocked back and forth with a troubled look on her face, we could only speculate, and try to bring her what we thought she wanted. If we guessed correctly, we were rewarded by her look of relief or sometimes even a little smile.

Eventually, though, I think Mom stopped wanting, or stopped knowing what she wanted. Her face didn’t reveal much relief when we helped her with a napkin or held her arm and walked her outside to see the roses. And her expression when we showed her the toothpaste was usually downright angry. Mom wasn’t fond of us brushing her teeth.angry bird

But even as it seemed Mom stopped knowing what she wanted, the fact is…we could still please her. Not consistently or predictably, but surprisingly and sweetly. A long day spent trying to steer clear of Mom’s agitation and anger might end with her squeezing my hand, or even whispering “Thank you” as I helped her to bed. Or, of all the days we pointed out the bird on the bird-feeder, on one day she would look, and smile.

The last stages of Alzheimer’s carried Mom even further away from us, and we struggled to know what if anything — we could do for her. While events and scenery and words and people still swirled around her, she was no longer a part of it all. She was with us, but often she appeared utterly unaware of her surroundings.

WHAT do you want?                        
head tilt

It became our question, too. What did we want? For us, though, the answer came with surprising ease: we wanted to help Mom.

Though it was the same desire we’d had since the very beginning, now our abilities seemed almost as limited as Mom’s. We could do little beyond being with her. But it was something. Even when Mom didn’t know who we were, we were there. Even if she wasn’t aware of us at all, we stayed.

And we recognized Mom was still with us. Hard for some to see, but we knew.

sad bird

By being there, we gave her identity and dignity at a time when those essentials appeared to have been stripped away. We recognized her for who she still was, who she would always be for us: BELOVED. WIFE. MOTHER. MARIE, MAMA, GRAMMA.  Not lost—ours.

Identity. Dignity. Isn’t that what we all want? For someone to know who we are?

A miracle of Alzheimer’s is that at the end of the journey, caregivers can give back to loved ones those precious things that Alzheimer’s tries so hard to steal: Identity. Recognition. Connection. We remember, and we remind others.

It’s what we do.

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name; You are Mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, Nor shall the flame scorch you. For I am the Lord your God….”               (Is. 43:1-3 NKJV)

Father, You have called each of us by name. We belong to You. Please keep us aware that even when we can’t reach those we love, You always see them. Thank you, Lord, for your tender care for them, and for us.

Just the Facts, Please

The only way to look at Alzheimer’s Disease is straight on. Unblinking.

Face reality.

Not easy. Especially in the beginning, the disease lures us into false visions. The good days look just fine. “Normal.”  Difficult times? It’s easy to tell ourselves they’re caused by a misunderstanding of some kind, or the aches and pains of getting older.

realityBut the illusions last only so long—would that we could predict exactly how long!—before we can no longer ignore the reality of decline. At that point, we begin to feel as though we’re flying by the seat of our pants. Barely managing to keep the lifeboat afloat. Walking a tightrope in the dark…without a net. We navigate by instinct, bail as fast as we can, and slide ourselves across the chasm with a bravado born of blindness—the darkness hiding not only what lies below but also what looms ahead.

We hunger for information. Information is power; power gives us some level of control; and we long to gain control. But Alzheimer’s doesn’t come with a navigation system or weather forecasting or safety nets. There is no uniform set of symptoms, no universal timeline, no advance notice of sudden changes. Pinning down the facts, just the facts—the who, what, when, where, and why—of Alzheimer’s is a seemingly impossible task.

any questions First we look to science: What signs should we look for? Any treatments on the horizon? Any cures?

But eventually—and always too quickly—we’re just searching for ways to get through each day. We want to know more about how to help our loved ones feel safe, stay connected, and live at their best—today. Here, definitive answers are even harder to come by, because the challenges of living with Alzheimer’s are unique to each personas unique as his or her personality and experiences.

factIs there no answer then to the question of when to take away the car keys? No answer to what does sundowning look like or how to handle wandering? Well, if we look at Alzheimer’s and caregiving factually, no, there is no one answer to those questions.

Realistically speaking, though,  we know there ARE answers. There are helps. Some we’ve seen. Some we’ve read about. THE answer for everyone? No. But options, YES! Looking realistically means letting go of the idea that there’s only one right answer to each question. Looking realistically means we can look at the WHOs instead of the WHO; the WHATs instead of the WHAT; the WHENs and WHEREs and WHYs instead of expecting a single, uniquely correct, factual response to our questions.

And looking realistically means that even though none of us has all the facts, we can share the information we do have.Hands raisedOur next five posts on this blog will do just that. We’ll explore each of those five issues: the WHOs, WHATs, WHENs, WHEREs, and WHYs of Alzheimer’s. We’ll be looking at each of the topics subjectively, dealing not with statistics but with common experiences. So we can learn and share.

optionsMany questions and many answers make for many options.

Caring for a loved one with Alzheimer’s is a generous and loving but demanding and strenuous challenge. That’s a fact. But it’s also a fact that we need not face that challenge alone.

“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.” Matthew 7:7 (NKJV)

Lord, You are the source of our hope and our help. Please remind us that we belong to an army of caregivers, each of us fighting the same battle, all of us searching for the same answers. Help us help others as You help us all.

Are We Fighting FOR or AGAINST?

In the battle we wage for our loved ones with Alzheimer’s, we are not powerless.

No,  we can’t protect them from the disease.   We can’t slow it down.    We can’t stop it. If our battle is against Alzheimer’s, we cannot win.

But what if, instead of fighting against Alzheimer’s, we fight for our loved ones?     That’s a completely different war. We can win that war.

“Fighting for our loved ones.” What does that mean?  It means helping them live as long as possible.   So what does that look like?

TX winecupsbluebonnets prairie paintbrush

Dad wants to take Mom on an overnight trip, a drive down to the hill country to see the wildflowers. Bluebonnets, winecups, prairie paintbrushes! But I know spending a night in a hotel room would frighten and confuse Mom to the point of disaster. So I suggest a short drive to some nearby bluebonnet fields. We take sandwiches and eat in the car. It’s good: Mom is relaxed, looking out the car window, chewing her egg salbloomiing tomatoad with serene deliberation. In Dad’s opinion, though, the flowers are a bit sparse. So after we eat, I turn the car toward home. Once there, we take cold drinks out to the back yard and sit in the shade, where we admire Dad’s petunias and periwinkles and coneflowers and the little yellow blossoms on his tomato plants. Victory!

Christmas decorations and brightly wrapped packages cause Mom to ask endless questions. Her shuffling feet show us these sudden additions to the décor are making her nervous. So we back the tree into a corner and put the gifts in the closet for a while. But later we find a funny little motorized tree that we bring to the kitchen table. Only a few inches tall, it revolves, playing carols and shining with tiny multicolored lights. Mom’s not sure about it ’til Dad talks techno treeto her, very softly, telling her—the story of the first Christmas tree? No. He’s telling her about the technology that makes the lights glow and fade and glow and fade. And gradually she relaxes. She even smiles. Victory!

Mom has finally had to go to a nursing facility. She’s bedridden with a broken hip, unable—mentally or physically—to do enough rehab to keep the new hip joint in place. Mom’s not talking much, but I’m grateful she seems unfazed by the move from the hospital to yet another unfamiliar place. Dad, on the other hand, is heartbroken. His greatest wish remains unchanged and unfulfilled: he wants her with him. He expected to bring her home from the hospital; instead, she is in another “home.” He will never be happy, he thinks, without her. fRANK SINATRABut the next day, my sister arrives with a small lamp and a comfy chair and a radio, which she promptly tunes to the “oldies” station. And less than a week after the sadness of moving day, Frank Sinatra is serenading Mom while Dad drinks the coffee the lunch room ladies give him every day. Not home, but comfortable. And together. Victory!

Our weapons in the battle for the lives of our loved ones are not complicated to operate, but it does take some practice to learn to use them in this particular war.

Patience—to withstand the onslaught of questions and complaints. patiencePlanning—to ease transitions and nip difficulties in the bud. planCreativity—to find new substitutes for old habits and favorite activities. creativityGratitude—to encourage us to accept the help others offer. Determination—to keep us gratitudesteady in the face of constant change. optimismOptimism—to persuade us that, no matter what new pain Alzheimer’s inflicts, we will find a way to keep our loved ones OK.

And most effective of all, love—to convince us to fight, not simply for our loved ones’ survival, but for their lives.loveLord, we can accomplish nothing without You, but with You, we can do everything You call us to do. Thank You for helping us bring Your abundant Life to our loved ones.

“Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”      (Matthew 11:29-30  NIV)

The Bluebird of Happiness

Often it seems nothing we can do or say will bring happiness to our loved ones with Alzheimer’s. Since they gradually lose the power to choose their own pleasure, caregivers are left to use trial and error to guess what might bring a smile.

angry bluebirdFor me, when often became even more often, and even more often became ‘way too often, I re-discovered a happiness strategy from back before I was a daily caregiver…back when I was a daily mom. What I remembered is this:

Sometimes it’s what we don’t do that makes the difference between sullen and happy in those we care for.

I remembered the occasional evenings when I allowed my sons to skip a vegetable at dinner time…and decided maybe Mom didn’t need to wear fresh clothes every day. Some days I didn’t insist she drink a full glass of water at every meal; if she wanted juice at lunchtime, that was fine. No socks with her tennis shoes today? OK.

slim bluebirdWhen I let some things slide, I found that, even if I couldn’t always get her to smile, I could at least erase her frown.

Why was it that skipping an action worked better doing something?

I believe the “never mind’s” worked better because the “please do’s” were beyond Mom’s grasp. She was able to let me know if something we were doing was UNpleasant, but she could no longer think of things she might enjoy. Or maybe she could think of some things some times, but she wasn’t able to put them into words.

The things we skipped depended, of course, on our activities for the day and, even more so, on Mom’s safety and hygiene. If we had a doctor’s appointment scheduled, I couldn’t let Mom go out without shoes. And we always had to keep her hands clean. Getting Mom to take her medications was a must; making sure she drank enough fluids was a must; and there had to be a limit to how many days she could wear her favorite outfit without washing it.

The “must’s” were seldom easy. But they were possible. How? By accommodating Mom’s wishes the same way I used to accommodate my children. I said yes as often as possible and insisted on no when it was necessary.

And I went a step further with Mom. When I had to insist she do something my way, I tried to include an enticement of some kind.snowy bluebirdFor example:

If Mom scowled when I came toward her with shoes in my hand, sometimes—on days when I knew she could stay indoors—I was able to agree: “No shoes? OK.” But if we had to go out, I had to insist. “Well, you’re going to need shoes today. But here…why don’t you feed Charley-Dog some treats while I help you get your sandals on?” I knew feeding Charley was a fun–and dependable–distraction.

If Mom refused her lunch, I could say, “OK, but I’m afraid you’ll be hungry later. Tell me if you are, please.” If, however, she had already skipped breakfast, I had to insist she eat at least a few bites. And I usually had to feed her myself. Beginning with a potato chip got us off to a good start, and a couple more interspersed through the process helped me keep things moving.

When it came to clothes, I almost always let Mom wear her threadbare or hole-y favorites, which I put through the washer and dryer after she went to bed. As long as she was clean, dry, and modest, she was fine to go wherever we had to go. If her old clothes made her feel better, we were happy for her to wear them.

Please understand: when I say I used  some of the same strategies with Mom that I used with my children, I mean no disrespect to her. Alzheimer’s had robbed her of reason, judgement, and self-control. To expect things from her she could no longer give would have been cruel. Instead, I simply made it easier for Mom to go along with the necessities. And I had no fear of her expecting the same “privileges” every day–each day was all too new for her. I believe Mom remembered me and Dad when she awakened in the mornings; that much memory allowed her to trust us, at least most of the time.

Our loved ones with Alzheimer’s travel through life constantly on the edge: not remembering where they’ve been, unable to see where their next steps will take them. So it’s up to us to be flexible. We must make their paths as wide and comfortable as we can, by putting as few demands on them as possible.

nervous bluebirdHappiness for someone with Alzheimer’s? I think it’s like a little bird, a nervous little bird, to be sure, but willing to rest in a spot feathered with reassurance and safety. If we provide a house and fill it with all the comfort and security we can manage,

flying homeeven if we don’t often see the little bird, we can trust that our loved ones are all right.

Blessed are those who have regard for the weak; the Lord delivers them in times of trouble. The Lord protects and preserves them—they are counted among the blessed in the land….  (Ps. 41:1-2  NIV)

Lord, you are the source of all our wisdom. When we turn to you and ask for help, you always answer. Thank You for helping us help our loved ones.

Remembering Love

The question of how to show the ones we care for that we love them is a mystery to many—most?—caregivers.

In the last post, I offered one answer to the question: continue to show your love in familiar ways and trust that your loved one knows. heart in the darkHe or she just KNOWS. We don’t understand how, but we believe it’s true, nonetheless.

A rather unsatisfying answer, perhaps, but if you’ve been a caregiver for a while, you’re prepared to believe. You’ve seen enough to know that there are things all caregivers must take on faith, and this is one of them: maintain your familiar messages of love, and the one you care for will know.

I used to imagine my mother’s mind as a room full of shelves: some small, holding small items; some larger, holding large items. Alzheimer’s had dimmed the lights in that storage room, so when Mom went there looking for something, she couldn’t always read the tags on the boxes stacked on the shelves.

dark storehouseAs Alzheimer’s progressed, the lights grew dimmer and she had even more trouble finding what she was looking for. We were helpless to help her, unable to find what she couldn’t tell us she wanted.

I imagined she saw nothing through her eyes but one of those pictures that make no sense unless you pull your eyes out of focus and stare at just the right spot. I decided her words were jumbled like pieces of a million puzzles; she couldn’t look through all of them to come up with even two that worked together.

But although it seemed the darkness in her mind had spread now to her whole world, there were still rare times when she was clearly aware of what and or who was around her. Often that awareness turned to anger. Her eyes, no longer empty, flashed with it. Her words, no longer jumbled, could convey the anger clearly–simply, but clearly.

“No! No, you! Go away!”

And sometimes her voice was loud, but plaintive: “I want to go home.”

Which box had lit up to spark her emotion? And where did the light come from?where the lite comes from Where did the anger reside that it could return so fast and hot? Where was the notion of “home” stored? And what flash of light had illuminated the box of her desire? I witnessed it: even after all awareness seemed lost, anger could return and be expressed. The soul’s yearning for home could stir again, and words could be found to ask one more time.

home in the darkThat’s how I knew: at random times, lights can still shine in a mind dimmed by Alzheimer’s. When Mom turned her face away as I offered her medication; when, eyes soft and lips parted, she held her hand out toward a baby we saw in the store; when she pointed at a squirrel sitting on the lawn—she showed that sometimes she still recognized familiar things.

And if she could know those things, she could know that I loved her.

heart in the darkIt wasn’t a memory she could summon up whenever she wanted to, or when I hungered for it, but there were times…

  • …times when I smiled at her and asked, “How are you, Bunky?”
  • …times when I danced across the kitchen floor singing,“Ja-da, ja-da,jing jing jing!”
  • …times when I lifted her stiff legs onto her bed, covered her with a pink-flowered sheet, and, after a kiss, told her, “Nighty-night, One-That-Borneded Me!”
  • …times when the silly things of yesterdays could light up our today.

Mom’s face would relax into soft wrinkles and her glazed eyes would shine for a second. Sometimes I really hit the jackpot—she remembered how to turn her lips into a smile.

It could only be that, down in the storeroom, a huge box on the largest shelf had begun to glow. The light had to come from within. I couldn’t explain it and didn’t try. It was enough that Mom knew I loved her and was able to show me.

glowing boxKeep showing your love in the old familiar ways, and be ready to catch a flash of remembering in the one you care for. Maybe just a sparkle or a momentary shimmer, maybe a glow that comes and quickly goes—watch for it! It appears at random times, and it’s almost always fleeting, but if you catch it, you can keep it safe in your own warehouse. It will be there for you to pull out even on the darkest days. It’ll help you keep believing.

Assuredly, I say to you, if you have faith as a mustard seed…nothing will be impossible for you. (Matthew 17:20 NKJV)

Father, we thank you for the miracles you work in our loved ones. Thank you for encouraging all of us, for helping us see with certainty that You are with us, every day, bringing us Your gifts of faith, hope, and love.