Cherish the moments with those you love and their memory will remain forever in your heart.......

Written by Beverlee Blampied (c) 2010
Poem published by Alzheimer Society Peel Winter 2011-12

I say "Good Morning" and she asks "Who are you?"
And I still find it strange after all I've been through
That this much loved woman who mothered me for  years
Is now so frightened and weeps bitter tears
Just one day before she called me by name
Now, though, I know things will never be the same
I put on her shoes and then help her to stand
Like a small fragile child she gives me her hand
There before me she stands, and "Who are you?" she asks
I search for an answer that will calm her fear -
From a parent to a child, the road she now travels
And I can only stand by as her memory unravels
I can not understand, but I now see the truth
And the answer my heart cries is "Who are you?"
She's still my mother standing there
It is still her face, her eyes, her hair
It is still her body, though just a shell
Her memory is fleeting, her walk is weak
And people, long gone, are the one's that she seeks
She's still my mother, but now she can't speak
So -
When you look at me Mom, who do you see
Oh how I wish that you could still talk with me
The look in your eyes speaks of anger and fear
What memories are so bad that they bring you to tears
You turn your face, you whisper dark threats
And it's easy to see that you worry and fret
When you look at me, Mom, who do you see
In your far way world, who could I be?

Regrets

Along my journey through life, I, like many, awoke each day with uncertainty, screwed up my courage and headed out to face the world. I wished for things that I could not have and rejected some things that I could have. I knew the facts, had been taught the rules and obeyed the laws. I dreamt the good dream, studied my options, made my choices and suffered the consequences. I strived to know who was who and what was what. I built my life - but, in retrospect, I really didn't even know myself well, if at all. Unfortunately, I kept waiting for 'that rainy day' when all the busyness and confusion and complication of everyday life would 'calm' and I would have the hours to invest my time and emotions toward fulfilling personal goals and putting my life into perspective. By middle age I had gathered some important life clues and realized that my procrastination process - the wait for 'that rainy day'- came with a very high price. Having experienced the pain of my mother's decent into, and ultimate death from Alzheimer Disease, I, now in my senior years, reflect often on the memories of a mother unknown. Her past was imprisoned in the shell of who she was with Alzheimer's and that is all I have left of her. The disease had eaten away her mind and concurrently robbed me of her past. There is so much that I don't know, and will never know about her because the 'rainy day', when there is time to devote to questions and intimate conversations, has come too late. Each memory I have of her is now only a moment captured in time, fringed with nostalgia, but lacking in depth. Now I can only pick up the family picture album and flip through the pages of her life for some sort of insight into the fact that she, and ultimately her life experiences were a very large part of who I am - a difficult lesson learned too late, and one that has taught me that our 'todays' are the days that count in our lives and each moment must be lived to the fullest.

Photographic Memories

When my mother's mind died it was difficult to go through her things and sort out the 'keep'
and 'don't keep' items. The hardest task was sorting through her personal belongings - her 
private papers and pictures, which were placed into storage boxes for perusal at a later and
hopefully less painful time.
   

The morning of her Celebration of Life service, as I poked through one of the boxes with the hope of being connected to her, I found a bottle of Channel #5 in an old black purse that she had once borrowed from me. It had leaked, staining the faux-satin lining of the purse. The scent was so familiar, so real - the smell of my mother throughout my life, and, for a moment, I believed that she was still here - but she wasn't. This is the worst kind of pain - when you can feel something but you know that it isn't real. Perhaps that's why I felt the need to search for some spiritual connection during her weeks of palliative care. I needed to believe in something because my heart was full of her and my mind had to make sense of that fact and make my overwhelming feelings mean something tangible. Where were the road signs for this journey through grief and how far would the road go before memory deadened?

Sitting on the couch in my sun- filled living room that morning, I opened her Family Bible which I had taken, after her death, from the nightstand beside her bed in the Alzheimer wing of the Long Term Care Facility she had called home for the past two years. As I opened the book, not really knowing what I was looking  for, a cascade of pictures fell into my lap - pictures of my mother's life - my father, their marriage, their children, their grandchildren - but the most intriguing was the 4X6 photograph of herself. It was a matte finish, black and white, tattered portrait of a pretty, smiling young woman, dressed quite fashionably, I am sure, for her generation. Scribbled on the back of the picture were the words "Peggy - Aged 20" and I shivered as I reflected on the road she had travelled from the time of that photo to the end of her journey where she was lost in the absence of her mind. 

The picture of my mother made me cry - tears of sadness for her fall into the depths of Alzheimer Disease, and, of course, the loss of her life - but tears of relief as well, as the photograph gave me a precious gift of recognition and I suddenly became aware that life can never be completely taken away, as it lives in the hearts and lives of those whom we have touched. My relationship with my mother could continue even though her mind had died years ago and even though she would now no longer be here physically. I could always find things that remind me of her, and then listen to her talk to me through the life experiences we had shared. She could be as much a part of me as always, as mothers live inside our emotions. They are the place we have come from, our first home, the map we unconsciously follow with every step we take. Although her photograph would always be my tangible memory, I now knew that nothing on earth could separate us - not time, not space, not even death.  

The Lockless Door

by Beverlee Blampied (c) 2010

The "lockless Door" swings open

Revealing her mind - now broken

It started so simply, a phrase here and there

Then a memory that vanished into thin air

The door swings outward then inward once more

Her present and past are continuously at war

She's rational, then confused, she's fearful, then amused

And then her mind runs wild

The "Lockless Door" offers her mind freedom

That allows her to speak of the past

It pulls together her thoughts and then helps some

To remind her of who she is and where she was last

As the door swings back and forth you can often hear her say

"I hope you are well - It's such a nice day".

She smiles as she talks to a newly found friend

She nods her head again and again

"How are your children? My how they've grown"

"It's hard to believe how time has flown"

Her voice is pleasant enhanced by her smile

She talks on and on for quite a while

As she turns away she says "Goodbye" with a sigh

"Do you remember my friend?" she asks anyone within hearing

She's so sweet, so loving, so very endearing"

It's actually quite sad for she can not have known

That the friend she spoke with was not a friend of her own

No keys can be  used on this "Lockless Door"

To alleviate or eliminate her constant mind war

But just a smile and a hug are all that she asks

Don't be angry with her, don't take her to task

Remember that her mind is not fully here

And that even small things can make her tear

While she tries hard her confusion to mask

She knows something is wrong and asks again and again

"Are you my enemy or are you my friend?"

As she goes though the door she might not understand

But whoever you are she needs you to take her hand

She may not grasp what you're trying to say

But the smile that you give can help make her day

And will definitely serve here more as she travels to her end through

The "Lockless Door"

  

Something is Drastically Wrong

A little tired after shopping for a new outfit for her grand-daughter’s upcoming wedding, she emerged into the outside world, looked up at the sky and thought that it looked like it was going to rain at any minute. She gazed questioningly about her and wondered where she had parked her car. She paused and looked all around her. She realized that she couldn’t immediately think which part of the large underground parking garage she had chosen. She stood waiting for the location to float into her mind. It didn’t.

She stopped thinking casually and gave it her proper attention but the location just did not come to mind. This was a new, somewhat frightening experience and she felt vaguely uneasy. She stopped paying attention to the myriad of people walking by and concentrated on the problem at hand. Nothing happened. A little shocked, she tried again and found that her actions prior to entering the shopping mall would not come to mind either, no matter how hard she tried.  Leaving her daughter’s home, where she was visiting for the wedding, was clear. But nothing after that. She couldn’t  remember entering the mall, what stores she had shopped in, or even if she had made any purchases, although she was carrying a large department store bag. The realization that something was drastically wrong with her reasoning dawned on her. She had no headache and wasn’t at all sick, but no matter how intently she concentrated on the short period of time - the drive in the car from some point on St. Jean Road to actually being inside Pointe Claire’s Fairview Shopping  Mall - none of it existed in her memory.

It had started to drizzle and she looked at her watch. It was 6:30 p.m. - where had the day gone? Maybe she was experiencing some kind of amnesia. It certainly wasn’t the onset of a stroke because she felt fine and her mind, since coming out of the mall was functioning well. It was just that period in which she had selected her parking area, parked and walked into the mall that was a complete blank. She felt deeply into her pockets and searched her purse thoroughly  for her parking ticket stub, but it was nowhere to be found. Common sense began to take over, and she started to walk up and down the rows of parked cars. She continued to search for her car, but to no avail. A security van came around the corner of the row she was now in and stopped to see if she was okay. Looking and sounding somewhat tired, disheveled and agitated, she explained that she had lost her car. The security officer acted as if this was an everyday occurrence and proceeded to drive her around the underground garage in search of her vehicle. This continued for the next 1/2 hour until she excitedly recognized her white Plymouth Accord, and with great relief thanked the security officer, offering him some money for his time and trouble. He refused her offer, but kindly suggested that he would escort her home.

When she arrived at her daughter's house with the security Officer's guidance, her worried family met her at the door, concern clearly etched on their faces, as she had been gone since early morning, with no contact from her at all, and it was not like her to have not checked in with them at some point during the day.  She, however, was quite exuberant about her shopping adventure and the nice young man who she had met and brought home for dinner.

Alzheimer Disease/Dementia

She sits in the overstuffed chair in the bright Day Room of the modern, newly opened Long Term Care Facility, looking with empty eyes at the large TV in the centre of the crowded room. Lost in her thoughts, she re-lives the days of her youth in a country far from Canada and in a place totally unlike her residence now. She is 82 years old, frail, with thin grey hair pulled back in a bun and held with a clip. She has no short term memory and lives completely in her mind. She can no longer communicate verbally, but she does enjoy music and can hum along to the beat of most songs that the music therapist plays at the Wednesday morning sessions, and surprisingly remembers the words to particular songs and excitedly sings along when asked to do so. When the music stops, so too does her participation in her life.  She is one of the many, in an ever increasing statistic, of those who have been diagnosed with Alzheimer Disease. She only recently became a resident of Long Term Care, having previously been lovingly cared for at the home of her family, until the disease became so completely debilitating, that, to protect her from the danger of herself, she needed constant round-the-clock care. 

Caring for a loved one with Alzheimer Disease becomes an all-consuming, physical and emotional journey. You give your heart, your love, your life. You dress them, you feed them, you clean up their messes. For months, often years, you give your best in every way you can. At times you try to find humor in their child-like innocence, but more often you cry as you watch them decline, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year. Sometimes, late at night, you sit and cry. Sometimes you lose control and laugh hysterically out of emotional exhaustion at events that have almost put YOU over the edge. Sometimes, holding their hands, you cry. Sometimes, when you look deep into the depths of their empty eyes, you cry. You continue to struggle through the pain and the helplessness in the hope that you will see some small spark of the person you knew - some sign that they are still 'alive'. But, ultimately, you know, and are always acutely aware, that they are slowly walking towards their death.

Your mother is always with you....

She's the whisper of the leaves as you walk down the street; she's the smell of fabric softener in your freshly laundered clothes; she's the cool hand on your forehead when you're not well.

Your mother lives inside your emotions and she's crystalized in your every tear. She's the place you come from, your first home, and she's the map you follow with every step you take. She's your first love and your first heartache, and nothing on earth can separate you - 

Not time, not space, and not even death.