My family traveled a lot in the summers. Thad’s job usually enabled him to work from anywhere. So when the girls returned from camp, we spent a week in Yosemite with my older brother, David, and his family, followed by four weeks in Colorado with Thad’s family. But my mind was in Dallas instead of in Colorado with Thad and the kids.
I had no peace of mind being so far away from my parents, and it took a toll on my body, mind, and spirit. I tried hard to enjoy the hikes, bike rides, and other activities, but a guilt like nothing I had experienced before settled on me. Dad never pressured me to help, and he told me frequently to be with my family and not worry about Mom and him.
The problem was that I really missed my mom. I wanted to be with her. My heart’s desire was to spend as much time as possible with her before Alzheimer’s took her mind completely. Seeing how quickly the disease was progressing, I didn’t want to return to find she couldn’t recognize me. Every day and every moment I spent with Mom was meaningful, purposeful, and priceless, and the thought of going weeks without seeing her was gut-wrenching.
While in Colorado, I continued my early morning habit of coffee and quiet time. I prayed fervently that God would give Dad wisdom, discernment, and clarity in making important decisions, as well as the patience and strength to take care of Mom. Begging God for help, I asked Him to preserve Dad’s health. Mom’s disease was draining the life out of him, and I feared Dad might go down with her.
Thad, the kids, and I returned to Dallas about a week before the girls’ soccer tournaments began. Shopping with Mom was at the top of my agenda.
“Hey, Dad!” I said excitedly. “Let me talk to Mom, please.”
As soon as Mom grabbed the phone, she said, “Hello? Sarah? I’ve missed you. Come see me!” She had actually missed me, and it made me feel good.
“Oh, I’m coming, Mama! Are you dressed? Do you want to shop for some new shorts and tops? It’s hot outside.”
“I’d love that!” Mom was in the best mood. It was so interesting to witness how the thought of my being nearer to her could change her mind-set. She was sad when I was in Colorado, but the moment I returned to Dallas, she became a new person.
Shopping in the mall was great exercise for us both and saved us from the heat outside. We took lots of time walking in and out of stores so Mom would not be overwhelmed.
Chico’s became my new favorite store for Mom because almost everything had an elastic waist. Also, the colorful pullover T-shirts were easy for Mom to put on and take off. Buttons were too difficult now—her fine motor skills in her hands and fingers were shutting down.
“Sarah, look at this!” She was holding a fuchsia blouse with some gold hardware on the shoulders. “What size do you think it is? Does it look too big?”
Mom had always been very conscious of size, and Chico’s made it easy for me because of its clothing sizes. Pants were labeled 0.5, 1.0, 1.5, and so on. I said, “Mom, a 1.5 is a size 6. That’s perfect.”
As I brought her more clothes to try on, she yelled over the dressing room door, “This is fun, Sarah! I love shopping.” I felt tickled because not everyone is thrilled by trying on seven pairs of pants.
At the checkout, I texted Dad to call and distract Mom while I paid the bill. She had lost the concept of numbers and didn’t know if an item was expensive or inexpensive. Still, I didn’t want her to fuss about the prices on every single thing.
When Dad called, I handed her the phone and steered her to a corner. I told her it was quieter there, but it was also away from the door so she couldn’t wander out while I paid.
I quickly explained the situation to the cashier, telling her, “I’m so sorry to ask you to be fast. I need to pay quickly, or she will question the cost on every little thing. I apologize in advance if she pops off at you or seems edgy.”
The lady smiled kindly. “I totally understand. We have customers who come in here all the time helping a loved one. I will be super quick, and please know if you need to return anything at all, it will not be a problem. Just bring your receipt, and I’ll be happy to help you.”
Her words were music to my ears. Communicating discreetly with others about my mom’s disease was awkward. Often I would type notes on my phone and hand it to the clerk to read when Mom wasn’t looking. Or I would talk to them when she was in the dressing room or digging through a rack of clothes. I worried about how others would perceive Mom, but I also wanted to protect her and prevent uncomfortable situations. It was mentally draining, but I felt it necessary.
Finished with her call, Mom brought the phone to me and noticed a turquoise blouse exactly like the fuchsia one we had just purchased. “Sarah, I like this. Did we get this one?”
“No, not that color, but we did get that exact shirt in a different color.” I showed her the matching fuchsia blouse on the adjacent hanger.
“I want this one,” she said. “Let me try it on.”
Knowing Mom had already tried on that shirt in another color, I grabbed the turquoise one and said, “Here. This one is your size. Let’s just buy it since we already know it’ll fit.”
She looked at me, puzzled and confused. “We don’t know my size. I need to try it on.”
I gently disagreed. “We do know your size, Mom. See, look.” I took the fuchsia blouse out of the hanging bag so she could see it for herself and said, “It’s just like this fuchsia one you tried on.”
She stared at it, looked back at the turquoise blouse and then at the fuchsia again. “No. That’s not the same shirt. It’s a different color.”
She could not comprehend that two blouses could be different colors but the same style and size. Feeling my stress rise, I turned to take the turquoise shirt to the dressing room, not realizing she had begun taking off her shirt in the middle of the store.
“Here!” Mom’s voice was agitated. “Where are you going? Let me try that on!”
There she was, standing with her shirt halfway up her bra, her belly button and white stomach hanging out, and one arm already pulled through a sleeve.
“Mom!” I gasped. “Mom, no! Not in the middle of the store! Dressing room. The dressing room!”
I looked at the cashier in disbelief, and she mouthed, “Don’t worry, it’s okay.” Regardless, I was mortified.
Mom started laughing but was not making the connection. “What? It’s just us girls! What’s wrong with me trying it on here?”
Suddenly, I burst out laughing. “Mom! We are in a mall with glass windows! My entire life you hardly let me see you in a bra, and now you are totally fine with not only me seeing you, but a complete stranger at Chico’s? Wow, Mama. You have come a long way!”
I pulled Mom’s shirt down and helped her with the sleeve. She laughed and said, “Well, okay! But this lady doesn’t care, do you?” She pointed to the cashier, who smiled sweetly.
“No, not at all. But there are some men walking by, so your daughter is probably right. I think it’s best to try it on in the dressing room.”
That day was a jumble of joy, laughter, and grief. Mom and I tried on shoes, pants, and shirts, grabbed a Starbucks coffee and a cookie, and even stopped by a salon to have our hair washed and dried. After such a fun day, that night in bed I cried tears of joy and sadness. While I was thankful Mom had no shame about her body, I was sad she was no longer protective of what others might see, and I also despaired at her lost abilities.
Physically slower, she couldn’t make decisions, and she would argue with clerks about shoe and pant sizes: “I told you I needed a bigger size. What’s wrong with you?” While outings with her could be embarrassing and stressful, or fun and memorable, the emotional roller coaster of being out with Mom taxed me. Sadly, I knew our shopping days were ending, and I began to grieve yet one more loss.
ON A LAZY DAY WITH no agenda, Mom and I relaxed at her house while Dad went to a lunch meeting. While I checked my emails, texts, and Instagram, Mom was piddling around, rearranging books and picture frames on the shelves. We had done our usual wal
k around the block and strolled through our favorite shopping plaza. We each lunched on a hot turkey-and-cheese panini with homemade potato chips.
Enjoying the uneventful day and Mom’s contentment, I realized it was one of those rare occasions when she didn’t want to go anywhere.
Suddenly, I heard the sound of glass breaking from the bathroom.
“Mom? Are you okay? What’s going on in there?”
“Yeah. Everything’s fine. I just . . . I just . . . It’s okay. I’m okay.” Her voice sounded winded, and I could tell from her tone she was focused on something.
Running down the hall, I put my hand on the doorknob of the bathroom and pressed my ear to the door. “Can I come in, Mom? Are you dressed?”
Even if Mom no longer cared if she was seen undressed, I didn’t want to violate her privacy.
“Yes, you can. I’m dressed. I just . . .”
As I opened the door and leaned in, I saw Mom bent over in her white pants, with her hair falling down around her face, picking up broken pieces of glass.
I gasped. “What happened?”
She slowly stood up and pointed to the sconce hanging on the wall on the right side of the mirror. “I don’t like the lighting here, so I was, you know, trying to . . .” I saw that Mom had unscrewed a light bulb from the sconce while the light was on. My guess was that it was so hot, she dropped it immediately, although she couldn’t tell me what had actually happened.
“Mom, be careful. Here—step over here. I need to get a vacuum. You may get glass in your finger.” Again, I thought. Like the time you broke your bowl.
“I can get it, Sarah. It’s just a little bit.”
I gently touched her shoulder and looked into her deep brown eyes. “I know, Mom. I know it seems like just a little bit. But please, I’m asking you to trust me and let me get it all for you. I have little kids, and I deal with things like this all the time. Let me help you.”
She smiled as she moved out of the bathroom to carry a few pieces of glass to the kitchen trash.
Retrieving the broom, dustpan, and vacuum, I felt a sadness wash over me. There we were, enjoying the quiet ease of the morning, and within two minutes, Mom had nearly electrocuted herself.
In self-condemnation, I told myself, Wow, Sarah, way to watch Mom. What if she had stuck her finger in the light socket? And then the killer question: Who are you to think you can protect your mom from hurting herself? How can you tell your dad she’ll be fine under your care?
Tears rolled down my face once again as I swept up the tiny, sparkling pieces of glass. Each sparkle seemed to represent every close call Mom had had over the last year: wandering off and getting lost, cutting the mole off her chest, trying to finish her cereal out of a broken bowl, and climbing onto a ledge over the ocean. I remembered the day she tried to use a table runner as a rug on her hardwood floors and left the china cabinet in the middle of the room and not against a wall.
I swept, then turned on the vacuum. Poof! The pieces were gone. Mom’s fine motor skills, short-term memory, ability to reason, concept of time, and names of friends had been sucked up like pieces of glass into a vacuum: gone forever. I had failed as a caretaker, and the thought flitted through my mind again: My mom is slowly dying in front of my eyes.
The emotional ups and downs were like jumping from a diving board. As a child, I would jump up and down one or two times so I could get some height from the springs. Then I’d jump as high as I could, flying free in the air with my arms spread out like wings, holding my breath before crashing into the water and plummeting toward the bottom of the pool. I’d use all my power, paddling and kicking to move myself toward the light—and air—at the surface. Proud that I’d overcome the challenges and surfaced for air, I went back, stood in line, and did it all over again.
As an adult child, however, the thing driving me to resurface for air and do it all over again was a cry to God to fill me with His power, courage, endurance, perseverance, and patience.
TWELVE
911
July 17, 2016
“THIS WAS SO NICE OF you guys to have us over for dinner,” said Pedro in his polite, lightly accented English. “We are really so happy we could finally get together.”
Pedro was our neighbor who lived across the street. He and his wife, Meredith, were the neighbors who had left homemade desserts on our doorstep the day we moved into our home nine years earlier. We loved being with them, although we weren’t able to spend as much time with them as we would’ve liked because of our age differences and the activities of our children.
Sitting around our dining table with them and their son, we ate homemade chicken parmesan loaded with mozzarella and homemade tomato sauce. Our conversation ranged from their daughter, who was studying at a prestigious ballet school in New York City, to local school-district issues, Pedro’s entrepreneurial endeavors, and our shared faith.
After dinner, the four of us moved to one of our favorite rooms in the house. With four chairs around a coffee table and a favorite Colorado painting on the wall, this room was cozy and invited intimate, meaningful conversations.
Pedro asked me about my mom. “Sarah, how is your mom? I don’t know if you want to talk about it or not, so it’s okay if you prefer not to. I just want you to know that Meredith and I talk about it a lot, and we are really heartbroken for you and your family and for all that you are going through.”
I looked out the window briefly with my arms and legs crossed comfortably in my chair and thought about how to answer his question.
“Mom’s doing okay. I mean, she doesn’t realize what she’s lost, you know? She has scared me quite a bit, and I think she’s becoming more and more dangerous to herself.”
I don’t know if it was the glass of wine I’d had at dinner or the overwhelming flashbacks to Mom’s episodes that made my throat tighten and cramp. My eyes began to feel glossy and damp, and I took a long pause. I looked over at Thad.
“It’s okay, honey,” he said. “They understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”
Pedro immediately responded, “Oh, Sarah, for sure, please, I am sorry. I just want you to know that we care. That’s all, and we will continue to pray for you and your family.”
Meredith nodded from across the table. “I’m so sorry. Yes, we will be praying.”
“No, really, it’s okay. I’m sorry! Talking about it just makes me emotional because my heart is so heavy, though more for my dad, honestly. I don’t know how to advise or help him—and really, I can’t make decisions for him. The guilt is unexplainable. I feel guilty if I consider suggesting he place her in care, and I feel guilty if I am not available to help take care of her, and I feel guilty if I am with her and something happens. It’s a no-win situation.”
I gazed down at my half-empty wine glass and flashed back to Mom holding any kind of glass, whether a light bulb, a cereal bowl, or a coffee mug.
Holding my glass up to Meredith and Pedro, I said, “See this glass of wine? If Mom were holding it, she would hold it like this.” I tilted it to where the wine was almost spilling out of the glass. “She has no control over her hands and they shake constantly. She’s broken so much glass lately. She also used a pair of scissors to try and cut a mole out of her skin.”
They both gasped.
“But I can zoom out and see the big picture a little more than Dad can, because he lives it every single day. He’s so wrapped up in the details that it’s hard for him. And I tear up and get emotional because the big picture is Mom needs help. And I can’t tell you what that means exactly.
“I feel damned knowing she needs help, and I feel damned not having an answer. I am afraid of what can happen. So far, she’s avoided getting really hurt, but at what point will something big happen that could take her life? I am living with these thoughts and emotions every minute of every day, and I can’t imagine how it must feel for my father. I hate to admit this, but I think Mom needs to be placed.”
My eyes filled with tears and
my lower lip quivered. “I don’t want to take her from her home. She loves being home. She loves Daddy so much. Dad would feel like a widower if he had to place her. But I just don’t see any other way out.”
Meredith and Pedro were empathetic listeners. This after-dinner visit felt more like group therapy. I felt safe, and every time I looked over at Thad, his eyes were filled with love, compassion, and sympathy. He loved Mom, and I knew this was painful for him as well, though he was being strong for me.
The house phone rang, but since we were deep in conversation, we didn’t answer. I turned off my cell phone early in the evening so we could have uninterrupted time with Pedro and Meredith. Then Thad’s phone started buzzing in his pocket. The caller: “David Sr. mobile.”
“Hey, David,” Thad answered. In an instant, Thad’s face changed.
Handing me the phone, he said, “Honey, your dad. He needs you right now.”
My stomach dropped. “Excuse me, sorry, one second.”
The look on Thad’s face told me everything: This was an emergency.
“Sarah,” Dad said without hesitation. “It’s your mom. I don’t know what she drank or what she’s done, but she is red all over and has a rash everywhere. I mean, everywhere. I think she’s having an allergic reaction. She seems calm, but I may drive her to the hospital.”
“I’ll be there in ninety seconds. I’m coming with you.” Abruptly hanging up the phone, I looked at Pedro, Meredith, and Thad, and said, “I’m so sorry. Mom’s having an allergic reaction to something she drank. I need to leave. Thad, I’ll call you when I know something.”
They nodded, their faces frozen in fear and concern. I raced to the car and pulled out of the garage, hardly looking where I was going. I didn’t drive the six blocks to Mom and Dad’s house—I flew.
RUNNING INSIDE, I YELLED, “DADDY? Mom? Where are you?”
Dad called to me from their bedroom. “Our bathroom!”
I ran into their bathroom; Dad was standing with Mom.
Broken Beauty Page 11