LoriLoo

“I Don’t Have Any Children”

September 10, 2023

Alzheimer’s, Asheville Living, family, grief

For the most part, I’ve been able to go with the flow when managing Mom’s Alzheimer’s. It doesn’t bother me to hear the same question, multiple times, in a short time period. It doesn’t bother me to answer the same question, multiple times. It doesn’t bother me to help her understand how to use a spoon. Or the toilet. It doesn’t bother me when she’s impatient to do the next thing.

At lunch, we were holding hands and playing a version of patty cake (she likes more physical touch these days), and she was mumbling words and phrases that didn’t make much sense, and I was nodding and saying “yes” and “um hm” and generally acting like I understood what she was trying to communicate, and out of the blue she said, “I don’t have any children.” I know it’s the disease speaking. I know that her life is confined to the present moment. And I felt a lump in my throat, and tears welling up in my eyes.

What more do we desire that to see, and be seen? To be recognized, and to be acknowledged. Daresay, to be loved?

I was determined not to cry. I nodded and said, “No?” And she shook her head. Then, looking into my eyes, she said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

5 comments on “I Don’t Have Any Children”
Precious Moments

August 16, 2023

Alzheimer’s, Asheville Living, family

I make such an effort not to assign judgment to our visits. I don’t want to value our visits as “good” or “bad.” I want to see them as what they are. Spending precious time together.

And it’s so hard to withhold judgment. Today was a good, no a great, visit. She recognized me (maybe) when I arrived. She hugged me and said, “I love you so much.” She cried a bit, somewhat shaken, then asked, “Can we go?” I checked that she had shoes on, her hair was (somewhat) brushed, and nodded yes.

We walked outside, and in the sun, she stood, eyes closed, arms outstretched, and said, “I just love this.” She teaches me perspective. I walk outside and feel the oppressive heat of the south in the summer, magnified by my entrance into menopause. She walks outside and feels freedom and the warmth of the sun. I place myself in her shoes.

I help her into the car and buckle her seatbelt. I connect my iPhone and then start the car. She hears the familiar chords of “You Are My Sunshine” and starts to tap her foot and utter sounds. They aren’t words, per se, but noises to accompany the lyrics. We hold hands as I drive 25 miles per hour around the windy roads to our favorite restaurant.

We’ve been coming here for a year and a half, once or twice a week. The staff know her and affectionately call her “Mama.” They kindly nod and smile when she utters non-sensical phrases and kiss them on the cheek. I almost cry (and sometimes I do) at their kindness.

We order the same thing every time we dine. Two half and half ice teas (half sweet, half unsweet), a burger, cooked medium well, no onions, sliced in half, and a house salad with ranch dressing. Rosemary fries. As we’re waiting, Mom grabs my hands and plays a version of patty-cakes in tune with the music playing on the speakers. I say, “We’re just having the best day,” and she confirms that yes, we are. I feel somewhat of a connection. I see a sparkle in her eyes. I am so grateful. There is a connection, however tenuous, between us.

She utters non-sensical phrases, and I nod my head and respond with non-committal phrases that seem to comfort her. “I don’t know when that will happen.” “I agree.” “I’ll be.” “Would you look at that.” For anyone overhearing our conversation, they would be confused. We don’t make sense. But to Mom, maybe we do.

3 comments on Precious Moments
Visualizing Diversity at Automattic

July 7, 2023

Uncategorized

This “guest post” was written by one of my incredibly smart co-workers at Automattic. It highlights our company’s diversity through different visual representations (which I love). Thanks, Raúl!

2 comments on Visualizing Diversity at Automattic
Missing You

July 6, 2023

Uncategorized

It hasn’t sunk in. Last week we were having dinner, laughing around a fire, roasting Peeps, planning for the fall. And this week your father stopped by my house, saying words that I couldn’t quite comprehend. River. Accident. Not with us.

At first, I thought it was a horrible, sick joke. When I realized it was, in fact, true, I screamed. I sobbed. I shook my head. We hugged.

And today, we paid you one last visit. I thought this would bring closure. But it didn’t. I want you in this world. I want you to mother your sons. I want you to grandmother their future children. I want you to bury your parents, not the reverse.

See, I’ve always admired you. I was older than you, so we weren’t at the same schools at the same time, but we were in church groups together. You were beautiful. You were kind. Even as a teenager. You had style.

You were going to design my dream house. Your aesthetic was incredible. The houses you designed, I was in awe of. We talked about buying property outside of town. Near the creek. I imagined us being neighbors into old age.

When I serendipitously bought a house across the street from yours when I moved from CA to NC, not even knowing you lived in Asheville, I couldn’t believe my luck. I honestly believed I had angels watching over me. You, as always, were so welcoming, and the 25 years since we had seen each other disappeared. Every time I spent time with you, I came away thinking, “I wish I were more like her.” So gracious. So kind. So welcoming. So non-judgmental. I anticipated us having many more years together of dinners, sharing wines, exchanging stories, hatching plans.

We placed flowers around your lovely face. You were beautiful, even in your casket. I held hope that you would rise, like Lazarus. That your light would be among us again. I waited. Hot tears, full of hope, ran down my cheeks. I tried to cry silently, and small whimpers escaped my throat. I miss you. So much.

8 comments on Missing You
Fireworks Amuse Bouche

July 3, 2023

Asheville Living, Holidays

We were finishing dinner, and heard the boom of fireworks. We walked towards the Omni Grove Park Inn, and stood in awe as display after display mesmerized us. A pickup truck pulled up beside us on the street. They set up chairs in the bed and watched the lights, oohing and aahing with each explosion. When it was over, they commented it was an appetizer for tomorrow’s show. I prefer to think of them as an amuse bouche, preparing our palate for what’s to come.

The Show

The Finale

The End

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A Walk in the Park

June 30, 2023

Alzheimer’s, family, grief

Our weekends have a comforting familiarity. I pick Mom up around 1:30 or 2:00 pm. We get something to eat at one or two of our favorite places. On Saturdays, Mom will usually eat a semblance of a meal. On Sundays, she nibbles. We go to the local park for a walk. The walks are increasingly punctuated by rests on benches, which thankfully there are many of. We get ice cream, then go for a ride and sing her favorite songs while driving. She can’t often form the words, but she can make noises, and after each song she says, “My favorite. Like.” I tell her I like it, too. And I do. I wouldn’t trade these afternoons for anything. I know they won’t last forever (and suspect they won’t last much longer) and I savor every moment. When I drop her off at her residence and help her get situated for dinner, she either grumpily tells me not to leave and she hates me, or hugs me and nods when I tell her I’ll see her soon. My hope is that either of the feelings is fleeting, and she’ll be excited to see me the next time I visit.

View from bench 1

View from bench 2

View from bench 3

View from bench 4

View from bench 5

3 comments on A Walk in the Park
So Beautiful

May 31, 2023

Alzheimer’s, family

As Mom’s dementia progresses, she becomes someone I love spending time with even more, and this causes me considerable distress. Why is it that I love her more as her brain deteriorates? And who is the *real* Mom? Is it the Mom who I knew for ~50 years? The one who criticized me and told me I wasn’t good enough? Or is it the Mom from the past 5 years who calls me sweetheart, who hugs on me, who tells me she loves me? Or is it okay for her to be both?

She shakes her hands and arms when I arrive to visit, with tears running down her face. She asks me if she can go home. When I tell her yes, she stares earnestly into my eyes. “Really? Really?” she asks. “Yes,” I tell her. I don’t know if home is a place, or home is people. I don’t know if it matters.

I buckle her seatbelt and we go on our way. We sing the songs she loves and drive on roads where the speed limit is low, and few cars are to be found. I ask her if she is happy and she says yes. Every so often, she sweeps her arms in front of her and says, “So beautiful!” We might be in the city, or surrounded by farms, or in the woods. It doesn’t seem to matter. It’s just that we’re not in her room, and she’s happy.

5 comments on So Beautiful
Hard

April 30, 2023

Alzheimer’s, Asheville Living, family, grief
“I must not have raised you right. Life is hard. The point of life is not to have fun, but to survive.” And then she hung up.

I was 22, recently graduated from college, and in the first few months of my first public school teaching job. It was so hard. I was determined to provide stimulating, interesting learning experiences for each of the twenty-six children in my third grade classroom in rural North Carolina. I stayed late after school preparing for the next day. I researched, I created sample craft projects, I made instruction sheets for activity centers. I listened to children cry, hurt by real or perceived slights. I noticed bruises and bandaged boo boos. I listened to praise (rarely) and complaints (often) from parents. One night I was overwhelmed by the difficulty of it all. I called my Mom, in tears, saying I just hadn’t realized how hard it would be. Her response? “I must not have raised you right. Life is hard. The point of life is not to have fun, but to survive.” And then she hung up. My roommates were standing nearby, wide-eyed, wondering why I had chosen to call my Mom, of all people.

I think about that call a lot, Mom. I try so hard to cultivate moments of joy. And I believe you want those moments of joy, too, regardless of what you once told me.

Joy has taken different forms over the past year. At first, it was:
- Long walks in the park, commenting on the birds, and the flowers, and the sky
- Then, walking much shorter distances at the mall, sometimes stopping to purchase something bright and shiny
- Then, going out to eat, chicken fingers and fries on Saturday, and pizza on Sunday, asking to sit in the same waitress’ sections because they know how you like your hot tea prepared
- Now, going for drives, without you having the will to eat or the energy to walk
You stare straight forward, eyes half-closed, not seeing. I drive, left hand on the steering wheel, right hand holding yours, our fingers intertwined resting on the corduroy wales of your pants. You absentmindedly trace my fingers, up and down, up and down, not looking, back and forth, back and forth. Every so often I glance to my right, seeing if you’re still awake (you are), seeing if there’s any glimmer of recognition (there isn’t). I play the same playlist every time we get into the car. Occasionally, your fingers will play out the notes on my hand as if you’re playing the piano, or your toes will tap along to the rhythm. After You Are My Sunshine, Amazing Grace, and Take Me Home, Country Roads, you’ll say, “that one, good.” I press the rewind button so that we can hear your favorites again. Sometimes I’ll hear you humming along, or even singing one or two words, small and tinny. I smile and choke back tears.

We have a few routes we drive on, all on windy roads where the maximum speed is 35 mph. You want to be outside, not inside. It doesn’t matter if we talk (we rarely do), or if we drive the same route (we often do). You seem content to simply be.

It turns out, you were right after all. Life can be hard.
2 comments on Hard
Four Years

April 14, 2023

Alzheimer’s, family, grief
Grief is:
- Sleeping for 11 hours straight and waking up exhausted
- Eating a box of Girl Scout cookies in one sitting
- Finding a Christmas gift tag you wrote years ago (to someone else) and not being able to toss it out
- Crying for days before the anniversary of your death
- Having conversations with you, asking for advice
- Doing the NYT Mini and wishing we were solving it together
- Waffling over the simplest of decisions
- Working on projects around the house and wishing you were here to give guidance
- A tower of wet, crumpled Kleenex beside my bedside
It’s been four years since we said goodbye. That moment feels like so long ago, and simultaneously it feels like it was yesterday. I am so grateful for every moment that we spent together, and so sad we don’t have more moments to have in the future. When friends talk about moments with their dads, I feel a pang of jealousy. On days when I need to feel you close by, I drink out of the Wachovia coffee cup that you had when you worked there over 40 years ago. It’s not a great cup, but I find comfort knowing that your hands once held it as I’m holding it now.

Here are the things I want you to know:

Mom’s health is declining, and I’m keeping my promise to you. I’m taking care of her as well as I can. She rarely remembers anything past the present moment, but I honestly believe she’s happy when we’re together. She loves to eat ice cream, and occasionally I’ll have a cup of butter pecan in memory of you. We ride through the country and listen to the playlist that you and I made together, when she was first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and you saw an article that music could help stimulate memories in Alzheimer’s patients. Her favorite songs are Amazing Grace (which she insisted we play twice at your memorial service), Peace in the Valley, and It’s Hard to be Humble. I’m not sure how that last one made the list, but I remember it was one of your favorites, too. We sang along (loudly and out of tune) on the way up to the cabin. Mom still remembers some of the words, which amazes me. We still sing out of tune.

My friends from Bogota were here visiting over the weekend. We had such a good time and I wish they could have stayed longer. They helped me rearrange some furniture so I can get my sewing room set up. I wish you could see the house where I live now (and where Mom lived also). I think you’d really like it. It’s different from the house on Woodward, but has the same cozy feel. This is the first place I’ve lived that you never visited. Although, you’re kind of here; your ashes are in a corner in my office. You were adamant that you wanted to be cremated, but didn’t share what should be done with your ashes. I’m kind of mad about that, Dad. Why didn’t you articulate that last bit? I feel like I should do something, but nothing seems right. So for now, you’re across from my desk.

It’s finally warming up here in Asheville. I ordered a bunch of gold, pink, and red chrysanthemums to plant in the garden. I so wish you were here to help with the planting. When I think of gardens, I think of the time that you and Mom and Ashley went to the cabin and left me at home. I wanted to be helpful, so I worked in the garden all day. I pulled weeds from in between the rows of vegetables, then decided to “clean up” the wild raspberries. I clipped and clipped and clipped, until I was sure I had cut back all the weeds. When y’all arrived back home, I remember Mom screaming and not speaking to me (for a long time), and you gently requesting that I not work in the garden without your assistance. In my attempt to clean up the vines, I had inadvertently cut back all the new growth and pretty much decimated that year’s crop. You never yelled, which really surprises me now. I did a lot of things that warranted yelling.

Work’s going well. It’s really busy, and we’ve started traveling again. So far this year I’ve traveled to Vienna, Glasgow, Madrid, Cape Town, London, and Zion, Utah. While I was in Vienna, I walked to the Belvedere Museum, where we went for yours and Mom’s 50th wedding anniversary. I remember how we marveled at the grounds, and delighted in the coldness, with snow all around. And stood in awe for what seemed like an eternity, examining every aspect of Klimt’s paintings, as others passed by. That was a magical day, wasn’t it?

I miss you, Dad. Even though we had 50 years together, I wish it were longer. I really miss you.
2 comments on Four Years
Daffodils

March 23, 2023

Asheville Living

Daffodils take me back to my five-year-old self, when I picked the flowers for my kindergarten teacher from my Mom’s carefully tended beds, wrapped the stalks with a dripping wet paper towel, then crumpled aluminum foil around the stalks as a makeshift vase til I could get them to school and proudly thrust them at my teacher.

Mom loved her beds of bright yellow daffodils and deep purple hyacinths. I loved watching the plants sprout through layers of pine needles, sometimes through remains of snow, and made bets with myself guessing how long it would be before the buds blossomed. I never was right, though I told myself I was.

I love that daffodils have such a scant smell. A sweet one, though. One of memories. One of winter ending and spring just arriving. One of happiness and joy to come.

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