LoriLoo

Slipping Away

October 4, 2023

Alzheimer’s, Asheville Living, family, grief

She was curled up in a ball on her bed, underneath a heavy quilt, even though the temperature was in the 80’s. I slipped my shoes off, and curled up behind her, my tall body enveloping her short one. She slept, a dainty snore escaping her. I wept, silent hot tears rolling down my cheeks. I try not to cry when I’m with her. But sometimes, it just happens.

She eventually stirred and sat up. She looked at me with bewilderment. I stroked her hair. “Hey, beautiful.” She stared blankly past me.

I helped her put her shoes on and she walked, zombielike, to the car. I helped her into the car, and buckled her in. We went to our favorite bakery. I sat next to her, on the metal outdoor furniture on the deck, feeling the imprint that would render my thighs criss crossed. I broke off a piece of the bran muffin and offered it to her. She ate it, staring into space. I asked her if she wanted some water, and held the cup up to her lips. She took a sip, then waved me away. I tried to offer her another bite of muffin, and she took my hand, as though she were giving me the hand massage that comes standard with a manicure. She then popped each of my fingers, and pulled my hand close to her mouth. She sucked on my middle finger, as though trying to drink from a straw. I watched this with surprise and awe. “Hey, Mom, are you thirsty?” She stared at me blankly. I pulled my hand away gently, and offered her the cup of water. She looked at me quizzically and pushed away my offering. She picked up the bran muffin in its paper wrapper and slowly, methodically, started to tear the paper then try to eat it. I simply watched. When she didn’t find satisfaction in the paper, I offered another bite of muffin. She smacked her lips, much as a baby bird would while waiting for the mama bird to feed them a worm. I put the muffin in her mouth, and she chewed, robotically.

When we got back to her residence, I asked the caregivers if they had given her extra medication that day. I hoped that they had, to explain the zombie like behavior. I hoped that they hadn’t, because I don’t want Mom to live in a state of druggedness. They had. Mom had dropped a resident’s dog earlier. I can’t imagine that she intentionally tried to hurt the dog. She had picked it up, and was holding it tightly. They told her to put it down, so she did. By just dropping her arms and letting it fall to the floor. They got upset with her, she became agitated, they gave her a sedative. I get it. And it makes me sad. One thing I’ve learned throughout this journey is that conflicting feelings can all be true, all at once.

A nurse called me later that evening. Mom had a UTI (urinary tract infection). UTIs can wreak havoc in people with dementia. It adds even more confusion, and increases the likelihood of agitation. I thanked her for letting me know, and said a silent prayer of gratitude that they discovered this quickly and ordered antibiotics.

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Mothering

October 1, 2023

Alzheimer’s, Asheville Living, family, grief

We sat outside, enjoying the crisp fall day. I brought the glass of ice tea to my lips, underestimating how full it was. Tea spilled onto my dress, beading in the folds. As I reached for my napkin, I felt Mom dabbing at the puddles with her folded cloth napkin, muttering, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” She was mothering me.

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The Day Has Come

September 24, 2023

Alzheimer’s, Asheville Living, family, grief

I knew the day would come. I thought I had prepared for it. I thought I would accept it with grace. I thought wrong.

There was no glimmer of recognition when I visited Mom today. She wanted to go out, and I hoped that once we were in the car, and playing her favorite music, things would click into place. “You Are My Sunshine” played. She stared straight ahead. “I’ll Fly Away” came on. No reaction. No toe tapping, no humming along, no singing. “Amazing Grace” played and nothing changed. It’s hard to sing along when hot tears are running down your face. I tried, and I heard myself choking on the words.

We ate at our favorite Sunday spot. Up until now, I’ve been able to piece together the words and phrases she utters and carry on a somewhat coherent conversation. Today, nothing made sense. I nodded, and smiled, and said, “Oh, yes,” while I felt the gulf widen between us. I wanted to scream, “Come back! Don’t leave!” as I watched her retreat into her own world, blank eyes staring forward.

When we entered her residence, she walked towards one of the male residents, and kissed him gently on the cheek, and placed her hand on his neck. I knew this action. This was how she used to kiss Dad. I was both overcome by gratefulness that she still had someone to love (and be loved by), and a deep yearning for Dad, who I continue to miss dearly.

Even though I know it’s not likely, I continue to hope that there may be recognition on a future visit. With Dad, even as he was dying, he knew we were there. I didn’t realize how difficult it would be to physically be with someone, and yet not be with them, at the same time.

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Mountain State Fair

September 17, 2023

Asheville Living

Impromptu outings are the best. Especially when they involve corn dogs, lemonade, funnel cakes, oversized vegetables, animals, and stomach-churning rides.

I thought I liked rides. I think maybe I like some of them. The swings that swung high above the ground at rapid speed were exhilarating. The buckets that swirled and spun and twisted and turned were fun (though a bit nausea inducing. Or maybe it was the corn dog.). The ferris wheel was terrifying.

I was confounded. Why was the seemingly tamest of rides the most fear inducing? I was higher than on any of the other rides, and the most still. It wasn’t a fast ride, it was one that slowly, ever so slowly, rotated, with regular stops for riders to get on and off. We were exposed – the only thing that was keeping us from tumbling to the ground (and to a horrible accident) was a stress-fractured bar (how seriously should I take those cracks?), hopefully locked in place by the nonchalant fair worker. I wanted to take pictures of the fair from above, the dazzling neon lights from high in the sky. I couldn’t open my purse, much less take out my phone, for fear of dropping it. I smiled, I laughed, I persevered.

And then the ride was over.

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“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.”

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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

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