GREAT MEMORIES with Carmel Prior to her Alzheimer's Disease
Like a death, accepting a loved one with Alzheimer's can take literally years. Yes, Carm's alive and healthy (except for her memory), but in many ways she's no longer there. Those who have lived with Alzheimer's know what I mean because you've all experienced the grief of this devastating illness. To learn to TRY to accept Carm's absence I've been told to do many things: keep busy, focus on the positives, laugh, be with friends, dance and have dinner with people, experience new places and new things, pray to God daily for her and me, be kind to myself, learn to trust myself again, be kind to other people because they may going through a similar grieving process, exercise all the time and as much as possible, go visit new places to meet new faces, etc etc etc.
Some of these work. Some of these don't. At least for me. One thing that DOES work is to try to remember all the Good Times Carm and I had in our home and abroad. I look at all the pictures that surround me of her; of Carm in her favourite orange raincoat, of her smile, of her standing in front of a group of cattle; Carm posing with Ted Kennedy (YES - THAT TED! I'M SO PROUD OF HER AND THE SMILE SHE WEARS IN THAT WONDERFUL PICTURE) - and that's just a few of the many, many, many photos I have of Carm on her own or with me.
Even looking at a pic of her brings a smile to my face. Sometimes, I break out in laughter as I remember a particularly good time - which doesn't have to be very special. I well remember when we were in bed and had thunderstorms and lightning, she'd sit up. "Tom, what's that!" "Go back to sleep, Pook," I'd say, then roll over and try to go back to sleep. BOOM! and more lightning. "Tom, wake up! It's horrible outside! Can't you see I'm frightened. I've always been scared of thunder and lightning." And even in my sleep I'd grin. I'd wake up and roll over and hug her. She'd be wearing a frown in the darkness, and sometimes she was shaking she was so afraid. "Ssshhhhh Pookey. It's not thunder. That's God moving the furniture around in Heaven." She'd laugh then. "That's what Mam told me when I was just a kid. I'd wake up during a thunderstorm and run into my parent's room. I'd climb into bed and get under the bedclothes. Dad would reach down and pull me up to him. The next time it went BOOM and FLASH, he'd dry my eyes and tell me, "Don't cry, my little girl. That's God moving... and you know the rest, Tom."
Sometimes, the next day, she'd make a big breakfast of poached eggs on toast and we'd sit outside in the good weather, still in our robes. We'd sip black coffee (she never had milk in it) and later, when we were dressed and I stopped writing, we'd sit back out on the deck. She'd have a cigarette and so would I, and she'd sip a glass of wine as I'd have a tin of Guinness. "I love sitting up here," she'd say, smiling. "It has such a great view!"
"Carm, that's why I called it the Pook Deck. That's your nickname right? Pook or Pookey?" She'd nod and laugh and we'd lay down on that long and wide upper deck, soaking up the sun. Now we'd be dressed in swim wear, and I'd pour suncream all over her back and put it on her face. "Wear a hat, Carm. You had skin cancer, remember?"
"Sure I remember. And I promise I will if you wear one, too. You're half bald anyway, so you need to get one of your baseball caps." Then we'd have dinner and if it was a working day, we'd both go to bed early and make love.
That's the sort of thing that all of us do. We love the memories of those with this illness to keep them alive in our heart, soul and mind. I wish I could wave a magic wand and cure Carm of this illness. Right now as I write this the memories dissolve. Tears are in my eyes. I'll wipe them in a minute. She'd wipe them for me if she were here.
And I like to think that right now, she is. Standing right behind me and getting ready to give me a huge, big hug.
Memories. We all need them especially when we're losing someone to this dreaded disease.
Tom
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