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| Joe and I wintering in Arizona 2013 |
When I was a child, November was always my favorite month because it meant birthday presents and cake and ice cream. There was only one problem. My sister’s birthday was just nine days after mine and because our mother was very thrifty, we celebrated our birthdays together, on one day with one cake. I remember being upset and outright exasperated that Mother didn’t understand the seriousness of this issue. After all, didn’t the word birthday mean birth-day, the day of one’s birth?
It was
always a big decision as to which day we would actually celebrate “our”
birthday. Being practical and not
wishing to favor one child over the other, Mother would choose a day in-between,
a sort of neutral ground. We carried on with
this neutrality right up until the year my sister flew the nest and moved into
her own apartment.
Finally, I
had a real birthday.
But like many
good things in life, the years passed and I no longer saw birthdays through the
eyes of a child. I began to dread them,
realizing that they meant I was just another year older.
One day my
five year old niece came to visit and overheard me lamenting an upcoming
birthday. She leaned on my knees, looked
up at me and very seriously said, “Aunt Jane, why would anyone not like
birthdays?”
Touché!
A couple weeks
ago, Joe and I sat at the bar in the kitchen eating breakfast. Joe hadn’t said much, and was just about
finished with his Cheerios and banana when finally I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Do you know
what today is?” I casually ask.
“What?” This
is Joe’s automatic first response to all questions.
“Do you know
what day it is?” I repeat.
He leans to
the right, looks over my shoulder at the digital calendar/clock I bought so he
can easily keep track. “It’s November 3rd,
and it’s 8:45 a.m.”
I probe
further. “Yes, that’s right, but what is this day?”, and more specifically, “Do
you know what happened on this day?”
“I should
know this, shouldn’t I?” He ponders the date.
Finally I
tell him, “It’s my birthday.”
He shakes
his head and smiles, “I know that.” (I’m sure that if allowed more time he
would have come up with it.)
I smile
back. “You know what I’d like from you for my birthday?”
He looks at
me with a worried stare, knowing that he doesn’t have a gift for me.
“I’d like
you to sing Happy Birthday to me.”
He sighs in
relief. “I can do that.” And he
starts. “Happy Birthday to you, Happy
Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear………..,” and he stops. His eyes are now wide open and his expression
turns to a slight look of panic.
I cackle, “You
don’t remember my name?” We both start laughing. He shakes his head telling me that he does
remember it and starts in again, only this time he sings my real first name
(which I do not use and will not reveal in this post). More laughter.
I suppose it
shouldn’t have been a moment for humor but really, it was funny. That laugh was as good as any gift he could
have given me.
It’s
impossible for me to understand how Joe copes with all the changes going on in
his brain. As much as I’ve studied this
disease, I still understand only a very small part of what is actually happening
to him and can barely imagine how it might feel.
I follow a
guy on Twitter, a journalist and author from the east coast, Greg O’Brien, who
himself is struggling with Alzheimer’s.
He’s written a wonderful book titled, On Pluto: Inside the Mind of Alzheimer’s. This week Joe and I have been reading it
together and boy, are there many “aha” moments.
It’s a first-hand account of O'Brien's own disease process written with humor,
faith and journalistic grit. I would highly recommend this upbeat and insightful read. (Check it out on Amazon.)
We’re having
several visitors over for the Thanksgiving holiday and we’re really looking
forward to it. I’ll likely talk their
leg off and they may be sorry they came but, right now I don’t care. I’m just
happy to have the company. Besides, the
guest bathroom remodel is complete so we’re all ready.
Our little
project took longer than I’d planned, and our multiple trips to the home
improvement store were a bit overwhelming for Joe. Once again I’ve confirmed that the key to
managing with Al in the family is maintaining routine, routine, routine. Any variations have impact and even the
simplest of changes can sometimes derail Joe and Al. Picture eight days of “strangers” at the door
by 7:30 in the morning with tools and materials in hand, coming and going, demolishing
stuff with cell phones ringing, and you may get a sense of the problem.
Yesterday,
after putting the finishing touches on the guest bath, I stood in the doorway, sighed
and reminded myself that the result was worth the pain.
Now, what
else can I tear up. Oh wait, I forgot,
routine, routine, routine.
