When I graduated from high school and went away to a private women's college, I was amazed and
overshadowed by the number of brilliant, self possessed and attractive
women around me. It was the norm, not the exception at Stephens
College. Born in a small Southern Oregon town and raised raised on a
ranch 12 miles from a store, I was humbled when I realized I was a nondescript fish
in the well stocked pond known as college. Even though I knew milk came from cows not
cartons, that cattle get butchered in order for us to eat steak and
vegetables came from gardens, instead of cans it didn't help my status one bit around those incredibly talented brainy women.
I developed a
lasting friendship with one of those exceptional women. She was attractive, an
excellent scholar and member of the debate team with an acerbic wit.
She could shame Einstein with her extensive vocabulary, often leaving me
sneaking a look in the dictionary after a conversation. It was a rare
evening when I could win a game of scrabble. And not once
did I suspect she would be diagnosed with early onset dementia caused by Alzheimer's in her 50's and slowly become a totally different person.
In my mother's case, I expected that by 101, she would have some confusion but nothing prepared me for the fear and anxiety that not knowing created for her. After 5:00 in the evening my mother would start to get anxious. She worried about getting home in time to fix dinner even though she was home and hadn't been able to cook dinner in years. She was worried where my father was even though he had been dead for over 25 years. Lengthy explanations to correct her thinking only made the situation worse.
I learned to listen for the common denominator of her concerns. All of them had to do with strangers verses family, anxiety versus security, fear versus safety. Home meant being with people she recognized. Fixing dinner was the way she showed her loved. Wondering the whereabouts of my long dead father told me she needed to feel loved with a reassuring hug. The less said the better. As words failed, my mother developed a heightened ability to read my facial expressions and body language. Smiling into her eyes, holding her hand and putting my arm around her spoke to her in a way words no longer did. I had to enter into her world since she could no longer function in mine.
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| Antique St. Anthony Shadow Box |
My friend's memory issues are different then my 101 year old mother's dementia but the things they crave seem to be the same.
Safety, security, love, familiar people, not having to be confused by
questions or corrected or lectured for not knowing.....As words escaped
them both, they needed the comfort of laughter and touch more than ever. As I've watched the disease progress with first my mother and now my friend,
I have had to summoned the intersession of several saints a number of times to
selfishly ease my own sense of loss.
St. Anthony, the Patron Saint of Lost Items, has gone beyond the call in helping find lost grocery money
hidden in the dry dog food bag, a phone hidden in a shoe box and placed in the freezer, keys wrapped and rubber banded in layers of paper towels put in the trash, hearing aides planted in a flower pot and on and on. Sadly, the
only thing St. Anthony hasn't been able to help find is a lost mind.
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| St. Rita in Reclaimed Shrine from Chris Hart Studio |
Sometimes,
I cautiously ask St. Rita, the Patron Saint of Impossible Dreams and Difficult Situations, to lend assistance, knowing I need to be
careful of what I ask. I have
learned through St. Rita's story that the consequences of getting what you want can be fraught with a whole new set of problems. I am happy my friend is
taking a dementia medication but with that her acerbic wit I so enjoyed
has vanished. I prayed my friend could forget her grudge against her
brother for taking her car away but with that washing her hair and
clothes is no longer important either. I wish that my friend could
still log onto her computer and read my blog but if she could do that
she would be walking her dog, losing her way home once again. St. Rita
reminds us to gratefully live in the present because Alzheimer's is on no one's
schedule.
St. Jude, the Patron Saint of Lost Causes, is the saint to pray to when Alzheimer's seems impossible and the only answer
seems to be no answer, when everything points to hopelessness and
solutions seem nonexistent. St. Jude helps us shoulder the burden and reminds
us to
let go of trying to control the uncontrollable nature of Alzheimer's. Once you put your faith
in St. Jude, he can clear the path for us to accept that Alzheimer's has a life of it's own, that "unexpected" is its middle name and whatever happens was meant to be.
When I visited my dear friend last
week, she amazed me with memories of our college days. She could
remember the outfit I wore on a blind date in the 1971, the name of the building where the
college "mixers" were held and the reading list from the English 101
class we had together, all details long forgotten to me. But I still
know what I wore yesterday, I can remember what I ate for lunch today
and I know what a key is used to for. My friend does not. The saints are there to help us both.
All you have to do is remember to pray.
Christmas Eve is a time to remember the events around the Holy Family and the birth of Jesus. It is also a time to gather with family and friends and a time for gift giving. It's a time when I reflect on how my life has been filled with so many people who are kind and good and have met the challenges of life steadfastly and honestly regardless of what their faith may be called. It's a time when the message of Our Lady of Fatima speaks clearly above the din of the busy Holiday retail season to trust that no matter how many challenges, sorrows or burdens we carry, it is our choice to choose good over evil. Her message of love, hope and peace is seemingly, more profound in 2016 than it was a hundred years ago. 
