Breakfast Memories Page 6
Dementia stole her from us, yet I now know that in the end of Mom’s life, dementia did not win. In fact, dementia lost an important battle during its attack on her.
Mom stayed happy.
I believe it was because of Dad. He spent many years—how many, we will never know—planning how to beat this disease, as he watched it take away his best friend. Dad personalized dementia as the one and only enemy in his life, and made it his fierce goal, to his last breath, to remind Mom what they both believed: They were one, connected by perpetual memories of love within their souls.
He never stopped showing her that she was special, that her happiness and comfort meant everything to him, that her life mattered. Every day, he repeated his love for her through his written love sonnets. It was their routine, and he orchestrated this daily ritual, praying that its repetition would cement in her mind the love that he had for her, a love never to be forgotten.
Dementia didn’t win the entire war. She did keep a memory, but not because of advances in medical science that focus on MRI results and million-dollar technologies and drugs. She kept a memory because of the power of love—my dad’s love. He weakened dementia’s power by strengthening her soul’s memory. He used the power of his own brilliant mind and battled against the disease that was determined to remove him in his starring role in the life they shared.
After my dad died, we cleaned out our family house, packed with things from seven children over forty-five years. We knew Mom would never live there again, and none of us was interested in keeping the house. We were all well established in our own homes throughout the country.
And then came the day…
My sister, my best friend Hersh, and I were cleaning and throwing things out of my parents’ home when I opened a cabinet drawer, and I lost my breath, awestruck by the treasure lying before me.
Inside the drawer, just as he had told me during my hospital visits with him, I found a collection of his devotion to her, jewels of love from his heart, evidence of his desire to prove to her that, no matter her memory loss, they were still Peter and Bernadette—two hearts and souls brought together as one. This devotion to her was striking and beautiful yet still so mysterious.
I found letters from 1946, wrapped in an ice cream carton, that my dad had written to Mom while he was in Sampson Naval Base. I found another box titled, “Come Live with Me.” In it was the top of my parents’ wedding cake, my baby brother Jamesy’s baby shoes, a perfectly organized list of their wedding gifts and attending wedding guests, pictures of their courtship, and pictures of their trips to Ireland.
Most amazingly, there was a gallon freezer bag, with the stacks of napkins he’d told me about. The napkins were neatly folded and placed within the bag, exactly as he described.
Oh, my God. Here they are. I placed my right hand on my heart as I saw the pile of daily poetry written and dated proclaiming his love for her, and of his fight to remind her of their love as they both battled against her disease.
I leaned onto the counter for support with my hands on my head. I remembered the conversations with Dad during his hospital and long-term care, telling me about the sentiments of the napkins and what joy he had in writing for her what he called his “sonnets.” Because I was so distracted by my role as caregiver for his pain and medical frailties, I paid those conversations little attention.
The top of their wedding cake found next to the ice cream carton and morning napkins
A flash of a memory brought me back into the past as I looked at the stack of sealed napkins. I knew these napkins. I had seen his morning setup and kindness to her as she sat down at her spot at the kitchen table on my overnights at their home during the years of their declining health. I remember specifically one morning, when I saw a sonnet at the table and told Dad that I thought it was so sweet. He gently smiled and did not reply—as if it were private between them, not for anyone else. These were the secrets of his heart. He didn’t boast of the sentiment written on the napkin sonnets. He didn’t comment on the writing from his soul. He didn’t comment on their life together. He didn’t bring me into the intimate conversation of what was written from him to his love. Their love language belonged only to them.
Seeing the collection that day magnified the new lens I used in viewing their marriage and our lives as a family. I remember feeling an even stronger commitment to keeping my promise to Dad by making Mom as happy as I could, especially without him there.
No wonder she was so darn happy. For me, I had just found the secret to my mom’s continued state of peace and everflowing sweetness: She had been loved.
I took the pile of sonnets, the trinkets and photos in the box labeled “Come Live with Me,” and headed back home to my mom, my sons, and my husband.
During her time at the dementia care home, Mom was served her daily breakfast in the main dining room of the home. A caregiver would awaken her in the morning, cleanse her, and brush her auburn hair before walking her to her designated breakfast spot. Things were going as well as things could go until Mom stopped eating.
The call came around 9:30 on a Monday morning, just after her morning breakfast ritual.
“Kate, we’re concerned about your Mom. Lately, she just seems lost at breakfast.” I put down my coffee and leaned against the kitchen wall. “Other meals seem OK, but we are considering changing her schedule and needed to let you know.” She went on to explain that sometimes with dementia patients, sleep schedules and internal clocks switch, and that may be what Mom was experiencing. “It may be best to let her sleep through breakfast,” she suggested. “She just sits and stares at her placemat, and looks into the air and seems to pet the table napkin.”
All I heard was the last sentence. Chills ran down my spine, and it was as if my father was standing in the room next to me.
Dad. I said to myself. Dad, she needs you.
She’s looking for Dad’s napkins…She remembers something…Oh, my God…She remembers something!
I knew what I had to do. With the stack of the sonnet napkins in Dad’s moving box labeled “Come Live with Me,” I drove through the back roads to the dementia facility.
I walked in holding Dad’s box as if the box held a newborn baby. I found Lynda at the nurse’s station and took the bag of napkins out of the box. I carefully placed the bag down on the counter and explained that this bag of napkins was more than just that. What I’d brought was the outpourings of my dad’s heart. I explained how he’d written these poems each and every morning and how they sat next to Mom’s breakfast plate. Reluctantly, I pulled the top napkin from the bag. And I watched as Lynda’s eyes read the poem and filled with tears.
She took my hands into hers. “Kate,” she said, “Can I put these in a remembrance book for your mom? Then we can place it next to her every morning at breakfast.” I nodded and let the tears fall down my face.
That night when I returned home to Mike and my sons, there was a message on the answering machine from the nurse at the dementia home.
Kate, I just wanted to tell you that your mom seems great. I was with her tonight and put her remembrance book next to her place setting. As we turned through the pages of the book, your mom was giggling, putting her hands on the pages and petting the napkins with her fingers. It was so wonderful! I put the machine on pause and screamed for Mike and the boys to come and listen. We stood side by side letting it play from the beginning and heard the rest of the message: It feels like she’s actually interested in reading and touching the napkins. It’s almost like she’s searching for someone—your dad, maybe? Anyway, Kate, she’s happy again. She ate all of her chicken soup and had ice cream for dessert.
And so it became part of Mom’s daily ritual to sit and “read” the napkins. She no longer just sat at breakfast—she ate and smiled. She still didn’t know who she was or where she was, or that I was her daughter. She no longer knew she had other children, who longed for her to be their mom again. But she did remember something. Through the napkins she r
emembered happiness and she remembered her husband.
He didn’t lose her.
Dementia had won the blue-ribbon prize physically—but my dad’s love, in poetic words, had beaten dementia at its own, unfair game. Mom remembered that somewhere, at some point, these napkins comforted and warmed her mind, body, and soul.
Checkmate, dementia. You lose.
CHAPTER 11
And the Greatest of These Is Love
As the end came near—
The napkins restored Mom’s memory. I still cry as I realize the power of Dad’s poetry. He did it. Dad won the battle in his personal war against dementia. She did not forget him.
But the disease continued its blows. All seven of her children watched dementia’s progressive path, and we mourned the loss of the special, unconditional feeling of love that Mom gave to each one of us throughout our lives. It was simply sad. We missed her even though she was still with us.
Yet inside this remarkable woman, we were to learn of an internal battle that must have been brewing between Mom’s soul and her mind. We heard something incredible as Mom fought to come out of the abyss of dementia and say goodbye to each and every one of us. She was going to do what had to be done: she was going to assure her children that her starring role of motherhood, in each one of our lives, was far from forgotten.
— Two months later —
Hospice told us that her time was quickly approaching, and my brothers and sisters responded immediately to my phone calls telling them that it was likely that Mom would pass within days. Each of them came within hours to share their special moments of gratitude for her love and say goodbye. There was no mistaking the dull, heavy, rotten, empty, and lonely feeling. It was awful to lose her.
As I watched my siblings—her devoted children—say goodbye to the woman who had birthed us, nurtured us, loved us, respected us, and undeniably represented all that was good in our lives, I could only think of these words—from 1 Corinthians, chapter 13, verse 13: And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.
I had seen this passage take life in the interaction between Mom and Dad when Dad was passing, and I was seeing it again as we, her children, said goodbye. This woman was a fighter. She was the CEO. She was the wind beneath our wings, and she was not going to let dementia steal her last earthly message to her seven children. She was determined to give us the greatest gift of love in letting us know that she remembered that we were her children and she was our mom.
As distance prevented one of my younger brothers from getting to Mom immediately, he phoned. At this point, Mom had not talked in three days. We were monitoring her breathing, listening to the “death gurgle,” and dosing her with morphine with the assistance of the hospice staff.
It was Saturday afternoon, and I had just finished positioning a dose of morphine in the left back pocket of her cheek, when my cell phone rang. It was Jamesy.
I held up the phone to her ear as we heard our beautiful brother tell her he loved her and that he and his wife, whom she adored, were healthy and happy, as were his three children. He talked with her for some time about his daughters’ activities with Irish step-dancing and A+ grades, and outstanding soccer stories of her grandson. He told her that he and his family loved her dearly—and that it was time for her to go to Dad.
As I held the phone to her ear, the woman who had not spoken in days surged through dementia’s stronghold and resurfaced as our mom. “I love you, Jamesy,” she said. She was his mom, and she let him know that she remembered her role in his life. I held her weakened body in my arms, and thanked her for the moment of joy she had just given all of us, especially Jamesy. Those were her last words. “I love you, Jamesy,” words spoken from her memory, a memory that was safely stored within her soul.
Scoreboard: Mom and her seven children, 1; Dementia, 0
Take that, Dementia.
Two days later, our hospice nurse told us that it was likely that Mom would die within twenty-four hours. They were surprised that she had lasted as long as she had. They thought she would have died over the weekend, yet it was Tuesday and she was still alive. I was so grateful that she was holding on. She still needed to see Tom, who couldn’t get to Mom any sooner than Wednesday morning. He was doing everything he could to get there.
“Please, tell her I’m coming. Please. Please, tell her.” He pleaded through his messages.
By now, Mom had no kidney function, blue feet, gurgling breath, and a very stiff body. It was against all medical science that she would still be alive on Wednesday morning. In fact, when the hospice team said goodbye that night, they told us it had been an honor to get to know our sweet mom. They left, knowing that through the night I would be doing what had to be done—administering the morphine in her left back cheek pocket to lessen the immense pain of dying.
On Wednesday morning at 10:00 a.m., our hospice nurse and chaplain returned again to Mom’s room expressing their complete shock that she was still alive.
“Is there anyone or anything that she may be waiting for? Did she get a chance to say goodbye to all of you?” The chaplain asked.
I showed them my brother’s text message. He was the only one left of all of us whose “goodbye” she had not heard. I suddenly got it. I understood why Mom was desperately hanging on to her life. Just like she had proven to us in her last words to Jamesy, she was proving to us again that her memory of being a mom was still in the memory of her maternal soul.
When we were children, Mom would wait in bed “with one eye open” until we got home at night, needing to know that those she loved and protected were safe. She couldn’t sleep until she heard the sound of us coming up the staircase. This maternal safeguard was still alive in her as she fought to stay alive and hear my brother’s voice—as she had waited to hear all of our voices. She wasn’t about to enter perpetual sleep until she knew firsthand that we were all OK.
At 11:00 a.m., my youngest brother, as promised, walked into Mom’s room and assured her that he was well and that his wife and his children were healthy, happy, and thriving. He told her it was time for her to be with Dad. His large, Irish, broad-shouldered body appeared dwarfed, as he, her youngest son, left the room blinded by tears. By then, it was 4:00 p.m.
After Tom left, I administered another dose of morphine and then lay down next to Mom in her bed. It was just the two of us. “I love you, Mom,” I told her, but she didn’t move.
Three hours after Tom left I heard her whisper, “Margaret.” I lifted my head from her chest and felt shivers go down my spine. Thank you, God. Thank you for letting me hear the sound of the sisters’ reuniting souls.
As she took her last breath, I held her tiny head close to my breasts, my arms wrapped around her like a bunting blanket and my shoulders strapped over her in protection. My own heart stopped with her last breath. I slowly released my grip from her frail lifeless body. With my fingers still on the small of her back, where they no longer felt her lungs working, my toes tingled. When I looked down at my feet, I saw that I was wearing Mom’s little lace ankle socks. I smiled and knew I would be OK. You tried to take her earlier. You tried to take away her biggest accomplishment in life. You tried to take away her motherhood, and you lost. Goodbye, Dementia.
Mom died October 31st—the eve of All Saints’ Day, one of the holiest times of the year in the Roman Catholic faith to pass into heaven. She died peacefully in the same solid oak bed that was part of the “can’t live without” items that my Dad had brought with him in his move to assisted living, the same bed she’d shared with my dad for 59 years. Over her bed were the portraits of her seven children.
As I lay there with her lifeless body, an overwhelming sense of what we had shared drifted through my mind as I replayed the last several years of seeking to learn, seeking to protect, and ultimately seeking to care more about whom she was than ever before in my 52 years. I had received a remarkable spiritual and life lesson after healing, caring, loving, crying, and praying w
ith both Mom and Dad. It became crystal clear. The lesson I had learned lay in the center of Mom’s happiness.
She had been loved.
“And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.”
1 Corinthians 13:13
Mom is buried on Dad’s left side, the side where she sat for breakfast all of their years of marriage. The side where Dad would place his poetic napkin far enough away from her coffee and her bagel so that marmalade would not spill on his poetry.
She is buried wearing an Irish scarf and holding a morning napkin.
Now it is my turn.
Never forget this.
The author and her mom.
Kate Hanley’s discovery of her parent’s unique love language set her on a path she never anticipated—writing a book. Yet these beautiful “paper napkin sonnets,” and the story that surrounds them, were too precious and inspiring not to share, as they offer hope for anyone in the throes of caring for someone with dementia. Kate lives in Old Forge, New York with her husband and two dogs. Her two grown sons come home as often as possible to enjoy the peace and beauty of the Adirondack Mountains.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Foreword
Chapter 1: The Beauty Parlor Day
Chapter 2: Them
Chapter 3: That Day
Chapter 4: His Plan vs. Our Plan
Chapter 5: Accepting the Unwanted and Unacceptable Things
Chapter 6: A Force Greater Than His Love
Chapter 7: Different and Better
Chapter 8: The Napkins
Chapter 9: Her Without Him
Chapter 10: Dementia Loses Its Fight to the Power of Love
Chapter 11: And the Greatest of These Is Love