Walking in Mama's Shoes

I took the dogs out to the Neuse River Greenway, one of our favorite walking trails. It's new and in the far reaches of Raleigh, so it isn't heavily trafficked. On this particular morning, I donned my mother's Adidas.

When Mom came to live with us nearly two years ago, one of the first things we did was go shoe shopping. She had foot problems, brought on in part by her insistance that her shoe size was 5, as it had been since she was 20. Small feet rise nearly to the level of fetish in her shoe-loving family.

Shoe shopping with a person who suffers from dementia can be a trying experience. After what seemed like hundreds of try-ons, she plucked a walking shoe from the display and determined that THIS WAS IT! Adidas. White with pink trim. Pink shoelaces. Size 7.

Adidas it was, and she wore those shoes nearly every day. I gradually spirited away almost all of the other shoes from her closet, especially anything with heels or little straps. At that point, she was still conscious of her appearance, still spun and preened in front of her full length mirror every day, but those shoes accompanied nearly every outfit. I think it was the first time her feet weren't squooshed, and she felt secure about walking.

When she became wheelchair bound, a few months ago, the people at her memory care unit tucked those shoes into the corner of the closet. She only wears slip-on deck shoes now. She doesn't miss them. She's not aware of her appearance. I'm not sure she distinguishes between herself and the environment around her anymore. I decided to appropriate those very wearable shoes for myself a couple of weeks ago.

The first thing I noticed was a funky smell. It filled my car, it filled the closet. It took me a day to figure out it was the shoes, and not something to do with the dogs I carry around in my car so much. Another aspect of Alzheimer's, that was well underway before she left our home, is urinary incontinence. Apparently, these shoes had suffered the consequences at some point.

I threw away the laces, tossed the shoes in the washing machine, and set them in the sunshine to dry ---- for a week! New laces (not pink) and I have a fine pair of walking shoes for my treks into the wilderness with Buddy and Nanalu.

It's odd to wear my Mama's shoes. It's not the first time I've gotten clothing from her. I started out snitching things from her closet while I was still in high school. It's not even the first pair of shoes. But pairing these shoes ---- her last real shoes ---- with the time I spend discovering the natural world around me, is unsettling. At first, it made me sad. As we walk along, I often talk to the dogs, pointing out things that I see or hear or smell. This time, it was as though Mama were walking along beside me. She loved to go for walks. She walked every day, answering bird calls, stopping to watch squirrels, greeting neighbors, noting flowers and trees and the changing seasons.

When I wear Mama's shoes, the world is new again for both of us, and life is wondrous once more.

Harvest of Dreams

Don't you wonder how the fabulous things you do in a dream can disappear so quickly the minute you wake up?

Sometimes I waken with the certain knowledge that I've been speaking another language or have composed some amazing music. I'll have written a short story or delivered a lecture, and POOF! it's gone, and I can't get it back. It's like trying to pick up mercury.

(For those of us of a certain age, when a thermometer broke during childhood, we got to chase the mercury around on the floor, trying to pick it up. Don't even bother to tell me how dangerous and poisonous it is. It's probably why I can't remember my dreams.)

Dreams have probably shaped history sometimes, since people used to --- and maybe still do --- use them as a form of divination. Battles fought, monarchs overthrown, journeys undertaken all may have happened at the bidding of dreams. And who knows? Maybe they were onto something.

When I valued sleep less than I do now, I used to keep a notebook by my bed to write down dreams for the purpose of capturing their insight. Sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night and write, then go back to sleep for more. Sometimes I would try like mad to hang onto it in the morning long enough to scribble down the essence. When I run across these old spiral notebooks now, they are about as interesting as listening to your roommate in college tell you her dream over breakfast. Uh-huh. Ok.

Needless to say, I've developed a keen interest in how the brain works, and doesn't work, since dealing with demented parents for the past 14 years. I have more than a passing interest in understanding my own brain in an effort to escape that fate myself. A few years ago I enrolled in a study at Duke in the Alzheimers's Research Center, to follow me for an indefinite period and be evaluated every year for signs of Alzheimers. Unfortunately, the funding dried up ----- science? who needs funding for science? Let's just pray it away! --- so I no longer have the assurance of being evaluated regularly, as well as the opportunity to contribute in a small way to the research. I also participated in a couple of shorter research projects, one of which involved having a functional MRI. At the end, I asked, in a joking way, if I could take home a picture of my brain. She not only obliged, but explained to me what I was looking at and assured me that my hypothalamus was "nice and plump". Nothing like a plump hypothalamus, that's what I always say.

So I have my brain framed and on my dresser. Somehow that's reassuring. I know that it's firing and I actually feel more clear-headed, teachable and "with it" than I have for years, right now. Even the stress of being the fulltime caretaker for a demented Alzheimer's parent is nothing like the wretched condition of being a public school teacher. That's pretty sorry, when you think about it.

Having my brain on the dresser is a reminder that my possibilities are endless, as long as I don't give up. I still have my faculties, such as they are. I can still think and speak and write, communicate with others, come up with new ideas. And I still have my dreams, both waking and sleeping.

Now, let me tell you about the dream that woke me up this morning....

Act III, or is it IV?

The move is complete and the learning begins. I have discovered a few things about my mom during this process, and no doubt there is much more to come. It's also an initiation by fire into the world of Alzheimer's disease.

I don't know how many people in the US have this disease right now.What's certain is that the Baby Boomers are aging and we ain't seen nothing yet! My father had it, died of it in 2003, and it looked different in him than what I see now. Much of that was probably because my mother, dear heart that she is, shielded us from it as much as she could. Until just before he went into the nursing home, she put a good face on things and made it look manageable. I'm only beginning to see how unmanageable it probably was for her.

Discovery #1, as we were packing for the move: my mother has way more sexy lingerie than I do.

Discovery #2: Even thought she can't remember where she lives or where her room is, she can still crack jokes.

Discovery #3: My love of all things from the office supply store is genetic. She's the only person I know who has more pens, pencils, erasers, paperclips, envelopes, unused greeting cards, markers and post-its than I have. I do have her beat when it comes to hole punchers, though.

Discovery #4: She actually missed some of the housekeeping tasks she had someone else doing for her the last five years. Her housekeeper came once a week to clean the apartment and change the bed. Now it turns out that she likes hanging out clothes and folding them after they're dry, sweeping the floor, washing the table, washing up pots and pans and dusting. Who am I to say no? Actually, we work together.

I think that we will develop some routines over time. There is still a lot of unpacking and putting away to do, and some decision making as well. We weeded out her overstuffed closet to the tune of 5 bags of clothing and shoes for goodwill. Next comes the desk. Does she really need a package of 20 large manila envelopes?

But so far, we do some housework after breakfast, take Buddy to the dog park, run any errands like the grocery store and come home to fix a little lunch. After lunch, she likes to read and nap. That gives me writing time and a chance to catch up with facebook and email. Before you know it, it's time to feed the dogs and fix supper, watch a little tv or look at pictures and we actually all go to bed at a reasonable hour. Regular meals and regular bedtimes. Sounds like there's a mother in the house!

The parts that don't show are the hard ones. I have to direct her to the bathroom, to her bedroom, find her book and her glasses. I hear the beep, beep of the alarm as she opens the garage door looking for her room or for something she can't even tell me. She falls asleep all askew on the couch and I'm afraid she'll get a crick in her neck. She wanders around touching books, photos, furniture, looking puzzled. She sits and watches the leaves flutter, the birds at the feeder, the clouds above. She tells me she's homeless. She's not always sure who Jill is. She worries that Jack needs her then forgets that she saw him only a few hours ago. She cries because she can't think, can't remember, is afraid, worries that she is a burden. I answer every question as though it's the first time. I give her clues about navigation and hold her hand to show her the way. I help her with medicine, showers, dressing, rebutton her clothes, comb her hair, tell her I love her. Soon enough, she'll forget it all.

And yes, sometimes I worry that I'm next in line. But right now I have more important things to do, like taking care of my mother, and staying close to my wife. Like writing 50,000 words of a new novel in the month of November. And watching the birds at the feeder.