A Letter to the Brain Stealer

 Dear Alzheimer's Disease,

There are a number of different diseases for which I have developed a dislike, but I have to tell you right now that you top the list.   And for good reason.  You have taken a brilliant, loving, devoted man like my father and left him putty in your hands. 

And because of this, I believe I'm entitled to ask a few questions of you:

• Why do you have to be so cruel?  Is the sheer degradation associated with the normal aging process itself not good enough for you?  Or do you have to feel like the big man stepping on the feet of mother nature?
• If you feel the need to take away my father's mental abilities, could you just do it for God's sake?  Don't leave him remembering that he used to walk but forgetting that he no longer can.  Find some way to let him realize these new limitations you have imposed on him.
• If you feel the need to change people's personalities, why not make them all happy and serene in this state of delusion?   Why anger?  Why nastiness?
• And what about acceptance? If you're going to continue to be the brain-stealer you are, could you not incorporate a little acceptance into those brains you invade?
• Why are you so resistant to change?  Do you have to be so secretive about what makes you tick?  What are you holding out for?  The rest of us are waiting for a cure.
• Do you have any kind of heart?  Why can't you provide some reward for the overwhelmed caregivers?  Could you not provide a moment of release?  Of tenderness?  Of happiness?  Of respite from this neverending burden?

Oh, Alzheimer's, can't you take a break for once?   God knows, the rest of us need one!

Respectfully submitted,

realizing my own future may be 

in your hands as well . . .

Seatbelts on Wheelchairs and Words that I've Written

Dear Dad,

Welcome home.

I can honestly say that the neighborhood has not been the same without you for these past three weeks.

For there has been no 85-year-old sun worshiper perched on his front lawn. . . no noisy early riser rifling through the recycling bin next-door. . . . and no well-read copies of Business Week carefully maneuvered into our overstuffed mailbox.

Oh yeah - and even though Mom told everyone she was doing fine without you, I think she was scared to admit that she missed you too.

We've all known that you've had early stage Alzheimer's now for quite a few years, but I guess we've been crossing our fingers and hoping for the best. I - for one - could not imagine that anything could get the better of your giant-sized intellect. The disease may bring down others - I thought - but clearly it had never encountered an individual with your brain power.

And yet somehow these past few years have ushered in more than a few unwelcome and unforeseen changes. And you - my father - have faced each one of these challenges with untold grace and dignity.

For suddenly the man who taught his seven children how to drive, could no longer sit behind the steering wheel himself.

The permanent deacon who - at each Sunday dinner - asked us to discuss the homily, could no longer preach . . . or baptize. . . or assist in liturgies.

The father who used to pay his children a quarter to search for his missing glasses had grown poor in spirit - losing his wallet. . . keys. . . Yankees cap. . . and beloved Magnificat on a daily basis.

The Wall Street banker who misplaced his ATM card one-too-many times, could no longer carry it with him.

And - perhaps the most unsettling of all - a few short weeks ago, the first mortal born with an inboard GPS system, misdirected me while riding shotgun.

And now we have this.

The aftermath of The Fall.

And we silently watched as the forward thinking consumer who demanded seat belts be installed in our 1966 Chrysler station wagon, was alarmed and belted into his wheelchair at the rehab center. . . and the fitness enthusiast who used to rise at 5:00 a.m. to do his calisthenics and run laps (quite literally) around our dining room table each morning, came home with a walker.

Tough. . . all of it.

So excuse us if we hover.

Pardon us if we don't give you the independence which you so rightly deserve.

And be patient with us if we choose cheery conversational topics instead of asking you how you really feel about this new normal in your life.

For we know that one thing remains unchanged - your capacity to see the best in all of us.

Love always,

Oh. . . and one more thing. . . if you know what's good for you. . . . never - and I mean NEVER- call Mom Nursie again. . . for she doesn't always share your sense of humor about such things. . .

A letter to the lady I sat behind at lunch

Dear Lady I sat behind at lunch,

First of all I want to apologize for intentionally listening to your private conversation with your 87-year-old mother, but - hey - I was all alone and ours were the only two tables occupied in the entire restaurant, and I really wasn't getting the hype about Sudoku puzzles and all. . .

Assuming that you will accept my apology, I also want to say Thank You.

Thank you for demonstrating to me what being a good daughter is all about, as you took your Alzheimer's-ridden mother to lunch.

Thank you for showing me the meaning of patience, as you answered her three questions no less than 45 times each.

Thanks to you, I now know what compassion is, because I witnessed you put your arm around your mother to comfort her as she wept.

I also know what love is because I felt it oozing from you.

And I understand faith because you answered her most poignant question with. . . I'm not sure, Mom, but I know God must have a plan for you.

And there sat I . . . feeling all proud of myself for simply spending a few short days with my parents. . . having experienced just the littlest snippet of how you must feel . . . trying to compensate for my father's failing memory . . . allowing my mother to serve me on a tray table for dinner. . .

Yes, I'm afraid I have a lot to learn before I can be considered a good daughter.

Thank you, dear lady who sat in front of me. Thank you!

p.s. . . . And to the lady who gave me a $14 haircut??? In the spirit of generosity I say, Thank you for showing me what a $14 haircut looks like. . .

Need I say more?