Kate Hanley - Breakfast memories: a dementia love story

A day of rest

So I am not put to the test

Of a poem to you

Who I love so true

But when Monday comes

And I hope with the sun

I will write my love in volumes

One by one.

Kate Hanley Copyright 2019 Green Writers Press

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Printed in the United States

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Green Writers Press | Brattleboro, Vermont

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ISBN: 978-1-9505841-6-1 (paperback)

Memoir

First Edition

Printed by Cathedral Corporation

Design by Sarah Clarehart

Dedicated to Manny & Marshal Never forget that your first breaths will be remembered deep in my soul, when I take my last.

P oetry inked on napkins, one of many that he left beside the breakfast he made for her daily, his last line of defense against the rising darkness of her dementia. The napkin, and dozens of others, just like it, each one covered in the outpourings of a mans heart.

This is a story of love, and a love story. A story of what I saw and felt as a daughter when my mom experienced dementia, and how my fathers love through their 65 years of marriage and courtship proved the definitive weapon against this disease.

This is a story of hope for all who are watching those they love lose their memories. It is my personal journey of how I learned that when one is stricken by dementia, the mind and memories are lost and forgotten. However, I witnessed, through the love of my father for my mother, that this disease does not hold power over the memories that are stored within our souls.

If you are the caregiver for one who has succumbed to the disease of dementia, please do not despair. You are doing the right thing. Your love and kindness will be remembered.

Ive walked this path, and I know this.

T he newly laid mulch held a fresh scent and looked perfect with the array of promised daffodils popping through the ground from the April showers. In front of the basketball hoop, the chalk marks on the driveway outlining the boundaries for three-point shots were slightly washed away, faded from the spring rain. It was such a pretty day as we sat in the car in front of our home entrance and waited for her.

What was taking so long? Dad and Marshal were in the car ready to head to the toy shop for his birthday present.

Bernadette, he yelled out to her from the car window. Bernadette, were waiting for you in the car.

She casually appeared at the doorway wearing the same red sweater from the day before, unflustered by his beckoning call. Here I am, she said, with the smile that could light up a galaxy.

As Marsh got out and helped her into the front passenger seat, my insides tingled and I smiled, knowing just how much it meant to him to be with his grandparents. My husband and I both treasured these precious weekends when my parents would travel the two hours on the New York State Thruway and spend time with our two sons. Today was even more special as Dad and Marsh were going to shop for his ten-year-olds birthday present. The toy shop, located just four doors down in the same plaza as the beauty parlor where I had gifted Mom with a cut, color and style, was sure to have the newest Star Wars light saber. I was sure it was going to be another great weekend with my mom and dad.

I dropped off Mom first, at the sidewalk entrance of the salon. Just call me when youre done, I said and kissed her cheek as I reached over to open her passenger door. Theyve already been paid, so dont even think of trying to pay for this! She giggled at my comment, as Dad added, Dont change it too much! It was no secret that he loved her auburn hair that held just a slight flip of a curl as it touched her slender shoulders. It would take quite the hairdresser to convince him that his wife of almost 55 years could look any prettier with a different-styled cut.

A few minutes later, I dropped off Marsh and Dad at the entrance to the toy store.

Well call you when were done; give us an hour or so.

Perfect, I thought, knowing I would be back at that same time to pick up Mom. Just enough time to get home, marinade the lamb chops for dinner, and make Marshals birthday cake.

The smell of fresh rosemary was finding its way from the cutting board to the chops, when my cell phone rang. I glanced at my phone and saw Dad on the screen.

Already? It had only been thirty minutes.

A quick flutter of anxiety shot through me as I grabbed a towel to wipe my hands from the garlic press to answer the call. Dad, you OK?

Please come get us now, his voice pleading with a sense of despair. Marsh and I just found your mother walking around the plaza. She never went into the salon. She said she forgot why she was here. Please come get us.

Something is wrong with your mother.

I slid the roasting pan toward the back of the counter, turned off the oven, grabbed the keys, and did exactly what he asked.

The red traffic lights couldnt turn green fast enough. I hope she is OK, I thought as the sound of Dads nervous voice from his call to me last month echoed in my mind with his concern that something is wrong with your mother.

W hile we are growing up and caught up in childish and adolescent things, our parents private lives are something of a mystery. Its even more complicated when it comes to who they were before we came along. We werent there to witness events or register impressions, either behind the curtain of their privacy or their past.