For Those We Left Behind

Yesterday was Memorial Day, a day in which we gave solemn, heartfelt thanks to those men and women who have given of their time, energy and in many cases their lives to secure our freedoms, our way of life.  Memorial Day is also commemorated with parades, speeches, services, war movies on TCM and AMC, and of course the infamous barbecue signaling the start of summer.  It is also the official opening day for beaches, amusement parks and blockbuster movie premieres and the Indy 500.  Yet, somewhere in all the excitement of the day a red poppy is offered to a passing pedestrian and its meaning remains elusive.

As most people did yesterday I too went to a barbecue and saw an old friend.  We had worked together many years ago and laughed about old times.   Than we shared all too familiar stories of what it is like to take care of a parent who slowly is succumbing to the silent and deadly foe, Dementia. Her mom was a firecracker, wild and fun loving with seductive red hair.  When she entered a room all eyes were on her; she was something else.  My friend cared and watched her mom dwindle before her eyes knowing that one day her mom might not even recognize her own daughter.  But we didn’t talk about that, because anyone who is a caregiver knows that the end result doesn’t change.  Everything else changes: the parent’s health, stamina and worst of all their memory.  For the caregiver the changes are basically the same except for one major difference: our memory doesn’t forget.  Each day we live through the disease and each day we watch a piece of our loved one slip away.  The pain is deep and the only medicine is laughter, (forget the hot bath and the aromatherapy candles that so-called caregiver therapists suggest will ease the day’s worries away), and on occasion a nice glass of wine for me, for you out there pick your choice.  Laughter doesn’t make the pain go away, it just makes it easier to tolerate.

So my friend and I laughed about the stories I have been posting on this blog and the ones I’m including in my book and she shared hers with me.  It seems her mom didn’t quite get the notion that wipes are wet for a reason: to wipe clean something that needs wiping.  Hence, she decided to hang the wipes up all over her house to dry and when my friend came home from work she was greeted with dried out wipes hanging from pictures, door knobs, and walls.   I can imagine the simple explanation stated by this beautiful woman with the flaming red hair in a matter-of-fact manner all the while resting her hands on her hips in her Rita Hayworth stance, ‘They were wet.  They needed to dry.’

I think, at times the pain of watching and waiting for this silent demon to win the battle is overwhelming.  Yet, while there are many victims besides the afflicted that fall prey to this foe, we don’t have a red poppy or Memorial Day devoted to the lost because it is stories like the dry wipes and those I have written that have become their memorial and our red poppy.

                                     This Blog is dedicated to Mae with fondest memories