Remember with Joy

With the cancellation of worship this Sunday, we invite you to continue our Remember series by reading a collection of stories from members of our congregation who have cared for a loved one living with dementia or Alzheimer’s.

Each story includes a photograph of the member with their loved one, along with a resource that proved valuable while navigating the journey of memory loss.

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Sara Jordan

My mom, Crystal, was 74 when she died. But she had experienced the effects of Alzheimer’s for over 10 years. One of the first signs for me was when she made my wedding dress. It took her much longer than normal and she often grew frustrated, which was unlike her. This was before her diagnosis.

By the time I had our younger son, Luke, we’d returned to Augusta County for 2 1/2 years. I still remember my mom telling me that she so missed seeing me pregnant with him. I was living down the hill from her my entire pregnancy.

So many difficult memories come up when thinking about mom‘s illness, but I also think about the good times and how she still helped me. I was really ill about three weeks after Luke came home from the hospital. I called her and she came down to my house to help care for Grayson and Luke while I took time for myself. She was an excellent grandmother.

My mom was the organist at St. James Lutheran for over 40 years. Music was her passion and her education at Madison College. She attempted to teach Grayson how to play the piano, just as she attempted to teach me when I was little. Even in the last weeks of her life she loved to listen to us sing her favorite hymns and sometimes tried to sing along. My mom died in July 2014. Grayson was seven and Luke was five.

I often called the Alzheimer’s Association hotline. I went to their website and the hotline still exists. There is also a chat function now. When I called the operator would ask if I needed medical information or counseling. The hotline is open 24 hours a day. The advice and tips I received from the counselors was very helpful and I could call them at any time.

Katrina Crawford

The Journey with Dad

My father, Harry Harlow, was born in 1927 in the farming community of Spottswood, VA. He graduated from Valley High School; served in WWII on the USS Kearsarge; and worked at DuPont for 42 years, mainly in Benger Lab as a chemist’s assistant.

He and my mom, Carol, were married in 1956, eventually moving to Waynesboro to start their family – Antha, me, Rhonda, and Tommy. After our mom died in 1999, we were concerned about how dad would manage alone, but he was always a very capable man and did quite well. Until . . .

Around 2008, dad began to forget things and would often say “I’m just so stupid!” His Alzheimer’s diagnosis reassured him he was ill, not “stupid” and he would happily share that with everyone so they would know he wasn’t being rude if he didn’t recognize them. 😊

As the disease progressed, Tommy moved in with dad and took care of his needs during evenings and nights. I would be dad’s caregiver during the day while Tommy was at work. We all knew dad would do better at home because of the familiar surroundings. Though Antha and Rhonda lived farther away, they were always supportive of Tommy and me, helping us as often as they could. They never questioned any of our decisions concerning dad’s care, and we always kept them informed of any changes in his daily routine.

Dad still had a large family in the area, so we did a lot of driving around and visiting them. My siblings and I felt it was important to keep him socially engaged; however, as dad’s memory worsened, large gatherings confused him and even family events could be difficult. To keep dad active, I would take him for walks around his neighborhood, to Riverview Park, and along the greenway. Dad especially enjoyed going to Staunton Park to feed the swans and watch the children play.

I was given a book called “The 36-Hour Day”, which was a godsend. It helped me to meet dad wherever he might be, mentally, from one day to the next. It also helped me to understand the importance of self-care. I passed this book on after I no longer needed it, and I pray it has brought comfort to others who are also on this journey.

What I learned from this experience was that having a loving network of family and friends is invaluable, that time is precious, that finding laughter even in the darkness is healing. Being able to reach out to others and say “I need some help” is not a sign of weakness, but a show of strength in realizing you don’t have to travel this path alone.

Lisa Schwenk

Caring for My Father, William Watson

The brain is a wonderful and marvelous creation and unique in its power—it controls all aspects of our bodies and our lives.  From the rhythm of our heart and breathing to the storing of our knowledge and regulating of our emotions, it is the control center for our being.  When, however, through injury or disease process, its natural functions are interrupted or discontinued, the resulting impact is a frustrating, difficult and sometimes devasting on both the person effected and those who love them.

My father, William Watson, was one of five children—and the only boy!  Three of his sisters, Mary Lu, Anne and Dot, were older and Susan was much younger.  Susan died relatively young of cancer, but the other four lived into their 80s and 90s.  All four were, at some point, diagnosed with dementia or Alzheimer’s Disease.  I cared for my father, my cousin Pam cared for her mother Dot and our Aunt Anne who had never married, and my cousin Ed cared for his mother Mary Lu.  It was a cousin’s club we probably all would have preferred not to join.

Before discussing his disease, a bit about my father—he was small in stature but big in personality and an original song-and-dance man.  He was a fabulous dancer; his friends described the long line of women who waited to dance with him at weekly dances in their home town.  He could not read music but could pull a harmony out of any song he heard.  He did four crossword puzzles every day—in PEN—without stopping.  He was funny and had a great sense of fun.  He was kind and thoughtful.  

When he passed away, I found an article in his papers that had been written by an employer as he LEFT an organization.  It said: “The District will surely miss him because of his daily living of the Golden Rule and his strict attention to business.  But above all, he will be missed because of his friendliness, her cheerful outlook on life, and his ability to work with men of divergent viewpoints and so compose their differences that the best interests of (the organization) were always served.”  No one has really described by father better.

This frame of reference is what made the progress of his disease the most devasting to his family.  For the one thing we were never prepped for in our discussions with dementia and medical professionals was the possibility of a personality change that included extreme aggression. It was not the dementia portrayed in the movies.

As my father’s disease progressed, the sometimes overly aggressive and even violent episodes increased.  His sister Dot had experienced the same episodes, and I am forever grateful to my cousin Pam (who was ahead of the curve on all this) for her wise advice and counsel over seven years.  Her sagest advice was, “I am haunted by the fact that my children’s memories of their grandmother are those end days, and not of the love and fun times.  I would suggest you find a safe and comforting place for him to live, so the outbursts are not in your home and then become your daughter’s only memories of him.”

So that’s what we did.  We found a wonderful place a few miles from our home that took fabulous care of him at the times we couldn’t and allowed us to visit him any time of day or night—which was important when he lost the concept of day and night.  And we had the privilege of sharing his good days—like the time he demonstrated all the cheers from his days as a Penn State cheerleader to the nursing staff, his engagement watching sporting events, and most importantly—dinner every evening.  

Jeff and I stopped by for dinner every night with my dad and his table mates Richard and Puds.  It gave us the opportunity to invent ‘Grandpa Cam’—a nightly photo of my dad sent out to a list of all interested family members.  It gave everyone the opportunity to keep eyes on him and know he was OK that day.  

My dad passed away on June 20, 2009.  We miss him and think of him every day.

Lindsey Coyner

Remembering Communion

Tom Harris

Ginny’s grandmother, Mimi, was an avid golfer, enjoyed playing bridge with her friends and was at home most on the beaches of Delaware. She also made the best dumplings ever which were a staple at every holiday meal.

She adored her family and always welcomed us with open arms. Seeing such a vibrant person’s world shrink so small was heartbreaking, but we will forever carry forward memories of her.

When I hear the lyrics of John Prine’s “Hello In There,” I think of Mimi and so many others who meant something to us. The song captures the simple truth that people don’t stop needing connection just because their world grows quieter around them. Ginny also enjoys the song "Quiet House" by the Chicks

“You know that old trees just grow stronger

And old rivers grow wilder every day

Old people just grow lonesome

Waiting for someone to say

‘Hello in there, hello.’” - John Prine

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As difficult as it is to bring these stories to a close, I will end with a reflection on my step-grandfather, Pop, who died of Alzheimer’s. 

When he entered a nursing home, his children created a schedule of evening visitors so he would not feel alone during the darkest part of the day. Tuesdays were my night, and they were both a joy and a challenge.

April as a teenager, sitting beside her Grandmama and Pop on a plane during their first trip to Disney World.

Sitting with Pop for a few hours as a college student, I often encountered someone very different from the grandfather I had always known. Looking back, I see those Tuesday evenings as a true gift. I am grateful that Pop allowed me to care for him and welcomed me with such grace, even when I appeared as a stranger to him.

You can read more about Pop in my devotional Sunday Parfaits and how he wrote about his life and love for family before his memories began to fade.

May we all find ways God is leading us to care for those we love with dementia and to remember them with joy. 

Serve and Love Well,

Rev. April H. Cranford