The Happy Pill?

It's Wednesday and I have been dreading this day for weeks. Mother's knee has been bothering her for sometime now. Aside from dementia, she has been blessed with fairly good health. I remember as a child; I would walk by her open bedroom door and see her crying while rubbing her knee cap. What a sight I saw once upon entering her room; the knee cap apparently had a habit of coming off it's assigned seat and would slip over to the edge. Mother would make every attempt possible to return this "roving" knee cap to it's prominent position, just so she wouldn't have to go to the doctor.

Several years ago, mother began complaining with her right knee hurting her. We would mention going to the orthopedic doctor for him to take a look and she would become frantic at the possibility of him putting a "shot" in there. My siblings and I have totally ruled out having knee replacement due to the dementia and her age, so the only thing that remains to relieve the pain is Aleve and cortisone shots. Last year, my brother Jay and Sister Sue had to take off from their work, only to escort mother to this orthopedic doctor so he could alleviate her with a cortisone shot to the knee. I had talked and pleaded with her to go, to no avail. Sometimes it helps to call in the Calvary when mother has said her final "no, I'm not going to the durn doctor!"

Here lately, mother has become more erratic than usual. Being her primary caregiver, nerves begin to wear thin and the thought of trying to coax her into going to get another shot, just does not sit well with me, seeing how I am dealing with other issues in my life which have gotten me a little rattled.

Approximately one week after construction began on mother's addition at my house, my husband and I returned home from spending the night with mother around 4:45 am, only to find the entire downstairs covered in two inches of water. Apparently, a small pipe had slipped off causing havoc in the Edwards household and life. With only a few months away from bringing mother to live in her new home and knowing that it will be a battle like none other, I've been contemplating the route that must be taken. Not to mention the doctor visit which awaits us. While listening to friends tell stories of their Dementia ridden loved ones, and how the doctor had prescribed a "happy pill" for them when they were not cooperative, became ever present on my mind. After much thought, I decided to call mother's primary doctor to see if he might prescribe mother something to make her a little bit "happier." Now, mother has no problem with going to her general doctor, Dr. Kim. The Orthopedic doctor and the dentist are the only two doctors that will cause mother to shake the foundations in rebellion. I guess you might say, the two doctors who carry long needles. All I have to say to her is that he will stop giving her blood pressure medicine if she doesn't keep up with her visits and she could have a stroke, then she'll agree to go. I know this sounds a little cruel, threatening horrendous calamities on your own mother, but believe you me, one day with her and you will be able to look beyond any negative thoughts you might have about this situation.

The doctor's office has assured me that Dr. Kim will not prescribe any medications unless mother comes in for a visit first. Knowing that I have made her an appointment with her "knee doctor" for next week, I agree to bring her in. All goes pretty well with this visit and mother is prescribed a low dosage of "Haloperidol." I get the prescription filled and carry it home with me as if I have found a new friend. This medicine will only be given to mother on occasions when most needed.

Coming up on mother's knee appointment, I get the news that my infant grandson needs surgery to replace a failed shunt. The procedure goes well, but I am feeling more and more anxiety riddled due to all the events in my life. As I am collecting mother's medication for the morning, I come across the prescription of Haloperidol which my sister and I have decided not to give mother until the day prior to her going to the knee doctor. I stop for a moment and think about the "happy pill." I am feeling far from happy these days and possibly this wonder pill will make me feel a little less stressed today. Reasoning that if I take one, it will be a good way to see how it will affect my mother when the time comes for her usage. I reach for a pill and before you know it, I have swallowed the "happy pill".

It's getting lunch time and a weird feeling comes over me. I began to feel as if I'd like to go to bed with my shoes on or jump into a fish bowl. I have several errands to run after work, so I run by the post office to mail a package. By the time I get back into the car, I can barely think straight. I lay my head down on the console and fall asleep. When I awake, I can't for the life of me think what I'm still doing in the Post Office parking lot. Driving home, I don't feel as sleepy, but still weird. I pull up to my garage and lay back in my seat only to wake one hour later.

I have roped my oldest daughter Blythe into taking mother for her knee appointment. The few days leading up to this event has not been good. Mother has called me every name in the book. Phoned me at home repeatedly as well as work, threatening to call the Sheriff and his deputies if we try to make her go.

In mother's medication this morning, I have slipped "the happy pill." Knowing that I had only began feeling the affects around lunch time, I wait.

In order to reach the doctor's office on time, my daughter needs to leave with mother no later than 1:30 pm to arrive for her appointment at 2:00 pm. I receive several phone calls from Blythe, telling me that mother will not agree to go. I have chosen to be shopping in a nearby city, trying to stay away but accessible by phone. As I am coming out of Target, my phone rings, Blythe tells me that she has someone who wants to talk to me. I say in a loud voice that everybody in the parking lot can hear, "Is she not going?!?" Mother's voice comes on the phone and says, "No mam SHE'S NOT!" suddenly without control, the words from my mouth began to flow. I choose not to tell you the things I said, but I will hint that one of them involved my foot! The phone goes dead and I am done. Approximately 3 to 4 minutes pass and the phone rings again, it's my daughter. Mother has changed her mind and she has decided to go to the doctor. I can hear mother in the background shouting that she will tell that doctor to kiss her butt! To use a better word.

Days have passed since mother's appointment. There's no need for the so called "happy pill" again until her move. All I know is that I'm not sure what this pill has accomplished, other than giving me a good nap and mother a shot in the knee!

Me, Myself and Irene!

The forecast is calling for snow; lots of snow. Thinking that I might get snowed in and unable to care for mother for several days, has me thinking about bringing her to my house during the storm. A little concerned about the stairs in my home and wondering how mother will fair with them, causes me to began thinking about other solutions. I just happen to be talking to one of my teen granddaughters at church, prior to the predicted snowfall when a light bulb comes on. "How would you and your sister like to make some money?" I ask. "Doing what?" Savannah asks. "Staying with your Mema during the snow storm" I cautiously answer. "Sure!" she says. "Well, talk it over with your sister and get back with me" I tell her.

It's not long before the phone rings and my two granddaughters have agreed to spend three days snowed in with mother. I quickly head to the grocery store and stock up on any and every needed item, from ice cream to facial cream before they change their minds. With teenagers, it doesn't take long until my bill has ran up higher than I had intended. Groceries and granddaughters are delivered to my mother's house the evening before the storm is to come in. Mother seems elated at the prospect of her two new found young house mates.

Mother remarks at how pretty the girls are and asks their names. As you enter into her guest bedrooms, you can see shelves of pictures, hosting my granddaughter's with various family members in their earlier years. Spending time at Mema's house from time to time was a given as Savannah and McKenna grew up. Today they have come as a helper to their Mema, instead of a great granddaughter.

The snowstorm finally comes to an end and the whole ordeal is behind us all. Mother and the girls enjoyed their days together with few reports of demented events and actually how mistaken we all are about my mother's condition. As days and weeks pass, Savannah and McKenna agree to spend the night with mother from time to time.

It's a Monday evening and McKenna alone has agreed to stay the night. I have called mother to tell her that my husband and I will soon be down to stay, unbeknownst that my granddaughter McKenna will be staying instead. The phone rings and it's my daughter informing me that she will be taking McKenna to mother's in a short while. Since my husband and I get our share of staying each night, we are tickled for McKenna to stay in our stead. I quickly call mother to tell her the news, thinking that she will be pleased to have her great grand spend the night once more instead of us. What a mistake! Mother begins to question McKenna's ability to call for reinforcement just in case some disaster might befall them. I assure her that she is quite capable of taking care of things, being that she is 16 years old.

The phone soon rings back and it's mother, telling me not to tell that young girl to come down there. I once again assure her that things will be fine with McKenna there.

It's morning time, and I phone ahead of my arrival as usual to bring mother's meds and pick McKenna up for school. "Hello" mother answers. "Come open the door for me" I say. "Well, Jean, there's somebody in my house" she whispers. "Mother, that is McKenna, come open the door for me."

As I enter the house, I can see a perplexed look on McKenna's face. Mother sits at the kitchen table whispering and pointing at McKenna's back as if she has not a clue as to who she is.

It's time to head off to work and drop McKenna off at school. Our ride there has been a little curious as McKenna has asked who "Irene" is. She tells me that Mema has stepped into her room this morning inquiring if she is "Irene's daughter."

As the day goes on, I have called as usual to check in. Mother begins informing me that Irene's children have come and spent the night with her and that they need not return. I have known some Irene's in my lifetime, but for the life of me, cannot figure out who mother is talking about.

My sister Sue, who lives out of town has called and mother gives up a little bit more information. We now find out that her cousin's children have been there and their last name is "Thompson." Trying to tell a person with dementia that they are mistaken is useless, so we just all get a big kick out of the fact that someone named "Irene Thompson's children have been to spend the night with our mother.

Til this day, mother still thinks my granddaughters are the Thompson girls and refuses to have them come back for a stay. One thing is for sure, Savannah and McKenna will have a tale to tell their grandchildren one day about their Mema!

"The Tricking People"

It's been several weeks now since my family and I have decided that mother can no longer stay by herself. Each of us are taking turns spending the night with mother until a place can't be built for her at my house. Knowing who our mother is, it will not be an easy task to get her to agree to make the move when the time comes. Even though she spends most of her time complaining about living alone and wondering just whose house she's living in, we know that we have a Texas size predicament ahead of us.

Here lately, mother has gotten it into her head that the "tricking people" have come at night and moved her to another location and that my brother Jay is head ringer of this "organization." I can't help but smile when she's ranting and raving about these "tricksters" and assigning the blame to someone else other than yours truly.

I have come to her house this morning to give her meds and prepare food for the day. My husband and I had spent the night, last night, but had awakened at 4:45 am to run back home and dress for work. I must say, out of all the episodes I've encountered with mother since her dementia, last evening was something new.

Yesterday was Wednesday, which meant that mother had her hair appointment. I had come to her house to drive her down to Lindas for a wash and set. All the buzz about her coming to live with me when the addition is finished has made for some interesting conversation. One day she'll be feeling all warm and fuzzy about it and the next day, she will be threatening to do some bodily harm if we dare take her to that "S" hole up in Saluda; referring to my house.

I hurry into the salon ahead of mother to preface her arrival, and to warn Linda that she just may be filling her ear full of the news that she will be taking up residency soon at my house against her will.

Upon returning home, I remind mother that my husband and I will be back down right after church services. Later on, prior to our coming, I call and tell her to unlock the garage door and turn the lights on. "Where are you?" she says. "I'm at home and will be down there in just a few," I answer. "Well, I guess it's about time you're coming home now, so you got your fill of Hannah and Blythe's house, huh?" Hannah and Blythe are my children and for some reason, mother is thinking that I am at "their" house. I try to explain to her that I am at my house and she is at hers, but nothing doing. I can feel her anger through the phone lines, but assure her that I will be there soon and to open the door. We arrive as I promised and the doors are still locked. I call her once again and remind her to come out to the garage. As she opens the door, I see a stern look on her face. "I feel like kicking your butt for staying out so long" she says. "You should have called if you were going to be late." she went on. I suddenly understood her thinking. It was 1972 in her mind, and I had gotten in late from a date with Bobby, my husband, who just happened to be my boyfriend at the time.

She hurries to the couch where I see her old Bible laying. Mother sits there thumbing through the pages commenting on old newspaper clippings of various events which were important enough to save in her Bible. I drop a few words, but she will not answer. I can see she is still upset for me "staying out" so late. She comes across several old dingy cards from years gone by one is a mother's day card and I had been the sender. She begins to read in a louder voice, "Dear Mama, I remember when I was a little girl, and I would tell you that you were the best mama I ever had and you would say, 'I hope I am, and I hope I'm the only mother you'll ever have!" While reading these words that I had penned years and years ago, I can see a change come over her. She looks up at me for the first time tonight and says, "thank you Jeanner!" as if I had just given the card to her five minutes ago. I can feel the tension leaving mother as she begins to remember the tremendous love that we've shared as mother and daughter.

I think its safe to say that all of us have loved and been loved in our life. Whether it ended in good circumstances or not, we can still remember the feeling of being loved. Tonight, I believe that mother had forgotten how much she is loved. Not only does Dementia rob its victims of their memory, but it tricks them into thinking that no one loves them or cares for them.

Yes, there really is a "trickster" in mother's life, and its name is "Dementia."

The Reality of it All

It's been a long day and I'm feeling unusually tired, so I head to bed. My husband Bob continues to watch a football game and comes to bed several hours later. I am awakened around 3:00 am by our phone ringing. Thinking that it's not long after my going to bed, I assume that Bob is still up and will get it. I suddenly sit up in bed and look at the alarm clock, seeing that it's mid morning. Afraid that the phone call will be more than I can handle, I punch my husband and ask him to get the ringing phone.

"No, you're just dreaming" I can hear him telling the person on the other end. Now, I am familiar with this conversation, as I have had it many times with my mother. "Wait just a minute and I'll let you talk to Jean" he says. I quickly leap out of bed and go to the phone. "Mother, what are you doing?" I say. "Jean, I have been out running up and down the road, banging on doors, hooping and hollering and nobody would let me in, my nose is running and my feet are freezing, I just prayed and asked God to come and help me and all of a sudden, I found myself walking through my front door and He has given me this little phone to call you on" she rants. "Mother, you've just been dreaming" I assure her. "No, I've not, I'm putting the chair back under the door knob right now." Because I know mother's routine for bed each night. I am becoming more and more concerned that she has actually been outside. I order her to hang the phone up and go back to bed and she promises that she will. I try to tell myself that mother has actually been dreaming as she has hundreds of times before, but for some reason I am eerily worried at the possibility that she has really been outside.

I wake up early and head to mother's house a little earlier than usual. There are several things that I've decided that I'm going to investigate so that I can tell if she really had been out that night. All signs lead me to the conclusion that she was only dreaming. The week prior to this event, I had called mother on a certain evening and she had told me that she had just arrived at this Children's Home and had to lay the phone down for a minute to go talk to the nurse on duty. I kept waiting for her to return as I could hear her talking to someone, knowing very well that she was alone. As I began screaming over the phone for her to come pick the phone back up, she rushed back and told me to be quiet and not wake the children. Another night, my sister Sue, who lives out of town, had called to check on mother. She called me while I was at a granddaughter's basketball game, informing me that our mother was a Ski Lodge Director tonight, and refusing to go to bed until the snow skiers came in off of the mountain.

My day at work was going pretty slow with sleepy yawns and bouts of drowsiness from being awakened at 3:00 am and not being able to go back to sleep, when the phone rings. "Polk Association" I answer. "Jean, I can't find my pocketbook!" mother says. This phone call has occurred several times over the year as well. I quickly instruct her to several random hiding places I have found her pocketbook prior to this loss. She takes her portable phone with her and with each stop she makes, I hear the words, "no its' not here and I'm going to be ruined!" Knowing that mother only has a few bills in her pocketbook and with nothing else of great importance in my eyes, I am not concerned that she has lost much, but only "where" she had lost it, since I knew for a fact that she had not been anywhere since her hair appointment several days prior and had remembered her bringing it back in the house when we returned.

Several mornings earlier, Mother had met me at the door with pocketbook on her arm at the garage door, asking me if I had come to take her home. My big concern today, is that she had taken it with her when she went on her "supposed" night out banging on doors. I grab my purse and informed my boss of the calamity that was occurring and that I will probably return within an hour and if not, would see him the next day.

I enter mother's house and quickly search every known hiding place I can think of. No pocketbook in sight. I began to wonder if I should search the outside, just to be certain she hadn't taken it out the night before. After a complete look over the yard and edge of the woods, I come back in. I am bewildered at just where the pocketbook could be. Pleading for God to help me, I take one more look in mother's bedroom when I spy a black strap, sitting under the oversized garbage bag in a small trashbasket just under her vanity. I lunge at the strap and pull it out! "I found it!" my words rang out. "Praise the Lord" mother calls. I had never been so relieved to find anything as I was this old black pocketbook.

The week's events have taken a hard toll on mother and the family. My siblings and I have finally came to the realization that no matter how much our mother wishes to remain independent, a change must occur. There will be no more nights alone. After much prayer and thought, my siblings and I have come up with a solution that we feel is best for our mother. A room will be built on my house for mother with a passage door connecting the two. Accommodating her with bedroom, living space and a fenced backyard so she can bring her dog and best friend "Annie" with her.

I have always promised mother that we would let her remain at home for as long as possible. The reality of it all is that "possible" is no longer "possible."

"A Blue and White Christmas"

It's Christmas Day and the weather forecast calls for snow. Since several of my siblings, nephews and nieces live out of town, it's looking as if a Christmas celebration will have to wait. I'm a little hesitant to tell mother the news, but brave the waters and knock on her door. As a rule, mother can't remember hardly anything from five minutes prior, but since I have been talking up Christmas day and all the family coming, and writing it down own her memory tablet, she will no doubt be aware of the big day.

As she opens the door, I can see she is expecting a day filled with family and food. "Mother" I begin, "It's looking like we're going to have to cancel our Christmas gathering today, due to the weather." "Cancel Christmas, huh?" she says. "Well, I guess it's going to be a blue, blue, blue Christmas then." Reciting the lyrics to an old Elvis song "Blue Christmas." I remember that song very well from many years ago. If mother heard a special song on the radio that she really liked, we would soon have it in our collection of records. "Blue Christmas" was no exception. "Well, it won't be a "blue" one, just a white one and some snow for your entertainment," I assured her. "We will reschedule our Christmas and you'll never know the difference." I told her. "Who's ever heard of 'rescheduling Christmas?" she snapped. In a previous blog, I ended by saying that I didn't think Jesus would mind if we weren't able to celebrate His birth on Christmas Day, but mother might not be so understanding. My words seem to be ringing true. Not wanting to continue this conversation with her, I go about preparing enough food for her for several days, just in case the weather is unrelenting and I'm not able to get down here. A stash of mother's pills lie unbeknownst to her upon top of the fridge, so I can make a call and she can reach up and get a bag and take them herself.

It's about 7:30 pm and the weather has fulfilled her promises. Approximately four inches are lying on the grass and my phone rings. I have made several calls to mother throughout the day, checking on her needs and everything was looking good, until this call. "Jean" she says, either my power is off or the light bulb is out." I quickly instruct her to turn on other lights in the house to see if the electricity is indeed off. She returns, and gives me the news that none of the light switches are working. We live some 3 miles from mother, so our power is on a different line. I instruct her to get in the bed early and cover up, knowing that the roads are too bad for us to get to her. "Let's hang up and I'm going to call and report your power." I tell her. She promises me that she will go directly to bed and cover up, adding that she has a little girl from up the road there with her spending the night. Startled, by what she has just said and thinking that it must be her dog Annie that she's referring to, I say "mother, you mean Annie is there with you!" She says, "No, it's the little girl from up the road." I then ask a really dumb question, which gets some stares from some of my family members which are listening to my side of the phone conversation, "Does she have skin on her?" Now why, would I ask this question? So many times, mother declares that her dog Annie is so many different entities and one would think that I would be use to it by now, but no matter how hard I try, I just can't bring myself to cozy up with dementia.

We hang up and I call the electric company. A real live person has answered on the first ring and I am able to tell her my predicament with mother and she assures me that she will contact the necessary workers and the power will be reinstated soon. A few minutes transpire and I am very antsy just thinking about my poor mother at her house, alone with no heat but that which comes from a dog lying next to her, which she thinks is a small child and a blanket. So I began calling her, seeing each time that I do, she must climb out of bed and find her way through a darkened hall using a small flashlight just in order to talk to me on the phone. With my husband's advice as to not to do that again, I call the electric company lady once again and ask if they are fixing mother's power. She tells me the good news that they are working on it and my worries are relieved.

The next morning, I awake to see a winter wonderland of beautiful snow. I reach for the phone to call mother to make sure she's still alive and not frozen. "Hello" she says. Did your power finally come back on?" I ask. "Well, I guess, did it go off?" she says. I change the subject and tell her that my husband and I will be down as soon as we can get there. Luckily, the roads aren't as bad as anticipated, and we are able to drive down with a load of logs in the back of our old brown truck, nicknamed "Brownie" which has been a close friend to us through out the years and continues to get our back road driving chores taken care of.

When we get there, the garage door slowly opens. There standing wearing a red turtleneck, which represents Christmas, I suppose, is mother. "Come into the house where it's warm" she invites. "Well, I'm sure glad they got the power back on in a hurry last night so you didn't freeze to death." I say. With mother looking clueless, she tells me that the little girls from up the road have just left and that they kept her good and warm all night.

I have pondered mother's "little girl" or "little girls" story for just about all day now. I know in my right thinking that there indeed was "no" little girl or girls, only a dog, but how comforting it is to think, what if, what if...God sent a little child to be with mother on a cold and snowy night, just like He sent His Son Jesus to us, some 2000 years ago, one cold and starry night.

"Christmas and Groundhog Day"

It will soon be Christmas, so I have been dropping hints to mother about the upcoming event, which will be held at her house in a few days, just like it is every year. She asks the usual questions as to what can she prepare, etc. I assure her that we are all bringing plenty of goodies for everyone with lots of left overs which she will be able to eat the following week. "But what about the children's presents?" she asks. Weeks earlier, I had taken mother to the bank to withdraw enough money for her great-grandchildren's Christmas gifts. I try reminding her, but after several attempts, I move on to other issues.

It's the day before Christmas Eve and the phone rings. "Jean, what in the world do you and the children mean by transplanting me here at this house?" "Mother, that is your house," I tell her. Going through the usual routine of having her take a quick walk through the house, pointing items out to her that will surely make her remember, doesn't seem to work this time. I tell her goodbye and go outside to where my husband is and let him know of mother's state of mind. As soon as I walk back into the house, I hear the phone ring again. It's mother and she begins with the same question,"Why did you and the others bring me to this house." My husband and I hurry on down to her house, thinking that we need to somehow satisfy her that she's "home." As we enter the house, I'm anticipating seeing a mother who is distraught over being in someone else's home, instead, she is smiling and telling us to come in and stay awhile. I say 'Mother, do you remember calling me and saying that you are in another house? "No" she says, "I reckon this is my house isn't it?" Just like she had never called me at all or had any feelings of "not being home." We stay for awhile and say our goodbyes, seeing that all is well.

After returning back home, I still feel a little uneasy about mother, so I decide to call after a lapse of thirty minutes. "Mother, are you alright now" I ask. "Well, I guess I am, I'm getting ready for bed," she answers. Just wondering, I ask if she remembers my husband and I visiting with her only less than an hour ago. "You mean you were down here?" she asks. I go on to tell her that I was just checking and to go on to bed. I hang up and within a few minutes the phone rings again and it's mother. She wants to know if I had intended to come down for a visit and if I was, she'd just stay up a little longer, never the wiser that I had just came from there.

Today is Christmas Eve. Doing my usual baking and last minute Christmas usuals, the phone rings. "Jean, why have you and the others brought me to this house?" she says. "Tomorrow is Christmas isn't it?" she asks. The only reason she remembers this is because I have written it down on her pad so she can read it as she walks by the kitchen counter. "Yes mother, tomorrow is Christmas." "Well, how will the children find me in this new house?" she wonders. I begin to tell her all the same things which I have done many days prior. If any of you remember the old movie "Groundhog Day" starring Bill Murray, you can begin to understand a little bit about the life of Dementia. Many days are replayed over and over again, just as if the record has a scratch on it and the needle automatically goes back to the beginning of the song and right when you think it's going to play through this time, it starts over again.

Snow is in the forecast for tomorrow, Christmas Day. Some of mother's children live out of town and may not be able to come. If not, we will have to cancel our gathering and celebrate on another day. It's Jesus' birthday and I know He will understand. I just hope mother will.

"A Brother's Homecoming"

Today, I make my way to mother's house with a heavy heart. I will come as a messenger of bad news, instead of a helper. This isn't the first time this year that I have brought the news to mother of a loved one who has gone to be with the Lord. Back in July, my oldest sister Doris, lost her fight with lung cancer and it fell on me to deliver the news that mother's oldest child had died. I can't imagine ever hearing those words about one of my children. That day in mother's kitchen, I reluctantly called dementia, my friend. Had mother been about her normal self, the grief would have been unbearable.

As I step through the door, she can already sense my uneasiness. For as long as I can remember, mother has always been able to look in my eyes and know that something is wrong. "What' s the matter" she asks. "Nothings wrong," I say. Not wanting to tell her so soon that her brother Arnold, the last of her eight siblings, had passed, I fib a little until I'm sure she's awake enough to grasp the pain which will soon come.

Mother always had a special bond with Uncle Arnold for as long as I can remember. After the passing of her husband Yates several years ago, mother began to lean on him for good advice about anything from doctors to cars. The family knew that Uncle Arnold was in failing health, but had avoided telling mother as long as possible.

Several weeks ago, I had asked mother to talk to me about him when mother had drug out a picture of her and some of her siblings the day of her sister Louise's funeral. (Mother is to the far left and Arnold the far right) Mother told me that Uncle Arnold was very handsome in his younger years, more so than any of her other brothers. She told me of his heroism in World War II, and how proud he made her father, John. I only found out the extent of his bravery by reading his obituary this week where it listed his Bronze Medal and Purple Heart.

I glance over at the kitchen table and see mother taking sips of water as she swallows her last morning pill. I decide to walk over and have a seat at the end of the table as I do every morning, prior to my saying goodbye and heading to work. "Mother" I begin, "I have a little bit of bad news for you this morning..."

It's been four days now since Uncle Arnold's death which came only five days prior to his 91st birthday. The family has chosen to hold his going home celebration (funeral) on his birthday. Mother seems to be adjusting to the loss now. Every morning since I had given her the news, she would greet me at the door with a silly look on her face and say she had dreamed that Arnold had died. Unfortunately, I would have to tell her that it wasn't a dream but instead, reality. The grieving process would repeat itself, over and over again each morning, forcing mother to experience his loss each day. I truly believe that Dementia is an illness straight from the gates of Hell, grasping its victims, torturing them and the ones they love.

Tomorrow, a brother, father, grandfather, Uncle, war hero and friend will be buried in the Williams Cemetery which lies just adjacent to where he was born, raised and lived for some 91 years. Rest in peace Uncle Arnold.