THE DEVASTATION OF DEMENTIA ...

 
I've been missing my mom more than usual this week and reflecting on what my dad and I experienced as she declined. Not only did she have cancer, but she also had dementia. While the cancer was eating away at her body, the dementia was doing the same to her mind. Seeing that beautiful, vibrant woman waste away physically was devastating, but the added emotional turmoil of dementia made it practically unbearable.

 As both diseases progressed, I retired to help my dad with her care. We knew what to expect with the cancer; however, the dementia was not as predictable. There was joy, laughter, and lots of love -- switching to anger, paranoia, and extreme confusion. Her mental state would fluctuate from one day to the next and, sometimes, one minute to the next.

We were in constant contact with her doctor and hospice, and although they offered good advice, they kept repeating one statement: "Do not take what she says or does personally." Well, that sounds easy enough, but it's hard not to when your loved one uncharacteristically lashes out, physically and/or verbally, or worse, runs away. During those episodes, we found ourselves in a chaotic mass of bewilderment, despair, hurt, anger, resentment … You name it, we felt it. Although we mentally realized this wasn't Mom but dementia … convincing our hearts was a different story. She didn't remember the outbursts ... one ray of light in those dark times; otherwise, she would have been mortified and inconsolable.

Dementia is unrelenting and cruel and can take an emotional and physical toll on everyone involved. Without the resources available to us, the love and support of family and friends, and most importantly, our faith in God, we would still be picking up the pieces.

I don't know why I was compelled to write this, maybe someone out in the blogosphere needs to see they are not alone, or perhaps I'm reaching a new stage in the grief process. What I do know is that even though dementia made some days more difficult than others, they were all days spent with an incredible and beautiful woman I loved so very much, and for me, that's all that matters.

 

 HAVE A BLESSED DAY!

An Adoption Story

A drug-addicted woman left a seven-year-old boy and a four-year-old girl in a dilapidated motel room to bail her boyfriend out of jail. She never returned. It took three days to discover those two frightened children, and during that time, they survived on food the little boy found in dumpsters. The abandonment was reprehensible but paled compared to the abuse and neglect they endured since birth. To make a long story short, they were both placed in foster care and eventually released for adoption.

• That little boy is my son, Bobby, placed with Don (my late ex-husband) and me.  Due to various circumstances, his sister was placed with another family based on the recommendations of therapists. Through a coordinated effort with his sister's new parents in Connecticut, we ensured they maintained contact through phone calls, letters, and summer visits.

  When Bobby first moved in, there were trust issues. He considered our home temporary like all the others and resisted getting attached. We were prepared for that but not the fear.  He hid food under his bed fearing he might not have any the next day.  Whenever we brought him new clothes or shoes, he slept with them under his pillow for the same reason. Due to prior severe punishments, he was also terrified of dirtying or damaging his clothes.  

  Considerable time passed before the fear subsided and only when the judge signed the adoption papers did he finally accept he was wanted and a forever member of our family. That happened thirty years ago today.

  I'm not saying it was an easy road.  Memories of abuse haunted him, which evoked angry outbursts and self-destructive behavior as expected with post-traumatic stress.  He thrived with love, prayer, patience, and therapy but most importantly due to his strong determination to heal.

  Words cannot adequately describe my love for that precious eleven-year-old boy and the love and pride I have for the man, father and grandfather he became.

   

 

Bobby wrote the following for his school's anthology when he was in sixth grade, the story of his life up to that point:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 THE LONG ROAD HOME

(A True Story)

Bobby – Grade 6

THE CALL THAT WILL NEVER COME

 

Mother’s Day is in the rearview mirror. As with every Mother’s Day, I found myself on an emotional roller-coaster. I look forward to hearing from my son, who lives in Michigan, and getting updates on his life and the lives of my precious grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Sadly, after we hang up, I’ll stare at the phone, knowing there should have been two more calls.

My mind will fill with the same unanswered questions that have no answers. What would Sarah and Matthew have shared with me on their calls?  How many more grandchildren would I have had to love, spoil and brag about?     

My joy will forever be tarnished on Mother’s Day because I decided to abort two precious angels over forty years ago.  My son and grandchildren warm my heart; however, a dull ache of sadness and regret remains for the two voids within it.     

 Mentally, I know God and my children have forgiven me; however, that knowledge has not reached my heart … the emptiness is always there.  The only saving grace is that God gave me the courage to share my pain publicly. I pray my words will prevent others from experiencing the sorrow of a Mother’s Day call that will never come.  

 

 

 

ACCEPTING GRACE

 

I am a big fan of Max Lucado's writing, and this one is thought-provoking and a favorite of mine:

It happened too fast. One minute Barabbas was in his cell on death row playing tic-tac-toe on the dirt walls, and the next, he was outside squinting his eyes at the bright sun. "You're free to go." Barabbas scratches his beard. "What?" "You're free. They took the Nazarene instead of you."

Barabbas has often been compared to humanity, and rightly so. In many ways, he stands for us: a prisoner who was freed because someone he had never seen took his place. As far as we know, he took his sudden freedom for what it was, an undeserved gift. Someone tossed him a life preserver, and he grabbed it, no questions asked. You couldn't imagine him pulling some of our stunts.

We take our free gift and try to earn it, diagnose it, or pay for it instead of simply saying "thank you" and accepting it. Why do we do that? The only reason I can figure is pride. To accept grace means to accept its necessity, and most folks don't like to do that. Accepting grace also means that one realizes his despair, and most people aren't too keen on doing that either.

Barabbas, though, knew better. Maybe he didn't understand mercy, and surely he didn't deserve it, but he wasn't about to refuse it. We might do well to realize that our plight isn't too different than that of Barabbas. We, too, are prisoners with no chance for appeal. But why some prefer to stay in prison while the cell door has been unlocked is a mystery worth pondering.

SPEAKING OUT FOR LIFE

 

January is Respect Life Month.  It was in January 1973 that Roe v Wade passed and legalized abortion. We saw Roe v Wade overturned this past year, but the fight is not over. The legality of abortion is now up to each state. Until abortion is unthinkable and no longer legal, our voices will continue to be strong. 

 

To put abortion into perspective:

If you were silent one minute for each child killed by abortion, you would be silent for at least 114 years.

I usually attend and share my testimony at the March for Life in Washington D.C., the Walk for Life in San Francisco and smaller local events. I have conflicts this year, and it breaks my heart that I won't be able to participate. I love seeing and spending time with my Silent No More brothers and sisters and friends/mentors Father Frank Pavone, National Director of Priests for Life, Georgette Forney, President of Anglicans for Life, and Janet Morana, Executive Director of Priests for Life both co-founders of the Silent No More Awareness Campaign. 

 

As I reflect on the many marches and walks, my mind always wanders back to what happened while at West Coast Walk for Life a few years ago. After giving our testimonies at the pre-walk rally, my friend Leslie and I were asked if we would be willing to join in a panel discussion on Immaculate Heart Radio and talk about life before, but most importantly, after, our abortions. 

After the segment finished, a priest on the panel thanked us for having the courage to tell our stories in front of so many people, let alone to a national radio audience. Others have made similar comments, and some have even asked me if I get embarrassed because so many ugly excesses consume my past.  

 

I hate to burst anyone's bubble; I'm not courageous by any means. Through time I have grown accustomed to speaking in front of large audiences; however, for the first few years, I was a nervous wreck to the point of almost backing out. God, however, is quite persuasive. He has called me to share my story because, unfortunately, many women are like me. It's an opportunity to reach out to them and comfort them, knowing they are not alone and no matter how bad they think they are ... nothing is unforgivable in God's eyes. As far as being ashamed or embarrassed … Yes, I was - but I found the more I exposed my past, it became a blessing. As a caterpillar morphs into a beautiful butterfly, evil miraculously emerges as good.  

 

God uses my Silent No More sisters and brothers and me to share our experiences, speak out for life and be beacons of hope for those who have had or encouraged abortions - guiding them toward healing.

 

"So do not be ashamed of your testimony to our Lord, nor of me, a prisoner for his sake; but bear your share of hardship for the gospel with the strength that comes from God."

2 Timothy 1:8