Who's Johnny?

The Alzheimer's seems to be taking over more and more. To me, it seems Mom's decline in the past two months has been more than in the past two years. It's been scary to see the rapid progression, but also not that surprising. Dad suspects that one of the study drugs she was on with the Mayo was doing more to slow the progression than we thought. (They recently stopped the study due to some undisclosed side effects.)

The biggest change I have noticed with Mom is all of her chattering. A few months ago, time spent with her was mostly spent in silence. Any efforts to engage her in conversation were usually unsuccessful. She would respond with a one word answer, or with a response that had no relevance to the question at all. My feelings are that she was very aware of her Alzheimer's and its limitations on her conversational skills, and she preferred to not talk to save herself the struggle and embarrassment.

But now? Now she talks all the time. She chatters on about all sorts of things: what she sees, colors, the earth, babies, and "Johnny." Most of what she says doesn't make much sense, and often if you try to engage her on one of those topics, it doesn't really go anywhere. She seems to be hallucinating almost all of the time now. And not only does she talk about "Johnny", she talks to him. Sometimes she'll even call Dad Johnny.

So, I asked her recently: "Mom, who's Johnny?"

She just shrugged and laughed, "You know, I'm not really sure. But I think he's a playboy."

And that made me laugh, too. It was a rare moment where I could laugh at the Alzheimer's. It doesn't seem to bother her one bit that this character Johnny hangs around. Perhaps he's a suave fella and he's working all of his charms on my Mom? If so, I think that's great. Go Mom.

So, even though she's declined, I feel a strange reassurance with this stage that she's at. She no longer seems aware that she has Alzheimer's, and therefore, doesn't have to feel bad about it. She freely chatters throughout the day, and often laughs about what she's saying. It seems like the world inside of her head maybe isn't such a bad place to be.

And now when I'm around her, it gives me comfort just to hear her talk.

Even if it is to her playboy fantasy friend, Johnny.

Living

I talk to my Dad now more than I ever did. We talk about a lot of stuff, but mostly about Mom. I know how much he still loves her and he says he prays for a miracle everyday. He says Mom has declined pretty sharply even in the past few weeks, and it has gotten harder and harder to engage her in anything. She spends most of her time in the rocking chair and counting out loud. He's even said there are times when she doesn't know who he is. But then, he says, she'll have moments where she's acutely aware of what's happening to her and she'll say to my Dad: "You know, I'm not going to be around much longer." And I know this breaks my Dad's heart; it breaks mine, too.

But then I have to think that we all live and die. It's one of the simplest facts of life. We can't avoid it. And I don't want to dwell on my Mom's eventual death. I want to focus on her life and what a great job she did of living it. I hope that I've been able to show that here. Mostly, I'm trying to feel grateful that I got a chance to know her and to love her. And, of course, I wish I got to spend more time with her - but now, I spend time with her here - on this silly little blog.

This time of seeing Mom decline has been difficult. But, I think it has forced me to gather all of these great memories of her that I would otherwise take for granted. And I still feel like there's so much more to share. The essence of my Mom may be gone, but my memories of her are plentiful. And I plan to keep sharing them.

Synchronized Divers

Perhaps Mom's water ballerina training rubbed off on us more than I thought? Here's a picture of Amy and Heather doing a synchronized dive into a hotel pool. Not bad.

I distinctly remember Mom teaching us how to dive. From the lined up fingers, to the turned down head, to the essential pointed toes. My sisters and I weren't able to do most of her water ballet moves, but Mom did manage to train us chicken-winged monkeys to dive.

Bringing the Funk

Here's a picture of Mom dancing with her good friend Jack Valentine. I think this was at my Dad's class reunion in International Falls. By looking at some of the fashions, I'm guessing this was in the mid to late 80s. (Those white hose with the white pumps are a total giveaway.)

And this isn't the first time I've seen Mom kick off her shoes at a party. Clearly, Mom knows how to bring the funk to an event.

Card Competition

Before Mom's birthday, I thought long and hard about an appropriate gift to give her. It's gotten rather tricky. She doesn't really express a want or need for anything, and she doesn't really have much for hobbies any more. So, this year I decided to do something a little different - I decided to send her a stack of birthday cards. Who wouldn't want to open the mailbox to find a large pile of birthday greetings, right?

And then it occured to me. The idea was not really mine. It was originally Mom's.

About 20 years ago, she sent my Uncle, her brother, maybe 30 birthday cards for his birthday. My Uncle Doc was a teacher for the Department of Defense - he taught on Army bases all over the world. He was an extraordinary man that had an extraordinary life. But, in the midst of all of his global adventures, every summer he came back to Ely, Minnesota to take care of my Granny and her house. My Granny has been a widow since her late 40's and my Uncle was a very dutiful and responsible son.

Every July Granny would receive a handful of birthday cards from friends and relatives and she'd proudly display them on top of her television. They would remain there until August, my Uncle's birthday, when his birthday cards would arrive. She'd take her cards down and display my Uncle's much smaller collection. My Uncle confessed to my Mom that he couldn't help but feel like this was like a competition to my Granny and he was losing. He knew the whole thing was rather silly, but my Granny has been known to be rather "silly" at times.

So, for his next birthday, Mom made certain that her brother won the birthday card battle. We sent him more cards than would fit on top of the television. My Uncle's birthday cards kicked Granny's birthday cards' little flat asses.

And that was the kind of thing Mom did all the time. She didn't send one birthday card, she sent 30. She didn't buy 2 boxes of Girl Scout cookies, she bought 20. She was constantly going out of her way to make other people feel good. Mom was a giver.

And there are times when Mom sneaks into my life unexpectedly. I'll find myself pursing my lips when I write like Mom did, or cursing at other drivers like she did, or even sending out stacks of birthday cards. I don't fear turning into my Mom. I can only hope that I will be more like her.

Happy Birthday

Today is Mom's birthday. She is 62 years old.

This video is a tribute to the gift of an immature sense of humor that my Mom blessed me with.

This Month's Installment

Here's this month's installment of synchronized swimming for your viewing pleasure. If you hang on until the 2 minute mark, you'll see where synchronized swimming and break dancing finally come together. Totally. Awesome.

Guilty Pleasures

Whenever Dad would leave for the weekend to go hunting, Mom would indulge in her two favorite guilty pleasures: romance novels and Cheetos. She’d curl up in the overstuffed chair in the living room and polish off the book and the bag of Cheetos in a weekend. If she ever lent the book to any of her friends, she’d have to explain the mysterious bright orange dust on the pages.

So, the other night I decided to channel Ma and I bought my own romance novel and bag of Cheetos. I stopped at the grocery store on the way home from work and I picked myself up the cheesiest looking romance novel I could find. Check it out.

Here’s the story:

Man and Woman meet.
From the moment they see each other they want to get into each others’ pants.
You have to wait until page 182 for them to do it.
The man gets stabbed and it interferes with their love-making, but they endure and are able to be gentle.
And something about happily ever after.

There are a LOT of great lines from this book. I actually highlighted a few of them. Some are maybe too racy, but let’s just say the words “throbbing” and “manhood” are used quite frequently. But, here’s my favorite line from the book:

“I want to make love to you until you can’t tell night from day, but the dangers of abandoning ourselves in each other are too great.”

Wow, ladies, huh? That line might be hard to top. And the best line I’ve ever heard?

“Would you like the Atari t-shirt on or off?”

Giddy Up

Here's a picture of Ma from 1968 riding "Wally the Walleye." Wally is the official greeter to all visitors to Kabetogema Lake - just outside of International Falls. Mom was 22 in this picture.



And here I am exactly 40 years later riding the same frisky fish. The last time I checked, I was 32.

High Hopes

Whenever I was feeling down, blue, or defeated, Mom used to sing me the song High Hopes by Frank Sinatra. Her singing would get louder and more obnoxious until I started laughing. I had no choice but to laugh. She had that Mom magic.

Here’s the song. If you care to sing along, I think it’s best to sing it slightly off key while snapping and stomping your feet. If you can’t make somebody laugh, you might be doing it wrong.

Gratitude

This handsome devil is my Dad - the man my Mom fell in love with. He's part John Travolta (that includes the strut from Saturday Night Fever), and part Jake Gyllenhaal, I think.

There are so many things I could say about my Dad. He taught me the song "Skeeter on my Tweeter", one year for Christmas he brought home a 18 foot tree he won at an auction, and he claims to have been able to hurdle parking meters in his day (I've only seen a failed attempt - it was not pretty).

But, what I love about him most right now is how cares for Mom. He still calls her "Sweetie" and "Sunshine". Every week he dutifully counts out all of her pills and puts them in her weekly pill box. He's always patient with Mom - I've never seen him get angry or frustrated with her. He's taken on his role as a caretaker in stride. And he does it all with so much love.

I'm so grateful for my Dad.

Lunch Lady

Growing up, Mom worked at Christina Huddleston Elementary School – which was my elementary school. She was part secretary, part recess lady, part lunch lady extraordinaire. I enjoyed all of the perks of having my Mom work at my school: I rode with her to work in the morning and she drove me home after school (totally avoiding the dreaded bus most days), if I forgot my lunch money - she was just down the hall, and everybody liked Mom – so I didn’t suffer any of the embarrassment by association.

It can be hard to believe that I actually liked having Mom around during my elementary years. For one, I was 12 when I left elementary school, so I had yet to become an all-knowing teen full of anger and righteousness. For two, my friends all thought she was “cool.” Here’s why:

Every little Boy or Girl Scout knew to hit up my Mom for whatever goodies they were selling for fundraising. My Mom could not say no to kids in kerchiefs or sashes. Every spring we had boxes and boxes of Girl Scout cookies and it was never a problem.

If Mom was supervising recess, she’d let kids play with her bullhorn. Mostly girls would get giddy with excitement and power of hearing their little voices boom across the playground.

For lunchroom duty, kids had to take turns wiping down the tables. She turned this into a coveted chore by tossing the dish rag up in the air for kids to grab like a jump shot.

And my favorite memory of having my Mom work at my elementary was on my last day of 6th grade. It was a big day for me and my fellow 12 year-olds. Mom was supervising our lunch period, and somehow we convinced her that our last hurrah as 6th graders should include a food fight. She set the parameters: it could only last for one minute and we had to clean up every last morsel. And for that entire minute of food-flinging, I beamed. I knew there wasn’t another lunch lady in the entire land that would allow a food fight, and I knew my Mom was cool.

Buckwheat

So, I’ve been scrounging for more examples of Mom’s handwriting. I have some, but not nearly as many as I thought. I think I’ll have to raid some storages boxes next time I’m Up North. But I did, however, find this gem:




It’s my 9th grade Junior High School Certificate of Completion – I think a more appropriate certificate would be “I survived”, or “So glad to be getting the hell outta here.” Anyway, Mom was often called upon to calligraphize certificates and diplomas in the Lakeville school district. What was ironic is that her writing is so perfect, that most people assumed their names were just printed in a fancy font instead of hand-lettered. I remember Mom talking about how she thought calligraphy was a dying art form: “Computers can do what I do, why would people bother to have something hand lettered?” But computers can’t replace the human touch, and I have yet to find a font as lovely as Ma’s handwriting.

And I bet you’re wondering why it says “Buckwheat”? Remember the Saturday Night Live skit where Eddie Murphy was Buckwheat from the Little Rascals? Well, I thought that was HI-friggin-larious. I had the whole skit memorized and I would recite it word for word with every little endearing speech impediment. Soon I had T-shirts, Little Rascals videos, and my friends and family were calling me Buckwheat. Nome tids bid dugs; I bid Buhwee….O-TAY!

Spoiled

Here's a picture of Mom as a little one. (I'm assuming that's Granny holding the bike.) My Uncle always told me that Mom was spoiled; and I can see that. But, that doesn't stop me from wanting to jump into the photo to pinch her adorable cheeks.

Muppet Face

Here’s a picture of my Mom, her brother “Doc”, and my Grandma taken at my Mom’s cousin’s wedding in 1991.




I inherited many things from Mom. Her top teeth (the bottom teeth I inherited from my Dad), her sense of humor, and her love of making ridiculous and sometimes inappropriate baked goods (more on this later). But, I look at this picture and I’m able to piece together a couple more pieces of my genetic puzzle. First, I did NOT inherit my Mom and Uncle’s ability to achieve a glorious summer tan without looking like a ripe tomato. It seems I got some of my pasty skin tone from Granny. (Thanks, Granny!) Second, see that open-mouth “smile” on my Uncle? Well, as I was going through some photos, I noticed he often smiles like that. I like to call this the “Muppet Face.” A big, open mouth and wide and/or crazy eyes. And I’m not sure if you could classify a Muppet Face as genetic, but I have a few examples to support my theory:



Here’s a Christmas photo of me and my sisters. Every year, Ma would put us in Christmas outfits the included red and green rick-rack and pose us in front of the wood paneled wall in our living room. The one with the open mouth? That’s me. Apparently I can hardly contain myself, so there’s also some flailing with my arm. This is an early example of Muppet Facing; I’m guessing I was 3 or 4 at the time.



Here’s me and Heather a few years later. Again, we’ve got the wide open cakehole, a bit of the crazy eyes, and a similar flailing of the arm.



And just so you don’t think: “Oh, I bet when she was young she just couldn’t keep her mouth shut,” I’ve included a photo from my young adulthood. Here’s a picture of me and Indiana Jones – I mean - my husband, Jason, from our early dating days. Heavy on the crazy eyes and molars in this Muppet Face.



And just to round out my examples, here’s a photo of me and Jason taken in the limo after our wedding at the “Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel” in 2004. Here I’m high-fiving and Muppet Facing at the same time.

Autographs

My Mom has some of the most beautiful handwriting that I’ve ever seen. I like to tell people that she’s a professional calligrapher – which is really true. On occasion, people would offer her money to address their wedding invitations – but I doubt she ever accepted any money.

Mom could take something as mundane as a permission slip and turn it into a work of art. She’d often sign them with a calligraphy pen because that was the writing utensil that was readily available. Even the way she checked a box was elegant. She’d wind up and sweep the pen off the paper in a dramatic gesture. Other kids may have had permission, but I had permission. And for whatever reason, that half-white slip of paper with my Mom’s glamorous handwriting on it with checkmarks that looked like flying leaps always made me feel special.

In 1983 our family took a trip to Disneyland. As a souvenir, my parents bought me an autograph book with Mickey and Minnie mouse on it. I still have it.




In fact, sometimes I still have people sign it. I enjoy paging through it like people enjoy paging through a photo album: some people collect photos, I like to collect signatures. I look at a person’s signature and I see them. To me, the curve or angle or size or loops in a person’s writing says so much about them. If your eyes are the window to your soul, then your signature must be the patio door to your personality. Here's my Mom’s autograph from 1983:




And here’s a picture of Mom having fun with Mickey:




Alzheimer’s is a hard thing to see. The physical evidence of it is trapped in the depths of her brain. It’s only been recently that we’ve been able to see it on a MRI. In many ways, my Mom still looks the same and in some ways she still acts the same. Sometimes when I tell people she has Alzheimer’s, they don’t believe me. It looks and sounds like her – it must be her. It all began so abstractly – an intangible series of events: misplaced keys, forgotten purses, repetitive questions, and disjointed conversations. There was nothing to see on a MRI in the beginning – no elevated blood levels – no physical evidence in her appearance. But the first time I saw her Alzheimer’s was in her handwriting. The flair was gone. The freedom and grace in her strokes was replaced by deliberation and caution. It was almost as if she was trying to forge her own signature.

On Tuesday, May 16, I went to the Mayo Clinic with my parents. Mom is involved in two studies there: one is a longitudinal study where they track the progression of her disease, and the other is a drug trial. I sat in the exam room while the doctor asked Mom a series of routine questions:

Dr. B: “Geri, do you know what day it is?”

Ma: “Thursday?”

(It was Tuesday – I was thinking close enough.)

Dr. B: “Do you know what month it is?”

Ma: “April?” She questioned all of her own answers.

Dr. B: “Do you know what year it is?”

Ma: “……what?”

Dr. B: “Do you know what year it is?”

Ma: “I don’t know.”

Dr. B: Prompting her, “Is it two-thousand…..?”

Ma: “2006?”

Next the doctor handed her a piece of paper and a pen and asked her to sign her name. She set the pen down. The doctor handed it to her again and slowly repeated the instructions.

Ma: “What am I supposed to do?”

Dr. B: “Just sign your name on the paper.”

Mom grabbed the pen and paused - still unsure of what she was supposed to do.

My Dad couldn’t hold back any more, “Just like you’re giving an autograph, Geri.”

Mom picked up the pen and started writing something – I couldn’t see it, but Dad prompted her once again. My eyes started to well up with tears – I looked up and blotted my face to prevent the tears from streaming down.

She started writing again, and Dad couldn’t help but correct her.

Very gently Dad said, “Sign your name, Geri.”

Mom finally did get it….almost. She signed the name Geraldine Landa. It’s been almost 40 years since Mom has been “Geraldine Landa.”

It didn’t matter to me that Mom didn’t know what the date was. Those numbers are constantly changing and they don’t say anything about who you are as a person. Ma isn’t a numbers person – she’s a letters person. Or, was she a letters person? Which tense do I refer to her in? I don’t know. But, I do know that the fact that Mom didn’t know what to do with a pen hit me hard. Because most of the time when I picture my Mom she’s got a calligraphy pen in her hand: her writing is so much a part of her. But, Alzheimer’s has darkened the glass to her patio door, and we can’t see in and I don’t think she can see out.



The last wedding invitations my Mom addressed were for my wedding reception. That was 4 years ago. Since then, a task like that requires more concentration and focus than the Alzheimer’s allows her. And even at the time, I knew it was asking a lot of her. But selfishly I think I wanted to feel like the kid with the permission slip. Other people sent invitations, but I was sending invitations.

Bodymovin

And just for kicks (and I mean that literally), I have included a fine example of water ballet – I mean – synchronized swimming right here just for you. The quality of the video is not that good, but it was the only video I could find with a routine to a Beastie Boys song. That’s right. Beastie Boys.

Get ready for some perfectly pointed Russian toes to blow your mind.

Water Babe

Throughout my childhood, Mom always told us she was a “Water Babe.” I don’t think my sisters and I ever really knew what that meant. She’d try to teach us some of her water ballet moves in the pool: she showed us how to cup our hands to sculpt the water to keep yourself afloat and then extend a leg with a perfectly pointed toe. My sisters and I would attempt to mimic her gracefulness in the pool, but we always failed. It wasn’t because we were strangers to the water – at one time we were all members of the Lakeville Otters Swim Club. But, the joke with the other Otters was that the Radford girls all had a “chicken-wing” freestyle stroke. Grace and beauty in the pool really wasn’t our trademark.

So, this mysterious past as a “Water Babe” was mostly lost on us. That is – until the 1984 summer Olympics when water ballet – I mean – Synchronized Swimming – became an Olympic event. Boy – oh boy. THIS was what Mom was talking about?! These water ballerinas were like super-human Barbies with gills! My sister, Heather, and I would watch completely mesmerized as Mom would give us a play by play…mostly she said that water ballet was nothing like it was when she was growing up. She didn’t have to go underwater for very long (these synchronized swimmers would stay under for minutes at a time), they didn’t do launches or flips (Gill-Barbies were constantly catapulting one another), and their big show at the Duluth Sportsman’s Show paled in comparison to this Olympic event.

At the next commercial break, Heather and I were in the pool trying to choreograph our own Olympic synchronized swimming routine. The song: Cyndi Lauper’s “She Bop.” The routine: A series of handstands and a few flaps of our chicken wings in the shallow end. We did the most awesome synchronized swimming routine that the 8 and 10 year old daughters of a water ballerina could do (with chicken wings).

*

Photographic evidence of my Mom’s days as a Water Babe popped up years later. Mom found an old newspaper when she was cleaning; and right there on the front page of the Duluth News was my Water Ballerina Mother. The front page story covered the Sportsman’s Show, where the Ely Water Babes performed. Ma recalled a couple things about that day: the water was ice cold, and their performance was in between the log-rolling contest and the water dog exhibition. I really couldn’t make up those details if I tried.

And here’s a copy of the picture from the front page story. That’s Mom on the right. You can’t see her face, but I would recognize those pointed toes anywhere.

1975

Here's a picture of my Mom with my Great Uncle taken in 1975. I'm not sure which Uncle: Stan? Stosh? He was a twin, so it's hard to tell. He's 100% pure Polack, that I'm certain of. And the shirt that my Mom is wearing...THAT'S the original Polack Orange hue. She has a LOT of shirts in that color. But, I think what amazes me the most about this picture is that in 1975 my Mom had a 1 year old and a 3 year old and still had time to make her hair that big.

Pots of Gold

Spring had finally arrived for my last visit Up North to visit Ma and Pa. It was mid-May and Dad said the ice had only recently melted from Rainy Lake. Ma and I decided to sit outside and soak up some of the precious, precious golden sunshine while Dad tinkered away on his shed.

Mom and I didn’t really talk much – and that was OK – I’ve gotten used to her silence. I was just happy that she seemed content to be sitting in the warmth of the sun. After a while she pointed off into the yard and said:

“Look at that little boy crying over there.”

I paused….my mind quickly jumped to some good ol’ Northern Minnesota yard art. On my drive up, I had driven past some yard art of little children pissing or playing “peek” – why not crying?

I looked over to where Mom was pointing and I saw nothing. No tacky yard art, just grass. I actually got up out of my chair to look past the garage….still nothing. I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I said nothing. Mom didn’t say any more about it, and it seemed that her observation had quickly come and gone.

Dad did tell me later that she has started to see people and things that aren’t there. He said the doctors at the Mayo forewarned him of this.

*

It’s only been recently that I’ve been more open with my boss and my co-workers about what’s happening to my Mom. I was anxious for the visit, I knew Mom had slipped more in the past few weeks and I was afraid of what I was going to see. Prior to leaving I forewarned my boss that I would likely be coming to work after my visit with a hangover – or, perhaps even drunk. Our communications are typically through a thick layer of cynicism and smart-assness. He sent me an instant message on the Monday following my visit:

Furryoverlord731 (9:20:43 AM): what's up

melissamradford (9:21:01 AM): i'm sober (for now)

Furryoverlord731 (9:21:21 AM): good to hear. tough weekend i assume.

melissamradford (9:22:17 AM): some good. some bad. mom has starting hallucinating (and not even of cool things like fairies or pots of gold), but she seemed happy to see me and we had some good times.

Furryoverlord731 (9:23:36 AM): that's good.

Furryoverlord731 (9:23:50 AM): you're a brave one. i like that

I saved this exchange, and I often go back to re-read it. It’s a reminder to me to BE brave – to act brave even if I’m not feeling it. Because there have been many times where I’ve been a total chicken when it comes to my Mom and her Alzheimer’s: I would talk about needing to visit her, and then never make the arrangements because I was too afraid to see what more damage the Alzheimer’s had done; or, I’d think about calling, but then wouldn’t because I didn’t want to deal with my own sadness after the phone call. This exchange also reminds me that my visits bring her happiness. I may not be able to bring her memories or her mind back, but I can bring her fleeting moments of happiness, which makes it well worth the trip.

Panties, Panties, Panties

During my last visit Up North, Dad asked me to take Ma shopping to get some “female” things and some additional stuff at Kmart (really the only place to go “shopping” in town).

First priority – refill one of her Alzheimer’s prescriptions.

Dad was writing out a list for us: “How do you spell Aricept?”

Ma – without missing a beat: “A-R-I-C-E-P-T”

I was surprised by this. On the last birthday card I received from my Mom, she misspelled my name.

Dad continued with his list: “Panties.”

Ma: “Eeeew – I hate the way you say that word.”

Dad said it a few more times just to watch her squirm.

“Panties. Panties. Panties.”

Ma cringed and soon we all were laughing. And it felt really good. I can’t remember the last time I shared a genuine laugh with Mom.

And it was because of the word panties.

Panties.

Go ahead and say it out loud. It’s a funny word.

Ma and I made it to Kmart and we checked everything off the list. Including the bright “Polack Orange” crocs. It was a good day.