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.
