She Was Slipping Away: A Link-Up in "Pages in Our Heritage of Faith"

This is my mom during the few months she lived in the Alzheimer's Unit here. We had moved my parents near us because there was no place for her where they lived. By the time this picture was taken, most of her memories were gone. She knew that she knew me, but she couldn't remember why. She couldn't remember my name. 


It was such an incredible blessing that she was so happy during those months. She simply smiled or laughed the majority of the time.


It had taken several years for the disease to progress that far, though. Looking back, it's hard to know when it all began. There were odd clues sprinkled through those early years that something wasn't right. But there is one Thanksgiving that stands out vividly in my memory as the point where there was no longer any doubt. Living 300+ miles away, that realization was probably slower in coming than it would have been had we seen her more often.


But I will never forget that Thanksgiving morning when my mother, who had always prepared a wonderful feast for all of us, stood in the middle of her kitchen with a blank look on her face and said, "I don't think I've ever made dressing before." Her dressing had been one of the highlights of the yearly celebration. But suddenly, it was gone. She had no idea how to fix it any more. She had no memory of ever having made dressing.


As I sat there reeling from the shock and the grief, my precious husband, without missing a beat, said, "Doris, you don't worry about that. I will make the dressing for you." She thanked him. And I loved him so much in that moment. She went on about her list of things to do. We helped when her mind went blank. And my husband made the dressing for us. And it was delicious. He's been making it ever since. 


Later that same day, things got ugly.


It was all so new to us then that we didn't understand. We didn't understand that when she became tired, the frustration level for her would reach a boiling point. She grew very irritated and vocally angry with our children. They weren't misbehaving, but it suddenly became unbearable for her to have them in the house. We were unsure what to do. But Kregg and I knew we had to leave. Right then. We gathered up the kids and explained that we were going to have to change our plans and go. I remember making it out to our car with the kids, loading them all up and sitting there in the driveway crying. 


"That's NOT my mother!" I screamed through blinding tears and pain. 


Kregg was my rock in that moment. 


I told him we couldn't stay there another night. He found us a hotel. I knew our budget was really tight, so his gesture meant even more. His goal was to protect his family, and he would do whatever it took to accomplish that goal. 


I see Kregg's faithfulness to us and in Kregg's faithfulness, I see the Faithfulness of my Father. Kregg was the Provision for me in that crisis of my soul. Through him, my Father provided for us. As painful as that day was for me, and still is when I think of it, I can't remember the pain without also remembering the Provision. My Father WILL supply ALL of my needs. Period. End of story.


And in those moments when my heart shatters in pieces over whatever new grief this life holds, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, to the marrow of my bones, that I am not and never will be alone. Ever. And the Peace that fills my spirit testifies to His Faithfulness. Even in the darkness that seems devoid of hope, His Provision is already there before I even know of my need. 


I never need fear. His Faithfulness is the very nature of His Being. He cannot deny it. He cannot act contrary to it. He will always be and has forever been Faithful.

It's Friday again. You know what that means if you have frequented the Antbed for more than a week. This is where I say, "Tell me your story. Tell me of His Faithfulness. Declare it. Write it down. Add a Page to Your Heritage of Faith." Grab the button in the sidebar and add it to your linked up post, please, so that others may understand what we are doing here. Your post can be anything about how the Lord has shown Himself Faithful to you, to your family. 


We want to intentionally, habitually take notes so that "the next generation will put their trust in the Lord." Begin a volume of Pages that tell of what He has done for you, through you, in you. We are a people of forgetfulness. We need reminders. And these reminders, as they accumulate, provide us with ammunition to combat the lies of the evil one, as he hatefully whispers lies in our ears that our Father doesn't move on our behalf, that He doesn't care about us. Collect your stories. Create a strong heritage of those stories for your family, for future generations.  

I Miss You, Mom!

Mom went Home in July of 2004. I miss her still. I love this picture of her. It was taken in 1951 while she was expecting my oldest sister. I think she is beautiful. And I love her smile.

She was one of seven children who grew up in hard times with a hard father. He struggled with alcohol. There were times he just didn't come home. And then there was an accident and he lost part of his leg. They didn't find out until later that he had another family on the other side of town. My grandmother struggled to feed her children. Mom's oldest brother, 12, was killed while riding his bicycle--he was hit by a truck. It was hard.

And yet, through it all Grandma and her kids could always find something to laugh about. My grandmother was a hoot! All of us simply adored her. She was the perfect little grandma. My grandfather died long before I was born and Grandma married Grandpa Hanna. I have no memory of Grandpa Hanna when he didn't have a smile on his face. He and Grandma were simply adorable. 


Every one of Mom's siblings have the most amazing senses of humor. Anytime they were together, that's what I remember the most: the laughter. They would tell stories and laugh until they cried. Even though their childhoods were filled with so much pain, so many struggles, they chose to laugh. I love that about them. 

Mom's sense of humor really threw Kregg early on. She would "zing" him, and he would look at me with these poor little "puppy dog eyes," thinking she was serious. I would laugh and explain that she was just teasing. He eventually got used to her and it would only take him a minute to react and "zing" her back. I loved it.

Even when her mind was "gone" because of the disease, she still laughed. She would still try to crack jokes, the words just wouldn't cooperate. But we laughed anyway. Because we knew, whatever it was she had wanted to say would have been funny. 

The Stages of a Farewell

Mom, early in 1951 when she was expecting my oldest sister

I have written before in this place about my mother's death. Her birthday was last week, so I have been thinking about her these past few days. It was six and a half years ago that the Lord called her Home. I can always remember because it was the same time we brought Sergey and Oleg (Joshua and Benjamin) home from Siberia. 

In so many ways, though, Mom has been gone much longer than that. Joshua and Benjamin never met her, but even Elizabeth, who is 12, and Rebekah, 10, didn't know her. By the time they  were born, my mother was already gone.  Alzheimer's had taken her from us. 


For the seven years before she went Home, the disease had steadily carved out little pieces of her mind and personality, leaving blanks, gaps, voids. 


I remember when it really hit me. Kregg and I had traveled to Fort Worth for Thanksgiving. At that point, we had only the three oldest of our children. Mom had always been a good cook. But that morning, I remember exactly where she was standing in the kitchen of my childhood home when she said, "I hope I can make this dressing. I've never made it before." Her dressing had always been one of the favorite dishes on the Thanksgiving table. Kregg and I looked at each other. And as I, in shock, plumbed the depths of my loss, my sweet husband gently said to her, "Doris, you don't worry about that. I will make the dressing."

That evening, I guess because of all the company and cooking, things got ugly. She became very frustrated for no reason we could see and lashed out at the children. It was a nightmare. We truly did not understand. It was all so new. We were simply in shock. 

I vividly remember, and it still makes me weep, ushering the kids quickly out of the house to our vehicle trying to figure out what to do. I told Kregg, "That is NOT MY MOTHER!" as I sat there grieving. My wonderful husband, my "little-s-savior", offered to take us to a hotel, or to his brother and sister-in-law's house. He would have done anything he could to spare me the pain. There was no way we could stay at Mom and Dad's. The kids were just too much for her mind to handle at that point. And they couldn't understand why Grandma was so mad at them, why she said those things to them.

The disease slowly removed her wonderful sense of humor. It robbed us of all her stories. She could no longer talk on the phone. When it reached the point where Dad could not care for her, we moved them here, Mom to a care facility and Dad to a little apartment right down the street from her. 

While she lived here, we were able to see her often. It was hard on the older kids. They remembered Mom before her illness and it really hurt them to see her so changed. But the younger four kids just accepted her as she was. They didn't know what they had missed and so they didn't grieve it like the other kids did. For the most part, Mom was cheerful. She was just blank. She knew that I looked familiar, but couldn't place me. Her physical body was still strong and healthy. It was just her mind that was sick. But as I wrestled with it in prayer, He was always so present, so comforting. And I am convinced that, even though her mind didn't know me, her spirit always did. And that is the real Mom: her spirit.


There are three things that really stand out to me from that season. They are the three things for which I am most grateful.

The first is this. Our youngest turned four while Mom was here. And from the very first time Rebekah walked into that Alzheimer's unit, she would climb up in Mom's lap and throw her arms around Mom's neck. When Mom would see Rebekah walk into the room, her face would light up. And Rebekah, in turn, would run to Mom as fast as she could. They would sit there, wrapped in the embrace of the other, just allowing Love to wash over them. They rarely even spoke. They didn't need to. But their spirits connected. 

Mom contracted a staph infection from one of the other patients in the unit. There were many others who became sick, but Mom's case was the most serious. By far. She was admitted to the hospital in the middle of the night. 

I knew. 

I knew this was the beginning of the end. And since I had been saying my goodbyes to her with each stage of her illness, the Lord's Mercy allowed me to deal with only this one, final remaining goodbye. I had already grieved my loss in pieces. The true magnitude of His Mercy in allowing me this process became apparent only as the storm of the next several months raged over us. He knew there would be no emotional reserves to spend on anything except helping two little boys, who had never known anything about Love, learn what it meant to be part of a family. The full scope of grief that I was spared at that time is the second thing for which I am so very thankful.


Mom was moved to the Hospice unit in the hospital after a few days. Transferring a patient from one room to another can be pretty intense as the buzz of all the necessary papers and people and medical issues are dealt with. But after they moved her to the new bed in the new room in the new unit, there were a few moments when I was the only one in the room with her. It was quiet. 

In the previous few days, there had been no moments of lucidity. But in that small, quiet moment, I was leaning over her bed and she looked at me. She actually looked at me and saw me. Recognition flashed. I said, "I love you, Mom!!" She looked right into my eyes, smiled at me, and said, "I know. I love you, too." And then she was gone again.


That is the last thing I ever heard from her lips. And it is the third, out of His many blessings, for which I am most grateful. Even though this cruel disease had ravaged her mind, her spirit was still the same. And that is who she really was. And is . . .


A few days later, she went Home. And in His grand Mercy, I had complete Peace. I knew this had been the day established for her Homecoming since before she was even born. 


How can the Ruler of the entire universe be so very gentle and tender with my heart? I will praise Him all my days!

Happy Birthday, Mom!!