I asked Dad directly, “Is it cancer? Can you just tell me that? You don’t have to tell me what kind, but can you at least tell me that?”
“No. Look, I can’t. I should hang up. I love you. I’m sorry. Don’t worry about her or us. She will tell you when she is ready, but don’t worry. All will be okay.”
Not knowing the diagnosis was weighing heavily on my brothers and me. Our parents were trying to protect us, but I wanted more than anything to know. Thanksgiving and Christmas came and went, and Mom never shared her diagnosis. I continued to see her struggle, but I could not figure out the cause.
Then Mom’s brother, Larry, passed away suddenly from a car accident in Houston on March 23, 2013, and she buckled emotionally. He was the last of her siblings to die, and they all had died young. Her parents were both deceased, and she was now the only one left in her immediate family. Mom was traumatized. Dad said that when she received the phone call, she fell to the ground screaming and wailing—she was inconsolable for hours. Now, he believes that phone call marked the day Mom’s sickness took a turn for the worse.
“Sarah, the funeral is Friday. Come when you can,” Dad’s text read.
I immediately packed my bag and prepared to drive to Houston. Thad and I agreed I would stay with Mom and Dad for the week. Dad didn’t ask when I could come or try to tell me it wasn’t necessary. All he said was, “Come when you can.”
I knew he needed me and he couldn’t do this alone.
I asked him one last time before I left town, “Dad. What is wrong with Mom? I promise you with all of my heart I will not tell a soul, not even David and Gabriel, but I think we all have the right to know. You be the one to tell them if you choose, but please. I need to know what I am dealing with before I come for the week.”
He knew it was time. He held nothing back.
“She has early-onset Alzheimer’s disease, Sarah. They believe she’s had it for a while now, but because it took her so long to see a doctor, it’s hard to say how long she’s had it. She will lose her memory and may need full-time care in the next five to seven years.”
Did he just say early-onset Alzheimer’s disease?
I maintained my composure and responded calmly, “Okay, Daddy. Thank you. Wow. I never even . . . I never would have thought of Alzheimer’s. I don’t even know anyone who has had Alzheimer’s. Does that mean she won’t know who we are?”
“Most likely, yes. And because it’s early-onset, she will progress much quicker than if she had gotten it later in life. The younger you are, the faster the disease progresses.”
“We will get through this. We are a family, and we have God. I’ll be there this evening, and I promise not to say anything. I am so thankful you told me. I love you, Daddy.”
He choked up. “It’s been so hard, Sarah. It’s so nice to be able to tell you. I’ve wanted to tell you since that awful day in November, but I just can’t keep this a secret anymore.”
The doctor had done a neurological examination of Mom, checking her reflexes, coordination, and sensory and fine motor skills. He had also assessed her mental status, which included memory recall, calculation, drawing, writing, and orientation, and he had taken a series of neuropsychological tests and brain images by CT and MRI scans. The scan would reveal any brain atrophy and plaques and tangles. A true diagnosis couldn’t be confirmed without an examination of Mom’s brain tissue, which is typically done only during an autopsy.
I typed “early-onset Alzheimer’s” into the Google search box. Wikipedia read, “A disease diagnosed before the age of 65. It is an uncommon form of Alzheimer’s, accounting for only 5 to 10 percent of all Alzheimer’s cases.”
When I finished reading the definition, I sat in silence as the words penetrated my heart, soul, and mind. I felt empty, lost, and confused as I stared at the computer screen. I couldn’t process the definition, much less the information about symptoms and different stages.
How did we not know? Dad did say her numbers seemed jumbled overnight. And her arm did start tingling one day and has never stopped. What does her tingling have to do with her memory? Her memory seems fine. I didn’t understand. It didn’t make sense.
FOUR
THE MOVE TO BIG D
August 2014
IN AUGUST 2014, MOM FINALLY agreed to move to Dallas. Having lost her mother, sister, and brother within eighteen months, she had no immediate family left in Houston. Mom sank into despair, especially knowing an incurable disease would strip away her memories of the loved ones she’d just lost and of those still alive.
The doctors predicted Mom would require twenty-four-hour care within five to seven years. This woman of such strong faith was pierced to the core. She cried out to God, “Why? Why me?”
For a long time, Dad and I had been working on Mom to move to Dallas. I had prayed for them to move for years. They’d been looking at houses, but Dad knew she couldn’t make a decision. Her disease was progressing, and too many choices made her anxious and confused. Mom would ask the real estate agent over and over how much something cost, and then she would repeat the number back incorrectly, taking away zeros. It was exhausting. She and Dad could never agree on a home; he had to make the decision for both of them.
Dad purchased a cute house on a corner within walking distance of a shopping center he knew Mom would love. He lied to her about the price of the house, letting her think it was the amount she believed was right. The tricky part was not having Mom in the room when it was time to sign the papers and get their new house keys. Her confusion with numbers and her inability to sign her name were problems, so I redirected and distracted her so Dad could complete everything. It was a painful reality that he had power of attorney for her—but one we were thankful for.
Finally, the moving truck was booked to move my parents’ things out of their old house. Or so we thought.
While I was getting my hair done by my close friend Martin, I got a call from Dad about Mom. My hair appointment always lasted about three hours, so I usually called Mom from the salon chair. It was our time to catch up without the kids hovering over me, and she would also talk to Martin and love on him from afar. They had a beautiful connection.
The moment Dad called, Martin said, “Go ahead. I know you need to talk to your daddy.”
I smiled and picked up. “Hey, Daddy! What’s up? I’m getting my hair done so I’ve got as long as you need.” I looked at Martin in the mirror with a smile and a wink.
“Oh, Sarah. I don’t know where to start.” My dad took a breath. “I can’t even begin to tell you what a nightmare this has been. I called a moving truck, had it all set up, and was even paying the movers extra to come and box everything up for us, but Mom can’t handle it. It takes her thirty minutes to box up two bathroom shelves of things, and on top of that, she won’t throw anything away. Anything. She is throwing shampoo bottles she’s collected from hotels over the last fifteen years into a box! I don’t know what to do. I am going crazy over here. The movers are supposed to come in two days, and she is telling me absolutely no movers and that we will do it all ourselves. She seriously thinks we are going to take all of the furniture and boxes and truck it all to Dallas, no matter how many trips it takes. She is fighting me tooth and nail, and I am about to explode!”
I could picture Mom’s shampoo, conditioner, and lotion collection from the Marriott, Four Seasons, and Hilton hotels. We always laughed at her because whenever we returned from a vacation, she would pull out her new collection from her suitcase. When we teased her, she’d say, “Well, they left it out for us. I’m not going to just leave it there. That’d be wasting great products.” The funny thing was that she never used them when she got home.
I tried to reason with my dad. “Can’t you just tell her the movers are coming and be done with it? I don’t really understand why she would want to do it all. Does she understand they will box it, label it, load it all up and literally unbox all of it for her in Dallas?”
I was confused as to why
Mom was pushing back. In her right mind, she would have said yes in a heartbeat to the movers. She had delegated tasks before, and she certainly had housekeepers, caterers, and different people over the years come along to help her. Why would she not accept the help now with a task as large as moving to another city?
“Do you want me to talk to her, Dad? Maybe I can talk some sense into her.”
I could practically hear him roll his eyes. “Good luck with that. You can try, but you know your mother. Her mind is set. She isn’t budging.”
Ugh, I thought. Not again. Not now.
Dad sighed. “I think I’m going to have to cancel the movers. I can’t handle her getting uptight and anxious and going crazy. It’s not worth it. I guess we’ll take our time moving up there. Maybe we can bring some boxes and get a truck for some things and just move up there slowly. We don’t have to be out of our house for a month, so I guess I could do a few trips. Do you have anyone who can help unload some furniture once we get there?”
“Dad! Are you being serious? This is crazy. Of course, yes, I can have someone help us unload furniture here, but this is nuts.”
Is there another option?
“Okay, how about this: What if I call my upholsterer? He has a fairly large truck. Maybe he could drive to Houston and load some of the larger stuff and bring it here. This way, you and Mom don’t have to drive back and forth, and I can meet him here and show him where to put things. It certainly would hold more than a moving van, but at least it’s not as drastic as a massive eighteen-wheeler showing up and taking everything in one clean sweep. Maybe that’s what Mom is afraid of? Maybe she needs to take her time and warm up to the move a bit. I can ask him if you want.”
Dad was quiet on the other end.
“Dad, you there?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here. I’m thinking about it. That may be a good idea. Maybe I could pay him to come here a few times. That way it won’t be so overwhelming for Mom. In the meantime, we could also drive up with some boxes here and there so she feels like she is moving stuff herself. Go ahead and ask him and see if it’s even an option. I wish I could just do this in one move, but she is flipping out. It’s just not worth it.”
I was heavyhearted for him. This stinks. It flat-out stinks.
As demoralized as Dad and I were, it got worse and worse. The mover, Jessie, made about six trips down to Houston and back over a four-week period. It ended up costing more money for Jessie to do those trips than the movers Dad had originally planned to use. He also rented a cargo trailer many times and transported it to Dallas with Mom, because she refused to let Jessie take some of her things in his truck—she didn’t fully trust him. To make matters worse, Mom wouldn’t get rid of furniture or anything else, even though they were downsizing their house. She was convinced everything would fit in her new home, having lost all concept of scale and design and space.
What were we to do? In the end, we got a storage unit in Dallas without Mom knowing. Each time Jessie would come to Dallas, he would meet me at the unit, and we would store half of what was in his truck—things we hoped Mom would not remember or realize were missing. Things that were in her attic that she didn’t even know she had, boxes and boxes of Christmas decorations, chairs, consoles, and mirrors that she had hidden away in a large “storage” room in their Houston home—everything went into the storage unit.
Daddy and I felt like liars and manipulators. I was hiding my own mom’s stuff from her. I was so afraid of Mom asking me, “Where is that mirror? Where is that black chair? I’m missing my console table, the dark mahogany one.”
After working at the storage unit, I would meet Jessie again at my parents’ house, and he would unload the boxes into their garage. My friend Jennifer, also a professional organizer, worked with me. She knew what I was dealing with because her father also had Alzheimer’s disease. We unpacked every single box that arrived in that garage, and there were hundreds over the four-week period. The goal was twofold: first, to unpack everything before Mom arrived so she would not be overwhelmed; and second, to make her Dallas home look a lot like her Houston home. We wanted the transition to be as smooth as possible.
I labeled every cabinet and drawer, and Jennifer placed things on the bookshelves and in the china cabinets. We did not mess around and worked quickly and purposefully. Not only did I want to do this for Mom, but I also wanted to do it for Dad. He had dealt with enough in Houston. If he could just show up, with all of those boxes and pieces of furniture already unpacked and placed, I knew he would get much more rest—which wasn’t much rest, anyway.
Because Mom hated the colors in the new kitchen, we discussed changing them one weekend while they were in Dallas.
“Beauty, what are you thinking for the cabinets? Do you have any colors in mind?”
She squinted her eyes at them and pursed her lips. “Hmmm. I think I actually want them to be like yours. Can I copy you?”
Perfect, I thought. That’s easy.
“Of course you can copy me. I’ll get the colors and call the painter.”
She smiled. “That would be great. These colors are just way too dark. I know I would love them lighter, like yours. Let’s do it.”
Check! At least one thing will be easy with this move.
Mom and Dad went back to Houston, and I got busy. I had the entry and living room walls painted the same green as in Houston, and the kitchen, den, and cabinets painted like mine. I was slightly worried that she wouldn’t like it and that she might change her mind. Mom tended to change her mind a lot during this time, so my dad and I kept our fingers crossed that she would love it.
As I eagerly waited for them to arrive one evening, I got a call from Dad.
“Sarah, we will be there late morning. We are staying in Corsicana tonight.”
What? Corsicana? That’s only an hour away.
As I began to question him, he interrupted me, “Can’t talk. Awful drive. She lost it. Talk tomorrow. Love you.”
Dad told me later that during the trip, Mom had wanted to drive the car. She got so angry with Dad that she tried to grab the steering wheel on the highway because he wouldn’t let her drive. She was screaming things like, “You never let me drive!” and, “What’s wrong with you? There’s nothing wrong with me!” and, “Everyone treats me like a child!” She then hit him on the arm and climbed into the back of the SUV, which was packed with bags, boxes, and a large oil painting. She began ripping out the painting from its frame.
Corsicana was the next exit, so Dad pulled over in front of a Motel 6 and simply said, “That’s it. We’re staying here tonight. We will get to Dallas in the morning.”
The next morning, Mom was happy and acted like nothing had happened. She walked into their new home, looked around, and said, “Do you like it, Sarah? Look at what I did. I had the cabinets painted, and I am not sure about these chairs in this room, but I can always move them around!”
Wait, what? You had them painted? You put those chairs there? Maybe she meant to say it differently. But it didn’t matter. She was pleased.
“I love it, Mom! It looks great. Do you like your house better now?”
I knew she didn’t love the house. And she didn’t want to fully surrender to the fact that she liked even some of it, so she responded, “It’s okay. You know, your daddy picked this house. I actually don’t like it at all. I told him he made a big mistake. We won’t be here long. I’m going to get a different one in a few months.”
Ha! Now that is funny—I can guarantee Daddy is not letting you move again after this move. You aren’t going anywhere!
• • •
SIX MONTHS LATER, DAD AND I were still listening to Mom complain about how awful her house was, how they were moving back to Houston, how Dad took her away from her friends and her life, how they were going back home.
It was heartbreaking to hear. She would say it day after day, hour after hour. After all of those years of praying that Beauty and Pop would move to Dallas, now they finally h
ad—and I listened to her complain on a daily basis. What had we done? Did we take her away from her friends? Did we make the right decision?
Dad can’t do this alone, I thought. Their friends love them, but let’s get real. Friends aren’t like bloodline family. I was in Dallas, and my younger brother, Gabriel, and his family were now in Rockwall, about forty-five minutes away. That meant five of their grandchildren were close to them. Mom and Dad loved being with my Dallas in-laws, Joan and Steve, and knew several of their friends who had always welcomed them. Dad knew deep in his heart they needed to be as close to family as possible, and that meant Dallas.
The first year after their move was difficult. Mom’s disease was progressing, and her short-term memory was failing. We were learning as we went, so it was a tough year. Some days, after I’d spent several hours with her, she would come by our house with Dad and say, “We are moving back to Houston. We never get to see you anyway. You never spend any time with me. I don’t know why we are even here!”
Her words crushed me. It broke my heart that she didn’t remember being with me. My time with her was meaningful, yet her words made me believe our time was wasted or nonexistent. How could she not remember that I had spent hours with her that day, and that we’d enjoyed our time together? Other times, she would call me and say I never came to see her, never called her. Or she would leave me occasional messages saying I was not a good daughter. It was painful; we had always been so close.
Mom became more anxious and irritable and could never sit still. She would move furniture around nearly every day. She scratched the new hardwood floors by dragging tables and china cabinets. She even carried a chair upstairs to a bedroom by herself. She and Dad would go for a walk, and they would be back for not even an hour when she would say to him, “Do you want to go for a walk? I’m bored. Let’s go somewhere. I can’t sit in this house.”
Dad would take her out, maybe on another walk, maybe for a burger, or maybe just to drive around. They would be home for about an hour when she would say, “Can we go somewhere? All we do is sit at home and do nothing!” This routine exhausted my dad.
Broken Beauty Page 4
