“Gosh, I don’t know. I feel bad accepting meals from people. That’s what we do when someone has a baby or is very sick.”
“You are emotionally sick. You are in pain, you are hurting, and you are tired. So many of us want to do something in addition to prayer. Please let us do this, even for a short time.”
I hesitated, but I heard the love in her voice and felt her heart’s desire in wanting to serve our family.
“Thank you, Tavia. I am tired.” I began to cry over the phone. “This has been so hard, and I’m trying to stay strong, but I am very fragile. Thank you for stepping up like this. Your friendship is such a blessing. You inspire me to be a better friend to others. Yes, I’d be so grateful for food. Thank you.”
“I’m so glad you said yes! Aves and I will bring you dinner tonight.”
That evening, Tavia and her youngest daughter delivered chicken teriyaki bowls and delicious kale guacamole. Aves and Emery were close friends, and the moment Aves saw Emery, she ran up and hugged her like she hadn’t seen her in weeks, even though they were just at school together that day. Just like her mom, Aves had a way of lifting people up, making them feel special and loved.
Emery, through the glass of the front door, watched Tavia and Aves drive off. “Mom, I love Aves. She’s always happy and makes me feel so good.”
“Well, happiness is a choice, and Aves chooses to be happy as much as she can. You can, too. We can all choose happiness.”
As I scooped dinner onto the plates, I was grateful that I didn’t have to think about what Thad and the kids would eat. All I had to do was throw away the to-go bag and containers and put the plates in the dishwasher.
The next day, another meal was delivered, and the next, and the next, and the next. We had meals for two weeks, and it was the best gift anyone could have given me during that time. The way my close friends rallied to serve our family encouraged and uplifted us. I was reminded that we all serve a common purpose: to love others.
ONE DAY, I RECEIVED AN email from the Alzheimer’s Association about the upcoming Walk to End Alzheimer’s. Thad and I had been donating annually, so I was on their distribution list. The Dallas walk was in only a week and a half, and I felt conflicted about participating. It would make Mom’s disease that much more real, and I wasn’t sure I was emotionally prepared to walk in her honor. I decided to text Little Ginny, Carie, and Jennifer.
“Girls—want to walk? It’s next Saturday. What do you think? We could get dinner and a hotel room the night before and not worry about trying to get there early the next morning with the crowds. Thoughts?”
All three of them responded almost immediately: “In!”
I asked Little Ginny to send the date to her mom to see if she wanted to walk. And Big Ginny, too, was in.
Scrambling over the next several days, we had shirts made that said, “God is Good,” and came up with our team name, Beauty’s Cuties. I booked a room at a hotel downtown, and Thad agreed to keep the kids and take the girls to their Saturday-morning soccer games.
It was surreal. I wasn’t in denial, but at the same time, surrounding myself with caregivers and other families in support of Alzheimer’s was making me face and accept Mom’s disease as well as embrace it, which I wasn’t fully prepared to do.
Sending out an email through the Alzheimer’s Association, with a short video that included pictures of Mom, I asked friends to pray for the walk. The email also requested donations in honor of Mom, but I preferred prayers to dollars.
Macy called on Monday, September 25. “Hey, Sarah. Would you like to see your Mom again? It will be a week tomorrow, and she’s asking for you! We think it’s okay for you to return again. If all goes well tomorrow, I think you can start coming up here as much as you’d like.”
“As much as I’d like? Thank you, Macy!”
I began to feel more hope. I had seen Mom, my friends had delivered meals, texts and emails with scripture from friends flooded my phone, and I was signed up to do the Walk to End Alzheimer’s. Fresh flowers had been delivered to my front door several times, and a few friends left surprise gifts, such as a devotional book and a package of gluten-free flour and chocolate chips for making cookies with the kids.
The love overflowed, and I felt like God carried me through those weeks of heartbreak, walking each step with me. He was giving me the courage I had asked for and the strength to carry on. He was serving me through the hands and feet of my very own friends. The more I thought about the shirts we would wear on Saturday, the more I believed that God IS good.
TUESDAY, I MET MACY DOWNSTAIRS at the center. Although nervous, I felt prepared about what to expect: possibly more tears from Mom, questions about where I had been, and evidence of more physical decline. Though I wasn’t sure how Mom would be, I knew I was much stronger.
You can do this, Sarah. You already have, and God is with you.
“Knock, knock. Mommy?”
“Sarah! Where have you been? Oh, Sarah!” Mom hugged me tightly.
“How are you today? You look beautiful. Wow, who did that makeup?”
“My makeup? Me, I guess? I don’t know. Let me see!”
Mom went into the bathroom to check herself out. She looked beautiful. A caregiver had done her makeup and made it look so natural—soft and dewy.
“Who is that woman?” She stared at herself in the mirror. “I don’t know who that is!”
“Mom, that is you! I pray I age as beautifully as you have.”
Mom turned and hit me on the shoulder. “Oh, you!” She let out a sound like I was crazy to say she was beautiful. She put her arms around my neck and pulled me in tight.
“I miss you, Sarah. I miss you so much.”
I grabbed her face again with my hands and saw tears in her eyes.
“Mom, don’t cry. I’m here now! And I will get to come see you more and more because the kids are back in school.”
With my thumbs, I wiped the tears off her face as she giggled. “Really? Yay!”
I felt stronger. I felt like a caretaker. Able to hold my own tears, I could be courageous for her. She was like the child and I the mom. She needed to feel secure knowing her daughter would be there.
“Mom, I love your place. You did a wonderful job decorating it. Maybe I could come spend the night with you sometime?”
Her eyes lit up. “That would be great!”
Mom needed me to lead the conversation. I could see a certain glaze in her eyes that indicated she was slower to think and process, and I somehow knew when it was time to redirect a conversation because she was feeling lost.
Spending a few hours with her that day, I left much stronger than the first visit. But it was still gut-wrenching to witness her decline. It was heartbreaking to see her lose her mind and dignity, even if she didn’t know it. She had a strong beautiful body on the outside, yet her brain was shutting down.
Another difficult moment was leaving her behind locked doors. Leaving could be tricky, but thankfully, a caregiver knew when I had to go. They redirected her as I said goodbye, sparing us any separation anxiety. For several months, I would have to fight the guilt of leaving her there, and that feeling never really went away. That spirit continued to stalk me, only this time it wasn’t self-pity; it would be guilt and resentment of the disease.
As I left, I asked Macy if she was participating in the Alzheimer’s walk that weekend.
“Yes, a bunch of us are. Are you?”
“I am. It’s totally last minute, but the three friends who helped me during Mom’s placement are doing it with me. And Mom’s best friend, Ginny! You know, the one with the doughnuts last week?”
“Oh, yes, I know Ginny! How could I forget her? And she loves your mother so much. I hope to see you all there—we’ll look for you.”
I ARRIVED AT THE HOTEL Friday afternoon around 4:00 and met Little Ginny, Carie, and Jennifer. After chatting for a bit, we decided to head downstairs for dinner. As I changed my shoes, we heard a knock on the door that connec
ted our room to the one next door.
“What?” Carie said.
“Hello?” I looked at Jennifer, puzzled.
There was dead silence. Nobody said a word.
Hearing the knock again, my heart pounded as I turned to Carie.
“I don’t want to open that,” I said, my eyes huge. “Umm, who’s there?”
Silence.
Jennifer said, “Hello?” Again, silence.
Jennifer began to unlock the deadbolt. I stuck out my arm. “No, don’t open that! We don’t know who—are you crazy?”
Terror paralyzed me as Jennifer turned the handle. We had nowhere to run.
Then Jennifer said, “Oh, hello!” As she pulled the door open, this big purple thing came around the corner.
I shrieked and jumped backward.
It was Malaise, one of my best friends from Austin, wearing a large, purple feathery headdress and a purple feather boa around her neck.
She came dancing toward me, saying, “We’re gonna walk tomorrow! I’m walking with you, babe!”
I wrapped my arms around Malaise and wept on her shoulder. I couldn’t believe she had driven from Austin to surprise and support me.
As I cried, she said, “I knew you wouldn’t open the door. I told them you wouldn’t do it!”
I wept while they all laughed their heads off.
Malaise, Jennifer, Carie, and Little Ginny pulled out all sorts of purple goodies—purple being both my favorite color and the color representing the fight against Alzheimer’s—after Malaise’s surprise arrival. Jennifer had purple monogrammed cups loaded with jumbo gumballs, also purple. Boas, headdresses, sparkly bracelets, necklaces, and tattoos for our cheeks—all purple. I couldn’t believe the number of items they had stored next door. I had no clue.
Finally we headed for dinner. While waiting for a table, we asked a bystander to take our picture.
As we lined up, our arms around each other, I heard a familiar voice say, “Everybody get in the picture!”
Nicole, another friend from my college years, was walking towards me.
I let out another scream when I saw her. Sitting back on my heels, with my head buried in my hands, tears rolled down my face.
My friends, God. My friends.
Nicole knelt down and tapped my shoulder. “Sarah, don’t cry.”
I stood up and gave her the same hug I had given Malaise.
“I can’t believe you are here.”
“Why? I live down the street!”
Though Nicole lived in Dallas, I had never thought to ask anyone to walk with me except the three who had helped place Mom. It meant the world to me that Malaise and Nicole showed up.
Malaise grinned. “That’s it, Sarah! No more surprises.”
As our dinner of steak, laughter, and memories drew to an end, I proposed a toast: “To my friends, who have made me feel so loved today: Thank you for supporting me, and thank you for walking in honor of Mom tomorrow.” Once again, I began to cry.
“Words can’t express how grateful I am to you for showing up and carrying me through tomorrow. It won’t be easy, and clearly I am very emotional, but I know I can do it with each of you by my side. I love you. You are the best.”
TWENTY - FOUR
MAKING BROKEN THINGS BEAUTIFUL
October 1, 2016
THE NEXT MORNING, WE WERE up early. Locking myself in the restroom, I clicked on a devotional app in my phone to set my mind on God.
The first paragraph of Jesus Calling read,
“Worship me only. I am King of kings and Lord of lords, dwelling in unapproachable Light. I am taking care of you! I am not only committed to caring for you, but I am also absolutely capable of doing so. Rest in Me, My weary one, for this is a form of worship.”
Form of worship. Rest in Me. I am taking care of you!
While brushing my teeth and changing my clothes, I prayed silently for God to take over my morning. God already had the day before when my friends appeared. Form of worship. I realized my walk that morning could be a form of worship. I didn’t want to be sad, confused, or conflicted. I wanted to be grateful, celebrating His ability to get me through anything, especially Mom’s disease.
Suddenly, my phone exploded again with text messages. Friends were sending prayers and words of strength. I had twenty text messages arrive in less than an hour. God was taking care of me through friends, and I knew it.
We went downstairs and walked to the grassy area by Reunion Tower. A stage had been set up, music blasted, and people were everywhere. It was a warm, sunny day with excitement and love in the air. I hugged strangers as if we were family going through this horrific disease together.
Wearing a white fedora hat with purple feathers, Big Ginny walked up. I ran into her arms, and when our eyes met, Ginny, known for holding it together, couldn’t avoid the tears.
“I can’t believe we are doing this, Sarah. I just can’t believe she has Alzheimer’s.” She started crying on my shoulders. “I love your mother so much.”
“I know, Ginny, I know. I can’t believe we are doing this, either. She loves you so much. She would be so proud of us today. Thank you for being here for her and for me. You’re like a mom to me.”
Ginny never cried in public, and although it was heartrending, it made my own tears feel justified. I knew I had to dig deep today, and I gave myself permission to dance, celebrate, and have fun in the fight against the incurable disease stealing away my precious mom.
I faced a choice. I could either focus on what was good, or I could let that dark, self-pitying spirit stalk me again on that beautiful, sunny Saturday.
Focus on Me, Sarah. I am a good Father. Do this in honor of your mom and Me.
Before the festivities began, we each received a flower spinner that would twirl in the air as we walked. With a silver sharpie, I wrote on each petal something that represented Mom. One said, “Barrel-Racer Becky,” a nickname Thad had given Mom when we first married because she used to barrel race. Another said, “Beauty,” and another read, “Mom.” On Big Ginny’s I wrote, “Rangerettes forever,” “College roommates,” and “Best friends forever.” Each friend had a spinner that said different things about Mom and their relationship with her.
We all wore our “God is Good” T-shirts, headbands with purple feathers, and purple beaded necklaces. Carie, Big Ginny, and Little Ginny wore purple-laced gloves with the fingers cut out.
A lady approached our group asking if a few of us would go on stage when it was her turn to lead the dancing and exercises for the warm-up. Every one of the girls pointed to Big Ginny and me.
I turned bright red. “No way. I am not getting on that stage.”
Nicole yelled back at me, “You have to, Sarah! You have to do this for your mother.”
Malaise chimed in. “Don’t let us down! You better get up there and show ’em how it’s done.”
Little Ginny turned to her mother. “Mom, seriously? When have you ever turned down front-row, center-stage attention? You better do this for Becky. You and Sarah together, come on.”
Big Ginny looked at me. “Well, I guess we don’t have a choice: We’ve got to show these people how it’s done. Former UT cheerleader and former Rangerette? They won’t know what hit ’em! Let’s get up there and shake our booties for Beck.”
We all died laughing, and I agreed. I didn’t want to do it and was nervous to be on stage in front of hundreds of people, but at that point, why not? If I could have the chance to dance next to my mom’s best friend and college roommate the way she used to dance next to her, why not make her proud? Form of worship, Sarah. Form of worship.
As we waited backstage, I walked to the right side of the stage so I could see my girlfriends. There they were, front and center, decked out in purple, laughing and smiling and dancing away to the DJ’s tunes. Chills went down my spine and I couldn’t control my tears. My body started shaking, my chest got warm, and my lips quivered.
Oh, God. Thank You for my friends. Thank You
for this day. Be with us, Lord, as we honor Mom, and I honor You. Thank You for Your overwhelming love.
Looking down to compose myself, I continued to ask God to help me. Just as I did, Big Ginny said, “You have to stop crying. You know I am a private crier, and I’ve already broken down once—I can’t do it again. Let’s have some fun, my dear. You can cry later!”
The DJ started playing “Whip Nae Nae” once we were onstage. The exercise leader’s goal was to warm everyone up for their walk, and we, her backup dancers, were to motivate the crowd.
Big Ginny didn’t hold back. There she was at the front of the stage, rolling her hips in slow motion and rotating her bottom from left to right, drawing screams and laughs. She turned in a full circle, with her arms and hips moving in all directions. Her gigantic blue eyes worked the crowd, and she looked like a seventy-year-old woman with twenty-oneyear-old moves. If only my mom had been there to see it.
When Ginny took center stage, my worries slipped away. I pictured Mom right next to her, engaging the crowd and shaking her own hips. I grabbed Ginny’s hand, and we danced together, side by side, without stopping. The DJ played another song, and we stayed with the beat. I was having fun. I was dancing next to my mom’s best friend and partner on stage, as Mom had done fifty years earlier.
In those brief moments, I felt carefree. No worries, no fears, no anxieties, and no guilt. He lifted me up as I danced and rejoiced with love by the grace of God.
WAVING OUR FLOWER SPINNERS HIGH in the crisp fall air, the girls and I walked together, taking photo after photo to document every step.
As I walked across the finish line, I wanted to find Mom’s caregivers. I had been looking for them throughout our walk but never found them. There were too many people—thousands of people from different backgrounds, ethnicities, and ages coming together to raise awareness and find a cure for Alzheimer’s disease. It was a beautiful sight, and we all felt like family.
Broken Beauty Page 22
