Sundays Were Mother's Days

Sundays were special when I was growing up. This was the only day of the week my mother did not work. We spent a lot of time in the kitchen working on Sunday dinner. I rolled the dough for the pie crusts, one for my father's diabetic pie and one for the rest of us. My mother would usually make spaghetti, yes not a Spanish dish but nevertheless delicious. I would toss a salad and usually drain the spaghetti after it was cooked. My mother made the best spaghetti sauce, everyone thought so. After supper was made, we all sat down to eat. Sometimes our friends would drop by and of course they were invited to join us. Sometimes one of my friends would stop by just in time for dessert because she knew that my mother would have baked a delicious pie, coconut cream or apple or chocolate, all made from scratch.

After I got married and had my two sons, we would all go to my mother’s house for Sunday dinner. My husband was usually working so I appreciated that I could go to my mother’s house. She made an effort always to cook something that my sons liked. I would visit with my mother, nothing special; we would just sit around and talk about what was going on with my sons or me. But it was special. These were times I treasure to this day. Time spent with my mother. Time spent with her and my children.

On Sundays, after my children were off to college, I would go to my mother’s house for Sunday dinner. The meals she cooked were wonderfully delicious and we enjoyed each other's company. After supper, we would sit and visit. She would tell me what was going on with the entire family and I would tell her what was going on with my sons. She so enjoyed hearing about my sons, who she loved dearly.

When my mother became seriously ill, on Saturdays, I would go over to the house and cook for her and my father. I didn’t want to go on Sundays because subconsciously I think the memories were too painful. I knew the Sundays I so enjoyed with her were never to be again.

Sundays are a little lonely for me now. I yearn to sit next to my mother and give her a hug. I wish I could freeze those moments in time when we had so much fun together, whether it be cooking together, shopping or just visiting with one another.
As time passes after her death, I look back fondly at all those Sundays we spent together. All those times we sat down together to discuss our family, politics, my job, or whatever came to mind. I feel so grateful to have had such a wonderful, caring, giving mother. She was full of grace and dignity and always such a lady!

On Sunday and on every Mother’s Day, I thank my lucky stars for the time I had with my mother. My mother gave unconditional love and was an example of what true motherhood is. She truly deserves to be honored.

Dementia and My Mother

My father had dementia. At times my father did not know who my mother was or that she was ill. He sometimes referred to her as the “man without hair” or sometimes referred to her as two people. My mother had non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and had taken treatments that caused her to lose her hair. He did not remember my mother’s name and for the last few years of her life did not say her name. This was ironical since all of my childhood and adult years; I would hear him say her name thousands of times. “Marina, where’s my coffee”, “Marina, get me a glass of water”, or “Marina, have you heard from the kids?” You see my father was totally dependent on my mother to take care of things, always.

My mother was a woman who for fifty-nine years cooked special and delicious meals for my diabetic father. This was a woman who served my father coffee in bed every morning of their married life. I do not know of anyone as selfless as my mother. She was his second “mother”, his partner in business, his love, and his caregiver. How could he forget her name?
My mother would get very frustrated and her feelings would get hurt when he wouldn’t say her name. Can you imagine your spouse forgetting your name after you have devoted a lifetime to their well being? It didn’t make sense to her. It didn’t make sense to me or my siblings.

In his state of dementia, you never knew when he would be in his “zone” or in reality. He always recognized my siblings and me, for which were very thankful. We asked if there was any medication to help his memory but there was only Alzheimer’s medication which was prescribed and he took but it did not help. There was no medication for dementia.

My mother never gave up, even when she saw no improvement in my father’s condition. When I called my mother on the phone, she would ask me to talk to my father. She wanted him to have conversations with people to help stimulate his brain. We did not know at this time that my father was having small strokes that were deteriorating his brain. My mother tried to get him to remember things. Again, we didn’t know at the time that one of the worst things you can do is try to force dementia patients to remember things. She could not take care of my father’s problem which was impossible for her to accept.

My mother had great difficulty coping with my father’s dementia. Sometimes he acted normal and other times he was like a stranger. The ups and downs of dementia is what my mother contended with hourly, daily -- for nearly two years, until her death.

How do you take care of one parent who is dying while taking care of the other who has dementia? Which one needs the most attention? How do you tell your mother to be logical, not to be so emotional when her heart is breaking? What could I have done differently?

Visit http://www.thecaregiversvoice.com/blog/blog/ to read more articles about dementia.