A Time for Miracles

Eventually, convinced that time was the only help we could give Mom as she sat in her dark moods, Dad and I would look at each other.
“The sofa’s been wet before, Daddy,” I’d say. “We’ll clean it up.”
Then, more quietly, I’d remind him, “You know she always comes around. She’ll be clean and dry in an hour or two or three…we’ll just wait for the right time.”
“Oh, I know, honey.” His tone, too, was quiet. Though the television was loud and Charley-Dog was still getting a talking-to from Mom about manners and being nice, she sometimes got upset that our conversation didn’t include her.
So Dad continued in low tones spoken quickly from between his hunched shoulders. “And you know…” he’d go on.
Here it comes, I’d think. Hope. Hope was on its way, like a bright balloon, small but getting bigger.
“And you know,” he’d say, “the days aren’t all this way. This doesn’t happen very often.” His voice would get a little lighter. “And the whole day’s not lost. In fact, by this afternoon she might be saying ‘I love you, Daddy. I just don’t know what I’d do without you.’ We’ll just wait a while. Maybe I can get her to drink some juice.”
And there it was. Once again. The miracle of hope. The drive to try again. By the kindness of heaven and the power of the Almighty, my father never lost it. He conceded a battle sometimes, but he always returned to the field. He remained a valiant, loving, fierce warrior throughout Mom’s illness. He fought for her. He fought to keep her alive, to keep her at home, to keep her with him. Hope helped him fight. He never let it go.
So we’d wait for the right time. Playing things low-key and casual was the safest and most reliable way to earn Mom’s cooperation. If she didn’t respond well at the beginning of a situation, we didn’t press her any further. We would wait, forcing ourselves to be patient, taking care of each other as we worried and wondered. What if bedtime came and she was still sitting there? What could we try this time?
“How about some juice?”
“Some tea, Mama?”
“Come look at this squirrel out the window!”
Any one of these verbal weather balloons launched in her direction at the right moment could turn the forecast from stormy to stable. At worst she would ignore us.
But the easy comments or questions sent out every few minutes seemed to help. I imagined Mom caught up in clouds of confusion, swept away by anger, and left in an uncomfortable position from which she could find no escape. Maybe our words gave her the chance to start over.
In reality, I’m sure the working of her mind, moods, and emotions followed no such predictable path. For years Dad and I searched for some kind of pattern, some trace of cause and effect in Mom’s behavior. We found very little. The most we could determine was the benefit of keeping her alert and as involved as possible in activity or conversation. The foggier her mind was— and a night’s sleep left it foggy indeed—the worse her mood was.
Perhaps as she sat alone with her anger on those difficult mornings, she simply woke up a bit more. Maybe she just forgot all about how she ended up sitting alone on a damp cushion in the living room. Maybe it was simply Dad’s loving and stubborn hope being blessed and rewarded once again. Maybe it was my prayers being answered.
Because sooner or later, Mom would blink. Budge. Answer. Smile. Move. Something. Something that led us to try again. To start all over as though it were nine o’clock instead of eleven or noon or later. Another offer of something to eat or drink, undivided attention to discovering her needs and desires, perhaps even some girlie giggling over what to wear today.
“Where is your sweater, Mama? I know you want that.”
“Oh, yes, child. My sweater.”
Hope filled the day’s balloon, and Dad and I would watch it float up. Holding on to each other and to the gossamer string of our hope, we would take Mom’s hand and step out in faith, back into living, following the balloon.

Notes
• Morning—getting out of bed, into the bathroom and into clean clothes—was usually the most difficult part of my mother’s day. We could never predict how the day would begin. However, a difficult morning did not always signal that the whole day would be hard.
• Mornings are an excellent time to have help in caregiving. Assistance getting the day started would have made the whole day easier for my father and me.
• We found that a low-key, casual approach was most successful in winning Mom’s cooperation. Usually, the more intense we became, the more agitated she grew. Although it wasn’t always easy to control our anxieties, most often we found success when we approached a situation as though we had no doubt of a successful outcome.
• As mentioned in the first chapter, especially in the early stages of the disease, we found that keeping Mom involved in activity or conversation kept her mood more positive. Her mind seemed foggiest first thing in the morning, or when she dozed off and awoke in the middle of the day.
• In our experience, hope always won. Every day.