Journey of the Heart: A Family Affair

By Nora Rebecca Day

The red-and-white transport vehicle pulls away from the curb at the medical center. With a heavy sigh, I shift my Chevy into drive and fall in behind while contemplating the task of getting to know the ins and outs of yet another health care institution.

Each place has its own particular power structure, and it will be in the best interest of the patient if I quickly learn the next prevailing protocol. Who will answer questions, be accountable, and take appropriate action? Who will be kind when no one is looking; who will not? I dread the role of being a watchdog.

Only the top of the passengers head above the wheelchair can be seen through the vans back window. My mother is being moved to a nursing home today. I have tried my best to match wits with the pitfalls of dementia. I have failed.

Dementia is a thief in the night that robs a patients memory bank while bequeathing a siege of unforgettable images in the mind of the caregiver. For the author, a brief phone call was more than an interruption to business as usual; it was an omen of change. Her predictable life was about to become an emotional roller coaster ride marked with heartwrenching twists and turns, breathtaking highs and lows, and unmistakable encounters with grace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Jun 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504332200

Nora Rebecca Day

Nora can most often be found at her desk overlooking the family bicentennial farm where she and her husband of fifty-three years welcome three grown children and six grandchildren at every opportunity. Her essays have been published in The Upper Room Magazine and aired on WMRA Public Radio. Visit her at [e-mail].

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Copyright © 2015 Nora Rebecca Day.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright ©1952 [2nd edition, 1971] by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Balboa Press

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1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-3219-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-3221-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-3220-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015906899

Balboa Press rev. date: 6/26/2015

Contents

Part I

In the Spotlight

Church and Conflict

GPS

Jumping to Conclusions

Dementia by Another Name

Time Away

Home Sweet Home

Extraordinary

‘Tis the Season

Fireworks in January

A Fallow Season

Warm Memories

Spring Thaw

Spreading Wings

In Motion

Bring on Summer!

Feeling Stupid

A Little Bit of Heaven

Hide and Seek

Another Spin around the Sun

Seeing the Obvious

In My Humble Opinion

Seasoned with Salt

Peace and Quiet

Wishful Thinking

Part II

Storm Warning

Losing Grip

A Bad Dream

A Thousand Paper Cuts

Always Ask

A Shocking Turn

Chalk Lines

Letting Winter Have Its Way

Harbinger of Spring

Grandma’s Poem

What’s In a Name?

Born to Shine

Readjusting Expectations

Empty Pocket

Falling Through the Cracks

Stumbling in the Dark

On the Auction Block

Gentle Questions

Guilty as Charged

Skyrocketing

Small Victories

The Midnight Hour

Weary

A Lamentation

Be Kind

A Pool of Tears

We All Scream for Ice Cream

A Matter of Conscience

Count the Sunny Hours

A Banner Day

Under Attack

Turning Point

Part III

No Five Stars

Kinship

Indian Summer

The Price of Failure

The Taste of Defeat

Wailing

Untouched Virtues

Fresh Perspective

Unusual Behavior

Dessert First

A Season of Miracles

Feeling Pretty

Resolutions

A Colorful Patina

In His Presence

Resurrection

Daily Bread

Fear

All Things Considered

Summer Daze

Hiking Boots and a Beard

Happy Birthday, Dad

Next-Door Neighbors

Divinely Made

A Prayer of Examen

No Grouchy Days

Even There

Out of Hibernation

Love Is a Wonderful Thing

A Revelation

Speak Softly

Adjusting the Sails

Part IV

Tuckered Out

The Thing on My Neck

Cultivating Silence

Hopeful Waiting

Into the Light

Mortified

God Is Bigger

Another Year in Journey

Praise Notes

Circling the Wagons

In Mysterious Ways

Communion with the Saints

Burlesque Show

Spicy Aromas

A Blind Beggar

One Less Dragon

Imagination

Good for the Soul

Uneasy Truce

The Heart Has Its Reasons

A Knock on the Door

Needs of the Needy

Planning Ahead

In One Accord

Sour Notes

Wearing Away the Stone

A Patch of Blue

While the Music Plays

A Fine Line

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In memory of Mother

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For it is one thing to see the land of peace from a wooded ridge,

and another to tread the road that leads to it.

–St. Augustine

Preface

Like Moses, when my burning bush appeared unannounced and uninvited, I pleaded, Oh, Lord, please send someone else to do it. But the call to be a parent advocate had my name all over it. Consequently, I was the untested vessel made of clay standing in a barren hospital corridor, being asked to make an unthinkable decision. Although the signature on an official document may have conveyed the legal right of consent or refusal of life-sustaining measures, how did that privilege concur with a daughter’s moral obligation to defend and protect?

My growing need for a peaceful resolution to that question ultimately took on a life of its own and led to a purposeful reexamination of journal entries and e-mails. And there, stretching across the pages one day at a time, were the thoughts and prayers, the triumphs and defeats, of one woman’s journey with dementia and the companion by her side. A close reading between the lines revealed that as an older voice was being lost, a younger one was being found.

Pulling up a chair, I opened my laptop and set to work untangling knots in my ball of yarn. My intent was not to write a medical treatise or an instruction manual on family ties, but rather a simple layman’s account of human strength and frailty, and divine grace and redemption, that perhaps would serve as a message of hope for others down the road. As a courtesy to the actual players in the story, all names and places were changed.

Acknowledgments

Immeasurable gratitude goes to my husband of fifty-three years for gifting me the time and space to write. Thank you to each of my children for allowing their inboxes to be filled with countless drafts and for cheering me on. Big hugs go out to book-club pals and lunch buddies for listening ears and reminders to laugh along the way. To the little brother, who not only got the curls but will also always be younger than his sister, I offer boundless appreciation for generously sharing e-mails and stories. And to the grandchildren who never cease to inspire and amaze, this memoir is for you. God bless.

Introduction

How do you take a number from zero, such as sixty-nine from a hundred? The surprising question came from the woman who made it a practice to balance her checkbook to the penny after every monthly statement. Monday’s usual busy workload was in full swing, and I hurriedly provided the needed subtraction and avoided making small talk. Even though Mom and I knew that she had always been a whiz at math, for her peace of mind as well as my own, we ignored the implication of her question. We had no intention of allowing a long history of mini-strokes to get in the way of hard-won independence.

As a starry-eyed nursing student, I had long ago exchanged a stipend for teaching remedial chemistry to fellow freshmen for a shiny, gold wedding band. The next quarter century flew by in a blur of diapers, tennis matches, high school graduations, and college applications in adjunct with leases, vendors, and payroll accounts for a family business. The last fledgling leaving the nest coincided with the closing of the independent supermarket and the sole proprietor coming home to roost. Buffers and boundaries that had successfully defined my relationship over the years flew the coop. Our 1960s brick bungalow became a tight squeeze for a menopausal housewife under the constant scrutiny of her counterpart with time on his hands. In desperation, I interviewed for my first paying job and may have been the only applicant too nervous to ask the starting salary.

For this middle-aged empty nester, gaining bona-fide employment represented more than a minimum wage. Knowing where I would be and what was expected of me three days out of seven added needed structure and purpose to my week. But for my husband, the traditional breadwinner yawning over a stack of pancakes and crispy bacon, nothing could mollify an unwanted role reversal. From my perspective, it was not the most opportune time to rip out the sink and remodel the kitchen, but that’s how things played out.

Although the lifetime lure of a white lab coat had become stronger than the opposing view, my transition from housewife to the workforce was more difficult than I had expected. An unreasonably cold reception by my coworkers was puzzling until I overheard that the announcement, The new hire will add a little class to the place, had been made before my arrival. That kiss-of-death comment exacted a long, steady diet of humble pie on my part. But for me, facing the sophisticated computer system for the first time was the more critical challenge, and pharmacists and techs alike made light of my bulging pockets holding hastily scrawled notes. My saving grace was an aptitude for remembering the generic names and properties of a multitude of drugs. As I was always a student at heart, every small sign of learning boosted my resolve to ignore the critics and stay on the payroll, at least, until the medical center’s big move to a new campus in January.

Part-time status entailed working my share of nights, holidays, and weekends. And moving day turned out to be the same frigid Saturday that all three children and their significant others came home looking for bridesmaid gowns, tuxedos, and dinner. My absence from a family event was unheard of, and I gained a new respect for another mother’s declaration in The Poisonwood Bible: So you see. I have my own story … I’ll live or die on the strength of your judgment, but first let me say who I am (Kingsolver 9). Pursuing my own dreams was going to require a heaping cup of resolve before I garnered credibility at home, but I believed that would come.

Taking advantage of onsite and offsite computer classes and steering clear of department politics eventually paid off with a desk of my own. My feet definitely appreciated the break! Best of all, the new job title meant only working weekdays. In spite of the promotion, I steadfastly remained neither fond of, nor good at, dressing in the dark. I was known for sometimes wearing a frilly kitchen apron under my coat and learned to double-check before going out the door to make sure that socks matched and slacks were not turned backward—again.

On the other hand, a rising sun bathing a sleepy hillside in crimson splendor on a September morning like this one made getting up before dawn worthwhile. All was well in my little corner of the world today as I exchanged a fleeting, bird’s-eye greeting with a handsome, red-winged blackbird standing sentry atop an exit-ramp guardrail.

I liked my job. I liked my life, my rubber-soled shoes joining others in quick cadence across the parking lot. As I absentmindedly pulled a sweater closer around my shoulders, a faint chill in the air went unnoticed and a breath prayer welled up from deep inside: Thank you, Lord, for this day and my place in it.

Part I

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"Where can I go when I need the stars

but am anchored to the want of the earth?"

–Marilyn Tarpy Stearns

Friday, October 1, 1999

In the Spotlight

On Sunday, my mother was honored for a lifetime of leadership and service in Zion Methodist Church and the conference at large. The lay leader read a proclamation of gratitude:

The congregation pays tribute to one of our own, who continues to show her love for our church family through her beautiful prayers that always reach out, bring us together, and give us a sense of togetherness and community. We are truly blessed by her presence and her prayers in our church.

The minister declared that Mrs. DeHaven leads people to the Lord, and he takes them into the church. A chair at her kitchen table is always open to anyone who stops by, looking for a little heart-to-heart soul searching and prayer.

In other times and circumstances, Mom may have become a full-fledged pastor, if she had managed somehow to scrape tuition money together and if ordination had been open to the female gender. That calling led to alternative paths of service through the years: certified lay speaker, Sunday school teacher for forty years, able leader of small-group studies, district organizer of spiritual retreats, and a delegate to annual conference.

On this day, friends and family alike saluted the disciple of strong words and convictions, and although we may not have always agreed with them, at least everyone knew where she stood. No one doubted that her passion for Christ was genuine.

I wish my brother had been on hand to witness our mother’s moment in the spotlight. He would have been proud. I know I was.

Saturday, October 2, 1999

Church and Conflict

Conflict and church should not go hand in hand, but they often do. Sitting in the old, country sanctuary once again and watching Mother receive the plaque and accolades from a grateful community of faith took me back a few years.

Mother was in charge of organizing a district spiritual retreat that would be held in a large, urban church. Certain that all the arrangements had been locked in place, she was aghast to discover that an Earth Day celebration was on the church calendar for the same date in the same building. What’s more, the boisterous crowd would be moving about in the fellowship hall directly above the chapel,