The Haunting of Lois: My Mother, Her Stroke and Alzheimer's

By April DeMerski Wise

We never got along. We were like oil and water together. Who would have guessed we would spend the last five years of her life together.

My mother was a beautiful Southern belle. Self-indulgent, determined, social and vivacious.

She lost all she knew to a silent, insidious and stealth disease . . . Alzheimer. It left her frightened, alone and isolated. Her only true companions were fragmented memories that teased and haunted her.

I cared for my mother, in my home, for five years. I know the dos and don’ts in dealing with this disease.

Nursing homes are not always the answer but always an option. In today’s economic climate, my book may be the best thing to happen to middle-class America. It’s back to basics.

This book is about caring for a family member at home. It’s about discovery, loss, saying good-bye and survival . . . yours.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546264651

April DeMerski Wise

She grew up in two worlds . . . the North (Pennsylvania) and the South (North Carolina)! She learned at a young age to keep the two poles of her existence separate. She had promised her father, that if her mother was unable to care for herself, she would take care of her. She kept her word. In doing so, she learned some things she wants to share with you. She was educated in the North and graduated from Geneva College in Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania. But, she has always considered Greensboro, North Carolina her home.

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© 2018 April Demerski Wise. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/30/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-6466-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-6464-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-6465-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018912441

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

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.

CHAPTER GUIDE

Dedication

In Memorial

Introduction on Book

CHAPTERS:

Introducing Lois:

A Southern Woman in a Northern Town

Chapter 1 -Meeting Lois

Chapter 2 -Lois’ Background

Chapter 3 -Life in North Carolina 1918- 1945

Chapter 4 -Life in Pennsylvania 1946-1982

Chapter 5 -Life in Pennsylvania 1982-1983

Years of Transition:

Chapter 6 -Stroke in Charleston, SC

Chapter 7 -Rehabilitation

Chapter 8 -At home - May 1993- September 1995

Chapter 9 -Personal Care Home

Caring, Sharing, Saying Good-bye:

Chapter 10 -Moving Home

Chapter 11 -Second year at home

Chapter 12 -Third Year at Home

Chapter 13 -Fourth year

Chapter 14 -The fifth and final year

Chapter 15 -Looking Back

Chapter 16 -Wrapping it up

Chapter 17 -My philosophy and closing statement

Chapter 18 -Miscellaneous information

DESIDERATA

Haunting of Lois

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all the women who did not enjoy a wonderful mother-daughter relationship but in the end redeemed themselves by maintaining contact with each other through emotionally difficult and trying times. It was often an uphill battle for both women. Hopefully, it led to one or both women gaining a greater appreciation and understanding of each other. Loving someone can be the easy part in a relationship. Liking the same person God placed in your close family circle can often be more difficult.

He only asked us to honor thy father and mother.

Thank God!

* * * * *

I wish to thank the following:

Gloria Rinehart for her friendship and patience in reading my first draft.

I couldn’t have completed it without your encouragement and notes.

Linda Bauer for reading my second draft and noting her concerns.

Patsy George for proof reading my outline and

Martha Russell for proof reading the manscript. Thank you!

May God hold you close in time of trial and bless you always.

IN MEMORIAL

In memory of B. Joan Gentri (Nadeau) whose understanding and friendship helped me on life’s journey.

She died June 3, 1997 in Kalispell, Montana on my mother’s birthday.

While writing this book I often doubted myself, the book and the future. Would it serve a purpose? Could I write! Should I write? Would writing this book help someone with questions about parental care? Would I be able to do that?

It was then I would hear her voice clearly say: Oh, Honey. … It’ll be O.K. Write it!

To the memory of a truly beautiful woman who taught me that real beauty is not the

reflection in a mirror — although her reflection was arresting. True beauty is a reflection of your soul.

Her character and her conduct reflected her soul.

Her behavior reflected her spirit. She kept her spirit alive during many life altering

changes. She maintained herself during great adversity - the last battle fighting a foe called

cancer. She continued on, upbeat and confident, until time ran out on her. She never gave up.

She never gave in.

She accepted her fate gracefully without self pity. Her only concerns were for her family.

Thank you for being a friend to me.

I miss you.

* * * * *

May Michael be at your right hand; Gabriel at your left;

before you, Uriel; behind you Raphael; and above your head

the divine presence of God. Amen

-Jewish prayer, modified

INTRODUCTION TO

The Haunting of Lois

About this book–

When I was thinking about writing this book, I became concerned about several things. One of my greatest concerns- people that read my book would never know my mother. It is the main reason for introducing Lois in the beginning of the book and placing her picture on the cover.

I wanted the image of a beautiful young woman, to be the image retained, rather than what she had become through her illness. It still bothers me.

I don’t want to do my mother a disservice. I do want others to know - what a rewarding experience it can become, through all the difficulties associated with this disease, and the emotional baggage we all carry with us.

You know what I mean. This was a mother-daughter relationship. A complex relationship between two women. We had our share of misunderstandings, personal conflicts and mis-communications.

The personal element is my second greatest concern. Our relationship had been far from perfect and I am a very private person. A great deal of the pain and hurt from our experiences had been buried over the years but I was sure it would rear its ugly head within these pages. The emotional baggage, I carried, was truly the most difficult part in writing this book. In trying to introduce Lois, I had to open closed doors from the past. Those closed doors, lead to old issues that were never resolved between us. Now, they never will be.

I found myself dealing with issues I would have loved to ask her, Why? When we could have talked, we didn’t. Now, we couldn’t. In our present circumstance – it had become a one-sided issue: Mine! I could not debate it or reason through it with her. We could not discuss our past difficulties now, because . . . .

You see – no one lived here anymore but me!

Lois really didn’t live here any more. Sometimes, when we were lucky, she stopped by for a visit.

It was an unusual journey.

If you would have asked me before this occurrence if I would ever do such a thing – my answer would have been a resounding, No.

I never want to experience this level of emotional and physical stress again – yet, I will never regret my decision to care for my mother.

I have never laughed and cried so much in my life!

I had always loved my mother, but there were times in my life when I hadn’t liked her very much.

Love conquered all!

Your loving daughter, April

Chapter 1

MEETING LOIS – A SOUTHERN

WOMAN IN A NORTHERN TOWN

My mother was a true southern woman.

She always had the charm necessary to deal with a great number of people. She majored in socializing in life and she was always happiest in a crowd.

She was a great hostess. She loved to organize events and entertain people. I remember, we would always have two or three large summer parties at our house, plus all those other gatherings we had to attend.

She could be very unreasonable about things – her way or the highway.

I remember one time, we were having a discussion about something I had learned in school that day. I don’t remember what – but – as the conversation continued she got very irate with me. She was yelling and shouting at me that I was wrong.

My father came home during this active conversation and he innocently asked what the excitement was all about? Well, fifteen minutes later he found himself living in my doghouse.

He finally suggested that she look the disputed item up in the encyclopedia. We all agreed this would be a reasonable way to settle the argument.

She said she would look it up. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust us but she wanted to read it to us. She wanted us to understand just how wrong we were about this matter.

Well, what can I say, it was wrong in the encyclopedia too. They had just spent a small fortune purchasing those reference books. What a waste of money!

She would end the discussion with her usual comment: "You just wait until the next time. The South will rise again. The next time we will win!"

Almost every argument in our home, involving my mother, ended in the threat of the next civil war.

My mother grew up during the depression – the Great Depression. She told me she had to walk to school every day in hand-me-down shoes. She told me it was three miles to school and uphill both ways. They have very unusual topography in the South.

She loved to cook and bake. She made excellent pecan pies and glazed doughnuts. Her Waldorf salad was worth the wait, but her baking of cakes left a great deal to be desired. Although, she did master the pound cake because it’s naturally heavy.

I remember one year, she had baked a cake that had taken the better part of her afternoon to make. After it had spent a week, of occupying space on the kitchen counter, the cake had found no takers. So she decided to throw it out into the yard. She announced that the birds would enjoy what her family had failed to appreciate.

Well – what can I say; it was still there in the spring!

I have often wondered what she threatened to do to those Yankee birds. After all, they had followed in her family’s footsteps and had not eaten her cake.

My father was sad about that cake and he felt we had missed a golden opportunity. He said to me, if we had just had the wisdom to patent her cake recipe, we could have made a fortune in the construction business.

It’s true my mother loved to entertain but she was not domestic by nature. In fact, when my parents were married after the war - the last great war, World War II, she had not mastered the art of boiling water.

Rumors from various reliable sources, stated on several occasions whatever she was boiling, ran out of time, water, and any hope of remaining recognizable. By the time the items were discovered – they were either splattered on the ceiling or smoking away incinerated on the stove!

She packed the worst school lunches in the history of education. I hated carrying a lunch to school. I felt, I had been saved from a sentence worse than death when my father informed her, I would be buying my lunch at school each week. She considered that a waste of money and thought I was being spoiled. My father held to his decision. So, for the rest of my education, I enjoyed school lunches and the cafeteria staff at my school were excellent cooks. Thank God for fathers!

He secretly told me he hated his lunches, for work, most of the time. He said they seemed to cycle in content. He had to carry a lunch because there was nowhere for him to go and eat in his brief lunch break.

He also said that during her menopause his lunches were very unusual. They weren’t interesting – maybe intriguing was the word he used. She often made him sandwiches with nothing between the two slices of bread or she would forget to put one of the items in his thermos; the coffee, sugar or milk. Lunch became a great adventure for him, would he get to eat? He told me he grew to appreciate the lunch when everything came together.

When I was about seven, my mother and I left abruptly for North Carolina to stay with my grandmother. I never understood that trip as a child. One Christmas many years later, when we were all seated around the kitchen table, some of the truth came out about that trip.

It seemed my mother had decided to leave my father; the North, her mother-in-law and return to her home. She loved my grandfather and she did not consider him to be a true Northerner. He had immigrated to the United States in the early 1900’s from Europe.

My father was a first generation American. He was raised in the North but I don’t think my mother thought of him as a true Yankee. He and his people hadn’t been around long enough.

We arrived home and settled in. After a few days my mother began to complain about my father and her life up North. It was during this conversation that my grandmother told me to go outside and play. Adults always send the children out when things are going to get interesting, and then, they wonder why we never understand anything years later.

Apparently, my mother announced she was moving back home to live. My southern grandmother told my mother that would be very nice and she would enjoy seeing her more often. She then asked my mother where was she going to live? My grandmother told my mother she couldn’t live with her. After all, my father was welcome anytime and he would be staying at her home when he visited Greensboro to see his daughter.

There was never a question in my grandmother’s mind, that my father would not be staying with her or visiting with her. In fact, maybe more often if his daughter were living in Greensboro.

A few weeks after this conversation occurred we returned to our northern home. Although we would go back to the South every summer, it was never quite the same. My mother had made a subtle shift in her loyalties and her home was now with my father.

I’m assuming, you know what assuming can do to you and me, my mother had gone against her family background when she married my father. She had married a Yankee and a Roman Catholic. Taboos in her world.

My parents were married in Greensboro, North Carolina in Saint Benedict’s Church.

Before they were married they met with the Catholic priest for instruction. This would give my mother an opportunity to have the priest answer any questions she might have about the Church and Catholicism. My mother remained a Methodist all of her life, although she attended Mass faithfully every Sunday throughout all my years at home.

Becoming Catholic would become a bone of contention between my mother and myself following the death of my father. I’m not aware she ever expressed any interest in becoming Catholic, during his lifetime, but I know he would have been thrilled if she had converted. After his death, she went into a major debate about turning Catholic.

Why? I asked her. He’s dead. It doesn’t matter now. You may as well stay Methodist. It certainly didn’t matter to me. Maybe, I shouldn’t have taken that stand or made that statement but I thought her reaction was a guilt response. Maybe not, I’ll never know in this lifetime.

Back to when my parents were getting married.

My mother did not see any reason to discuss any of her concerns with my father before their meeting with the priest. After introductions were made and everyone was seated comfortably she began. She asked, Is it true, that on the first night of her marriage, the bride must sleep with the priest who married her? If it is – you can just forget it! I am not marrying you. I’m marrying him!

My father was mortified. He told me, he looked down toward the floor praying it would open up so he could just disappear. He said, he felt as though he could not move and he thought his heart had stopped. He knew he was dying from embarrassment, and just as he looked up, the priest was disappearing backward behind his desk.

Oh, God! It’s worse than he thought. They have killed the priest.

My father jumped up – he rushed around the desk to find the priest laughing hysterically on the floor.

So, he helped the priest up. When the priest got his breath and he was able to speak, he explained what had happened. He said, when he started laughing he had thrown himself backward in his chair, and unfortunately, it had simply kept going backward.

Red faced and apologetic my father returned to his seat. My mother had remained seated and was still very focused. She said, Well?

The priest asked her where she had heard such a thing. She explained to him, she had heard it all of her life, along with a few other things she proceeded to tell him.

He assured my mother none of it was true. After his explanations, she told him she was willing to continue with her instructions. I don’t think anyone asked my father if he was willing to continue. I doubt, he had found his voice to express himself one way or the other, so they continued with their instructions.

A Catholic could not marry a non-Catholic in the Church - until the time when my parents were married. The couples were always married in the rectory.

The day my parents were married, they arrived at the Church expecting to be married in the rectory. They were informed, by a priest, they would be married in the Church. My parents were married in front of the altar by a special papal decree and several church witnesses were present for the ceremony.

My father told me, there had to be at least fifteen priests present to witness his wedding ceremony. He would laughingly say, he knew, he was married for life no matter how fractured my mother’s focus on Catholicism. There would be no divorce in the eyes of his Church.

My mother’s brother Broadus and his wife Mary hosted a wedding reception for my parents at their home.

My mother did not invite her parents to her wedding and I have no idea why.

My father was a man my southern grandmother adored. It was often plain to see, and I think, he was someone the family in the South resented to a degree. They thought he appeared to get away with things in her home. Things, they would not do or thought they could not do, in her home. My grandmother was a teetotaler. My father brought his Yankee beer to town and into her home.

I asked my dad about it years later and he told me a simple truth. He said he had always asked his mother-in-law for her permission before he did anything at her house or brought anything into her home.

He had always shown her the respect she deserved and I think she loved him for it.

I’m also sure, his being very good looking and charming did not hurt.

Some members of our family, did try to tell her how to live and what she should do. My father would never have told her what she should do. I know - if she had asked him for his opinion he would have given it.

Years later, she was diagnosed with heart trouble and her doctor suggested she take a little whiskey each day. So, she called our home and asked to speak with my father. I think, my mother was a little miffed when she called because she really didn’t take time to speak with her. My grandmother asked my dad to recommend what brand of whiskey she should use. What he recommended was the only whiskey she wanted to take as her medicine. For years it was kept in plain sight in her kitchen much to the discomfort of my aunt.

Chapter 2

LOIS’ BACKGROUND

My mother was born at home which was not unusual at the time. What was unusual about her birth – the doctor and her mother never agreed on the day or year!

Lois was the middle child in her family of seven. There were nine children originally. Her brother Broadus was the oldest surviving son and her sister Theresa, called Sis all her life, was the oldest surviving daughter.

Mom was born between William and Baxter. The birth order of her siblings: Christine, Durward, Broadus, Theresa, William, mom, Baxter, Wilma and Mary.

Mom was born on June 2, 1919 according to her, and she insisted, her mother.

According to her birth certificate she was born on June 3, 1918. These little bumps on the road of life would always be in her background. She insisted that the confusion was a direct result of the doctor’s condition. The doctor had been imbibing at the time he was called to assist in her birth. He simply wrote it down wrong and no one realized there had been a mistake until she needed her birth certificate.

Often, she would tell me that her mother told her she was born on June 2 and she celebrated that date for years. Besides, her mother had been there at the time, so she should know. She wouldn’t have forgotten what day she was born on, now would she, so that ended the discussion.

There was a hidden advantage to this dilemma. One never grew older! My mother would celebrate June 2 and age a year, then she would celebrate June 3 and cancel it out. I can still hear her saying she had two birthdays. The two things she ignored about the birthday issue, the year and the fact she was getting older. If you valued your existence then you ignored them too!

She didn’t need her birth certificate until she was getting married and then she discovered the error of the doctor’s ways.

I refer to this birthday scenario for two reasons. First, when she discovered the different years, she was livid. How dare he make her a year older. The date remained, though, because it had been a matter of record for many years plus the good doctor was dead.

Thus, my parent’s courtship began with my mother being nine months younger than my father and ended with her being three months older. Thus, the marriage began with my mother being older and my father younger. He just loved it – and he loved to tease her about it.

He would not hesitate to tell people that he had married an older woman. My mother never saw the humor in it and she would get quite irate with him. She would tell him, "Just stop it! Joe, just stop it. You make it sound like I am years older than you."

Then dad would smile, his gotcha smile, because she had just admitted she was older.

My parents were always, always teasing each other. Parents are very difficult to raise sometimes – don’t you think?

I believe my mom was always the rebel in her family. She was headstrong; willful and determined to do what she wanted to do when she wanted to do it. God protect anyone who stood in her way!

Her birth placement formed her attitudes and thoughts about a great many things. She adored her brother Baxter. She thought he was the greatest. Simply marvelous! She would follow him around or maybe he followed her around when they were young. Who knows for certain, but they were close pals, buddies.

She idolized him and she looked up to him. He was smart and articulate.

He was a bomber pilot during World War II. He flew the bombing run on Ploesti. He was reported missing during the war and presumed dead by our government. My grandmother refused to accept the decision. She sent the government men away, stating her son was not dead, because if he had been killed she would have sensed it.

She was right. After several months, in enemy territory with the aid of the underground, he escaped and he returned to active duty.

My uncle had a promising career in aviation following World War II and he loved to fly!

He was based in California where he and his wife lived following the war. His wife did not like him flying and she was a bit of a mama’s girl. Those apron strings she attached to her family were very strong and could be rather overwhelming at times. I really have no idea how her family felt about her. They may have been very glad she was in California.

Anyway, she wanted to return home to Greensboro. So they did. I suspect the promises that my uncle made to God, during the war, governed all of his actions – toward his family and friends for the rest of his life. I think, that occurred quite often with many men who survived such danger. They made commitments and they honored those commitments, often at the cost of abandoning their own dreams and personal goals.

I think we call it - compromise.

My uncle worked for Burlington Industries the rest of his life but he never gave up on his dreams of flying, although none of us would learn of his ambitions until after his death.

He had been working on a design for a lighter, aerodynamically more fuel efficient aircraft. A model of it was being built at the time he was hospitalized with a brain tumor.

My cousin Marty and I sat with him in the hospital shortly before he died.

I really can’t speak for Marty but I thought he could use a break from the constant chatter of his wife. He looked relieved when we sent her out to get something to eat and we told her to take a break before returning to his room.

I never knew what became of his project for the plane, but I am sure, there was little support to continue the effort so dear to him.

He also designed the church where he and his family attended services in Greensboro. I remember him taking us on a tour of it after it was completed. We have a commemorative plate of the church on Wendover Avenue. It’s a very appealing church. I will drive by and look at it whenever I’m in town. The memories come rushing back, time falls away, and I am a child again.

My uncle was a great guy, quiet and unassuming. He and I always played a word game, when we would see each other, over the years. He started it when I was just a little child, and the last time we played it, I was nearly thirty at my Uncle Broadus’ home.

His inability to say it, warned me that he was ill, before many in the family realized it. I left him outside with his brother and went inside to speak with my aunt. To my surprise she was very open about the situation. As she cried, she explained to me he had been having trouble for some time. She told me she signed his name to his paychecks. He couldn’t sign his name and he didn’t want to talk about it.

He hadn’t seen a doctor and she was very upset about it. She actually made the statement that when they could start doing things together – this had occurred. It shocked me! All those wasted years when she was never around and he wanted to do things. She was always off doing something for her church or some other pet project.

I remember one year when we stopped at his home, he bounced his lunch off the floor and the kitchen was a sea of dishes! The only reason I touch on this is because it would be a reoccurring theme during my mother’s care. My mother always held it against her sister-in-law that she didn’t take better care of her brother.

He would be gone in a couple of months after our