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Posts Tagged ‘boy’

old clock

This Alzheimer's caregiver is grateful for the gift of time.

Some of the most quality thoughts and essays seem to be on a continuing ‘round-the-world track through cyberspace.  Year after year they reappear in my email inbox.  There is a lot of junk I could do without, but I am grateful for the good items that show up even though I’ve read them before.

This particular essay is titled “Thank You For Your Time.  No matter how often I read it I not only ponder, but count my blessings – again and again.  Time is something everyone has in equal abundance or want: minutes, seconds and hours.  It can be used wisely, wasted, frittered away, given away, killed, coveted, lost or found.  We can experience good times, bad times, melancholy times, glorious time and children are sent to their room for a time out.  But it’s the gift of time which is actually one of the most precious gifts, and the subject of this day’s thoughts.

The email tells the story of a young boy who had lost his father.  Next door to where Jack and his mother lived was an older man who became the boy’s mentor and friend.  Mr. Belser taught Jack carpentry and tried to fill in some of the blank spots providing the needed male influence in the youngster’s life.

In turn Jack often lingered long after their building project, rejoicing in the camaraderie of the old man who was without children. The ancient house was like a slice of yesteryear and the boy was fascinated with all that was within, especially the gold box on Mr. Belser’s desk.

“What’s in the gold box,” the boy would ask.

“It’s what I value most,” answered Mr. Belser.  Curious though Jack was, he never pressed.

The years drifted by, Jack grew up, went to school, moved away, got married, and established himself as a highly reputable building contractor in great demand.  One afternoon his phone rang.  It was his mother telling him that Mr. Belser had passed on and the funeral would be the following Wednesday.  Jack had to admit he thought the old man had passed long ago, but as they talked a flood of fond memories washed over him.  Suddenly he realized that had it not been for Mr. Belser and all of those hours spent together he probably wouldn’t have entered into the contracting business.  “I’ll be there,” he promised his mother.

Following a small funeral, mother and son wandered for the last time through the old house.  It hadn’t changed one iota since Jack was a boy except the gold box on the desk was gone.  Noticing and believing a relative had taken it, Jack lamented, “Now I’ll never know what the old man valued most.”

Back at work Jack was soon engrossed in his self-driven work schedule.  Arriving home one evening he found a notice for a missed delivery which needed his signature.  The next day on the way to his work, he dropped by the post office and found his package with the return address of Harold Belser.  Quickly he ripped open the carton.  Inside he found an envelope with instructions for delivery to Jack, a small key and the gold box.  His heart fluttered as he inserted the key and opened the secret box where he found a gold watch and a note which read, “Jack, Thanks for your time.”  Bushing a tear from his eye he called the office, “Janet,” he said, “Clear my schedule for a few days or so.  I’m going to spend some time with my son.”

The boy and the man had given one another, without a thought, that which was most valuable:  their time.

I know my life has been blessed, and I am grateful to so many for their kindnesses and time especially during this difficult period of Ken’s illness.  Offers of help are like gift cards to be used now or when needed, and I know there is no expiration date.  I have one friend who even gets a little annoyed with me because I haven’t called on him to use his gift of time.  Don’t worry, Dennis, I will.

Dennis is a wonderful example of what was once referred to as America’s melting pot:  his father was Irish, his mother Jewish, and when he mentions his home state you can hear the “o i” instead of the “e” in Jersey. He is an ordinary man with an extraordinary heart measuring bigger than the state of Montana.  Dennis has seen life in its rawness, and tasted also of its goodness.  I know him because we all go to the same church where his main concern is people.

Going the second mile with his church callings is normal for Dennis and his wife Carol, so it isn’t surprising to find his heart open to the community at large.  I was touched by his willingness to go just about anywhere he is needed.

Driving from the East Bay to San Francisco’s Children’s’ Hospital was becoming routine as Dennis and his wife Carol paid their third visit to a young friend who had been born with a hole in her heart the size of a quarter.  Consequently, the child was in and out for constant checkups and stays, and had asked if Dennis could give her a blessing of comfort and healing, to which he was more than happy to comply.

“She has this attitude that she has no limits on her activity,” recalled Dennis, “which sort of drives the doctors nuts.  Children are pretty special to me and Carol, especially when they are sick.  I want to bear their illnesses instead of them having it, and being in a hospital is pretty depressing so we try to bring in a bit of sunshine.”  Recalling a small gift shop in the lobby, Dennis decided to see what they might have to cheer the little patient.                       

“While I was there, three or four children came in with their medications attached.  They all had cancer and not one of them wore a smile on that sweet face, nor did any of them have a single hair on their heads due to the medications they were taking.  When they came in, the shop got very quiet with an air of discomfort.  People tend to forget that children have this natural sense when people feel uncomfortable around them.

“I could see their beautiful faces and those beautiful eyes taking on a look of rejecton and hurt.  To me it appeared they were ready to cry.

“I had to do something to make them smile,” Dennis explained. “I shave my head every day, so I walked over to them and asked if they went to the same barber as I did.  Smiles flashed across their faces and it was agreed, ‘Yes, they did.’  I told them I thought their hair cuts were pretty cool, and that I had been wearing the style for going on eight years.”

Dennis leaned over so the children could run their soft hands over the slick and shiny head of my friend. “There cannot be a price for the smiles on those faces at that moment,” Dennis continued.  “Holding back tears, I got a hug from each of them, and then we all got what we came for and went back to the floor.”

There were tears on the way home – all the way home.  Recalling scripture, Dennis reminded Carol that the Lord, Jesus Christ, loved the little children.  To his apostles, He said, “Suffer the little children to come unto me for such is the kingdom of Heaven.”

“We know that all children who have cancer won’t make it, but still we pray for them, hoping for a miracle.  Looking at their innocent faces they seemed like angels, especially in their hospital gowns and slippers.  The hugs and smiles — I will never forget because I was blessed by them.” 

Like the young boy and the older man, Dennis, Carol, the children, and even the uncomfortable customers in the gift shop were blessed by the experience: the gift exchange of time.  As for me, I am bursting with Thanksgiving gratitude for family and friends — many  like Dennis — who share with Ken and me their most valuable possession:  time.

 

 

 

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lost shoe

Like a long lost shoe, Alzheimer's patients often feel lonely, lost and abandoned.

“Good grief,” confessed my neighbor Ruth many years ago,  “I forgot Laurie at Mayfair’s.”  It was a few days after the fact that she mustered up enough courage to tell me she had forgotten her child while shopping at one of those supermarkets where there was a built-in Kiddie Korral, a special fenced-in corner of the store where you could leave your children for a few minutes, withour worry, while picking up groceries.  More often than not Ruth went shopping by herself, leaving the younger children with her oldest daughter, who was more than capable of keeping an eye on her younger siblings.  All of the little ones had enjoyed a few stays in the Korral, and if they caught mom heading out to buy groceries, they pleaded to go along.

“Oh please,” Laurie had begged, “Can I come with you – pleeeeease?”  How could Ruth resist such coaxing?   Laurie climbed into the car with her mother and off they went, the little girl being more excited about her visit to the Kiddie Korral than spending some one-on-one time with her mother.  Absorbed in the picture books and surrounding toys,  Laurie didn’t notice the time passing, nor did she notice her mother push the grocery cart past the fun-filled corner and out through the open glass doors of the supermarket.  Nor did Ruth remember she had brought one of her children.

“Where’s Laurie?” asked Jackie, helping her mother carry in the groceries. “Did you forget her at the store?” she joked.  That was the moment of truth.  Ruth leaped into the car and raced back to Mayfair’s. There was Laurie still looking at pictures from the pile of selected books next to her chair.  “Time to go,” said Ruth, relieved to find the little girl safe and sound just where she had left her.  For Laurie there was no trauma and no feeling she had been forgotten, much less abandoned, nor would she be scarred for life from the experience. However, Ruth wasn’t alone is losing a child.

One year we lost our three-year-old son, Kevin, at the county fair.  He didn’t want to be in the stroller, so I pushed his empty vehicle while he held his father’s hand.  Feeling independent, he soon insisted on walking alone, and when his sisters, Ken and I turned to go into an exhibit, Kevin kept going straight.  Within seconds we realized he was gone, and he was – disappeared from sight – and so quickly.  After minutes of searching and not finding any trace of him in the crowd, terrible visions began entering our minds.  Immediately we found the sheriff’s office and reported our missing son. “Wait here,” the deputy suggested, “We’ll find him.”

It wasn’t like Ruth leaving Laurie, she was pretty certain she knew where to find her little girl. We did not.  Our child was lost in a world filled with strangers – and they could be dangerous strangers.  My little boy was alone and frightened somewhere out there.  We were near panic.  It seemed like forever before another deputy appeared before us holding our crying and frightened child, his precious face streaked with smudged tears, his small arms stretching forward to me as we both sobbed; Kevin’s tears from being lost, my tears because he was found and safe in my arms.  “No need for positive identification,” said the sergeant in charge. “Looks like she’s the mother.”

Ruth, nor I, nor Ken, were bad parents, neither were the number of other friends we knew who had misplaced, lost or forgotten one of their children during those years of transition from toddler to an independent human being, especially in a large family. Fortunately, all of our lost children were found.

One couple we know drove 50 miles before they realized their small son was not in Uncle John’s car, but back at the dam.  The return trip was a little frantic, but Steven was safe  in the capable care of the park rangers even though he probably felt lost, abandoned and fearful.  Another family outing involving multiple cars arrived home, hours away from their excursion site, before they realized one little boy was still at the aquarium in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park.  A quick phone call and Uncle Gene who lived in the City came to his rescue, once again finding the lost child safe with aquarium staff.

Those desperate emotions are always within us and rise to the surface when we feel threatened; possibly in preparation for our own defense.   I suppose they belong to the “Fear Family,” often made worse when fear itself is mixed with believing you are alone and lost.  However, with a diseased mind, those same fears of emptiness and desperation can be a constant in addition to other instinctive feelings that bring unimagined misery to the mindless.  Is it any wonder they can rage, become angry and combative?  Occasionally, I look into Ken’s eyes and see fear and entrapment.  I understand how frightening life can be for AD victims when there is no reasoning power to comfort their own confused state.  Reassurance, however, can come from someone else or something: a familiar voice, a caring touch, pleasant music, soft words, company and many other soothing actions or words.

A few weeks ago I walked through our living room on my way to do a few quick errands.  Ken was sitting comfortably in a chair with Ben beside him.

“Where are you going,” Ken asked.

“I have to go to the bank, I’ll be back soon.”

“No, you won’t” he retorted.

Once again I pled my case, “I’ll be right back – really I will.”

“You’re just saying that,” he insisted.  “You won’t ever come back.”

I looked into his handsome face.  Written clearly was that look of abandonment.  Incredible sadness filled his eyes and demeanor.   I felt astonished to read him so well.  I could see the disappointment, the sorrow, the acceptance of my leaving forever as I moved toward the door.  He was convinced that I wouldn’t be coming back.  I was leaving him alone – abandoning him – in his immediate need for comfort and assurance.

“I can do this tomorrow,” I said to Ben, removing my coat and putting my purse aside.  Ken said nothing more as I sat down, but his face showed relief.  Did he know me?  Was he having a Ken moment?  I don’t know the answers.  What I do know is that for a brief period of time he wanted me nearby.  He wanted that feeling of security — to be with someone familiar — even vaguely familiar.  In much the same way as my three-year-old son had buried his wet face in my shoulder, his arms desperately clinging to my neck Ken too wanted to feel safe, knowing that he was found.  This I could give him with my presence.  Even if it lasted for only a little while, I wanted him to be comforted in that moment knowing he had not been abandoned.

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