News Trend Do You Remember?|Actual

Earliest known picture of my mom holding baby me.

When I show her this photo, she remembers.

I spoke to my mom on January 1. My birthday.

Four months had passed since our last contact. She can no longer use a phone, so our conversations are few and far between..

And during that time, her mind has obviously traveled much farther along the road from this life to the next. She tried to participate in our conversation and although her comments were mostly unintelligible, I knew she could understand perfectly well what I was saying.

Do you remember? I asked her, over and over again.

Do you remember the big sleet storm on the night before I was born?

Do you remember how the roads were covered with ice, and it took you hours to make the twenty-minute drive to the hospital?

Remember how people were crawling along the icy sidewalks outside the hospital on their hands and knees, since walking upright was impossible?

Remember how the admitting area was decorated with balloons and streamers, and all the staff were wearing party hats and blowing noise makers? And when you asked if they were celebrating the new year, they smiled and said no, this is all for you...We're celebrating your new baby?

And do you remember how in the first day of my life, I caught a cold? And I had to be put into isolation and the only people who were allowed to touch me were the doctor and you?

She remembered.

I know my mom loves the story of my birth and I know she loved hearing me tell it to her once again.

* * * * *

One of the cardinal rules of care for Alzheimer's patients is to never ask Do you remember.

Because Alzheimer's patients can't remember. And asking them to do so only frightens and confuses them. Not a good move.

But my mom does not have Alzheimer's.

She has advanced Lewy Body Dementia and sadly enough, she can often remember her life with perfect clarity. In many ways, this is far worse than forgetting, because my mother has a pretty clear picture of how far she has fallen. There are moments when the grief for what has been lost overwhelms her and that is a very hard thing for a daughter to bear.

But there are other times when - with a little prompting - my mom can remember the joys of her life, and I consider it my sacred privilege to take her back to those moments whenever I can.

Do you remember, Mom?

News Trend My Mother And Me|Actual

This is a long, complex story about my mother and me, and also about:

God's absolute power and love,

the forces of spiritual darkness,

and His amazing power to overcome that darkness and bring goodness and light into our lives.

And sad as much of this story might be, I promise you a very happy ending.

Everyone's life story begins at the moment of birth, and my mom's birth was touched by tragedy

She was born with a twin, but her sibling was stillborn.

Now, we know that babies in utero experience many sensations of life.

They respond to their physical surroundings

They move about and rearrange themselves in their cozy space.

And they most definitely react to the comforting sound of a beating heart.

And so I wonder about that.

I wonder what my mother experienced when the sound of her sibling's heartbeat was silenced.

I wonder what she sensed, alone in the womb with her lifeless twin

And after my mother was born, I wonder how my grandmother's grief for her lost child affected the early minutes, hours, days and weeks of her bonding with her surviving infant

I don't think any of it was good.

My mom's childhood was, by all reports, happy and comfortable. Her parents were patient and loving, her small-town upbringing idyllic, her accomplishments many. But an undertone of darkness weaves throughout her stories from these days - my mom did not like herself, and even decades later, found endless fault in her young self. I've thought long and hard about my mother's formative years, and I can only conclude that the sad circumstances of her birth cast long shadows over her sense of self

It was as a young twenty-something that she met my future father, and another wave of darkness undoubtedly entered her life.

* * * * *

My mom had always kept her lip buttoned about their courtship. But as the dementia broke down her walls, she shared with me more and more details. She never meant to marry my father, she told me. But he begged, even cried, when she hesitated at his proposal, and in the end, she broke down and accepted.

The first few years seemed to pass happily by as they set about making a home and a family. But six years into the marriage, my father was caught cheating and boldly continued his philandering ways for the next ten years.

I remember the first time I became aware of their fighting. I was a little girl, three years old, and one night I woke up and headed to the kitchen for a drink of water.

A tiny thing, I recall standing on a chair to reach the faucet and holding my cup underneath the running water without being able to see what I was doing. I climbed down and stood in the middle of the kitchen, quietly drinking.

My parents' bedroom door was open, a light was on, and their silhouettes were projected onto the wall ahead of me. As I drank, I could see their figures silently moving, and I slowly realized they were grasping each others arms, pushing and shoving each other back and forth. Straining my ears, I could hear a fiercely whispered argument taking place; clearly, they had no idea I was nearby, and were hoping to keep us children from waking up.

This was the first of dozens of late-night altercations that disrupted our lives over the next decade. The decorum of that episode quickly wore thin, and I was often awakened from a sound sleep to hear my mother screaming, crying, yelling, begging him to stay, and my father quietly but firmly attempting to escape the house.

I realize now that he would go to bed as usual, but then when my mom was asleep, he would try to slip out of the house and travel to his mistress's bed.

From the start, I appointed myself the peacemaker of the family and the referee of these fights. As soon as I woke up to the chaos, I would leave my bed, place myself between them, and try to break up the physical contact. Sometimes my mother would threaten to hurt him; sometimes she would threaten to hurt herself. Always, my goal was to get my father out of the house, and to comfort my mom. Sometimes, he would drive off within a few minutes; other times, they would fight for an hour, maybe stopping and starting up repeatedly. Sometimes, my brothers would cry out from their beds or even come in and join me in the turmoil. I would escort them back to bed and do my best to calm their fears.

These were bad times. I suppose they occurred in bursts - there may have been months of silence, and then a series of episodes every few nights. I recall that when I was in fourth grade, times were particularly bad, and I was very concerned for my mother's well-being when I was away at school. Day after day, sitting at my desk, the anxiety would gnaw away at my stomach until I told the teacher I was sick and asked to go home. Eventually, Mrs. Sutherland deduced the dilema, and called my mother in for a chat. "Is there anything going on at home that might be causing Diane to worry?" she asked, and I can still see the look of horror and shame that swept across my mother's face as she feared her secret might be revealed.

After sixteen years of marriage and ten full years of cheating, my father left. I recall that the day brought me sweet relief but my mother entered a new phase of self-shaming and profound embarrassment.

* * * * *

Decades passed. My mom built up a successful and satisfying career as a teacher. I grew up, married a faithful man, and begat a new generation of sweet little girls. But my relationship with my mother suffered terribly.

Looking back, I understand now that my mother's self-image, fragile from the first days of her life, had been deeply damaged by my father's infidelity. As her only daughter, my life seemed to be everything she had wanted for her own life, and my success and happiness deepened her shame. To compound the duduk perkara, as much as my mother hid the story of her failed marriage from absolutely everyone in her life, she knew that I had been by her side for the whole ugly mess; I had seen it all.

The darkness deepened between us, and as my daughters grew, they also became subject to my mother's frustrations. I decided to take a big step back from this conflict zone, and our relationship became distant and cool.

Fast forward to 2013. My mother's slowly emerging dementia had been on my radar for a decade, but until that point, she was still able to maintain her emotional defenses. It was in the fall of that year, as her ability to care for herself became an issue of daily concern, that she and I began to talk on the phone. Twice a day, every day, a dozen hours a week at the very least.

An interesting thing began to happen. Due to the disease, my mother's walls began to come down. She began to talk openly with me about her childhood, her fears that her parents loved her sister more, her feeling that she was never good enough. She also shared more about my father - many of her middle-stage hallucinations involved him coming back to hurt her, and over and over, I reassured her that I would never let him hurt her again.

* * * * *

Slowly, eventually, painfully - and with the help of a sensitive and insightful caregiver - I realized that my mother had been fighting forces of darkness for most, if not all, of her life. The loss of her twin, her husband's betrayal had made her vulnerable to deep, dark energy.And in the profound desperation that comes from knowing that I was powerless to help her, I began to pray for her.

I prayed over her home, passing from room to room, blessing each door knob and light switch, invoking God's name over every inch.

I commanded the dark spirits to leave her alone.

I know. That sounds intense, doesn't it.

Before this experience, though my faith in God was strong, I was dubious aboutdanquot;spiritual darkness." But as a part of my awakening, I perceived a real and tangible energy that was doing my mother harm. I experienced the commanding power of God's spirit as I never have imagined possible and I prayed for my mom's protection with an intensity that did not come from me.

And I begged our God of mercy and healing and infinite love to heal my mother's pain.

Now. I am certainly not willing to say that I worked a miracle, or that my prayers turned the tide of unhappiness in my mother's life.

She still has advanced Lewy Body Dementia, and her life is a fading shadow of what it once was.

But I can say with absolute certainty that my relationship with my mother has been fully, completely and dramatically healed.

As crazy as it sounds, my mother's battle with dementia is the best thing that ever happened to our relationship. Now, whenever we get a chance to talk or spend time together or even when I'm just thinking of her, I can feel a loving mother-daughter bond that I had never experienced before. Despite her wildly debilitating illness, I instinctively seem to know how to reach her and how to comfort her, and for the first time, she can express happiness and satisfaction with me.

* * * * *

Am I glad my mom was afflicted with this terrible disease?

No. I wouldn't wish such tragedy on anyone.

But there is no question whatsoever in my mind that God has moved into this ugly place and used her illness to bring healing and peace in a way that seemed utterly impossible.

And so I am thankful, not for the disease, but for our amazing God who took the broken pieces of my mother's life and transformed them into something beautiful, precious and whole.

* * * * *

Stories about my less-than-perfect dad:

Father's Day Musings About A Bad Dad

My Mother And Me

Spinning Gold Out Of Straw

Fresh Air

Hockey Night In Canada

News Trend A Wild Goose Chase|Actual

Yesterday, I was on a mission.

My goal was to track down some hardware for an old picture frame. Here, let me show you what I mean.

^ This is a watercolor I bought at the Ann Arbor Street Art Fair when I was a brand new teenager back in, oh, probably 1974. My mom bought one by the same artist, and this was the first of many paintings and accessories that we bought in matching pairs.

Though we were two different people in many ways, especially during those rebellious days of my youth, my mom and I found common ground in these bright watercolor birds.

Sadly, though, over the years, my art fell into disrepair.

^ To be more precise, it's the frame that has gone kablooey See these two white plastic corner pieces? Their job is to snap into the back of  the DIY metal frame to hold the sides at perfect ninety degree angles.

^ Alas, two of the four corner pieces of my frame have gone missing. I still have the smaller metal pieces that align the front side of the frame. But the plastic pieces that anchor the back side of the frame are long gone.

I discussed my quandary with my frame shop guy who gave me the bad news. This frame is seriously old school and the component parts are no longer readily available. Try a craft store like Michael's or Hobby Lobby, he suggested, or maybe search online.

Done, done and done. But to no avail.

It was later that evening when inspiration struck.

Thrift stores!

If I could stumble upon another DIY metal frame from the same era, I could salvage the parts I need and bring a happy ending to my conundrum.

That was a great idea. But three hours and four thrift stores later, my patience ran out. Inspired though my plan may have been, the thought ran through my head that the entire afternoon had turned into nothing but a wild goose chase.

As that phrase echoed in my mind, I couldn't help but smile.

I remembered a story from the middle days of my mom's journey through Lewy Body Dementia. Despite her best efforts to mask her growing confusion, people who knew Mom well could see that she was struggling and some began to lose confidence in her ability to reason.

One day, my mom was on a mission of her own. She had a silver teapot that needed repair and had tracked down a craftsman who could do the work. With his address in hand and a lifetime of familiarity with the roads in his neck of the woods, she summoned her driver, Amy, and together they set out to find him.

Well, let me say this. Despite the progression of that horrible disease, my mom had a keen sense of direction and an uncanny ability to find her way around. But poor Amy had lost faith in Mom's navigation skills, and apparently decided to disregard her instructions.

Which led to a long, protracted series of wrong turns, retraced steps, and driving in circles. Mom was infuriated by this nonsense and was eventually proved right when Amy finally listened to her directions and soon pulled into the craftsman's driveway.

Mom conducted her business and  in short order, she and Amy were back in the car headed for home.

"Well," the endlessly cheerful Amy chirped, "that turned out to be quite a wild goose chase, didn't it, Grace?!"

And at this point in the narrative, which Mom had on repeat for at least a week, she interjected, "Amy doesn't even know what she's talking about. A 'wild goose chase' means that you never find what you're looking for, but once she stopped her foolishness and did what I told her, we found the address right away.  That was NOT a wild goose chase at all."

I'm smiling again to think of Mom's unshakable confidence in herself and, even in the midst of that terrible disease, how right she actually was.

Her confidence lives on in me. I know I'll eventually figure out a way to secure the corners of my frame. Soon enough, it'll be hanging on the wall once again.

Every time I see it, I'll be reminded over and over again of that day when, much to our surprise, my mom and I bought matching paintings of watercolor birds.

And I will always smile to remember how she taught me the true meaning of a wild goose chase.

* * * * *

To read more stories about my mom's journey through Lewy Body Dementia, go here.

News Trend Sweet And Tender Moments|Actual

Even from my own backyard, the clouds present an ever-changing story.

In the past few months, a lot has changed between me and my mom.

My mom is battling advanced dementia. No, not Alzheimer's; she has a lesser-known memory loss disease called Lewy Body Dementia. The best way I can explain the difference is to say that Alzheimer's is a heavy, wet, wool blanket that smothers the brain's most recent memories and pushes the sufferer's mind deep down into memories of the past. In contrast, LBD is an erratic pendulum that swings unpredictably back and forth between reasonable coherence and utter confusion marked by anxiety, hallucinations, and paranoia.

This past winter, her symptoms worsened with shocking speed. Though she was still living in her home, Mom now required 24-hour care and her dementia-trained caregivers needed to help her maintain her most basic routines, including her daily phone calls to me.

Then, as winter turned to spring, my mom fell and broke her knee cap.

Technically, she split her patella right down the middle, with a three-cm gap. Surgery was required to wire the pieces together, then she was suited up in a soft cast and sent off to rehab to heal.

When I caught up with her in mid-April, the surgeon had bad news. The bone fragments were not healing properly, and sure enough, by May, she needed a second surgery to reset the knee cap. That meant a full reboot to the recovery process and a move to a different care facility.

The physical distress of the broken bone took a huge toll on my mom's mental abilities. While I was with her in April, she would scrutinize me, confusion written all over her face, and say, "You're the mother."

"Look at me," I would say. And when she was looking straight into my eyes, I would point at my face  and gently remind her, "I'm the baby." Then, shifting my finger toward her,  I would add, "You're the mother."

Her eyes would soften. She would smile. And then she would always say, "That's right. You're my daughter. And I'm your mother."

These were sweet and tender moments.

They reveal an infinite variety of white puffs, wisps and streaks,

A week after my visit with Mom, I flew off to India. Thanks to the miracles of Verizon, I set my phone up with an international calling plan that allowed her to call me in India using nothing more than my basic American digits. During my three weeks in Hyderabad, my mom reliably called me three or four times a day; predictably, our conversations ranged back and forth between calm, coherent discussions of my work with the Indian princesses, and paranoid hallucinations.

Half a dozen times, during those middle-of-the-night-in-India calls, my mom would demand angrily, "I looked out my window today and saw you getting out of your car. Why didn't you come to my room? "

"Oh, Mom,that wasn't me. I'm in India, remember?" And I would hold my breath, wondering if she could possibly retain the details of my wild adventure to tutor Indian foster children.

"That's right!" she rationally recalled each time. "How are those girls doing with their reading? Are they enjoying the books you brought them?"

And these were sweet and tender moments too.

Surprising and unpredictable.

Two days before I left India, her phone calls suddenly stopped.

During the next few days, as I flew back to the US, picked up my daughter in Arizona and drove her home to Seattle, then jetted off once again to Vietnam, my mom and I talked only once or twice. I wrote off the irregularities as a short-term blip, and figured that once I settled down again, our phone calls would get back on track.

On my second night in Danang, Mom called me and we talked briefly. I don't recall exact details but I remember she was upset about something, and I did my best to soothe her as I stood on the noisy sidewalk outside Luna Pub, where I had been enjoying a scoop of Bailey's gelato. After she abruptly hung up, I consoled myself, "She'll be alright and I'll talk to her again soon."

But this, too, was a sweet and tender moment, though I did not know it at the time.

But the sky which holds them remains constant and forever blue.

Because that was the last time I talked on the phone with my mom.

She has never called me again.

And though I still ring her several times a week, she no longer picks up.

I don't know why. I can only assume that the disease has crept further and deeper into her mind, corrupting the place that remembers our phone calls, that knows she can call me any time, and that I will always listen to whatever she wants to say.

This silence has left an enormous hole in my life. I've struggled to figure out how to accept this void, to trust that she is alright, to believe that there is nothing I can or should do for her now.

And that is where I stake my claim.

And this the only thought that brings peace to my heart:

My connection to my mother, mysterious and profound, is in transition. She is leaving this world; I daresay that even though her stubborn body ticks on, her soul has turned toward heaven. This distance between us now is painful, yes, but only temporary.

Like shifting clouds in the sky, the circumstances of our relationship are blown about by winds that neither my mother nor I can control. But as sure as the sun will eventually break through the gloom and shine in a clear blue sky, I know without a doubt that we are destined for eternity together.

And I trust not only that everything will be okay someday. I trust that everything is okay right now.

Every day challenges me to hold to this promise. And when I get my head wrapped properly around this truth, and feel in my soul that my mom and I really are okay; well, that is the most sweet and tender moment of all.

News Trend Road Trip Day 10: Howell, MI|Actual

Off we go on another all-American family road trip.

Two parents

Two daughters

A big red dog

And a car full of suitcases, leashes, a cooler, bags of food, blankets, pillows, maps, books, extra sweatshirts, water bottles, bags, backpacks, and a whole slew of electronic devices and their chargers.

Where are we going and what will we do when we get there? Just wait and see.

* * * * *

Well. There are few things as precious, rewarding, and downright soul-satisfying as bringing a smile to another person's face.

And when that person happens to be your own mother, who suffers from advanced Leey Body Dementia, the joys are that much sweeter.

So imagine the fun I am having by sharing my good boy, Ranger, with my dog-loving mother.

He leans into her lap for ear rubs.

She beams with happiness as she pets him.

He naps at the side of her wheelchair, his hips tucked under her feet.

She laughs with delight as he exuberantly laps at his water dish.

And while I am usually a stern stickler for doggy discipline, I must admit that my normal rules have been outrageously relaxed.

She slips him human food right and left: half a grilled cheese and turkey sandwich, a handful of potato chips, four French fries.

He brazenly climbs up on her previously forbidden couch and enthrones himself like a prince.

What can I say. The time that the three of us can share together is far too short, so why not wring out every moment of happiness. I'll deal with my dog's new naughty habits later, but for now, the smiles on Mom's face make it all worthwhile.

Distance covered today: 0 miles

Total trip so far: 2722 miles

News Trend Seeing Stars|Actual

"I will love the light for it shows me the way,

yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars."

- Og Mandino

Rain beat down on the windshield as I pulled my rental into the return lot and slid the gearshift into park. Sitting in the early morning gloom, I couldn't bring myself to turn off the ignition.

In two hours, I would be flying home to faraway Seattle and leaving my mother behind in Michigan to face her dementia alone. Based on the week I had just spent with her - especially our last sleepless, chaotic night - that was unthinkable.

In dark desperation, I remembered the wad of papers in my bag. Just the day before, we'd met my mom's new geriatric physician. He'd handed me this stack of flyers for in-home dementia care, and suggested that my mom might be ready for more support.

Yes. Absolutely.

And while I had no illusions about the lengthy delays and long lead times that would likely be required to get someone into my mom's home at night, I decided that before I got out of that car, I had to at least try.

The wipers slapped away the steady rain as I unfolded the stack of brochures and numbly dialed the number on the top page.

No answer.

Ugh. I slumped back against the seat, despondent, and wondered how I might summon up the hope to try the next number.

Then my phone rang.

"Hi, this is Joanna from Dementia Specialists. I think I just missed your call."

She listened as I stumbled through my story. And when I paused, Joanna kicked into gear.

"I can move a few things around and make time to interview your mom this morning. I'll get one of our girls in place by tonight. Don't worry. We won't leave your mom alone."

As I write this, two full years later, tears still flood my eyes as I remember the indescribable relief those words brought to me.

* * * * *

True to her word, Joanna and her team began looking after my mom that very day.

Compassionate.

Competent.

Committed.

Joanna's caregivers brought beautiful gifts into my mom's life.

They talked to her with genuine interest and treated her like an ordinary person.

They dealt matter-of-factly with the details of her disease.

They gently protected her privacy and her dignity.

My mom was not an easy client. She could not see how the disease was affecting her, she resented not only their supervision but even their companionship, and she treated these loving people as intruders.

But the caregivers understood the difference between my mom and the way the disease was affecting her behavior. They were patient, gracious, insightful, kind.

In time, my mom's walls came down and much to my surprise, relationships grew.

* * * * *

At the same time that miracle was taking place, much to my surprise, another layer of care was unfolding. Over the phone, at all times of night and day, Joanna poured countless hours into answering my questions, addressing my concerns, and educating me about my mom's disease.

She understood what I was going through emotionally, and gave me loving support.

She offered me insights and information about the disease, and helped me learn how best to interact with my mom.

She made me feel less alone.

Compassionate.

Competent.

Committed.

I am so grateful to Joanna, her caregivers, and all the staff at Dementia Specialists Homecare, for looking after not only my mom but also me.

Thanks to their help, the stars of hope and happiness now shine into our dark walk with dementia.

* * * * *

If you suspect a loved one may have dementia:

1. Get a diagnosis. See a dementia diagnostic specialist or a neurologist.

2. Find a dementia home care specialist and hire them right away to help you navigate this journey.

News Trend A Gift For My Mom|Actual

If you suspect a loved one may have dementia:

1. Get a diagnosis. See a dementia diagnostic specialist or a neurologist.

2. Find a dementia home care specialist and hire them right away to help you navigate this journey.

* * * * *

Nasturtiums in red and yellow spotted at Kalaloch Lodge on the morning of her birthday remind me of my mom's beloved hummingbird feeders.

Today is my mother's birthday.

I sent her flowers and a card with a drawing of a hummingbird. Inside, I wrote her a note about the hummingbirds that would swarm around the feeders on her deck at home. She used to love to watch them.

I didn't know what else to get her.

Place mats and cloth napkins.

Pretty baking dishes.

A big red Fiestaware bowl.

Books. Anything by John Grisham or Jodi Picoult.

Jigsaw puzzles galore.

Hummingbird feeders.

These are the kinds of gifts I used to buy her.

Her life has moved beyond those needs.

My mom has advanced Lewy Body Dementia. Most days, she gets out of bed. She still enjoys a chocolate milkshake or an ice cream bar. A Heath Klondike is her favorite.

Her memory is surprisingly sound.

When we talk, she remembers me, my daughters, my dog. She remembers her old students and her teaching buddies. Her world travels. Her college days and high school days and a few sweet stories from her childhood. She listens attentively while I spin out the memories, and she responds to me. I know she understands. I know she loves to hear those stories.

She usually drifts off to sleep within ten or fifteen minutes.

I wish I knew more about what this life is like for her.

She's always been a smart, busy, resourceful person, flitting from project to project and working tirelessly from morning till night. And she's always been an emotionally complex person, with deep feelings and powerful hurts that she has locked up deep inside for a lifetime. Her dementia intensified all of these traits, and the past decade has been frantic, frenzied, furious, like the beating of a hummingbird's wings against a hurricane.

Now, the storm seems to have passed.

All things considered, she seems surprisingly at peace.

With me.

With herself.

With life.

Though I still wish I could give her a perfect birthday present, it seems that somehow, she has found the best gift of all.

And now she rests.

News Trend Rest In Peace|Actual

My mom died on Saturday afternoon.

Quietly

Peacefully

Alone in her room

Tucked into a freshly made bed.

I'm glad of that. She always loved clean sheets.

And while I'm saddened at her passing, I take comfort in knowing that her long battle with Lewy Body Dementia is over and she is safe in heaven with her parents, first-born grandson, and loyal dog.

This is my mom's neighbor's Michigan flag. Hers looks exactly the same

but she would have never left it out in the rain.

My mother was born in the fall of 1930 and grew up in Cassopolis, Michigan. Despite the hardships of the times, she lived a happy childhood, swimming in nearby lakes; mastering the piano, violin and trombone; and dreaming of dancing with Fred Astaire. Though she earned degrees at a number of colleges and universities, Mom took tremendous pride in her years at University of Michigan. She carried a lifelong passion for Michigan football, flying her maize and blue flag every game day and faithfully cheering her team on through good seasons and bad.

After considering careers as a chemist and a pianist, my mom settled into teaching and spent 23 years at Spencer Road Elementary School in Brighton. Known for her quick wit and no-nonsense manner, she helped plan the school from the ground up, penned the school fight song, and tamed a full generation of fifth-graders. These accomplishments gave her immense satisfaction and well-deserved pride.

This was her favorite photo of us.

But her deepest commitment was always to her family. In our home on Ore Lake, my mother single-handedly raised my three brothers and me, and we formed the nucleus of her world. Eventually, our spouses and her eleven grandchildren increased that joy. My mom brought endless energy and creative play into her grandchildren?S lives, and nurtured in them her deep love of reading.

Our Kelly. Mom always called him the "dog of dogsdanquot; and she loved him with her whole heart.

Dogs were a special joy for my mom. From her spunky Irish Setter, Kelly, to her various grand-dogs, and even those animals she met only briefly, Mom drew great companionship and compassion. She was well-known for showering her beloved furry friends with endless ear rubs and countless snacks, and they all loved her just as she loved them.

I give thanks to the Lord for my mother?S long and loving life. While I mourn her passing, I rejoice that she is now healed and whole.

Mother and daughter. Death does not divide us but simply brings us one step closer to eternity.

And I know that my mother will always be with me.

News Trend Back Home|Actual

Look who managed to find his own way back home.

When your mom dies

The world goes a little topsy turvy.

You have to figure out

How to lay your own life aside

And go home

To celebrate her life.

Ignore

...All the complications

...The unexpected costs

...And a ferocious cold

Cross the country and deal with

...Rental car snafus

...Delayed and disconnected flights

...And your bag that got lost in Chicago.

But when all is said and done

And you're back home again

With a heart full of memories

You just know

That everything

Is going to be alright.

News Trend Walking Toward Heaven|Actual

It was one month ago today that my mom died.

But the truth is that I've been walking toward her death for the past thirteen years and six months.

* * * * *

It was Monday, September 1, 2003, when the six of us showed up unexpectedly on my mom's doorstep, that I first understood her destiny.

Baby Ranger.

Well. Technically, there were seven of us. My husband, four daughters and I had just driven across most the United States, from Seattle to Mancelona, Michigan, to fetch our new pup. And with a wriggly and wonderful Baby Ranger in our arms, we decided to treat my mom to a surprise visit with her new grandson as well as her human family.

Whispering excitedly, we assembled on her front porch, rang the bell, and held our breath as her footsteps sounded down the hall.

Surprise!

Hi, Grandma!

Look, we got a puppy!

Pandemonium broke out as Mom opened the door, smiling from ear to ear, to let us explode into her house. I watched her face carefully, enjoying the look of genuine surprise and delight that told me she was truly thrilled by our unannounced arrival.

Then I noticed something else.

It was a flicker that crossed behind her eyes.

A slight hint of something more than just a good surprise.

An expression of genuine confusion.

A momentary lost of control.

In that exact moment, as I stood frozen in place on the doorstep with my daughters and tiny puppy streaming past me, talking and laughing with Grandma in a flurry of wild energy, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that my mom had dementia.

And I knew that dementia always ends in death. There is no cure.

* * * * *

In the thirteen years and six weeks since we stood on that porch, many things have happened.

My mom's illness healed our complicated relationship and brought us to a place of great peace.

My mom's illness also put her - and me - through hell.

For thirteen years and six weeks,

I've talked endless hours on the phone to her, even from Malaysia, India, and Vietnam.

I've worried about her through the dark hours of the night.

I've listened to her describe her hallucinations and acknowledged them as real.

I've gently advised her as she made decisions for herself.

I've baked her cookies.

I've helped her change her clothes and use the toilet.

I've reminded her over and over of the people who love her.

I've cried with her.

I've cried for her.

And I've prayed for her.

Sometimes wordlessly.

Because sometimes my heart was beyond words.

And sometimes I found the words to ask for exactly what I wanted - for God to surround her with his blazing light and purifying love, so that my mother would see only his majesty and none of this world's ugly hold on her.

On October 15, 2016, I rejoiced as he finally took her from her broken body to her great reward.

* * * * *

At the end of that week back in 2003, as we all piled back into the are and careened up the street, honking the horn and hollering our last goodbyes, I knew that my mother had dementia.

And in that moment, I began to walk with her toward heaven.

News Trend Fighting Back|Actual

My mom spent countless hours playing cards with with my girls as they were growing up.

She and my second-born (whose face is hidden behind the tree) particularly loved Five Crowns,

and even though my mom groaned when my daughters won, I know she was secretly proud of her sharp-witted grandkids.

My mom always had a sharp mind.

She was quick.

She was clever.

She was usually one step ahead of everyone else.

And even though Lewy Body Dementia eventually took much of her brain and eventually her life, she fought back long and well.

* * * * *

Last night I stumbled across an article about how to get your loved one with dementia to go to a doctor's appointment. Oh yes, that was always a tricky maneuver with my mom. The article laid out a lot of good suggestions, ones that worked for my mom and me:

• Do not announce the appointment ahead of time. On the morning of the appointment, simply slip it into the conversation that you'll be going out together. My mom didn't necessarily mind seeing doctors, but the anticipation totally stressed her out. I came to see that my secrecy was a gift to my mom's peace of mind, and I stopped feeling guilty about my manipulation.

• Make sure to schedule the appointment midday so there's lots of time to get ready. My mom did not like to accept help in her dressing routine, and it took a lot of patience to let her do things herself. I would sit on the couch and breathe deep.

• Write down your biggest concerns and privately hand them to the doctor's staff before going in to the exam. Sly as I tried to be, my mom usually noticed and asked me what I had given them. "Paperwork," I would vaguely reply. And that seemed to work.

• If the doctor or staff direct their attention only to you, redirect them to your loved one. When doctors talked exclusively to me - and I was shocked at how often they would - I would simply not reply, look at my mom, and let her answer.

• After the appointment, if your loved one is mad, commiserate with them about that "awful" doctor. But stop short of undermining the doctor's instructions. I have so many memories of listening to my mom rant after doctor's appointments. All my years of mothering teenage daughters came into play as I remembered to acknowledge her feelings without getting too involved in the content of the conversation. These were helpful, healthy moments in our relationship and though I didn't always enjoy them as they were happening, I am grateful for them now.

• Plan to do something super fun after the appointment, so your loved one's outing will end on a high note. My mom was all about that Olive Garden soup and salad combo, and a few warm bread sticks always, always cheered her up.

The full article here has many more nifty ideas.

* * * * *

These tips brought back a lot of sweet memories of the times I had to maneuver my sick but still extremely clever mother into a doctor?S office. They really do work.

And my mom developed her own tricks too. During one visit, as we sat in the waiting room, I noticed that she was repeatedly checking and rechecking the lock screen on her iPhone, so I asked her what she was doing. ?Oh, this fool doctor never knows what day it is so he?S always asking me for the date. I memorize it before I go in.?

* * * * *

My mother has been gone two years now. My feelings about her passing are still mostly unprocessed; I'm still outraged at how she suffered, and I'm so strangely relieved that her battle is over.

But then I remember how her indelibly sharp mind fought back against that terrible disease, and I can't help but smile.

News Trend On Grief|Actual

"Happiness is beneficial for the body, but it is grief that develops the powers of the mind."

-Marcel Proust

^ Grief usually drives me straight to my garden...But at this time of year, I'm finding that trips to the nursery are just as therapeutic. And much less muddy.

^ Right now, I'm all about the indoor plants. I do not need a single one - my windowsills and table tops are already bursting with green friends - but my hunger for new life will not be denied.

^ Succulents can be temperamental and fussy to grow, but when tiny, perfect specimens are lined up in sweet rows, I am charmed. Resistance is futile.

^ This exploding pink flower did not make my short list of specimens to take home but I surely enjoyed his upbeat attitude.

^ My second-born and I tiptoe around the puddles and find hope in the sweet miracle of green things.

* * * * *

During the past few months, I've been hit by three waves of death.

In less than one hundred days - ninety-six, to be exact - I've lost my mother, my father, and my good dog, Ranger.

This has been quite a stormy season for me.

And while I grieve each one of these tsunamis in my life, I've noticed how strikingly different the nuances and lessons of grief can be.

* * * * *

My mother's death came as a blessing. She had been too sick for too long and her passing was both unexpected and merciful. And while I hate the disease that stole the last thirteen years of her life, I'm profoundly grateful for the way her journey through Lewy Body Dementia reconciled our relationship. After a lifetime of misunderstandings and mixed emotions, we finally made our way to a place of love, understanding, and peace. But at that point, the person who once was my mother was a faint shadow of her former self. So who exactly is the mother that I miss now?

This is a grief that confuses me.

My dad's death sealed his fate as a failed father. From his inexcusable behavior during my childhood to his unapologetic absence in my adult life - since I turned 21, I saw him a grand total of three times - I had always allowed myself to believe that he might one day reach out to me and redeem himself. Now, I didn't put a lot of stock in that premise but I did leave an emotional door open for him, in case he ever wanted to step through. But no. He never did and now he never will. He died lonely and alone and I pity him.

This is a grief that gives me clarity.

Ranger's death was pure and sweet. My dog lived a blessedly long and happy life, so in that respect, his passing was a celebration of abundance and fine living. But as caregiver to an animal who lovingly trusted me in all things, I felt the sharp edge of responsibility for his tender heart. In Ranger's final days, I was completely absorbed with the responsibility of keeping him physically comfortable and emotionally secure in a peace beyond his understanding. I wanted so much to give him a calm and soothing death, and I think - and I hope and pray - that's what he felt.

And this is a grief that makes me cry bittersweet tears of love and sadness and blessed relief.

* * * * *

I've learned that there are no easy answers or quick fixes for grief.

I understand better how intensely personal grief must always be, for it springs from our individual relationships and no two relationships are ever the same.

I've hungered for contact with other people who grieve.

Even though we rarely understand each other perfectly, and the words are sometimes fumbling and awkward, I'm profoundly grateful each and every person who has reached out to me to express their compassion and care.

Love does not overcome grief, but it walks alongside it and holds its hand.

God has used my grief to draw me closer to him. If there is ever a time when we need God, it's when we are staring into the face of eternity, and he has totally come through for me. I'm thankful for that.

The waves of grief will be with me forever; periodically knocking me down, holding me under, stealing my breath, and then, always, setting me back on my feet so I can feel the sand under my toes and the warm sun up above me once again.

And when the waves of grief roll up on you, I promise to dive into the water and help you get back on your feet. I'll even hold your hand if you want.

News Trend Lightness|Actual

"Simplify, then add lightness." -Colin Chapman

My bedroom basks in sunshine while the bathroom sits in shadows. You'd never know from this photo that the walls are the exact same color.

It's been six or seven years since I changed.

Long a proponent of bold color and lots of action in my decor, my aesthetic abruptly switched to a starkly minimal streak. Suddenly I craved neutrals all day, simple black and white accents, and lots of big empty space on my walls.

To be honest, this timeline matches up with the decline of my mother's health. Her battle with Lewy Body Dementia took a toll on my state of mind as well as hers, and when she became seriously ill, I found that a calm, visually quiet home brought peace to my troubled soul.

So I began to live, quite contentedly, with pale, neutral, empty spaces.

If you look closely, you can see the last remaining 1980s pink and blue morning glories in the tile around my bathtub. My brain refuses to acknowledge them, but there they are in all their glory.

This was especially true in my bedroom and bathroom. I needed Zen-level calm in the place where I wound down at night for restful sleep, and geared myself up in the morning to face another day. So I stripped both rooms down to bare essentials and light beige walls, and just let everything be for years on end.

A year and a half ago, I dreamed of four paintings on the then-completely blank wall of my bedroom. Inspired by my vision, I went out on a limb and brought this kecil gallery to life. Though this felt like a huge step forward, these pieces were just what I needed to begin stepping out from my empty-wall phase, and hang exactly in the same spot to this day.

Many times over the past year, those paintings have caught my eye, and I am grateful that I made what felt like the very bold step to add them.

I'll admit that the grey background against the beige wall is hardly a cutting edge decor statement. But the low contrast combination is exactly what feels pleasing to my brain, and that is good enough for me.

Last week, they inspired me further.

Okay, I tell myself, enough with the big empty wall above the bathtub. It's time to admit that that space looks neglected and sad. I begin to mentally sort through my art stash to see if anything on hand could suit my purposes.

My family room in 2012. Pretty much everything has changed since then.

I'm glad the flower lives on.

With a jolt of surprise and a rush of certainty, I remember the big flower painting that used to hang in my family room. Somewhere around three in the morning - which is probably like ten p.M. To normal people - I dash out to the garage, pull it from storage, and hustle it upstairs to see if the proportions would work.

Yes. Perfection.

The bold colors of the original art still feel overwhelming to me but not to worry. Since I created the painting in the first place, I can easily rework it in different colors.

And that's what I do. A Saturday afternoon on the patio surrounded by a half dozen tubes of acrylic paint turns the bright red flower to pale pink, and dials the background back from blue to gray.

Now this is the scene that greets me when I walk into my bathroom, and it feels not chaotic or overwhelming but cheerful.

I hang the reinvented painting in place before dinner, and that night - again around three in the morning - as I bring in a trio of plants for their monthly watering session, I take in the scene and realize they are the perfect finishing touch.

I realize that my bathroom - and my bedroom too, for that matter - is still subdued and a far cry from the old days of orange polka dots and rainbow rugs.

But times have changed me, for better or for worse, and this still-neutral room now set off by a big bold flower expresses exactly who I am today.

The flower adds the touch of lightness that I am finally ready to embrace.