Life Loop: Chapter excerpts
Chapter One:
I have lived in four states. Different sights: snow and slush, green and lush, East Coast, West, dry and desolate with a mountain’s view, or an ocean’s vastness going on forever. Different smells: first snow, fragrant tropical moistness in the air, rain on a resistant desert landscape that oozes the smell of Creosote, Pacific Ocean and Eucalyptus scenting from my backyard. I have lived in four different states, states of mind, states of place. Was I prepared for this, ready for this? Are we ever ready?
Chapter Three:
Sitting in a second floor office, I look over the Alzheimer’s Association pamphlets and listen to the female advocate in the chair across from me. “The disease can take eight to twelve years before it gets to its final stages. How long has your mom had Alzheimer’s?” I open the pamphlet to the symptom progression chart. Cognitive reasoning, she’s lost her sense of humor. I’ve noticed that she only laughs because she’s covering up the fact that she doesn’t understand something. I know this, because it’s as if her laugh has a big question mark after it like a bubble above her head. Having a conversation? She doesn’t follow, has no sense of boundaries, and isn’t controlling her emotions. She has no sense of what is appropriate, cursing at will or without will, and either extremely sweet or angry, mistrust. I look back up at the representative. “I think it may be as long as eight years already.”…. Mom is young, sixty-eight, and barely knows me.
Chapter Five:
Billie, who lives in the condo across the garden path sees it all happening, saw what happened on that day. She’s so kind. She must be nearing eighty and has lived here for about thirty years. Her front patio has white lattice on the side facing the road, privacy. An American flag is anchored out from above the lattice on a wooden pole along with a pink and green windsock hanging from an old white cotton string; both catching the mile off ocean breeze. A white wicker patio set, not plastic real wicker, love seat and chairs with thick well-loved cushions fill the space. Ashtrays, one, an abalone shell, the other, made of glass rest on top of wicker coffee table with a large burgundy floral area rug underneath. The kind you get from a street vender or Target; it marks the patio’s center.
She spends all her days in her outdoor living room with her two Chihuahuas. Both of them hooked up to their leash—one pink and one black tethering them and keeping them close at hand. There they sit, stand, and run back and forth guarding the entrance while all the time looking like deer in headlights, all ears and eyes with a little body enticing people to come in with their cuteness. And they do, people stop and visit with Billie all day long bringing their dogs and conversation. “I spend the day outside and do my house cleaning at night when it’s dark and not so nice out.” She once told me. I like this, what a concept, and it seems very wise coming from her with her no nonsense looks and thoughtful have seen a lot golden brown eyes. Her warmth when I need it most exudes from her presence, short brown curly hair with flecks of white, her fit almost eighty frame, faded jeans, red-white-and blue plaid shirt—not tucked in—always over a t-shirt, and basic white leather sneakers supporting her soles while she comforts mine. “What can I do to help?” She asks in her soft humble voice that always has a hint of a twang in it. We walk across the garden path to Mom’s rental.
Chapter Ten:
Dear Mom,
I don’t know if I should be writing this to you, but it’s how I feel. I’m glad you’re comfortable now, or a least you appear to be comfortable, not agitated, not in pain. Though I can’t help wanting to see your fight, see your anger again. Because, then I know you haven’t given up, that there’s a chance you might survive, beat this thing, Alzheimer’s. But from everything I’ve heard or read, it seems impossible. But then so much in life seems impossible, and yet you taught me that things aren’t, if you believe and try hard. But you can’t try hard anymore. I know this, but I don’t believe this.
Love always,
Jen
Chapter One:
I have lived in four states. Different sights: snow and slush, green and lush, East Coast, West, dry and desolate with a mountain’s view, or an ocean’s vastness going on forever. Different smells: first snow, fragrant tropical moistness in the air, rain on a resistant desert landscape that oozes the smell of Creosote, Pacific Ocean and Eucalyptus scenting from my backyard. I have lived in four different states, states of mind, states of place. Was I prepared for this, ready for this? Are we ever ready?
Chapter Three:
Sitting in a second floor office, I look over the Alzheimer’s Association pamphlets and listen to the female advocate in the chair across from me. “The disease can take eight to twelve years before it gets to its final stages. How long has your mom had Alzheimer’s?” I open the pamphlet to the symptom progression chart. Cognitive reasoning, she’s lost her sense of humor. I’ve noticed that she only laughs because she’s covering up the fact that she doesn’t understand something. I know this, because it’s as if her laugh has a big question mark after it like a bubble above her head. Having a conversation? She doesn’t follow, has no sense of boundaries, and isn’t controlling her emotions. She has no sense of what is appropriate, cursing at will or without will, and either extremely sweet or angry, mistrust. I look back up at the representative. “I think it may be as long as eight years already.”…. Mom is young, sixty-eight, and barely knows me.
Chapter Five:
Billie, who lives in the condo across the garden path sees it all happening, saw what happened on that day. She’s so kind. She must be nearing eighty and has lived here for about thirty years. Her front patio has white lattice on the side facing the road, privacy. An American flag is anchored out from above the lattice on a wooden pole along with a pink and green windsock hanging from an old white cotton string; both catching the mile off ocean breeze. A white wicker patio set, not plastic real wicker, love seat and chairs with thick well-loved cushions fill the space. Ashtrays, one, an abalone shell, the other, made of glass rest on top of wicker coffee table with a large burgundy floral area rug underneath. The kind you get from a street vender or Target; it marks the patio’s center.
She spends all her days in her outdoor living room with her two Chihuahuas. Both of them hooked up to their leash—one pink and one black tethering them and keeping them close at hand. There they sit, stand, and run back and forth guarding the entrance while all the time looking like deer in headlights, all ears and eyes with a little body enticing people to come in with their cuteness. And they do, people stop and visit with Billie all day long bringing their dogs and conversation. “I spend the day outside and do my house cleaning at night when it’s dark and not so nice out.” She once told me. I like this, what a concept, and it seems very wise coming from her with her no nonsense looks and thoughtful have seen a lot golden brown eyes. Her warmth when I need it most exudes from her presence, short brown curly hair with flecks of white, her fit almost eighty frame, faded jeans, red-white-and blue plaid shirt—not tucked in—always over a t-shirt, and basic white leather sneakers supporting her soles while she comforts mine. “What can I do to help?” She asks in her soft humble voice that always has a hint of a twang in it. We walk across the garden path to Mom’s rental.
Chapter Ten:
Dear Mom,
I don’t know if I should be writing this to you, but it’s how I feel. I’m glad you’re comfortable now, or a least you appear to be comfortable, not agitated, not in pain. Though I can’t help wanting to see your fight, see your anger again. Because, then I know you haven’t given up, that there’s a chance you might survive, beat this thing, Alzheimer’s. But from everything I’ve heard or read, it seems impossible. But then so much in life seems impossible, and yet you taught me that things aren’t, if you believe and try hard. But you can’t try hard anymore. I know this, but I don’t believe this.
Love always,
Jen