Recently, Mom and I were on Go Vancouver! on Shaw TV. Our interview aired on Friday and Saturday of last week. Today, it was uploaded to Shaw TV YouTube channel. A big thank you to Dunia Tozy, Video Journalist, for doing such a great job! Please share the link widely.
Residents of Sentinel Hill in West Vancouver tried to block the passing of a new seniors care facility focusing on dementia-care in their neighbourhood, claiming their property values would plummet… Council has decided to go ahead with the new facility. “We cannot, if we call ourselves a community, be content with shuffling off people as they come to the end of their life and they're infirm,” [Mayor Michael Smith] said.
In August 1993, my father had a stroke which left him paralysed on his right side. My strong – and even stronger-willed, always-in-charge father became dependent on others. My parents (read, my father) stubbornly remained on their 5-acre property, determined to stay in their home. Finally, in May 1997, after a group of juveniles broke into the garage of their home, my father finally conceded that he could no longer protect my mother, and they moved into a house in the suburb. It was a classic suburban neighbourhood: middle-class families consisting of parents in their mid-30s to mid-50s, and children ranging from tots to teens. Word spread quickly when my parents moved into the area; my father was 85 years old, my mother was 73. Within a week, everyone knew my mother. “Hello, Olga,” they would say as she went on one of her three walks per day. They became the neighbourhood grandparents. Peter would come to clear their driveway of snow; Greg was always ready to help in times of need; the teenage boys at the corner mowed the lawn in return for a $20 bill, and their father did the edging; and their next door neighbour, a retired plumber, fixed the gate or the garburator, and received a bag of home-made perogies for his effort. My younger sister’s kids would drop by after school for cookies and milk until my sister was able to pick them up. As my mother’s memory fogged, and she became confused – and at times lost – on her daily walks, the neighbourhood kept a watchful eye on her. More than once, a car would pull over, and the driver would ask if she needed help, which she would gladly accept. To these anonymous people we are grateful. When we hired Susana, a live-in caregiver, the community was ready to provide support. After we moved mom into a care facility, her neighbours quietly acknowledged our decision. Interestingly, the retired couple who bought my parent’s home were told it was on the market by their daughter, who lived down the street with her family. Perhaps they are now the neighbourhood grandparents. Another day of purchases at the local outdoor shops! I am getting better with brand recognition. I met a lovely young woman at one of the stores. She was very interested in my 2014 Ascent for Alzheimer’s climb of Kilimanjaro. Apparently, the grandmother of her good friend recently died of Alzheimer’s, and she is certain that once her friend has moved beyond grieving, that she will want to do the climb to honour her grandmother. It is exciting to be part of a movement that encourages people, young and old, to take up the cause! I told her about Ben, and how his grandfather was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s when he was only 10 years old. He and his family are now having to support the third member of their family to have succumbed to this disease. It seems the more people I tell about my climb, the more people I meet who have been impacted by the disease, either directly or indirectly.
And we are only on the threshold of what lies ahead. Aren’t the flowers lovely? The cherry blossoms are in bloom, the tulips and daffodils are starting to spread their glory, and the camellias are dropping their heads. Spring, summer, and fall always remind me of my mother. Her garden was always in bloom, regardless of the season (except winter perhaps!). Many a time people would pull over to the side of the road and snap a photo of her flower garden. And if you dropped by for a visit, you would always leave with a bouquet. Beauty is meant to be shared of course. Unfortunately, I did not inherit my mother’s green thumb. I struggle to keep plants alive. More than once, my mother would find a discarded old plant consisting of dead twigs, and she would say, “I will put it out. We see if it comes back”, and three months later, she would have a stunning plant. When asked what she had done to revive it, she would say, “I did nothing! I did nothing!”, and knowing my mother, she probably didn’t. As famous as my mother was for her flower garden outdoors, she was equally famous for her vases full of flowers indoors. There are probably three things which symbolise my mother best: an apron (or Kittelschuerze), a book, and a vase. She had many, many vases, of which at least three would be filled with flowers at any one time. Once I visited her after work and noticed an unusual floral display. It was such an interesting arrangement that I commented on it. My mother laughed. “They are weeds”, she said. Even weeds can be made to look good if you have a creative flair! I spent Saturday afternoon shopping with a colleague/mountaineer who made recommendations as to what equipment and clothing I should consider purchasing in preparation for my hike up Kilimanjaro. Yikes! I haven’t looked at outdoor gear in a long time. I came home and spent a couple of hours on the Internet looking at websites just to familiarise myself with name brands, etc. I discovered being active comes with a price!
Please accept my apologies for the long silence. I have been so busy, both at work and in my volunteer work. There are simply not enough hours in a day to do all that I aspire to. In order to focus on my commitment to the Alzheimer’s Society of B.C. and the Ascent for Alzheimer’s, I am in the process of transitioning out of my work with Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF). I had originally planned to step down in June, but I have advanced it by a couple of months. Timing may not be ideal, but sometimes, one has to do what he/she feels is right, and in my case, I know that I have made a good decision. The scientists planning to share the coordinator role are taking a fresh approach, and will breathe new life into the local Association. I’m looking forward to exciting times ahead!
An email from a colleague reminded me of one of my mother’s stories. My colleague had given me some hummingbird images in the form of aboriginal art. I asked her what the significance was, if any. She said that hummingbirds in North American aboriginal culture mean "healers". She went on to say that
not only do we need more concerted research on “alzheimer’s”… but hopefully we will have more choices in housing and lifestyles for aging parents. So, you fit the description of a “healer” who facilitates better health. First, thank you to my colleague for thinking of me as a “healer”. I don’t consider myself a healer, but rather a bridge. I will pick up on her comments on housing and lifestyles for the elderly on another occasion; it is her reference to “healers” that I write to now. My mother often told us children a story her mother had told her as a child in the Ukraine. My maternal grandmother came from a poor peasant family who could not afford to send their daughter to school. However, the priest at the local church recognised my grandmother’s abilities and offered her a scholarship so she could study. As there was no school in her village, my grandmother would stay at a boarding school in another village. During the summer, she would stay with her grandmother in yet another village. My great great-grandmother was a healer of some renown. My grandmother would spend her summers wandering with her grandmother through the meadows and forests, searching for medicinal leaves, flowers, bark, roots, etc. Apparently, my great great-grandmother had found a remedy for syphilis using medicinal herbs. The Czar’s court heard of my great great-grandmother’s ability to cure syphilis, and an entourage of the Czar’s personal physicians came to visit her in her village to learn the truth. The doctors brought with them people that had been diagnosed with syphilis, and asked my great great-grandmother to cure them. To their surprise, she did. They begged my great great-grandmother to return with them to the Czar’s court in Moscow, but she refused. They pleaded for the recipe, telling her that the Czar would make her a wealthy woman. As she was illiterate, they would write it down for her; but she shunned them, saying that she would “pass it down” when the time was right. I have always believed that she planned to pass her knowledge on to her granddaughter, my grandmother, but before she could do so, she had what we believe to be a stroke, and her knowledge was lost. Is this story true? I would like to believe so. My mother loved telling us this story, which spanned several generations. She had a passion for history, and I suppose this story gave her a sense of her roots, which she passed on to us. As for my grandmother, she became a teacher of the Ukrainian language, and the principal of a local village elementary school. I am listening to a CBC podcast titled "Aging by the Book", a Paul Kennedy "Ideas" show. It is about narrative gerontology, a field I know nothing about, but which intrigues me. Narrative gerontology refers to life as story, with people being the storytellers as it applies to aging. The podcast touches on several different themes:
I am so surprised that this podcast should air just as I am launching this project. It expresses many of my own views on storytelling, which I had not been able to verbalise, but which I understood instinctively. Thank you, Paul Kennedy, for bringing this story to radio. I discovered something new yesterday. My mother and I were chit-chatting, and the Sochi Olympics were playing in the background; a re-run of the morning hockey game between the USA and Russia. I asked my mother if she had been athletic as a student in school. After a few minutes of reflection, she said that she had indeed done well in track and field. Not in high jump, but in long jump. Her nickname had been “Olena the cricket”. It’s hard to imagine my mother jumping through the air…
There are many faces to Alzheimer’s disease and dementia, my mother’s story is just one of them. I sometimes think we forget the faces, the stories, the lives lived. I would like to keep the stories alive, as it is through story that we create memory, and our memories become our story.
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Lydia Meister
I am participating in the 2014 Ascent for Alzheimer’s hike of Mount Kilimanjaro. My goal is to raise $90,000 for the Alzheimer Society of B.C. in honour of my mother’s 90th birthday in July 2014. Please help by donating to: http://my.e2rm.com/PersonalPage.aspx?registrationID=2193787&langPref=en-CA&Referrer=direct%2Fnone You will receive a receipt for your donation. Thank you! Archives
October 2014
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