My Mom

My Mom is amazing. A woman who was the blue-eyed blonde my father fell in love with when they were both juniors at UNC-CH. Oh, the stories I could tell you about how they were meant to be.

Now, fifty years later, my mom’s sweetheart, the man who correctly vowed he’d marry her… before he’d even met her…. is disappearing more and more each day. While there are sparks of his personality - his memory, his essence, his intellect… are all being affected by his multiple dementia (Alzheimer’s/Vascular Dementia).

In these last years, we knew Dad was changing. His personality had shadows in it that we had not experienced in all our years as a family. Mom had the most regular and intimate interactions with these changes. They weren’t easy. Anyone who has loved one who had dementia reads between the lines in what I write and “knows” what I’m talking about.

All of us hurt for the loss of our Dad’s mental acumen. All of us mourn the changes we see in his personality and his physicality (a shuffling walk, a timidity still laced with a frequent stubbornness to “do things on his own” and so forth). However, for my mama, it’s hard in ways I cannot empathize with, only sympathize… because my dad has not been my best friend, soul mate, lover, spiritual head of my household, father of my children… he’s been Mom’s. And while similar, he’s not the same man any more.

But he’s still her husband, and he holds onto to that fact even when his mind gradually loses other information. She is written in his mind, but she is forever engraved in his heart… the man she covenanted with all those decades ago. Each day, she becomes more and more his anchor in a world that has to seem riddled with high waves of change.

For, you see, my mother took seriously the vows: “For better or worse, in sickness and in health.” She (and we) just didn’t know there would be a death before a death. But we’re learning… and it’s the longest goodbye.

Yet, even in that, my mom adjusts. She struggled to accept Dad’s condition, but she did, and now – while she will never embrace it; that’s not what you do to disease – she takes each day as it comes. Each morning sees her honoring her husband in so many big and small ways, all the while holding onto the hand of her Abba God until that day ends, that night comes… and then the next day sees it begin all again.

Yes, my mom is amazing… in details and dimensions that I’ve not even touched upon in one short writing. But on this Sabbath Sunday, as I contemplate the temporal within the eternal, I give thanks for my mother… a woman who personifies what is written in Proverbs 31, especially verse 28: Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.

The reality is: there just isn’t praise enough to fully describe my mom.

Red

Today, he wore red

And reflected the hue of his heart…

My mom, in her matching attire.

Their photo was clear

But his mind was not

And my heart felt the weight

Today, I wore red

It adorned my lips…

As a reflection of my parents’ love

And the button

Of the car seatbelt

Was Red… and the only way

Dad remembered how to

Unbuckle it and free

Himself from that which bound him

If only there was a red button

That when pushed

Would free his mind of this disease

The color Red

Has many shades…

Of Love and Sorrow.

Brilliance

I was probably a teenager when I began to realize just how intelligent my father was. Before that, he was just this amazing hugger, the man who held me above the ocean’s high waves, caught me in his arms when I jumped down the stairs in our house and loved me fiercely in so many ways that were seen each day. When I began to notice his intellect, I began to see just how high it was.

My dad could add columns of figures in his head. He had the ability and foresight (I would now even call it a prophetic gift) to look to the future and accurately “see” where different choices/paths would likely lead. People of all socio-economic, ethnic, religious and professional backgrounds came to my dad for his wise counsel and advice or for an authentic hug or honest deal on the furniture and floor coverings found in his family-owned business.

He was on numerous boards, councils, fund-raising groups, leadership teams, and pastoral search or deacon committees. He served as a leader or president of the Chamber of Commerce, the Lions Club, the Girls and Boys Homes of N.C., the State Merchant Association and more. 

In summary, my dad was brilliant, in the way a diamond is… there were so many facets to the man whose heart put God first, his family second and his work and community third. He considered a primary calling to be a steward of the resources he was given and gained through working six-days-a-week-for-40+-years of his life.

Growing up, it was an honor to be known in our community as Lionel Todd’s daughter. He was not perfect, but he was a man who lived a life of integrity and purpose to the degree that he took his multitudinous responsibilities more seriously than anyone else I knew.

Even today, after Todd Furniture Store is closed and Dad is not as actively involved in the community, I still hear stories of how my Dad helped that person, guided this project or gave of himself to this group or helped lead that effort. This was just the way my dad walked out his life led by his Lord.

Now, my father has Alzheimer’s and Vascular Dementia. The brain that could add up columns of numbers in his head often struggles to zip up his coat, put on his seatbelt, or remember details that give dimension to life. His thought processes are much simpler; his sentences aren’t often logical and his conversations are not frequently coherent. And there are more and more times when the diseases in his brain short-circuit his communication or suffocate his personality.

Therefore, is he still brilliant? Well, maybe not in the way he was. Yet, when I see him tell people he loves them or when a song or scripture moves him to tears or when he just reaches out and holds my hand while I’m driving or walking or just being with him during the days… then I realize he is manifesting a different kind of brilliance… that which is eternal and permeated by love… love from him and the love of God through and around him.

So now that I’m older and life with my dad is so much harder, how does it feel to be Lionel Todd’s daughter? Am I still proud to be the daughter of man who doesn’t always remember my name or where I live or what I do?

You. Better. Believe. It.

My Heavenly Father knew just who needed to be my earthly father. And nothing – not even the hellacious season that dementia dictates – will ever change the honor it is to be the daughter of my dad.

Fuchsia Pink Muffintop Moments

Today, I tried on the fuchsia pink lacy short dress my parents gifted me with for my recent birthday. As the great-granddaughter of a tailor-talented seamstress, I was wise enough to put on the  “right foundation garments.” (Y’know the best things to wear underneath your clothes to smooth out and “make the most of what you have.”) They helped. But they didn’t erase the extra curves I’ve acquired since I’ve come home to help care for my dad.

These days it is often true: I experience muffintop moments.

As a woman who’s always warred with her weight, well, at least since I was 11 or 12, I know - with a great deal of practice and intimacy - the ways my body loses weight… and gains it. I know that exercise helps my body and especially my brain…IF it’s exercise I enjoy, like dancing or late night walks.

I know these things, so I truly don’t really need anyone - no matter how authentically loving and “helpful” - to tell me more than once about a new way to get healthy or say: “If you would just do… such and such, you’d so and so…”  Now, I say “more than once,” because I am not closed off to people sharing things they think are important or helpful. However, I do have a decent intellect and recall, so I usually remember such things after being told once… and if I don’t, I’m definitely comfortable with asking questions or seeking reminders. For those who care and encourage and do not criticize (me or anyone)… may you have stars added to your crowns. J

I say all this because in this current season, I’ve realized losing weight is just not going to be the top priority. Therefore, while I don’t want to gain any more (but I may), I’m also striving not to get all uptight and bothered by the fact that my 42-year-old body doesn’t look like it did when I was a teenager, or the last time I lost significant amounts of weight (in 2008/9). And I’m certainly endeavoring not to let others’ differing perspectives, Hollywood’s definition of beauty – or my negative self talk – add weight where it’s most dangerous, in my heart and emotions and self-image.

Today, the pastor of my church spoke of how the Enemy (who, you know, has a job description that is to “steal, kill and destroy”) knows exactly when to tempt and to attack. My temptation, in this season, is to agree with his insidious criticism and/or to berate myself for not being what society oft’ says is preferred physically. As attacks go, it can do some damage.

But the truth is, grieving my dad’s Alzheimer’s, adjusting to a life that took a radical geographical and professional re-locate from where I thought I’d be after graduation, caring for my mom and helping other family members… and just living each day within the choices I’ve made to be “present” in this season… is enough for my mind and emotions to take on. Added denigrating mental trash to the mix, is just that – garbage.

Because part of being “present” in this season is to be ready at the drop of a hat to help my mom and to create adventures and opportunities for my dad during most afternoons and evenings. Many of those are food oriented. Tofu and carrot sticks don’t have the same Southern sensory relativity, as do waffles. He doesn’t respond well to random rides around town or to “Let’s go eat a salad,” the way he lights up when it’s “Let’s go to Waffle House” or “Hey, why don’t we have coffee at the local pastry shop?” or “Dad, you want some burger and fries?” Destinations matter, be they the library, the lake, or a local restaurant.

Now, I will always likely find it tempting to war with my body by mentally struggling with my physicality, regardless of my parents’ health or other circumstances around me. It seems to be a thorn that doesn’t get removed from my flesh, regardless of how I pray for and work towards its retraction. Like today, when I tried on the fuchsia lace dress, I noted that my tummy reminded me of my paternal grandmother’s, my face looked really round, and my unmentionables weren’t able to make all my imperfections magically disappear.

Then I decided to once again tell the Enemy “to go to Hell” (that’s his home anyway) and my own negative self-talk to cease and desist. And as for the echoes of others’ previous criticisms or the foreshadowing of future criticisms I may hear… I think I’ll just say, “Love you, but you can take your verbal and mental trash and shove it… into the landfill where it belongs.”

For you see, when I wear that lacy fuchsia pink dress and dance the night away in my oh-so-high wedged platform sandals that show off my gams, I’m going to be grateful I have a body that can move, a mind that can think, and a heart that can love… and well, my hips will just show one of the ways I do so…

That’s okay, cause that’s how I roll. J

Invisible Indelible Ink

The triple “I” of Alzheimer’s…. Today, I watched my father sign the checks for the business in which he and his dad and granddad have all played a part… first in furniture, now in mini-storage and real estate management. Each pay roll period, Dad still goes and signs the checks for those who are working within the family-owned and operated company with a foundation laid over 75 years ago.

Now, at 72-going-on-73-years old, my father – whose brain and body have been impacted by both Alzheimer’s and Vascular Dementia – pauses with his pen over each payroll recipient and looks at the typed out name of his business so he can remember how to sign his name: J. Lionel Todd.  The J. and the Lionel come relatively easy for each signature, but the Todd gives him a moment to remember and review how to write and spell it.

My heart aches... and struggles not to shatter.

I think I’m ‘okay’ with how God is allowing my beloved father to spend his last years on earth, and then something as simple (and yet not) as a signature has me fighting tears and swallowing hard over the lump in my throat and the one in my chest that seems to constrict my breathing.

So, I send up a prayer silently. I dig deep for the peace that only my Abba can give. And I realize that no matter what earthly ink tries to smudge across my emotions with its struggling signature… the ink that is indelible, yet invisible… is the ink of love that can never be erased from my heart.

It’s the love of my Heavenly Father and for my earthly father… it’s a love that is ever and always… without end.

Amen.