The physical being of my husband's mother, Velma, lives in a beautiful facility on the outskirts of Tulsa, Oklahoma. Now, however, the non-tangible thing--the spirit and essence that had always made Velma, Velma, seldom occupies this wrinkled, stoop-shouldered, 87 year-old lady. Alzheimer's is slowly taking her from us. It will, at some point, leave us with only a body to be washed and fed and clothed until it can no longer withstand the terrible toll this disease exacts on its victims.
Velma was truly a matriarch. She nearly single-handedly raised two girls and three boys (two of them identical twins-one of them my husband). Because her husband's paycheck sometimes didn't cover much more than the family's bare necessities, Velma learned how to cut the children's hair, prepare satisfying but inexpensive one-pot suppers, and stretch a meager sock and underwear budget by being first in line at the local, annual white sale.
Grandma, as I usually called Velma, was about the most strong-willed person I've ever met. It was always hard to help her cook or perform other tasks because she always wanted things to be done her way. I learned it was better to get out of her kitchen and let her do whatever it was herself.
Now, the spaghetti-shaped plaque that is forming in her brain is robbing her of the ability to do all but the simplest of things. She is nearly incapable of speech, is incontinent and doesn't always recognize those people who were most precious to her, her children. Velma's physical being is with us, but her mind comes and goes and when it leaves, I wonder what its destination is. The doctors don't know, but I hope it's with her family; vacationing at campsite number 10 at Lower Billy Creek Campground, at the far end of beautiful Huntington Lake in the Western Sierra Nevada mountains, the place she loved best.
Velma was truly a matriarch. She nearly single-handedly raised two girls and three boys (two of them identical twins-one of them my husband). Because her husband's paycheck sometimes didn't cover much more than the family's bare necessities, Velma learned how to cut the children's hair, prepare satisfying but inexpensive one-pot suppers, and stretch a meager sock and underwear budget by being first in line at the local, annual white sale.
Grandma, as I usually called Velma, was about the most strong-willed person I've ever met. It was always hard to help her cook or perform other tasks because she always wanted things to be done her way. I learned it was better to get out of her kitchen and let her do whatever it was herself.
Now, the spaghetti-shaped plaque that is forming in her brain is robbing her of the ability to do all but the simplest of things. She is nearly incapable of speech, is incontinent and doesn't always recognize those people who were most precious to her, her children. Velma's physical being is with us, but her mind comes and goes and when it leaves, I wonder what its destination is. The doctors don't know, but I hope it's with her family; vacationing at campsite number 10 at Lower Billy Creek Campground, at the far end of beautiful Huntington Lake in the Western Sierra Nevada mountains, the place she loved best.
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