Note: Many people ask about the photo on the cover of AFS brochures and on the web page. The lady in the red glasses is a real person that had Alzheimer's disease. Her name was Mimi. In June 2009, Dawn Hood-Patterson, grand daughter-in-law of the lively woman, eloquently shared with us her observation of Mimi; a heart wrenching story that reminds us all how Alzheimer's changes a person – and a family. One year from the date that the original story was published, the inspiration about life – and now death – continues in a follow up story. AFS expresses our gratitude to Dawn and her family for sharing this life journey.
She may have changed the eyeglass prescription as years passed but she never left the optometrist’s office without her defining red frames, except for once. Apparently red was not “in-style” that year and she had to do with another, highly-underappreciated color. That, however, lasted but a few month until she found another pair of red frames.
My first Christmas with the family was one like no other. Growing up nearly 3000 miles away from my grandparents I couldn’t remember the last time I spent the holiday with grandmas and grandpas. Every year Mimi says, “I must make my presentation!” This year it was quite exceptional. She handed out stockings filled with goodies to each of her 5 grandchildren and then handed me a stocking, embroidered with the name “Dawn”. She said, I now have 6 beautiful grandchildren,” gesturing toward me.
Mimi’s stories compose the family heritage. She talks about being sent on a bus to the big city after high school graduation (she confesses that she had no intention of ever leaving home but found that her father had other plans). She told us stories of climbing a mountain in Brazil, the beauty and spectacle changed her forever. She spilled the beans about all the most embarrassing moments from my husband’s childhood.
She always says, “I’m so proud of all of you, I love you very much!” And it’s true. She loves us, unconditionally. She may not like some of the choices we’ve made in life but her unwavering refrain is, “I’m so proud of you, I love you very much.”
Mimi is beauty. She is life. She has Alzheimer’s disease. She is a handful of expensive, silk ribbons that are slowly slipping between our fingers. Her stories are increasingly more difficult to follow. Her memories are more muddled. Her charm is tinted by frustration. Seldom do we have the privilege of knowing people who will impact our lives so profoundly, both in the way they live and in the legacy that they so carefully construct for us. Mimi has built us a fortress under which we will crouch, by which we will remember her stories—even when she may not.
She woke up on the pristine March morning, ten months prior to her death, and assuredly stated that this would be her final birthday. The decade of the eighties had been accompanied by falls, broken bones, decreased independence and Alzheimer’s disease. It was a somber reminder that lucidity accompanied rare moments of her true self—a woman always prepared, assuredly confident, passionately motivated.
She was a woman who negotiated her life with precision and dignity, until the disease assaulted her capacities to reason. In the midst of it all, she reminded me that life is about choice. It is the choice of life, the choice of death, the choice to live while alive, and the choice to be alive while living. It seems so simple, yet surprisingly profound.
Mimi was not afraid of death. I am beginning to realize that it was derived from fearlessness of life. She found the sacredness in life. She breathed the intoxicating aromas of love, determination, family and faith. She held a space for dignity, even in the midst of mindless wander.
It was that March morning that has taught me about life. It is not the quality of life or the extent of life; it was her joy that inspires. As it was once her life that inspired me, it is now her death. As memories faded and the challenges of maintaining some sense of livelihood in the midst of the day-to-day struggles of keeping her safe, ensuring her physical needs, coping with the slow and painful disappearance of a person I loved so dearly, I can see to live.
Might I feel alive in the midst of the swirling clouds of a looming death? The art of living denounces fear of dying. How might I take a reprieve from the sorrow that truncates the art of living? The world will not quench the yearnings of anguish even if I avoid living. I take comfort in the fact that I have moments, as vapor, and my moments should be lived. It is the courage to live, even when life feels cumbersome. Even more, it is the courage to die when living has been accomplished. Mimi taught me that.
It is difficult to see the objectivity of a beauty that lives in the deepest crevices of our souls. These are the people who inspire authenticity and the profound command for life and death. Mimi was beauty. I am a fortunate one. My life intersected hers. I have been shaped, sculpted, hewn. She stands as one of the most precious and vivid examples of mercy and grace, a life well lived. She is missed.
By: Dawn Hood-Patterson, MDiv
Dawn Hood-Patterson holds a Master's Degree in Divinity and currently serves as a chaplain at Baptist Hospital.
•
del.icio.us
digg
facebook
E-mail this article to a friend (requires login).
