The Vintage Car Show was not my idea. My sister talked me into it. She reminded me that Mom adored these Fifties cars as much as she loved soda fountains and dancing the Jitterbug.
There were some real beauties on display. My sister said we should learn to appreciate things Mom cherished, even though dementia has stolen her memory of them.
We looked at the love and care that went into the cars. We saw the people who travelled miles to admire them.
Okay, now I get it.
I’m not young, but there’s a happy kid inside me. The color and noise of fireworks still brings thrills. Mom could not attend the 4th of July spectacle this year. But the rockets’ red glare made me oddly happy about past actions we took to help Mom enjoy life — despite dementia.
It was only two years ago that my sister and I took great pains to haul Mom to the Stroudsburg fireworks. We’d never seen them in that town before and we wanted to arrive early. So we decided to skip the backyard barbecue idea and let a French restaurant serve Mom her favorite holiday food — salmon. It doesn’t sound very patriotic, but it made her awfully happy.
In those days, she was still walking well. We helped her along while dragging lawn chairs through crowds of restless kids and tired parents. I’m not sure she even realized why we were marching across the town. But she did it with a smile.
Although Mom still understood plenty, we were just beginning to comprehend how this disease would alter her and what that would mean to our family. Tough as it was to address her growing needs, I could see that the future would hold even more hurdles that could limit her social activity. The Stroudsburg fireworks were an early shot in a long campaign to take Mom everywhere, protect her remaining skills, and fill ourselves with memories of her doing things she loved.
Events like these were worth every bit of stress, sweat, and aggravation. It was worth choking on the second hand smoke of careless teenagers and walking for an eternity to get a good viewing spot. Until the first giant bloom of color spread across the sky, I don’t think she knew how our fireworks extravaganza would end. But after one radiant flower exploded she was delighted as a joyful kid by the sparkles above us.
These memories illustrate a point that’s key for families just entering the labyrinth of this disease. Don’t let your loved one’s awkward mobility — or your private worry about reactions from strangers — keep you from offering them every kind of fun they can manage. The number of good family memories you can store up is limited only by your determination to make them happen. Time moves faster than you can imagine from where you sit today. Plan, sweat, slog, and enjoy all that’s good while it’s still within your power.