It's rare to have an adult friend who knows your story. Who knows your family. Who knew you since seventh grade. I'm fortunate to have such a friend.
Growing up, we had a lot in common. We both came from all-girl families. Our parents were loving, concerned, involved and were all about the same age.
I recently met up with this old friend and our lives still run parallel. We are the same age, we are both grandmothers and our greatest thing in common is our past. She inquires about my mother, who is the last parent alive between us.
I tell her that mom is 88. I tell her that her mind is sharp, though her body is weakening.
We talk about her parents. Their deaths, the condition of their lives before their deaths. Because I grew up knowing her parents, I am comfortable asking questions I wouldn't ask anyone else.
"You know Mom suffered through Alzheimer's?"
"That's right," I remind myself. "What was that like?"
She explains that her mom had short-term memory loss. It frustrated her and left her angry. It was hard on her daughters because she didn't know who they were.
Her father took care of her mother until he died from his own afflictions.
But the one thing her mom never lost was her love for piano playing. She remembered her music. She was a gifted pianist who played beautifully. She played for every event. For weddings and funerals. For church. She was the go-to pianist. She was generous with her talents.
In her afflicted years, she couldn’t remember much else, but she could sit down at the piano and play and play. In the memory care facility, if someone else was playing the piano, she would scoot them off so she could play. The care center had to hide the piano bench at night, for she would find her way to the piano and play at 3:00. a.m.
I marvel with her daughter, my friend, at what she was able to hold onto. Her piano stayed familiar. Her playing gave her comfort.
My own dear mother-in-law is in the same memory care facility. She too has lost all that was dear to her--who she is, any memory of her husband, and on bad days cannot remember her children or if she even had children.
But there is one thing she has held on to. She sings hymns. And Christmas songs. And old time popular songs of her era of the 40s 50. Whenever she feels anxious, she sings. You are my sunshine. Jesus once was a little child. It doesn't matter where she is. At a restaurant or in her bed. If she sings, she is singing to soothe herself.
It has me questioning what talents might sustain me in difficult times, in old age. Heaven forbid memory loss, but I have loose reigns on what heaven forbids or allows.
I really have only one thing that I do consistently. I write. For years it has brought comfort. It's lessened anxiety, for I can work things out on paper. I can understand through words, sentences, and paragraphs. The illogical can find logic. Will I fiercely insist on keeping paper and pen at my bedside or will I keep my laptop under my pillow?
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