A Season of Change

My parents came over for dinner tonight; we had lasagna, garlic bread, left-over Ding Dong Cake, Tillamook ice cream and Mega Stuf Oreos.  (Why is there only one "f" in Stuf?  It doesn't make sense.)  The candles made the house smell cozy and the Broncos are winning.  It's been a good evening.

Unfortunately, a bit of sadness and reality crept in and my heart started hurting just a little bit as I recalled a conversation that I had with my dad about a week ago...

Some of you may remember that two years ago I blogged about my mom's recent diagnosis of early onset Alzheimer's.   It came out of the blue, it hurt a lot, and it forever changed our lives.  Overall, she's done pretty well since then.  The medication that she's been taking seems to be helping some, but no one can deny the slow progression of the disease.  Due to the onset of some new neurological symptoms, they are toying with the idea of reclassifying her with a different degenerative disease, but at this point it's all word games.  We know where it is inevitably leading. 

With that in mind, my dad told me last week that my mom will no longer be cooking Thanksgiving dinner.  We will still be celebrating at their house, none of us are ready to give that up yet, but I will be doing the cooking.  My dad will help; he likes to and we'll have fun puttering in the kitchen together.  But she's progressed to the point where it would be very difficult for her to take on a big meal like that anymore. 

Before I continue, I would beg those of you who know her and who still see her to not look up on her with pity or to say anything about it.  The last thing she needs is for someone to come up to her at church and say, "I'm so sorry to hear that you're unable to tackle Thanksgiving dinner anymore. How sad that must be for you."  While it may be well intentioned, that wouldn't help her.  As hard as it is for us to accept these changes, it must be infinitely more frustrating and painful for her!  All she needs right now, and my dad as well, is encouragement and love, not pity or sorrow.  And prayer.  They could both always use prayer.

But for me, as I watched her hands shake this evening, it hit home to me that there's been a shift now and there's no going back.  And I don't like it.  I don't want my parents to decline.  I don't want my role to shift to more of a caretaker.  Not because I don't want to help them, heaven's no!  Of course I'll do whatever it takes, whenever it is called for and I'll never mind any of it.  But I really want them to be healthy and happy and for things to be like they used to be.   It hurts me to see the changes and be powerless to stop them.  And sometimes the weight of all that is to come, and the knowledge that without any siblings, it will all fall on my shoulders, well, it seems too heavy sometimes. 

We'll make it, I'm sure; one day, one year at a time.  But I'm afraid that there will be many tears along the way.  I've never been one to like change; I like this one even less.