My Mom My Hero: Alzheimer's - A Mother and Daughter's Bittersweet Journey by Hirsch, R. (book recommendations .TXT) 📕

Once we learned Ruthie’s diagnosis, my wife’s response started to shift. Lisa became a more caring and concerned daughter. Her daily phone calls to her mother and the caregivers defined her involvement and response. When I got home from my work at the VA Hospital, she would tell me what had transpired. On weekends, I often sat by and listened as Lisa had the speaker phone on. I heard the love and humor that flowed back and forth. Despite the disease, Ruth had not lost her charm and quickness of thought.

I remember saying to Lisa, “You should write some of this stuff down.”

Well, that’s what she started to do. In a little spiral notebook, Lisa noted her mom’s pithy remarks and her own emotional responses. Not long after that, she decided to start a blog. She posted her thoughts and experiences with Ruth weekly on Blogger and Facebook. Pretty soon people started to respond. It was amazing. Lisa started to receive comments and e-mails from all around the world: the United States, Canada, England, Spain, Germany, Russia, India, Israel, and many other countries. She realized what she had already known: this is a disease without borders.

Not only family members, but Alzheimer’s associations, caregivers, nurses, physicians, and support group members wrote to say how she had touched their hearts, how she was speaking for all of them. They especially liked her upbeat approach, choosing to celebrate the love she still had and which had grown immeasurably. Alzheimer’s can sap the energy and joy from family members, but Lisa remained energized. Any past ambivalence toward her mother had been transformed to love and devotion.

When she had a career in the fashion industry, Lisa would bemoan the fact that while I “made a difference in others lives,” she only designed and sold clothes. I would reassure her that fashion, too, could make a difference in a person’s life. Now Lisa is living her wish to make another kind of difference, in a meaningful and worldwide way.

Relationships are often like an equation. For Lisa and Ruth, the relationship is now stronger but also unequal. For one love grows, while for the other it fades. Regarding devotion, one gives more and one gives less. This is a true journey with many curves, hills, and valleys. What is most rewarding is seeing how my wife’s connection to love and support has immeasurably been transformed. For this I, too, am grateful and rewarded.

We hope you will be touched and inspired as so many of her readers have already been. We are all in this together.

—Bert Hirsch

Husband

Son-in-Law

Program Director, Psychosocial Rehabilitation and Recovery Center

Brooklyn VA Medical Center

February 20, 2011

Girl With a Curl

My mom is my hero today and forever. It all began many years ago when I was born in Brooklyn. I was told that at a young age, I was either singing, dancing, or shedding tears. My moods were never in between. I was either happy or I was sad.

My mom recited a special poem to me when I was a child, a poem that I will never forget. Although my mom has no memory left since she has Alzheimer’s, it amazes me that she is still able to recite it.

There was a little girl,

Who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good,

She was very very good,

But when she was bad she was horrid.

More recently, I was sitting in a park and saw a little girl with blonde, curly hair playing with her mother. I watched as she hugged her mother tightly. She must have been around three years old. I wondered if I had also done that with my mom when I was that young. I have no memory of it at all, but what flashed into my head once again was the poem that she always said to me. It brought much warmth to my heart and filled me with special memories.

There was a little girl,

Who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good,

She was very very good,

But when she was bad she was horrid.

Spring, 2011

Loving the Mom

I Never Appreciated

My mother, Ruth Esther Schnitzer, grew up in Brooklyn and married my father in 1942. She was blonde, pretty, and petite—just under five feet tall—and wore her hair in a pixie cut that suited her feisty personality.

Ruth’s parents left Russia to move to America for a better life. Her father went to work in a sweat shop in New York’s garment district, striving to give his children better opportunities than he had. With his encouragement, Ruth loved to read and learn. She continued taking college classes most of her adult life.

My mom gave birth to my brother Gil during World War II when she was just eighteen years old. She moved in with her parents when my father shipped out with the Navy. Mom worked at the military base, and my grandmother cared for my brother. When my dad got out of the service, Gil was two years old, and my grandmother and Mom were so protective that Dad could hardly have a relationship with him.

Naturally, when I was born five years later, Dad showered me with affection. I adored him as much as he adored me. He was carefree and upbeat, always telling jokes or singing show tunes. He spoiled me, and sometimes I wonder if that’s why Mom was so hard on me. Maybe she resented me in some way and felt jealous.

Mom was adamant that I should make the most of myself. She ordered summer reading materials and wouldn’t let me out to play until I mastered one lesson every day. I fought those lessons, especially the summer that she handed me particularly difficult assignments that turned out to be for children a grade ahead of me. I felt like I was being tortured, and I disliked reading for years afterward.

As a