Dick Magee: The right stuff
My son Michael helped me care for his mother — my wife, Mary — who first fell prey to Alzheimer’s disease five years ago. During the early stages of the disease, he moved in with us. We decided we would care for Mary at home. And we were able to do so until she passed away in March at the age of 96. It was our privilege to care for her and to be with her.
Mike played the key “hands-on” role in her care. I was the assistant. And I have trouble finding the word that best describes his role. Some would suggest “caregiver.” While that can highlight the many things he did, it doesn’t show the expertise he employed in doing them. And that’s what made him so exceptional. He understood the critical human dimension that was a part of every encounter with his mother. Everything he did was done from what he imagined her perspective to be. Such insight helped us determine how we would live together as a family in a sad and challenging Alzheimer’s world.
Maybe “champion” is the word — because Mike’s ways helped us meet our mission. Mary stayed with us, safe, loved, and content until the very end. As the disease progressed, she became almost totally dependent on us. We learned how to manage her meds, work with her doctors, lift her in and out of beds and wheelchairs, bathe her, clean her, dress her, comb her hair, help her with meals, and settle her in her favorite blue chair by the window. We sat with her and talked to her. We watched television together in the evening — and tucked her in bed at 10. We were a part of everything she did. Her needs and priorities determined the structure of our day. She was the sun around which our world revolved.
And she was as responsive to us as the disease permitted her to be. She knew who we were. She could laugh, offer up a smile, compliment us on our attire, correct our grammar, (lay vs. lie) sing a song — though she’d get nervous when Mike was set to trim her fingernails. She seemed comfortable and content when simply looking out the window from her chair. While she rarely entered into a conversation, she could react to what she heard with a look or a comment. She was with us. But the moment would soon vanish from her memory. She never grumbled or complained. Sipping orange juice through a straw at breakfast and a Fannie May candy break in the afternoon would elicit an enthusiastic, “Oh boy, oh boy!” These were high points in her day.
There were times, after kissing her goodnight, she’d hold my hand and say, “We’re sweethearts — thank you for taking care of me.” These were moments I hold dear — knowing that parts of the original Mary were still with us in the twilight of our 72 years together.
Taking care of her was a joy, not a job.
Back to Mike: Maybe “coach.” For Mary, the routines of one day would not survive the dawn of the next. We would start all over. So, Mike became a coach. He was good at it because he could empathize with Mary in her world, and had the patience to work with her at her pace. He was never a boss — never said no — never found fault. He found ways to involve her in reaching outcomes satisfactory to both. And in so doing, gave her a modicum of control over her life and the respect to which she was entitled.
What Mary did know was the perfect word for Mike. She would look at him, smile, and say, “Mike’s my helper.”
“Helper” is a simple word. But for us its meaning struck to the heart. It implied that Mary was still her own person — that she was not totally destitute of rational thought — that she had a spark of independence — that Mike and I were her helpers, not her tenders. She still had a voice, limited though it might be, in the affairs of her life.
Mike made it all possible. And I’m going to use the words author Tom Wolfe used in describing the lives of America’s first astronauts. Like them, Mike had “The Right Stuff.” He’s a hero, too.
— Dick Magee is a resident of Klinger Lake and a frequent columnist for the Journal’s opinion page.
This article originally appeared on The Holland Sentinel: Dick Magee: The right stuff
