I am going off Chronology Grid Here.

Some things are on my mind and I am gonna free them.

Like Cat Shit.

Cat Shit is on my mind today.

I hate it when that happens.

We moved all five cats from Iowa to my mothers new home three blocks from my house. My mother very quickly learned that though there are very few possums in the city,  there are feral cats.

My mother began to feed them.

She fed them by leaving open cat food cans all along the sidewalk behind her condo.

The stench of rotten cat food on a Summer day was nauseating.

It did not compare to the stench coming from the crawl space beneath her unit

Her neighbors had complained.

I found letters from her neighbors folded neatly and placed in the desk.

I also found a warrant for her arrest, but that is another story.

The letters from her neighbors detailed that steps they would take if she did not stop

letting the feral cats into the crawl space. The letters had been arriving for some time.

My mother never mentioned them.

The latest letter was sent certified mail.

Fantastic. Cat Shit.

I noticed from time to time that the crawl space door was open

but did not think much of it,

until I put my head in to take a peek.

My mother was confabulating all over the place reasons why the cats were there.

Cats can open crawl space doors.

Yes. They. Can.

The cats were in charge here. It was all their doing and my mother was not at all complicit.

They were not her cats.

They were free agents.

The crawl space was filled with cat shit. I don’t know how to illustrate this accurately.

I can’t, and really, you don’t want me to.

Trust me on this one.

I can tell you this:

I spent a couple of weeks calling cleaning crews trying to get bids on a clean up.

I spent weeks watching cleaning crews walk away in disgust.

My mother was on the verge of getting thrown out of her condo.

She would need to live with us if that happened.

I stepped up my efforts to get that crawl space cleaned up.

STAT.

The last industrial cleaning crew that showed up suggested I call a special Crime Scene clean up crew.

They were in the yellow pages.

There were two of them.

I hired a Crime Scene clean up crew to get the cat shit and a couple of dead cats out from under my mothers condo.

They took about a week and then had to clean the dirt.

They had to clean the dirt to remove the stench.

It cost well over $1000.

Cat Shit is on my mind and there it is.

Alcoholics Dementia or just a really fucked up woman?

That is the question I ask myself.

Did I grow up with an alcoholic

or

Did I grow up with a seriously mentally ill woman?

What do you think?

My mother did not want to move after my father died. They lived outside of town in a wooded area near a small river. It was beautiful and my mother had her animals to think about. I am not talking about the five cats and my dad’s  old dog Fred; I am talking about the wild creatures she called Kin.

My mother did have Mysterious Gifts. She could communicate with any animal anywhere.

Wild creatures saw her and recognized her as one of their own.

She could feed a mama possum with her hands with its babies on its back.

It was a wonder to watch my mother with Wild Things.

I grew up resenting her gift.

Mommy loved animals and they came first; always.

Growing up we had every pet you can imagine including a raccoon named Cynthia who lived in the house with us and ate with the rest of the family pets.

Mommy had to move. We did not have a choice. Iowa Winters are cruel and relentless. There was no way my mother would survive in a major storm. Mommy would need to leave her Animal Family and come to live near us.

Mommy came home with us shortly after Daddy died and we looked at apartments in our neighborhood. We would need to sell my father’s business before we could buy a place for Mommy; a rental was the first step.

Once we had the rental lined up, my family headed to Iowa City to pack her up and move her out. It was not an easy task.

My mother has never been a talker. She is a quiet woman. I remember few things she ever really talked to me about. I do remember as a kid, hearing her say over and over, “If you do not have anything nice to say, do not say anything at all.”

As I became an adult I realized this was why my mother was so quiet.

She did not have anything nice to say.

We packed in silence. I packed some things for storage and some things I knew she would want in her new home. At this stage of the game, we still had no idea why Mommy was acting so odd; we were still many months away from a diagnosis of Alcoholics Dementia.

All we knew was that Mommy was seriously strange.

We had a truck coming to take all of my mothers belongings to her new home.

 The animals were another matter all together.

Five cats and an old, old dog named Fred. All of them needed to go with Mommy. She was already needing to give up her WIld Family; we could not separate her from her pets. They were really all that ever mattered to her.

Daddy died less than a year after Ace committed suicide. My father in law had not been gone long and now we were in the midst of dealing with the loss of Daddy. My family had been through a year of Hell. My husband and I were closer than ever; crisis does that to a family. Protecting our son as much as possible was out prime directive.

Caring for Mommy was a close second.

Grieving Daddy’s death was not even on the table yet.

My husband spent two days putting together five cat carriers. My husband spent hours making contact with each cat and scratching Fred’s belly just like she liked it. Fred was my dad’s dog; she was a very good, very large dog. Fred had been abandoned near my parents house some years earlier and as was their custom, Fred was quickly adopted and became family.

My son and I would take Mommy to her new home blocks from us on the train. My mother was not keen on flying and we thought a sleeper car might make the whole thing more fun for our son. We would all be in the lap of Amtrak luxury.

My husband would be driving my mothers old Buick 12 hours straight through with five cats in carriers in the back seat and  Fred the dog riding shotgun. Not exactly  a Kerouac on the road trip, but surely one to remember.

This is when you know your marriage has Juju; when the rubber hits the road and you are able to rise to the occasion. Juan was there for me 100%. Just a year before I had been there for him 100%. We were good.

The day Juan needed to get on the road, I had all the carriers in the back bedroom; the same room my cousin had died in years earlier.

Our plan was to catch each cat and put them in a room across the hall and then transfer them to the carriers one by one.

My mothers pets were barely house pets. They were closer to feral in the way they lived. They were Wild things that only my mother could control.

We spent the days leading up to this day talking with Mommy about our plan and reassuring her that each and every animal would make it to her new home. They would be there when she arrived.

We began early in the morning to catch each cat as they came in for breakfast. We had all discussed the best way to handle the capture and the transfer to the carriers. Juan needed to get back for work and we could not afford to mess around. We were ready.

As each cat came in, Juan and I would get them fed and coax them, with Mommy’s help, into the back bedroom. We had five to contain. Five feral cats.

The day started well. mommy fed them and then we moved them to the back bedroom. Juan would then take them one by one into the room with the carriers and get them ready for the drive; the 12 hour drive home.

All seemed to be going well until I found Mommy letting the cats not just out of the back room, but out of the house. She was luring them outside as soon as we could capture them.

We had gotten somewhat used to Mommy’s odd ways; the strange look that would cross her face, the bizarre things she would say; we were not prepared for this.

We would sit Mommy down in the living room and explain that Juan needed to get back to work and that we needed here to cooperate 100%. She would agree with us, nod her understanding and begin to help bringing the cats inside the house.

And then it would happen; We would catch her luring them outside again.

My husband had the patience of the Buddha that day. I was in and out of tears.

I could only remember Daddy the day he died saying to me on the phone, “ There is something seriously wrong with your mother and I don’t know how much more I can take.”

I saw clearly that day that Daddy had been right; Mommy was Off.

Mommy was Off in a big time way.

Each time she would AGAIN let the cats out she would have some strange reason it was actually helpful. Her reasons did not make any sense but she said it with completer surety that she was right and was being helpful.

The cats in; the cats out, the cats in; the cats out….

It was one of the first Very Strange days with my mother and Wernicke – Korsakoff.

Hindsight is what I have now; then I had nothing.

Only wild cats captured, wild cats let go; over and over again;

and confabulation galore.

And Mommy with a strange look on her face as she came up with nonsensical reasons for what she was doing.

We got all five cats and Fred the dog in the car eventually. My husband spent 12 hours straight in an old Buick with an AM radio driving across Nebraska listening to country western stations and weird talk radio.

Thank God for AM radio; turned up loud enough it will drown out the screams of feral cats stacked in carriers in the back set of a Buick.

Thank God for small favors;  for Marriage.

And to Hell with alcoholism.

To Hell with it.

“This does not make sense,” said the doctor.

He was looking at test results on a complete physical of my mother done over 5 years ago.  He was specifically talking about the x-ray of her lungs.

As is common with alcoholics, my mother was a heavy smoker from the time she was 18.  The x-ray showed clear lungs; clean as a whistle.

“This does not make sense.” said the doctor looking at the liver function test.

Mommy’s liver function was at 100%.

Go Figure.

I hear that a lot about Mommy;

“This does not make sense.”

Social workers, doctors, nurses, speech pathologists, GI docs; apparently my mother is a medical marvel.

She should have died  years ago given her lifestyle. At Denver General they also did a complete physical initially believing she would not leave the hospital alive given her level of alcohol consumption.

The assumption is that surely she must have Cancer.

How could she possibly not?

Today on the phone with the social worker at her nursing home I heard it again.

“This does not make sense.”

My mother has dementia and is dying, slowly, and yet every day she gets her self up, gets dressed and sits in the common area with either her deck of cards playing solitaire or sits with one of her stuffed animals gently stroking it.

Most dementia patients on her floor are in some other world;

“My mommy is coming to pick me up from school any minute now; I better find my school bag.”

“ I am going to prom tonight. Do you like my hair?”

I join the journey with the others who live on my floor;

“I think your books are on the counter there,” I say pointing to the pile of magazines in the common area.

“Oh my! You look beautiful! Have a wonderful time at the dance.”

I have a good time staying with them where they are; in the past, in a happy place.

My mother hates it when I do this. She gives me ‘the look’ which means

“Stop that, right now. You are being ridiculous.”

She is right in one sense. It is ridiculous; but it is kind and it is helpful for later stage dementia patients who are living in the past. I join them and they stay calm. It works.

“This does not make sense,” said the social worker today.

My mother is losing weight at a rapid pace and is still active.

“Your mother will still stand by the door waiting for anyone coming in our going out. She is a flight risk.”

Yep.

That would be my mother.

A flight risk. Take that seriously, I think to myself.

That would be the Beast of alcoholics dementia playing out in my mothers brain.

Wernicke – Korsakoff is not like Alzheimers or other dementia. It does not present in the same way at all.

My mother is an anomaly;  Still.

She stands out from the crowd and is Going Her Own Way.

“This does not make sense,” they all say.

You got that right, I want to say.

This has NEVER made sense.

My mother; she Goes Her Own Way.

That is the only way I can make sense of any of it.

Denver General is in the middle of town.

Mommy was taken by ambulance and I followed in my car. I had never been to Denver General but I knew from working on a soup kitchen line that it was the hospital for the homeless and indigent in town.

I arrived at about 10:00 pm and the lobby was packed solid; young people, kids, cops with gang bangers in cuffs; you name it. It took a very long time to get to the check in point.

The first check in point at Denver General is a security booth. It was almost as complicated as getting on an airplane. I saw people ahead of me handing switch blades to family members who would not be going into the emergency room.

The waiting room was just as complicated. It took me probably an hour to talk with someone. The people at the counter were official,  on guard, and stressed

I was lucky I had my mothers ID with me; it was the only way they let me in.

I asked where to find my mother.

“No idea. Check the hallways.”

Wow.

I went through another safety check point and was allowed into the emergency room triage area. It was a wild place; kids waiting with parents for help with vomiting, men in cuffs bleeding and bruised sitting with cops.

I did not see Mommy anywhere. I grabbed a young kid who was working there.

“My mom is here somewhere. How do I find her?”

“Check the hallways. Look on the gurneys.”

He pointed to a door that led to a maze of hallways.

All along the walls of the halls were gurney after gurney; some with IV’s, some with people moaning and laying on their sides.  It was a process of elimination:

Mommy is not here, not here, not here…

I finally found her between a man I recognized from the soup kitchen line and a young kid with a stab wound.

I had never seen my mother like this before; her eyes were glazed over and she was in between some weird worlds.  It occurred to me that my mother had been wandering the streets of our neighborhood looking for alcohol at 9:00 pm.

She was drinking early these days, like really early. When we were kids we would joke that mommy would not drink until she had fed the dogs. Each year dinner time came earlier and earlier for our pets.

  My sister would call and ask,

“Is it safe to call Mommy now? What time is she feeding the dogs now?”

She was feeding the dogs in the morning. She was feeding the dogs all day long.

I  realized that Mommy might  be going through the first stages of detox without medical assistance. I knew that this could be dangerous.

It took about an hour to find a doctor.

Once I found the doctor I found out that Mommy was no longer my responsibility.

They had already begun guardianship proceedings.

The state was taking my mother.

It took another hour to contact a social worker. The social worker explained that when a drunk comes into Denver General in an ambulance without a family member they instantly begin to process State Guardianship papers.

“We have at least five people a day dropped at our door without ID. They are left here by family members who are done taking care of them. We do what we have to do to expedite their care. To be perfectly honest we did not expect to see any family member in here at all. We have already ordered the medical detox, I suggest you go ahead with it. You can contact the office tomorrow to suspend the State Guardianship proceedings.”

I was numb. The thought crossed my mind,

“What if I give Mommy to the state?”

Could I just walk out of here, clean and free of her?

I was tempted and I am not proud of this.

It had been a very long road from building my fathers Coffin to Denver General. My mothers behavior over the proceeding years had been often horrific and I was tired.

I was tired of dealing with a drunk.

I went back to sit with my mother in the hallway as we waited for a ‘room’ in emergency. My mother was in and out of her weird places and I was worried that the DT’s would set in. I feared a seizure.

It took hours more before we were given a corner in the emergency room. We were between a group of gang bangers who had been involved in a crime. I listened as the cops questioned each member trying to get one to roll over on the other.

My mother was out of it; an IV had been given to her with a Valium drip and she drifted between sleep and consciousness. I convinced a nurse to change my mothers pants; incontinence had become an ongoing problem over the last year or so. Incontinence is a common side effect of drinking too much for too long.

I held her hand and realized I would not give her to the state.

I would not give her to the state because I was my father’s daughter.

That is it.

I WANTED to give her away, I really did,

But I would not.

The sun was coming up as I drove up in front of my home. I would get a little sleep before heading back to stop the guardianship process.

It is amazing to me how many journeys I have been on with my mother since my father died.

I have been places I pray you never go. I would not wish this trip on any one.

I would not wish this trip on my worst enemy;

problem was,

she was already there.

Jen

My mother drank steadily from the age of 17 until a medical detox was forced by the state at the age of 69. The medical detox took close to 24 days to complete and was precipitated by her being found wandering in our neighborhood at night 3 years ago.

I had the power to stop the detox but in the years leading up to the night she was found, working with social workers, her doctor and her eldercare attorney I knew that the NEXT TIME she went missing I would let the state take over.

A medical detox is of utmost importance for a life long drinker. Quitting cold turkey can kill you after a life of drinking. I knew which hospitals would force a detox and which ones would not.

I received a call from the police around 9:30 pm on a school night. My mother was in the system for a variety of reasons and they knew to call me; we may live in a large city but it is a small neighborhood.

The owner of one of our local taquerias noticed Mommy in the street looking confused. He is an elegant man and helped my mother inside.

All she was saying was, “Beer, beer, beer..” over and over again. The kind man tried to serve my mother a beer but she would not take one. Pride. She did not have any money.

I arrived within minutes of the call with my son in tow. I had the call into my husband, “Leave work. Mommy has done it again.” My husband would be home soon to watch our son.

My mother and I were at a crossroads. I sat with her at the table while she kept asking for “Beer, beer, beer…” and I was pondering my next move. We were awaiting an ambulance.

I knew from working with Angel social workers that I had a choice; St Joes hospital which would not force a detox or Denver General where they would. I knew that the forced detox meant I had 20 some days to find a nursing home for my mother.

Easier said than done. Dementia wings are hesitant to take Wernicke – Karsokoff patients. They are smart and wily unlike Alzheimer’s patients. My mother was going to be hard to place.

I wasn’t’ ready to have her ‘placed’. There was that too.

I held my mothers hands and my son patted her back while we watched a soccer game on TV with the family that ran the restaurant. They were closed when they noticed Mommy but were eager to feed us, for free.

I grew up in a Latino neighborhood and my Spanish is passable still. The father of the family was very concerned for Mommy and was doting on her. She was still beautiful in her dementia and was calmed by the sweet spanish words flowing from the mans lips.

He told me in Spanish, “Tenga Cuidado de su madre de la manera que ella cuidaba, Si?

I replied, “Por supuesto. Lo prometo.”

“Take care of your mother the way she took care of you, yes?”

I replied, “Of course. I promise.”

I grew up understanding that in Latino families La Abuelita is the head of the household in most everything. She is respected and adored. I do not know of one family that ever put a family member in a nursing home.

This was not due to financial concerns but moral and spiritual concerns. My father when we were growing up took me aside after a fiesta and said, “Honey, when it comes my time, put me in a home. Do not take care of me. There is no shame in that.” I was 13 when he told me this.

I sat watching Mexico score on the television and wondered if Daddy saw this coming; if he knew that growing up in a culture not my own but so welcoming would impact a decision I needed to make later in life.

My husband arrived to take my son home moments before the ambulance arrived.

I helped my mother as they strapped her in. I found a stuffed animal for her to cuddle.

“Which hospital would you like us to take her to?” asked the driver.

I thought of my mother and I thought of the years spent drinking. I knew she had beer in every cabinet of her home. I had been there the day before. She had forgotten to just open the cabinet.

“Beer, beer, beer…”

“Please take her to Denver General.” I said.

The Crossroads are not always easy and they are not always kind; but they are always, always important.

The ambulance drove away and I sat in my car sobbing. I knew that triage at Denver General wold take many hours to process Mommy. She did not have a stab wound and had not been involved in a felony. I knew she would wait strapped to a gurney for a very long time before she even made it to an open bed in the emergency room.

Forget a room on a floor; a room on a floor for over 20 days while her drinking days would come to an end.

Finally. My mother would quit drinking.

Finally.

I am in a weird place right now. I began this blog to tell my mothers story of Alcoholics Dementia. She is now dying. It will take time, a little bit of time, and I am caught. Do I tell the story of her decline into dementia hell or do I tell the story of her death? I think I tell them both. I think I tell what I can, when I can. This was topsy turvey before.

Well hold on; I am going sidesways.

Peace and thank you for reading this.   Jen

[kənfab′yəlā′shən]

Etymology: L, con + fabulari, to speak

The fabrication of experiences or situations, often recounted in a detailed and plausible way to fill in and cover up cognitive impairment or memory loss, which may be caused by alcoholism, especially in people with Korsakoff’s psychosis; head injuries; dementia; or lead poisoning. Also called fabrication.

Mosby’s Medical Dictionary, 8th edition. © 2009, Elsevier.

My father did not have any teeth. After he left Texaco we could not afford insurance and the dentist became a luxury. I suppose that drinking Pepsi  morning, noon and night and smoking two packs of cigarettes a day contributed to his teeth falling out.

Daddy was not a vain man. He did not care about what people thought of him.

At our engagement party my father did not wear his teeth. My father in-laws best friend, Oliver,  asked him, “Where in the hell are your teeth?”

My father reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his false teeth and said,

“They are right here.”

My father was instantly accepted by my father in laws tribe. My husband and I both grew up in alcoholic families that lived outside the mainstream much of the time. Daddy fit in and so did I.

a week before my wedding my father called.

“ I need to ask you a very important question but first I want you to know that I love you honey and I would do almost anything for you.”

My father loved us deeply and was an unusual man for his generation. He had been a handsome football playing, intelligent, hooligan in high school. He was a man of the 50’s in so many ways. He was also easily emotional. He told  us often how much he loved us. He would cry when he said it

Regarding his question about our wedding I said, “Go ahead Daddy; just say it.”

“This is the thing honey, I can only do one of two things at your wedding; I can either wear a tuxedo or my teeth. I can’t do both.”

I opted for tux because I knew his false teeth were painful and truth told, I knew he wouldn’t wear them anyway.

That was Daddy.

Daddy did not care what he wore.

On the day my father was to be cremated, we delivered the coffin we had built with love to the funeral home early in the morning.

We had taken Mommy to the mall the day before and she had chosen an outfit to wear to Daddy’s funeral. I had forgotten my shoes in the rush to get to Mommy; I bought beautiful Tahari pumps; Come Fuck Me Shoes. We were ready.

Once the coffin had been delivered, we returned to the house to get ready, My sister, Carrie and I gathered Daddy’s clothes. Daddy always wore levis and a blue workshirt with boat shoes. When he was building furniture, he wore jeans and a Hanes tee.

We had his clothes ready to go. The mortician needed Daddy’s clothes.

We took the clothes to the living room and were putting them in a bag when Mommy came in the room carrying Daddy’s suit, dress shoes and dentures.

We had discussed the night before what Daddy would wear on his journey; it was a sure bet and the entire family had agreed. Daddy always wore the same thing. This was another easy decision; building the Coffin and what Daddy would wear. Easy.

Mommy threw the bag of clothes on the floor and said;

“Your father always wore one of his suits and this is his favorite. Bill would want to wear his Florsheims. I have packed his favorite tie also.”

We were stunned. We tried to explain to Mommy that Daddy never wore a suit and that the decision had been made.

“Your father ALWAYS wore a suit.” was her response.

There we were again; caught in this weird place with Mommy. We did not have any idea at the time what  the hell was happening.

Andrea, Carrie and I went into the office. We discussed what to do. We realized that this funeral was not for us and that Daddy would want Mommy as comfortable as possible. The suit it would be.

The last time, the only time, Daddy had worn the suit, was at Andrea’s wedding; one of the happiest days in our family history. There was that.

Seeing Daddy in a suit in the Coffin we had built with love was an odd thing. Mommy insisted that we prop daddy’s dress shoes on his  edge of his feet.

The rest of the family hid his beloved things under his body: his Denver Broncos knit hat, his cigarettes, a can of Pepsi and photos of all of us. Mommy would never know that we had sent Daddy on his way with supplies. When she looked in the Coffin all she saw was her husband, with his dentures in and a suit on. She was satisfied.

When we looked in we saw an empty shell that had been a man we all deeply loved. Daddy was gone and we were left to pick up the pieces. We had NO idea that day just how many pieces we would end up gathering.

Wernicke – Karsokoffs Syndrome. Alcoholics Dementia.

Pieces. An awful lot of pieces that will never again be a whole.

I am going Third Person. I am going Third Person because I am not able to write this

I am not.

A woman is in Central Park with a friend and their boys when her phone rings. It is the nurse from the nursing home.

“Your mother is losing too much weight. It is time to call hospice.”

The woman is at the castle in the park and the boys are climbing, climbing climbing.

Hospice. Calling hospice is not signing a death certificate. Is it?

OK.

I am going In Now. I am going First Person Bullet Point:

• My mother was a life long alcoholic.
• My mother has Wernicke – Korsakoff; alcoholics dementia.
• My mother physically abused me and neglected me as a child. She is not a nice woman.
• My mother drank for so long the alcohol caused a hiatal hernia. The hiatal hernia causes acid reflux; sometimes a hernia will lead to persistent regurgitation.
• My mother over the last 5 years has had a very difficult time not throwing up a meal. She lived on beer, lots of beer and ice cream.
• My mother developed an Esophageal stricture; a narrowing of the esophagus. When the damaged areas heal, scar tissues form making the esophagus hard.My mother is on a secured floor of a nursing home. She is non verbal due to the stricture. She is unable to eat solid food due to the stricture.

• My mother is losing weight rapidly now. A liquid diet will not sustain her.

It is just a matter of time.

I spoke to a friend at length today. I call her the Gypsy Queen. She asked after my mother and I was totally honest.

“My mother is dying and I do not want to admit it to myself. I need to allow hospice to enter her life. I need to let go.”

The Gypsy Queen said, “ Grace is what Hospice can offer and Grace is what you need. Call hospice and accept this path. This is the way of things.”

I listened.

“Hospice can help your mother deal with her feelings about her death. Hospice can help you deal with your feelings about your mother’s death. Call them.”

The Gypsy Queen is right.

It all boils down to my mother starving to death. They can not install a feeding tube because alcoholics dementia does not impact my mothers basic intellect. She is still intelligent; she is just not able to form new memories. My mother would remove a feeding tube. Removing the feeding tube would lead to at least infection; at worst; disembowelment.

My mother is dying. My mother is dying a long painful death because she was a life long alcoholic. My mother  physically abused and neglected me and I still am waiting for her to love me. I am lost.

I do the math. She has lost so much weight over the last few months. She is losing 5 pounds a month now.

I give up. I can not do this. I am going Third person:

The woman hangs up her cell and watches the boys playing on the rocks as she leans on the wall with her friend. The phone call lingers and the tears come. Not sobbing but quiet slow tears of sorrow long sowed.

Her mother is dying and it is time for acceptance. There will be no resolution; there will be no love language exchanged and this death will not be painless for either of them.

The woman asks her friend to watch the boys and walks down the old stone steps to a bench. The leaves are falling in the park but they have gone past the stage of the beauty of new fallen leaves. They are dry and crumble underfoot.

The number for hospice is in her list of contacts. She dials the number and remembers that death comes for us all and there is no way around this thing.

“The only way out is through,” she remembers a therapist telling her.

I am going Through.

Wandering through one of my favorite cities today with my family, I realized that I ALWAYS know where my son is. I can feel him. He runs hither and yon and is old enough to wander into a crowd without me panicking. I ALWAYS know where he is.

I make sure he brushes his teeth. He flosses too. I feed him and then I feed him some more as he is growing; Fast. I make sure he has time for homework and time for fun. I take care of him.

My son is growing up with certainty that he is loved and that things will be pretty much the same today as they were yesterday.

As a Mom I keep crazy people away. He is not surrounded by bikers or drug dealers or late night parties. He goes to bed at a decent hour and the house is quiet and safe at night.

I watched him wander today looking at modern art in a museum and I noticed him Seeing the art. He spent quite some time in front of certain pieces and dismissed other pieces.

We wandered our separate ways in each exhibit as that is what he wants at this age. He is longing for Freedom and has a deep need for the safety of my watchful eye at the same time. It is a tricky time for a mother and a son; striking a balance between walking away and remaining close.

Outside the museum I began to cry realizing that I was not given these gifts as a kid. The things I do as a mother come so naturally, I do not have to think twice about them.

Writing about my mother is breaking my heart and,  you may have noticed, I am veering away from the core subject; my mothers dementia and my response to it.

There is a reason for that;  there is only so much I can take. Getting it all out on paper is hard but it is the way I have always exorcised my demons.

Wow. Check that out. The story I am stalling is not about my demons, but my mothers. I still struggle with the guilt of being born and deep inside, in some pocket of my heart, I hold myself responsible for my mothers drinking.

My father tried to relieve me of the guilt before he died. He tried to make his amends to me. He let me know that he dropped the ball and should have been there for me. He saw me raising my sisters and he saw how responsible I was. He knew, but let it be.

I tried to console him. Of course I did. I am an adult child of an alcoholic. He quit Texaco, came off the road and was home with us running his own business.  He did save us. That is something.

There are gifts we give and there are gifts we are given.

I was given the gift of a son I love. I am given gifts everyday by his very existence. He is my Greatest Blessing and my Joy.

I can give him the gift of my Unconditional Love and Protection.

I am learning to give him the gift of Freedom and Release. It is a path I walk; being there and letting go.

My mother was not there and is fighting my release.

I have been building a scaffold; the story of my mothers decline into alcoholics dementia needed a back story.

Right. That sounds perfect doesn’t it?  Is is true or a cop-out?

I am beginning to wonder.

My parents were very odd people to be sure. Some of what I will be writing about needs that scaffolding. What story doesn’t need a structure?

The truth is I need to meet with the doctor and hospice at my mother’s home next week. The truth is that this part of the journey is one I am not prepared for.

I.

am.

stalling.

The next post should be titled :

Coffins and Confabulation, but it is not.

I am going to stall a bit longer.

I have a few posts written, ready to go, stalling for time. I am working on a tangent and am trying to work my way back to the story of my mothers really disturbing alcoholic dementia and the Hell it caused and is continuing to cause.

I have a gift.

He is my Son.

I will wait to write the tough posts when he is at school; when he is asleep.

He doesn’t need to see me cry now. There are plenty of tears coming.

I am guessing that hospice won’t be cheery and I know my mother;

She is gonna be pissed and it is gonna be my fault.

There are gifts we are given and gifts we give.

Truth is a gift. I gotta get ready to get some and I gotta get ready to  give it.

Forgive for stalling. I am working my way back. This is Hell,  I have been here before;

I know my way back.

Peace,   Jen

I am telling the story of my mothers decline into Wernicke – Korsakoff, alcoholics dementia.

I had every intention of telling this in as coherent and chronological way as possible.

The truth is that writing is my Healing Tool and is a Sacred venture.

I am finding that I am not just a story-teller telling yet another story,

but a seeker on pilgrimage.

Given the Sacred relationship between my heart and Words,

I am going to follow the path that is before me;

chronology be damned.

My father died and my mother could have saved his life.

Her alcoholism prevented her from saving him.

I am angry.

I will diverge from the days following Daddy’s death for a time. I am finding it impossible to put the experiences with my mother in the early days on paper.  I will wait for the road to clear to revisit those times. I know that the words will come eventually and that with them will come healing. I will meander as that appears to be my Hearts Path.

I am finding it hard today to come to terms with my father’s death and my mothers inaction. I do not know how to reconcile this. I do not want to dwell on the past and what can not be undone, but I do need to face this head on.

Daddy was my best friend.

We became very close when I was 16 and he quit drinking. He did not choose to quit; he had an ulcer caused by his alcoholism that ate a hole through his stomach. He should have died, but did not.

He quit drinking because it caused him physical pain.

My father, thank God, hated pain more than he loved drinking. No more booze for Daddy.

I finally had one sober parent for the first time in my life.

Daddy was a much more highly functioning alcoholic than my mother.

Thank God for the small things, ehh?

I started college at 17. I began to drink heavily and found in short order that I was very good at it.

I was a natural.

They say Do What You Are Good At;

I could drink anyone under the table with ease and wore that well.

Or so I thought.

I was at the University of Iowa and had wanted to enter the Writers Workshop since a teacher mentioned it to me early in high school. The Writers Workshop was a Holy Grail.

At the University I had written my heart out for a creative writing  prof, wanting to prove my metal.

I did.

He met with me one day and asked, “Are these true stories?”

  I told them they were.

“You suggest we write what we know about. I am doing that.”  I said.

My conversation with him moved him to suggest I seek therapy.

He also encouraged me to keep writing.

The Mental Health Center on Campus worked on a sliding scale. It was through those doors that I had my first real glimpse of how totally fucked up my life had been and continued to be.

When you are an adult child of alcoholics, you don’t have any idea what ‘normal’ is.

Your life is all you have.

When I would visit other families, the few friends I did have outside my families circle,

I assumed they were hiding their true selves when company was over,

the same way we did if my aunt visited.

Therapy, writing, and drinking too much led to conversations with my father.

He was sober but still loved to meet in bars and talk.

He listened while I ranted about my childhood and how they had stolen it from me.

It was a conversation that took many years to complete, but he finally heard me. He began to see how dysfunctional it all was and finally admitted that social services had indeed removed us from the home due to abuse by my mother.

That conversation took years.

The healing took decades.

When my father died I can say without a doubt in my mind that he and I were clean.

Our relationship was solid and our friendship was the one I counted on.

I miss my father.

I miss him terribly.

Sometimes in the middle of the night I will wake and come downstairs.

I check the answering machine, I look for an email.

Nothing

Sometimes I swear I am certain I can reach my father by email if only I knew how.

But I can not.

Daddy is gone and Mommy could have saved him.

My mother has Wernicke – Karsokoffs Syndrome; alcoholics dementia.

  Her dementia is unraveling my heart.

Her alcoholism over the entire course of my life

has worn a hole in my heart where the love for her belongs.

If you are reading this and wondering, even just a teeny bit, if you drink too much,

that answer is probably ‘Yes.’

I have a hole worn in my heart by alcohol.

You want to drink to that?

No.  You sure as hell do not.

Peace,  Jen

Building my father’s coffin was one of the most healing things I have ever done.

I want to build my own.

I want to build my coffin and put removable shelves in it.

I will place all  the books which have shaped me, in my coffin bookcase.

When it is time for me to go, my family will need only to remove the books and the shelves; I will be on my way.

I can picture my loved ones taking the time to look at each book before placing it aside, the books that meant the world to me in the hands of those who have meant the world to me.

That makes sense to me.

It does.

I know who means the world to me now, but by the time my time comes, I hope they will be joined by other people who came to mean the world to me

unloading the books and preparing my coffin.

Collecting books and pennies is great;

Collecting Love is Better.

My mother is across town in her shared room on the secured wing of a  nursing home.

She can have her mothers desk in the room with her.

It is a tall desk with a fold out table for writing letters. There are nooks and crannies for stationary and a glass case above it to hold important, beautiful things.

When I was little the desk held every Missal from every family member all the way back to England.

I would take the Missals out and marvel at the fact

that my great-great-grandmother’s Missal is so much like mine.

I made my First Communion post Vatican 2 but we lived in a pre Vatican 2 neighborhood.

My Missal has both the Latin and the English translation of the Catholic Mass.

I have the Missals here with me now; they are not safe on the secured floor of my mother’s nursing home.

I have glass figurines of birds behind the glass now. I have locked the glass doors.

I imagine my mother now, propped up in her bed looking through the albums I made for her of all the pets we ever had;

including Cynthia the racoon.

I imagine my mother looking up at the desk and remembering her father fold the desk down and pull out the thick note paper to write the letters he wrote to family.

I pretend that my mother is fine on the secured floor of the nursing home. I pretend that her dementia is due to old age.

My mother is relatively young, 70 I believe, and has been institutionalized for years now.

It took a forced medical detox and the state of Colorado being ready to take guardianship of her,

to get her in the home.

I am her guardian and I have been for years.

I did not give her to the state though there have been times I have wanted to.

The old desk, the coffin I will build myself, books and Missals and Mass said to Women countless generations back are all on my mind.

My mother across town, alone and me here, alone.

I wonder how many hands touched those Missals and how they have managed to survive so much; travel to America, floods in Iowa, the dry air of Colorado.

Those Missals survive the same way my mother does and the same way I do; because of Love.

My mother has Wernicke – Korsakoff Syndrome; alcoholics dementia. Due to the deterioration of her brain, she must be locked away for her own safety and the safety of others.  My mother was a drunk until the forced detox a few years ago. Being a drunk is why she is where she is now and not sitting here with me drinking tea.

I know that when the time comes to take the books out of my coffin bookcase my mother will have been long gone. I know that when her time comes I will move the old desk back into my home or my sisters home and we will return the Missals to their rightful place.

I guess we all return to our rightful home; where ever that might be.

I hope that when my mothers time comes I will be there by her side with only love in my heart.

That seems pretty  far-fetched  at this moment,

but I am looking at these Missals and I gotta tell ya,

they have traveled far and they have survived.

I will ponder that.

Peace,    Jen

All of the paperwork my Worse Case Scenario self had with me yesterday at the DMV was to no avail. I was informed that I needed to go to Social Security to have my name officially change with their office before I could renew my license.

Of course I would. I had taken my husband’s name as a gift on our 10th wedding anniversary. It was something that was important to him and to his father, two men I loved deeply. Being a Winkel is something larger than just  a name. I thought long and hard before I gave this gift. It meant the world to both my husband and his father. It was worth it. It was a gift worth giving, and lets face it, I am a Winkel Woman. Paper will never change that.

Today I needed to drive all the way downtown to the social security office. I knew what that would mean for my heart. More memories of my mother and her descent into Dementia hell.

To steel myself for the memory road ahead, I played my stereo loud as I drove from here to there; Iggy Pop, The Stones, Airbourne Toxic Event and Patti Smith kept me company.

Iggy Pop had to go; Lust for Life reminded me of my mother. She wanted more from the life she had lived. As a young woman she had been a wild thing. Her pregnancy with me and her marriage to my father ended that;

The Stones had to go too. Mothers little Helper only reminded me of the years Mommy tried Valium to help her cope with motherhood. Valium and scotch. Those were not good years.

I tried to focus on “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you find, you get what you need.”  But no; Keith Richards can rock Red lipstick. Not me, much to my mothers chagrin.

I ended up with Vivaldi.

I was able to find parking in a lot across the street from the Social Security office. I steeled myself for the coming Hell.

The Department of Motor Vehicle is one level of Bureaucratic Hell, Social Security is another, kind of like Dante’s Inferno. I felt like Dante desperate to reach my Beatrice in heaven.

Yesterday was one ring of Hell and here I was in another.

The visit to the DMV with my mother was bad; the visit to the Social Security office was horrific.

We needed to go to the social security office to prove my father was dead. My fathers social security check was larger than my mothers and she needed the money to make ends meet. I thought this had been taken care of but as is the wont of a bureaucracy, some snafu had occurred.

I remember parking the car in the same lot and helping my mother out of the car. I had all the paperwork I needed to prove my father was dead. I had the all important Certificate of Vital Record; his death certificate. I had his social security card and my mothers identification. I also had their marriage license; the document that proved there had been a shot-gun wedding. Doing the math was easy.

The trouble was, I also had my mother. Her dementia was terribly unpredictable; some days she knew Daddy was dead and some days she was furious at him for always running so late.

I had no way of knowing where Mommy was in her  alcoholic dementia hell.

I should note here that at this point in the game, I did NOT know what was going on with my mother. At this point I did not have any idea what the hell was wrong with Mommy. All I knew was Daddy was right the night before he died, “Living with your mother is becoming impossible and I do not have any idea what to do.”

That was all I knew at this point.

The wait at the DMV is bad. The wait at the Social Security office is ten times worse. to make matters more complicated for my mother, the seats were very close together. She was not fond of people and she did not like sitting close to anyone, not even me.

My mother is a silent woman. She does not make small talk. Ever. I could see we would be spending hours together in silence. I had her magazines and my book; I could only hope they would hold us.

After hours of waiting our number was called.

The clerk was overworked and tired. I was on edge and my mother wanted to leave.

I was hoping to get this over as quickly as possible.

That was not to be the case.

I explained the situation to the clerk and fortunately my mother was ignoring us, “I need to prove my father has passed in order for my mother to receive his social security benefits”  I used the word ‘passed’ hoping Mommy would just let it go. She did.

Unfortunately, the clerk had not had the same thing in mind.

“ Mrs. Winkel, when did your husband die?”  asked the clerk.

“Bill? Die? Are you kidding? He will outlive us all.”

The clerk was not in any sort of mood to deal with my mother and any nonsense. I took over and quickly and quietly explained the situation, “My mother is still a bit in shock and  becomes easily confused.”

When I told the clerk my mother was still in shock, I meant it. It was the only reason my husband and I could come up with for her bizarre behavior.

My mother began rifling through the paperwork, she lost it; my calm, cool mother lost it in the Social Security office.

“What is that you have there? A death certificate? That IS a forgery and why are you trying to steal from your father? What do you think you are doing?”

I did cry. I actually cried right there in the Social Security office.

I don’t know if my mother seemed crazy or if I did. I do know that one of the guards was sent to check on us. I think there must be a button under the clerk’s desk and she was wise to push it.

The guard asked if he could be of any assistance and told us that we would need to resolve our issues or leave.

I stopped crying, shoved all my paperwork under the thick plate-glass separating the clerk from us and said,

“My father is dead. Please do what must be done to make sure my mother receives my fathers benefit check at the earliest convenience.”

My mother began to argue with me and I did something we were never allowed to do as children; I said,

“Please Shut Up.”

My mother was silenced and the clerk began to handle business.

Moments later I was able to lead my mother out of the office, down the steps to the elevator and out to the car. I had accomplished what I came for and had paper work to prove it.

My mother was furious at me. We were taught to say, “Please be quiet.”

“Shut up!”, would get you slapped.

My mother ignored me all the way to her apartment. She got out of the car and made it clear I was not invited in.

Confabulation Day Two.

Today I held my self together. I ran the memory and thought of my father. I am doing right thing in caring for my mother. I am doing the best I can to let go of the past and let the future take hold. It is what it is and all I can do is the best I can do each moment.

As I left today, I was going to take a photo of the very old sign outside the Social Security office. I had my phone at the ready when a guard approached me, “You are not allowed to take photos of that sign.” he said.

“What? Why not?”,  I asked.

“Terrorism. It is because of Terrorism.”

I said, “You have got to be kidding, right?”

“No. I know. It is silly but it is the law. Let me ride down the elevator to the street with you.” He said.   He was a young guy, a nice guy living in crazy times.

My ‘Go Your Own Way’ self almost snapped that picture anyway, just to show him how silly this was. But I did not. Getting arrested for something that ridiculous would have been really stupid.

The police officer rode with me down to the ground floor. I was escorted out of the building.

Outside the building we made small talk about the weather,

He said, “I am really sorry, I know you are not a terrorist.”

“Can I take a photo of the building? It is for my blog.”

He thought on this for a moment and said, “Of course, and again, I am sorry.”

I snapped the photo and walked across the street to the parking lot.

I tipped the man who was working the lot and drove away.

I listened to the Stones and they were dead on.

“You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you find, you get what you need.”

All I need is Love and I am rich in that area. I drove by my church on the way to my son’s school.  I definitely have all I need. ©

I woke with Abraham Lincoln on my mind. My large plastic tub of pennies awaiting sorting were next to my bed; my blue penny books were scattered on my bed along with  the latest books of poetry I am reading.

I woke feeling grateful for the 16th president, for pennies and my mother.

That is a good way to begin any day.

Today was the day to renew my driver’s license. You know how that goes; you are certain you have everything you need and being a Worst Case scenario gal, I had extra. Bureaucracy, I felt ready.

Being in the DMV brought back memories. I was grateful for the Sauna Club Stranger yesterday; I needed to be holding my mom in a grateful light.

My mother moved to Colorado after Daddy died. First things first: drivers license. My mother is not a patient woman and the DMV is a challenge; it would be for the Dalai Lama. We were there for hours waiting to get Mommy a Colorado drivers license.

When her number came up, hours into our wait, we moved to the counter and all hell broke loose.  My mother  needed to relinquish her Iowa license. The woman behind the counter began making small talk, “ You lived in Iowa. My grandmother lives there.”

“No I never lived in Iowa.” said my mother. “I have no idea where you get that idea.”

My mother had just handed over her Iowa license, that is where the woman helping us came up with that idea.

“Oh, well,  you do have an Iowa drivers license.” said the woman.

“ No. No, I do not. I have always lived in Michigan.” said my mother. “That drivers license is just a fake ID.”

There is was. Again. Confabulation.

I had come to understand that at any moment my mother could find herself caught in her dementia. She could, without missing a beat, make up a story to fill in the blanks that existed only in her mind.

I had begun to understand how this would present itself; my mother could see a look of confusion cross someones face and confabulation would kick in to explain away her mistake.

I was at the DMV remembering that conversation and the fancy verbal footwork I needed to do to make things right. My mother and I  left, hours later with her Colorado drivers license. I left with a dull headache and an urge to sob.

I tried to put the memories of that DMV visit behind me. I was not there with my mother today.  She was safe on the secured unit of a very good nursing home  across town. I brought myself back to the present.

I thought of the shiny penny, a gift from the Sauna Club Stranger. I remembered the gratitude I felt last night thinking of my mother’s gift of my coin collector books.

I tried. I really did.

I tried to be back in the place I was  last night; a place of Gifts, and Gratitude. I just could not bring myself back.

I just want to cry. My mothers alcoholism has eaten away her brain and there is very little chance of reaching her now. If I listen to the nurse on her floor of the secured unit with the locked doors holding her in, there is no chance.

It is over. The possibility for my mother and I to converse about Love or Life is long gone. We will not have give and take or conversation of any kind ever again and we had so little of it to begin with.

Wernicke – Korsakoff comes like a thief in the night; a sneaky thief. Stealing just a little bit of something each day so no one really notices how much is missing.

I can’t shake the memory of my mother at the DMV. I can’t forget the pain of watching my mother lie, confabulate, an elaborate story to cover for the thief having come and stolen what we had yet to  notice.

In one sense it is a wonder to watch someone lie so easily about the most mundane things in such elaborate ways. There is that too. The ease with which confabulation flows when the brain is not capable of  remembering the truth.  How is it the brain can do this?

Confabulation is not the same as ‘Alcoholics Lie’ by the way. Alcoholics lie so they can keep drinking. Confabulation is the swiss cheese brain of an alcoholic who told those lies for

far,

too

long.

Alcoholism is a fucking nightmare. I am angry and sad and in  pain.

I have the penny at home. I will be there soon. Maybe I can recapture what I felt yesterday and do some wild sober confabulation of my own; I am feeling fine, and all is well.

No scotch at my house, no sirree. I am grateful for that tonight; Eternally grateful and ever watchful for that.

©

Alcoholism is often a Family Affair. Sometimes it is as simple as a family tradition; sometimes the dysfunction of living with alcoholics drives other members into the bottle. There is a genetic predisposition to alcoholism that must be taken into consideration.

My mother is not the only member of my family who will die of alcoholism. There are many ways in which alcoholism kills as I mentioned in an earlier post  (Please check out the archive section to the right…)

Let me count the ways that members of my family have died or suffered due to long time use of alcoholism:

(I will not name anyone or list the relationship out of respect for those still living. I will say that most of these people would have looked like very successful people to anyone outside the family. That is what we call ‘A Professional’ in my family. )

-One family member became homeless due to alcoholism.

-One family member began to have seizures which is one of the symptoms of Wernicke-Korsakoff. Long time alcohol abuse had weakened the cell walls of his internal organs. The last seizure caused him to struggle and his internal organs collapsed. He bled to death from the inside out. His blood soaked through the floor boards and into the basement below.

-One family member was committed several times to forced rehab. They were arrested  many times for driving while drunk and for indecent exposure. This family member has several advanced degrees and was a ‘highly functioning alcoholic’. She passed out, face first in more family meals than I can count. The rest of us would continue to eat  our meal as though nothing had happened.

-One family member also began to have seizures. They became incontinent (another bonus of long time alcohol use) and could no longer leave the house for fear of accidents.

-One family member had an ulcer that was so serious due to long time alcohol use that the ulcer eventually ate a hole through his stomach. He was rushed to the hospital and was not expected to live through the night. He did live. He became sober after this only because alcohol use caused too much pain.

-One family member committed suicide when the realization of what the future would bring became clear to him. Seizures had become part of his every day life.

- One family member died in a cheap hotel room surrounded by empty vodka bottles filled with his own urine.

-One family member, also a highly functioning alcoholic with a successful career, was so afraid of the future she was certain she would die by the age of 30. She tried other drugs, became a workaholic, was afraid of relationships and developed OCD as a way of coping. This family member could drink all her friends under the table and wake without a hangover. She was what we call in our family,  a ‘Professional.’  As her 30th birthday approached, she began to realize that choices must be made. Death was not looming as promised in her mind. To live her life as an alcoholic became unacceptable. She quit drinking on her 30th birthday.

That was the first day of the rest of her life.

That woman was me.

I sit with my mother in her nursing home, the doors locked to keep us in, and I see what could have been; what still could be.

Alcoholism is a lifelong curse and recovery is a lifetime committment. I have a mirror in all of these family members; a tarnished family heirloom that reminds me:

Alcoholism is a Family Affair and not everyone gets out alive.

©

[kənfab′yəlā′shən]

Etymology: L, con + fabulari, to speak

The fabrication of experiences or situations, often recounted in a detailed and plausible way to fill in and cover up cognitive impairment or memory loss, which may be caused by alcoholism, especially in people with Korsakoff’s psychosis; head injuries; dementia; or lead poisoning. Also called fabrication.

Mosby’s Medical Dictionary, 8th edition. © 2009, Elsevier.

I was up late into the night the night Daddy died. My sister lives in England and there were travel arrangements to be made. I needed to pack for my trip the next morning, and the few family members we had left needed to be contacted. My fathers best friends made the calls to his tribes.

My brother Phil lived not far from Mommy and went out to check on her that night with the intention of spending the night. Mommy wanted him to leave. She wanted to be alone.

The night is mostly a blur; I remember saying over and over to God, “Please let Daddy come back, Please let Daddy come back…” while my husband held me.

I was on a plane early the next morning. On the flight I resolved to keep the promises I made to Daddy the day he died; I would get Mommy to a doctor and I would take her to Mexico. I called the doctor the moment my plane landed to reschedule the appointment my father had made the day before.

I called the doctor and let him know that Daddy was dead and that Mommy seemed to be in shock. We talked for some time before the appointment. I detailed what my fathers concerns had been. It was vague stuff: Mommy not being able to make a grocery list, getting lost on the way home, weird stories about why she left her job, or let the feral cats in the house.

Daddy could not put his finger on it. He told me, “She has always been strange but, honey, this is something else. I am seriously thinking of moving into the apartment in the basement. It is so strange being with her.”

That did not give me much to go on, but it was a start.

I drove Mommy to the doctor the day after I arrived. She was silent in the car and did seem far more distant than usual. Mommy not talking was the norm, it was hard to tell what was going on in her head.

Dr. Taggart is a gentle man. He tried to draw Mommy out, to get her to talk, but it was a waste of time. He did a complete physical and everything seemed normal until he asked Mommy how she was feeling after her recent cataract surgeries.

My mother became oddly animated and seemed insulted.

“I did not have cataract surgery. What are you talking about?”

The Doctor and I just looked at one another. Mommy had had cataracts in both eyes and had gone through the surgeries within the last few months.

Dr. Taggart asked me to check in my mothers wallet. I found two cards that served to alert a paramedic that my mother had indeed had the surgeries.

I showed them to Mommy.

“Your Father had those surgeries done, not me and you know that is the truth. He fought me for years and finally I convinced him to have the surgeries. Finally he could see. I don’t have any idea why my name is on those cards. It must be a simple clerical error.”

I was stunned. The night before, going through the things on my fathers desk I found the last bills for both surgeries. I remembered offering to fly out to help if Daddy needed me to be there. I remember the calls from the Dr.’s office the days the surgeries were done giving the thumbs up. The surgeries had gone well.

Daddy thought that the troubles Mommy was having were because she could not see.

Dr. Taggart explained to Mommy that he remembered her having the surgeries and that they had both been successful.

My mother got out of her chair, put on her coat, throwing the cards in the trash as she walked out of the examing room, saying as she left, “Your father had those surgeries and I know because I was the one who made the appointments for him and I drove him the day of the procedures.”

Dr. Taggart and I were both stunned. I started to cry and Dr. Taggart sat down near me.

“Your mother is in shock. This is to be expected. Really, everything will be fine in time.”

I wanted to believe him, I really did. I knew things would not be fine in time. Daddy had been right to be concerned. I knew somehow that this was just the beginning of a very hard road.

This was my first face to face experience with confabulation brought on by my mothers long time alcoholism. I did not know it at the time, but quickly came to understand that anything my mother told me could be a lie. The truly sad thing was that she did not know that what she was saying was complete fiction.

Welcome to the world of Wernicke – Korsakoff.

Chronologically that was the next step. My father’s death led to me caring for my mother and discovering over the following years,  the depth of her dementia and the extent of her continued drinking.

Storytelling in this case is an attempt to find 1% Forgiveness for the woman who broke my ribs; the woman I call Mommy.

Adult children of alcoholics we are called. We have a tendency to block out the bad stuff; you grow adept at denial. It is a skill set: denial, silence, and secrecy; all well-developed tools we use to make it through the night or the week or  the rest of our lives.

Holding my father’s death certificate last night led to remembering a conversation with the doctor. I recalled talking to Ralph the day after my father died about my mothers state of confusion and distraction the night my father died. Remembering what had been forgotten set back the old Forgiveness clock.

A storytelling glitch is upon us; chronology be damned.

The truth is this: my mothers dementia was so severe even then that she was unable to call 911. I know this now with the hindsight of the last 6 years battling my mother, her drinking, her ultimate forced medical detox and committment to a nursing home.

Hindsight is part of this journey. If, as an adult child of an alcoholic, I choose to put down the tool box and look at this thing through the eyes of a grown woman with 20 years of recovery under her belt, the truth is my mother was incapable of dialing 911 and my father died.

I asked the doctor the night my father died, “Was he in pain for long?”,  the doctor paused and then replied, “Yes. Excruciating pain for some time.”

And I am looking for 1% forgiveness? Really? I am going to dial this back to .05 % Acceptance.

My mother was irritated the day after my father died. I arrived from Colorado and found her cleaning the living room rug. She had been cleaning up the dog shit the paramedics had tracked through the house. I could not tell if my mother was angry at Fred, my fathers dog for shitting while my father died or if she angry at the paramedics for tracking the shit across the room as they tried to revive my father.

Last night, holding the death certificate,  I remembered how vulnerable my mother looked that day. She had not cried; that was not her way and still her eyes were hollow. The house was quiet and we sat in silence.

The chair my father died in was across the room and the curtains were open. The Winter light glanced over the Iowa snow drifts. My mother had prisms hanging in the window and the light glided around the room.

The sun reflecting off the snow sent  blue light through the window and  into the room.

I sat with my mother in silence. I sat with her in the room my father died in the night before. My mother sat staring out the window at what had not long ago been a pond. I would watch as my mother stood at the window in the Summer. She watched my father swim in the pond with Fred. She watched Daddy swim in circles with Fred at his heels.

My mother loved my father in the way she could love anyone. She loved him more than she was capable of actually.

We were silent for a very long time and then she said, “Your father was unresponsive. He was just not responsive.”

I realized then that perhaps my mother was unaware of what had happened.

“Mommy,” I said, “Daddy is dead. He died last night.”

My mother said nothing and tears began to run down here face, silent, steady tears. I had only seen my mother cry a couple of times in my life.

She did nothing to wipe her tears and I crossed the room to sit near her. The couch looked out the window at the place that once held the pond and my father and Fred, the dog, on Summer days in Iowa.

The chair my father died in was next to me and so was my mother; still crying silently with the news that her husband was gone.

The Winter sun on the snow, that special light that only falls on heavy Iowa snow flooded the room.

My mother did not call 911. My father did die.

And,

My mother loved my father more than she was capable of loving anyone.

1% Forgiveness. This is possible. And this is Hard.

My father’s death certificate is actually very pretty; the background is a sort of salmon pink and the edge is an intricate design made of many shades of blue. My father had the bluest eyes of anyone I have ever met. The edge around his death certificate reminds me of his eyes.

A death certificate is very upfront about being a “Certificate of Vital Record.” It is that; a very vital record of the death of a man I loved deeply, respected and counted as my best friend and mentor. It does not get more vital than that.

William Charles Winkel was born in Chicago, Illinois on August 21st, 1937. He was a small business owner (self-employed) and was a (white) man born to a German semi pro football player and a woman with her masters degree in Social Work by the time she was 21.

William Charles Winkel was a Good man. I learned more from him about how to live than any other person on this Earth. The Certificate of Vital Record won’t tell you that. It also won’t tell you that he was an alcoholic until I was 16, that he and my mother spent years apart and each time they reunited  I asked, For the Love of God Why, and he would answer, “I have loved your mother from the moment we met, I have always loved your mother and I will always love your mother. “

My father’s death certificate bears the seal of The Great State Of Iowa. It warns at the bottom: IT IS ILLEGAL TO DUPLICATE THIS COPY. It is an official county record, for what that is worth, the official record of the death of a singular man.

William Charles Winkel was cremated by Lensing Funeral & Cremation Services on Kirkwood Avenue.

The Certificate of Vital Record states that the immediate cause of death was:

(a) Cardiac Arrhythmia
(b) COPD

What this vital record neglects to inform you is this;

When I talked to my mother the night of my father’s death,  she said, “Dad was having a hard time breathing. I left him to borrow an inhaler from that man down the road with the little dog named Ginger. He could not find an inhaler. When I returned, your father was not responsive. Dad’s dog had shit all over the rug. That was the first thing the paramedics saw, dog shit.”

My father was not asthmatic. The man down the road, his name is Ralph, called 911. Ralph is not asthmatic. The doctor told me that night, late that night, that had 911 been called earlier my father would have lived.

The Certificate Of Vital Record has a beautiful blue edging. The blue reminds me of Daddys eyes. The Vital Record of a singular mans death is safe in the filing cabinet.  The Truly Vital Record is forever in my heart.

I have decided to tell this chronologically as much as is possible. Easier said than done.

Wernicke – Korsakoff is a tricky syndrome. It can take hold years, even decades before anyone is aware of the damage being done.

Chronologically is tricky too. Do I begin with all the times my mother forgot to pick us up from an event, or forgot a permission slip or a teachers conference? Do I begin with the difficulty in convincing my father that my mother was a drunk or the intervention we tried once he saw the light?

Do I mention dishes flying across the room, my father ducking just in time or the fights that were waged long into the night while my sister and I tried to sleep?

I have decided to begin with my filing cabinet. It is a large, beautiful maple cabinet, filled with files. The bottom drawer has over the years since my father’s death, become a chronicle of the destruction that comes in the wake of caring for a long time alcoholic.

A warrant for my mothers arrest, a forced tax sale for a house in Iowa that was to pay for her retirement; missing persons reports and letters from her neighbors complaining of the stench coming from her condo. Dead birds and feral cats on her counter tops.

Burners left on, a car accident, care givers and police.

I have files upon files. Going through the drawers yesterday was overwhelming. I had to stop and start again as I let the pain of the not too distant memories in and then force them out again.

I have an outline now scratched out on several sheets of paper: broken foot, forced medical detox, medical emergencies and legal ones too.

I also have a list of the people who saved me along the way; Dr. Plunkett, Sandy Tobin and Mary Beth Leitzmann; social workers and Angels of the highest order, Richard Vincent; an elder care lawyer with a heart of gold.

My sister Andrea and her husband Paul and my Brother Phil and his wife Carrie.

My husband, Juan Thompson, a man who stands by me during the very worst of times.

A legion of Angels and this is only the short list.

No one can do this alone. It would be impossible and that was perhaps one of the harder lessons I have had to learn. I am my father’s daughter; I am tough. I am also myself and I am soft.

It is not possible to care for someone suffering with Wernicke – Korsakoff by yourself. This path breaks your heart, you need a legion of angels to help you put the pieces back together again.

So, back to the filing cabinet; I have a file that contains my father’s death certificate. That file is at the front and in the middle and at the back. That file will always break my heart and that piece can never be mended.

Mommy had been acting odd for some time. Several years earlier, while they were visiting, my dad asked me to keep an eye on her. Daddy said she was having a very  difficult time making simple decisions.

I took her to our favorite mexican restaurant. We had been going to Tacos Jalisco for years. We  had the menu memorized and it is a long one.

I watched as my mother scanned the menu, a blank look on her face. She became confused and agitated. Mommy was not a talker. She would not ask for help.

When the waiter appeared, I watched my mother struggle with ordering. Her anxiety was  painful to watch. I ordered for her.

Mommy struggled throughout the entire meal in silence.

My mother was an elegant woman. She was proud and dignified.

That night at Tacos Jalisco, I saw the beginning of the end for my mother. Her anxiety was painful to watch. Her elegance and poise were deteriorating.

On January 10th of 2005, years after that night at Tacos Jalisco,  I spent most of the day on the phone with Daddy. We made an appointment for my mother to meet with a doctor the next day.

That night, around 9:00 PM, Daddy and I decided to take Mommy to Mexico in March. He was  feeling a need to give her something to look forward to.

At 10:00 PM on January 10th of 2005,  I received a phone call.

It was my mother.

“ I have the most awful news; the most awful. Dad is dead.”

I took the call. That was the most awful beginning of this most awful story.

Her alcoholism took us to Hell and back. I am free now.

She lives there 24/7 on a secured unit with locked doors and windows.

Wernicke - Korsakoff is alcoholics dementia.

My mother lives with Wernicke – Korsakoff

If you can call it living.

My sister calls from England, “Well, live by the liquid diet, die by the liquid diet ehh?”

I laugh out loud until my ribs hurt.

When you grow up with alcoholics you quickly develop at dark sense of humor.

It’s the only humor that makes any kind of sense.

My sister and I; we come by ours honestly.

Our dark humor saved our lives.

Our mother sure as hell did not.

Best,

Alysse

To listen, click the link below.

Wernicke-Korsekoff Risk Factors

For independents of the medical breed                         

     And, what is more,

     They need a drug store.

Do I have to appeal to greed?

Labs this morning included a folic acid deficiency, another hyperthyroid, and a hyperparathyroid.

Folic acid deficiency should be as rare as snowy owls eating black-footed ferrets but it isn’t.  Left untreated, folic acid deficiency is fatal.  Treatment runs a few cents a day for a simple pill.  I find the diagnosis and treatment of this problem very gratifying; not only do I get to save the patient’s life for little money but I get to make them feel better.

A call from Anchorage led to a discussion of Wernicke’s encephalopathy.  Neurologic problems happen from thiamine deficiency and carbohydrate excess.  As all food stuffs containing flour have thiamine supplementation, the worst carbohydrate with no thiamine (one of the B vitamins) is distilled alcohol.  A person has to drink very hard and keep a strictly rotten diet to get Wernicke’s.  Thiamine deficiency more often gives rise to Korsakoff’s psychosis, where a person loses short-term memory.  Med school vitamin discussions featured Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome, and in med school I learned but I scoffed.  I shouldn’t have.

Vitamin D deficiency gives rise to hyperparathyroidism which in turn gives rise to osteoporosis, and the vitamin D level on the patient with the abnormal parathyroid is pending.  I will be very surprised it the vitamin D level is normal.

For reasons of confidentiality I cannot go into details about the people the abnormal lab results are associated with, but they are living, feeling human beings who suffer and who hurt; they live in families; they make good decisions and bad; each one has stories to tell, full of drama and irony. Each wants to be done with illness and move on with their lives.

I still had paperwork to fill out for my hospital appointment, the deadline loomed, and the completion took up much of the time freed by clinic no shows. 

The Indian Health Service started the hospital in Barrow.  The Arctic Slope Native Association took over the operation in 1995, and in the process started delivering health care to the non-Natives.  I suspect that out-of-pocket expenses for an Urgent Care visit are like prices for everything in Barrow, that is, very expensive.  The non-Natives come for work physicals, workman’s compensation, coughs, colds, and the occasional head scratching mystery.  Sometimes they require services that are not available in the entire North Slope, and arranging follow-up becomes very difficult

Barrow would also be a good place for a doc to open up shop and serve the non-Native population, almost all of whom have very good insurance.  Such a doctor would do well here from first day.

It won’t be me.  I’m having too much of a good time being an employee, not being an owner, working at a reasonable pace.

A retail pharmacy would also do well here.

Pregunta de Bioquimica No. 31

L.W. un paciente alcoholico de 58 anhos de edad, es llevado al hospital con vomitos, falta de equilibrio, y deterioro mental. En el examen se detecta ataxia y una confusion mental global. Diferentes estudios confirman un Sindrome de  Wernicke-Korsakoff.

El tratamiento especifico y obvio para el paciente en el presente estado se basa en administrarle al paciente:

a)     Vitamina B1

b)     Vitamina B2

c)      Vitamina B6

d)     Vitamina B12

e)     Vitamina C

Lost of color sensation, damage of movement memory, demolition at Wernicke area which is center of understanding words (perception damage), lost of time, place and direction sensation, sight and hearing damage, lost of memory�

At the lost of the color sensation, the patient sees everything in the tons of gray. The patient cannot eat anything because tomatoes seem him like coal. He can see people in the color of mouse. Even his dreams get colorless.

At the damage of the movement memory, the patient loses sight of a moving object periodically; he can be crashed by a car while he is crossing the street, because he saw the car once as the car was far away, and once as the car is next to him. He overflows the teacup, because he cannot watch the height of the tea. Some patients see the world as a plane, cannot see three dimensions. He loses his movement control and body balance.

Demolition of Wernicke area makes speaking damage called “afazi”. In afazi it’s damaged saying words, understanding words, choosing correct word and correct word order (grammar syntax). Some patients cannot understand what he is reading, can fluently speak but most of the words wrong (parafazi) so that it’s like the patient has created a new language. It’s so difficult to understand what he says. In the lost of time, place and direction sensations, the patient can imagine himself in twenty years ago, in another city or place. For example an old lady can be dressed and behave like a young girl and a young girl like a five years old child.

As all the sensations, the sight and hearing damages can be seen. At some serious patients blindness has been seen. In an example, although the patient is blind, he is not aware of this; he creates imaginations in his mind. Ringings in ear, hearing some metallic sounds and connected with this, some hearing damages can appear.

Our brain’s face recognition areas are different from object recognition areas. A brain, which watches a face, records immediately lots of details about this face, sexuality, age, race, emotional contents, physiognomic constants etc. At the WKS illness this area is hampered, some patients cannot recognize even their own photos. In some situations he cannot remember the person but can remember emotional content. And in some situations the past is partly or completely deleted.

Sudden interferences after the condition of long-term hunger and wrong treatment causes the patient to stay lifelong handicapped, in the condition of paralysis cause sometimes his death.

The effect of the determined treatment on the patient and the answer to the question if the patients can live without any help cannot be taken before one year. It is impossible that the WKS patients can recover and at most of the patients the intensity of illness is at the level that the patients need help to continue their lives. When the illness does not be treated, it can result in coma and death.

Source: Grup Yorum web site