Author's Note

Author's Note:

My book, Marshall’s Journey, The Power Of Understanding Alzheimer's, is available at these fine booksellers:

Click here: Marshall's Journey at Amazon

Click here: Marshall's Journey at Barnes & Noble

41 - I Do What?

I Do What ??

I watch football. As a 90-year-old woman I know that sounds strange… Actually I’m an avid fan of our San Diego football team. But many years ago even that team came second to the Minnesota Vikings. But that’s a long story.

It was my early years of working for 3M Company and I was familiar with traveling to St Paul, Minnesota between Christmas and New Years. The company set us up in a nice hotel and we spent much of our daylight hours in meetings. That is where we learned about new products, were taught better sales techniques, and were encouraged to do our very best. We were also given free time on the weekend, and I knew exactly what I was going to do with mine. I was going to see the San Diego Charges play the Minneapolis Vikings with the two tickets my brother had bought for me as a surprise.

I couldn’t find anyone to use the extra ticket and go to the game with me, but I was determined to go even if the weather was something like 9 degrees. I would not miss this chance to see Fran Tarkington play. So I called a cab and asked the driver if there was anyplace nearby where a bus might arrive to take Viking fans to the Minneapolis stadium.

“Just up the street is the Red Barn.” he replied “It’s a restaurant and bar. There probably are people waiting there already.” It took him just a few minutes to get me there. I climbed out of the cab, paid him and thanked him for his help.

“Lady,” he said “you be careful. Them shoes you’re wearing ain’t too good on the ice.” I thanked him for his concern, entered the bar and ordered a Bloody Mary. It just seemed appropriate and I could take small sips. “You new around here? “the bartender asked. “Very new” I answered “I’m from San Diego.” “Well I guess you’re here to root for your team,” he said. “Oh! No,” I replied “I’m here to root for the Vikings.”

“Hey, you guys,” he yelled into the restaurant where many Viking fans were sipping coffee and waiting for the bus. “We’ve got a newcomer here. She lives in San Diego and has come here because her favorite team is our Vikings. Come in and meet her.” It was really fun waiting for the bus. They all understood that my support was built mainly on their quarterback, Fran Tarkington. They all seemed to feel about the same. He was everyone’s hero.

The bus was a hubbub of sound with differences of opinions and fans knowing what they would do if they were the coach. All noisy fun and I loved it. The excitement, warm-heartedness and acceptance of me was so very special.

When we arrived at the stadium, many fans had left the bus before I started to climb down. At the foot of the stairs two men were waiting for me. To my surprise each took an elbow, lifted me off the ground and carried me that way into the stadium. Then they explained, “Honey, there’s no way you could have walked over that ice with those shoes on.” They grinned, and I smiled and thanked them and left to find my seat.

The end-zone seats were like bleachers and my seat was three rows up. All around me were people that knew me and, though I was freezing, I felt so exhilarated. I could hardly wait for the first kickoff. It came and the game began and I screamed and yelled with the best of them. Maybe that’s why I didn’t freeze.

I did welcome half time when I could go into the stadium for a little warmth and a cigarette. When I returned my new friends were returning also. The first young couple handed me a pair of gloves to protect my hands. A young man and his girl arrived after that with a knit hat for my freezing head. It was not just what they were giving me. It was a gesture of such wonderful kindness that my eyes filled with tears.

Before long everyone had returned to their seats. The fellow who sat in front of me turned to tell me to look up. “Turn around and look up,” he said. I did and about four rows up a man was passing down a sleeping bag. “Climb in,” he yelled “and zip it up. It’ll keep you warm” and I did and it did.

When we arrived back at the Red Barn my friends would not hear of me calling a cab. They insisted that I share pizza with them and talk about the game. Later a couple drove me back to the hotel. After thanking them sincerely, I returned to my room, closed the door and with my back leaning against it, realized that I could not have dreamt of a day so completely wonderful.

Of course the Vikings won. Fran scrambled as only he could and I lived the wonder of the day. It’s a day I have never forgotten. It remains in my heart as a memory of kindness, caring and an incredible football game.

40 - My Depression

My Depression

Webster’s Dictionary: Low Spirits…Gloominess…Dejection

Have I known depression? You bet I have . . . long ago during my children’s adolescent years when I found myself to be a maternal stranger in a strange land. To explain, my children grew up within the protection of a large and loving family. The family consisted of a grandmother, a great-grandmother, a grandfather, an uncle and the three of us, my daughter, my son and me. We all lived together in what I believed to be harmony. At least we all lived together in a household of high moral values, of respect for elders, policemen, teachers and their religion.

It was when both children entered Junior High School that I felt the time had arrived for me to go to work, find an apartment for us and continue our lives as a single family. Bruce was fourteen and Robin twelve when we made that move. I went to work in the Graphics Arts department of Convair and as my income increased we moved to a nicer apartment in a lovely neighborhood.

That is where I learned about depression. Bruce was seventeen and Robin fifteen and their lives were embedded in the era of that time. The introduction of drugs, the non-importance of respect and the sexual revolution were all a part of it. I was set down in
the middle of the hippy era and I didn’t know how to deal with it. I fell into a deep depression, not understanding and doing all the wrong things, saying all the wrong things, demanding all the wrong things and making all the wrong mistakes. As my children demanded their own independence, I faded into the total darkness of depression. It took many years before I lived to be free of that disease and the mistakes I made. My mistakes created havoc between me and my children, who I loved much more than I expressed.

Now I am 90 years old and have lived many years free of depression, not even when my doctors told me that I had only six months to live. That was four years ago and I have lived and loved this life I now lead. I have been blessed by one special miracle after another. There are miracles that come into my home when people I love walk through my door. There is the miracle of the San Diego Hospice that has cared for me throughout all these years. There is the miracle of family and friendships that know no bound. And I believed that I had been the luckiest woman in the world until the last few weeks when I, once again, became deeply depressed.

What happened is that I became ill with something between a cold and the flu. It has been almost epidemic here in San Diego and I became one of the victims. For a short while the illness did not eafect me emotionally. It was not until after two new medications were prescribed for me that I became depressed. Obviously I was allergic to them, but I didn’t realize that at the beginning. I didn’t even recognize the depression that became a part of my emotional reactions. And again I said the wrong things, did the wrong things and made all the wrong mistakes.

I am now in an “I should have known better” stage. I do have idiosyncratic drug reactions and have always been afflicted with them. I know I must always check my reaction to new drugs. Failing to do that caused depression and I became too sure of what I thought and of myself. My agitation and feelings were way beyond my norm. I put myself in a “have to be right” position and I haven’t been like that for many years. What I was saying was silly and somewhat child-like. I began criticizing what is important in my life . . . that which I truly love and respect.

As soon as I realized what was going on, I stopped taking the drug even though it stopped the back-pain. Stopping the drug also made me understand that many of us might take a giant step backward, forgetting how wonderful, kind and gentle living can be. I often wonder if we are placed in difficult medical positions so that we may be able to relate to the same ailment in others. We then can be truly empathetic because we’ve been there, done that and can understand those who are suffering the darkness of depression.

The problem that exists is when severe depression is not recognized. That I’m having a few bad days is not clinical depression. Medical help is desperately needed for those who suffer with constant depression, Though I realize that the depressed sufferer must be willing to improve with medical and emotional help, there can also be a pair of welcoming arms and loving hearts that will be there to hold and love them when they are ready. That is the wonder of love. That is the salvation of the needy.

39 - Expectation

Expectation

Expectation may not be the root of all evil but is frequently very much involved. Many divorces, perhaps the majority, can be based on expectation. Lost friendships might also be included. Seldom is it realized that what you expect, and don’t receive, can cause havoc in any relationship. It also is possible that you might not realize that you are operating in the expectant mode.

You may come home from work and expect your children to be delighted with your arrival. They’re not. They only want your attention to tell you what happened to them
in school today. No “Hi! Glad you’re home Mom, when’s dinner?” More important where’s the hug or the kiss or maybe a great smile when they see you? That doesn’t seem too hard, does it? And you become annoyed with their lack of a warm welcome. Irritation might even set in and can be the beginning of hidden anger, but expectation is the original culprit.

After dinner they may expect you to listen to something that has been bothering them. The truth is that you have to get to your computer right away and send in your daily reports. You expect them to understand. They won’t, anymore than you will understand not getting the welcome home that you expected. That is the beginning of tension brought on by expectation. You each expect tolerance from one another and expect-
ations too often come first. Patience, understanding and concern must wait. That all sounds like exaggeration. It’s not. Similar situations occur daily in all stages of life.

There’s a great problem with expectation. It often invades the relationships that are most important to us. Your children, your spouse, your family and we could go on to friend-ships and business associates. Our opinion of how others should behave and how they should react must all be in accordance to what we expect of them. The wonder is that when expectation is removed, acceptance takes its place. Now life becomes easier with more understanding. You don’t expect your children to come running to kiss you when you arrive home. Instead when you open the door, you open your arms to hug them and joyfully accept the moment of being their Mom. They’ll soon understand that greeting Mom is wonderful.

I’ve spoken of parent and child but the same concept includes husband and wife, families and friends. When expectations are gone, understanding, accepting and caring takes its place. Life takes on a new peace and beauty.

There was an old adage that I’ve altered some. For me it says:

“The road to Hell Is Paved With Expectations.”

38 - Life With Nicky

Life with Nicky

Nicky is my Shetland Sheep dog and my constant companion, but we’ve got to get back to the beginning to really know him. Back to the time when my Alzheimer’s afflicted brother lived with us and I felt he needed a dog.

Marshall’s condition had declined to the point that he didn’t know who I was. He no longer recognized me but accepted me as That Lady. He didn’t read the morning newspaper or watch what was on television. These had occupied him during the day. Now he just sat in his recliner and waited as I watched him sink further and further into the darkness of Alzheimer’s. But he had not lost his love of dogs. So one morning I stood in front of him and with great determination said, ‘I’m going to get a dog for us.” He was startled for a moment and then said “If you get a dog I’ll have nothing to do with it. I’m not going to care about it. I won’t go through the pain of putting another dog to sleep.” Still standing in front of him, I replied “Marshall, you are 76 years old and I am 80. What makes you think we can outlive a Sheltie? I’m going to get our dog.”

We’re Sheltie lovers and I was about to find our fourth Sheltie. I called Sheltie Rescues. None had a dog that needed a home. The last one I spoke with told me about a friend who had a young Sheltie that she might sell. I phoned and discovered that she was a Sheltie breeder who would sell a 9-month-old Sheltie for $119.00. My heart skipped a beat. I could handle that. I drove out to meet her the next morning.

After explaining that she had kept him for best of show, but he failed to qualify, she introduced me to a beautiful, happy, perfect little dog. “Did you bring a kennel?” Stupid me, how could I not realize that I needed some way to take him home. “I’ll be back tomorrow with one” I said and left. Early the next morning I received a phone call. “I’m sorry” she said. “A family who saw Cody before, had first right and they bought him.” Tears came to my eyes; I really wanted that dog.

About two weeks later I received an unexpected call. “Are you still interested in Cody?” the kennel owner asked. “Oh, yes.” I replied. “Well,” she said “The people who bought him brought him back and said it was because he wasn’t housebroken. Who in the world would expect a dog from a kennel to be housebroken?” She didn’t explain that they had brought back the most frightened, traumatized dog I have ever see.

With a kennel in the back seat, my granddaughter and I drove to pick up my dog. She suddenly turned to me said “I don’t like the name they gave him.” “Neither do I” I said, “but I’ve got the right name for him. It’s Nicholas McTavish the Fourth.” I saw the amazement on her face, “Hold it!” I said “He’s from Royal Blood. Many of his ancestors have won Grand Prizes all over the world. Nicky could be listed in every dog-show. He deserves a dignified name.” She shook her head and said “Only my Granny” and so began my life with Nicky.

A few days later I phoned the kennel owner. “This is the most frightened dog I have ever seen. He stays hidden behind the recliner. If I can’t get him to come out within two months, I’ll have to return him.” In one month I fell in love. But a question arose in my mind. What was I to do to help this poor little dog? Then a great opportunity opened. I was able to place Nicky for dog training of assistant dogs. Those two years of training changed my once shy dog to the one that now thinks he rules this house. All is well. He’s my constant companion and my source of comfort. He’s also the smartest dog I’ve ever known. I qualified that the evening I opened the Internet and saw “The Ten Smartest Dogs in the World.” My Sheltie was number 6.

Marshall loved him as much as I did and Nicky was a great companion for him, but Nicky decided himself that he was my dog. At night Marshall would want to sleep with him in his room. Nicky stayed with him for a short time and then began scratching on the door. He would not be satisfied until I opened the door, let him out and watched him be contented as he jumped up on my bed. We still sleep that way every night.

Nicky often makes his own rules. I didn’t teach him not to wake me in the morning. He just waits until I open my eyes. When he’s on medication, I don’t have to call him. Much as he hates it, I have only to shake the pill bottle and wait. He will appear before me, place himself in a sit position, lift his head and silently say “I’m ready” He will always be on the bathmat waiting in front of the shower until I get out and I’m safe. There's more, but I didn’t teach him these things. They are his rules. The things I did teach Nicky only needed to be taught once. The puppy that entered our house started to wet on the floor. I picked him up, took him outside and said a very positive “No.” Just one No for Nicky has never had to be repeated.

He is a joy to take shopping, whether to the grocery or Nordstrom’s. Equally wonderful to take into a restaurant or a movie. How do I accomplish that? After his assist training he wears a coat much like the Seeing Eye companions wear, so he can go wherever I go and he has.

Before my illness Nicky accompanied me everywhere. Now, when the days may be difficult, he will always appear and lay by my side. He is aware when his Mom is not well and is ready to protect her. He also understands everything I say to him and that is truly amazing. It’s not only what I tell him to do but usually tell him what we will do like “let’s go to bed now” and he’s ahead of me waiting in the bedroom. Mom’s got to take a nap means he will spread out on the floor in front of the couch to remain until I get up. These are all his ideas. I know that dogs can understand about 300 words, but Nicky goes far beyond that. I’m pretty certain that Nicky is 70% dog and 30% human (with a slight possibility on the reverse),

Nicky has one problem, he barks too much. We’ve overcome that some, but he can be an annoyance to those who visit. They don’t quite understand, but it’s still a trade-off. This love-expressive, understanding companion has replaced the life I lived before my illness. I live alone but in my aloneness I am not alone. In my times of severe illness I have my protector close to my side waiting until I tell him, “It’s O.K. Nicky, Mom's better now.” Then he will leave to look out of the window. Nicky brings into my existence a completion that I would never have had without him. I guess it’s alright if he barks.

37 - The Priest and Bruce

The Priest and Bruce

This story goes back many years but it is worth repeating. It started when we lived in a small house only two doors from a Catholic church. In between was another very small home where many children lived. The eldest child was Virginia. She became the baby sitter for Robin and Bruce
and I was really concerned when I moved to live with my mother and father.

My family had rented a large home in Mission Hills (an elegant section of San Diego) and insisted that the children and I come and live with them. It proved to be a wonderful arrangement except for my loss of Virginia who was the only baby sitter I could trust. The family usually left on Saturday evening to drive to Tia Juana for the Jai Alai games. That was a fun night out but, until I was comfortable about leaving them, I needed to be home with the children. Then Virginia’s family finally approved of her staying overnight Saturday and I could drive her home on Sunday. I was free to go with the family. Robin and Bruce would be safe.

One Sunday I was climbing upstairs to see if the children were dressed. As I neared the bedroom I heard Bruce say, in a very loud voice, “Ginny, you’re wrong and I’m right. Only the Jews are right.” It was shortly after that my son got his first really hard swat on the bottom and stood teary-eyed before me as I explained, “Don’t you ever say anything like that again. You may not understand now but Virginia is right for her and you are right for you. And that is the way it is in this world.”

It was about two weeks later that Virginia wanted to go to the Vincent Saint Paul church just a few blocks from my home. She also asked if Bruce could go with her. “What a wonderful idea” I thought, “Bruce can now begin to experience other religions”. I dressed him in a little navy-blue suit, a bright white shirt and white shoes with navy-blue socks. He was such a beautiful child and looked so handsome that a very proud mother stood on the porch to watch them as they walked away. The rest is as told to me by Virginia.

They entered the church and walked down to the seating closest to the podium. Services began and a young priest approached the podium and was about to speak when Bruce suddenly stood up. He looked around and said in a very loud little-boy voice “Ginny, what kind of a place is this anyhow. There ain’t any Jews in here.” Virginia said that she pulled him down to his seat and swore if purgatory had opened she would have gladly fallen in.

Services resumed and after they ended the priest walked to the entrance to say farewell to the leaving parishioners. Virginia entered into the crowd and holding tight to Bruce’s hand bent down very low. That way she thought she might be hidden enough to leave without being seen. It worked for a short time until she heard the priest call “Virginia”. She said she was terrified as she approached him with Bruce in tow. As she neared she was trembling but he paid no attention to her. He simply reached down and pulled Bruce up in his arms. He held Bruce close and said, “Don’t you worry, young man, there’s a Jew here all the time.” It still clutches at my heart and brings tears to my eyes.

I don’t remember the name of that wonderful priest nor can I remember his family. I called them about two years later, after he had been killed in an automobile accident. I had to let them know the wonder of their son. I will continue to try to find his name but we’re talking about something that happened sixty-years ago. Something I will never forget.

(I’ve often wondered how Bruce knew that there weren’t any Jews there. It seems that kneeling on the floor, which is not done in the synagogue, may have caused the remark or perhaps making the sign of the cross. But he had no answers when asked…and neither do I. By-the-way our dear Virginia became a Nun.)

36 - The Boy in the Attic

The Boy in the Attic

This story takes us very far back in time. So far back that very few of us can remember, but it’s been a part of our family since the early nineteen hundreds. That was during the period when my grandfather Hyman fled from Russia, came to the United States, settled in Canton, Ohio, opened a saloon and married my grandmother, Anna. It was also the time that he bought a home next to the saloon. It housed his wife and budding family that eventually housed two girls and four boys and an occasional man who was too drunk, when the saloon closed, to be left out on the street.

Hyman had it all figured our. He made the attic stairs sturdy enough to climb. Placed
a mattress with blankets on the floor and supplied everything that could be needed for an overnight stay. The drunken visitors did not please Anna and there were many times that Hyman tried to console her with “It’s just for one night, Anna. Just for one night.” That might have calmed her until he brought a visitor home who would spend three nights.

The visitor was a young man who was obviously addicted to alcohol. He also was soft, caring and very lost. He touched Hyman’s heart so much that when closing time arrived he just couldn’t let the boy wander the streets. He had to take him home knowing that Anna might be angry. How angry? He wasn’t certain until he found out early the third morning.

“You’ve got to stop bringing these people home” she said very loudly that morning “I don’t want anymore of this. The girls are growing up, we don’t need strangers around them and not bad boys like the boy you’ve brought home. I don’t want anymore bad boys in my house.”

Hyman understood her anger but not her remarks. He took her by the shoulders and said firmly, “Anna, that is not a bad boy. There’s no such thing as a bad boy.”

The young man had come down the stairs and was able to hear the last statements. He walked over to Hyman and explained that he would leave and he wanted Hyman to know that he was going home. Back to Omaha. Back to the Priesthood. Back to get help with his addiction so he would be able to live a productive life.

“Thank you, my friend” he said “for all you have done for me” and quietly left the house.

For a long time my grandfather didn’t hear from the young man. Several years passed before the sunny day when he was sitting on the porch and heard the phone ring. Anna called out saying he was wanted on the phone and it was long distance. He hurried inside and picked up the phone. “Hello” he said and the voice on the other line replied “Hello Mr. Bobrof, this is the boy you helped a very long time ago.” “I did?” Hyman questioned and the conversation began. Hyman was reminded about the bed in the attic and the hot cup of coffee in the morning and the things he had done to help the young man.

They spoke for a while with Hyman doing most of the listening. The voice on the line explained that he had returned to the city he had come from. That he spent most of the time helping young, often homeless, boys on the street. He found a house he could use and was able to keep some of the boys there. As time went on there were people who helped and encouraged him to find bigger quarters and more homeless boys. Many offered to help financially.

In time he was able to build large quarters for many boys who would learn by example that life has purpose. That what they learned living with him would serve others as well as themselves. “I must tell you,” he explained to Hyman, “that you were an inspiration for me. Your kindness and concern turned me right around from leaving the priesthood to living the priesthood. It benefited every boy. We now have a big sign as you enter our grounds. Our area is called “Boy’s Town” and our slogan is…

”THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A BAD BOY.’

Father Flannigan did not call again. He didn’t need to. Those last few words contained all the emotions both men felt.