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2008-04-01 issue:

Giving thanks at journey's end

Holy moments emerge during a mother’s last days while suffering from Alzheimer’s disease.

by Leona Dueck Penner

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In the summer of 2005, after a Sunday morning worship service celebrating the lives of Mary and Martha of Bethany, we concluded by singing the hymn “Will you let me be your servant?” As we sang the fourth verse, my husband turned to me and whispered, “That’s what you’re doing with your mother these days—laughing and weeping as you help to see her journey [with Alzheimer’s] through.”



I nodded, my throat thickening as I reread the words:

“I will weep when you are weeping,
when you laugh I’ll laugh with you.
I will share your joy and sorrow,
till we’ve seen this journey through.”

A few days later, the words of that hymn came to mind again as I drove to Bethesda Place, the nursing home in Steinbach where my 90-year-old mother, Mary, slowly approached her “journey’s end,” her usually joyful spirit encumbered by confusion, sadness and fear, some of the trademarks of this debilitating disease.

Will she be weeping or laughing today? I wondered, hoping I would catch her on “a good day,” knowing that maybe she needed me even more when she was having a bad time.

But then, I mused, maybe that’s just what a friend calls my “Mennonites serve until you die” work ethic, which assumes that it’s more important to be present with people in the midst of suffering than during times of celebration. Perhaps she needed me to laugh with her as much as she needed me to cry with her, I reassured myself.

As it turned out, I knew right away that my mother was having a good day when I entered the common room of Prairie Rose wing that afternoon. Her eyes lit up as soon as she saw me, though she couldn’t quite recall my name. And she was brimming with happy stories involving “cats” and “a big commotion” that had happened that day.

“I’d like to have a cat,” she enthused as I wheeled her to her room. “But who would look after it when I’m away?” (The latter, a reference to the many imaginary jaunts on which her mind took her.)

“Yeah,” I said. “That might be a problem.”

“Still,” she persisted, her face glowing. “Some of the other ladies have cats; they give so much ‘Gesaltschaft’ [companionship].”

“Well,” I said, not knowing how to respond to her longing looks. “You did have a cat long ago. Remember Sparky?”

Her eyes went blank.

(She doesn’t remember, and I shouldn’t have asked her a question, I thought, berating myself inwardly. Questions always make her feel insecure and inadequate because she simply can’t remember or is afraid of giving the wrong answer.)

“Also, you’ve got that nice toy cat that Laurence and Sue sent you from British Columbia,” I hurried on, searching her room for the plush creature as I spoke.

“Here it is, such a soft and furry thing,” I said, rubbing the silky toy against her cheek.

But I could tell by her eyes that it wasn’t enough.

Just then, Jodi, the recreation coordinator, walked by Mom’s room holding a small furry body in her hands.

So there was substance to my mother’s cat and commotion story after all, I thought as I hurried after the young woman, asking if perhaps my mother could hold this little cat (which turned out to be a seven-week-old pup) for a moment.

And Jodi gladly brought the little dog to her.

“Mary, you love this little puppy, don’t you?” she said as she handed the tiny trembling creature to my mother, whose face simply shone with joy. “You can hold him a little longer now while he sleeps.”

And for the next half hour, that little dog slept on my mother’s breast while she stroked his little body gently (just like she’d done when cradling all her 11 children in years past) and murmured something about God’s love for babies and other tiny things.

Later, after the puppy was gone, we happily shared coffee and butter tarts, followed by a lovely little walkabout in her beloved courtyard garden. Then, as we said our farewells (without tears this time), she called after me: “Leona, Thanks for a beautiful, beautiful day.”

And I responded with special gladness because she’d remembered my name, “Thank you, too, dear Mother, for this time of laughter and celebration.”

Epilogue: October 2007. My mother’s earthly journey ended the previous spring, when she died of pneumonia unexpectedly about a year and a half after the visit I described above. By the time of her death, her speech had become much more garbled, she needed assistance with meals, and she required a Hoya lift to make wheelchair transitions, which frightened her.

Yet what remains with me now is not the sadness and suffering of that stage of Mom’s journey but the Christ-light that continued to shine through her as she

• repeatedly expressed thanks to all who assisted her;

• delighted in small things, such as the pet visitation program and the beauty of bright colors;

• deliberately evoked laughter with funny facial expressions and her newfound skill of whistling whenever something especially pleased her.

Also, as a family we cherished those elusive moments when the veil of confusion lifted and Mom was suddenly able to articulate the innermost thoughts of her heart with words that blessed and inspired many.

For example, she told a grandson just before his marriage that he was “wise and kind, something that is important in a husband,” and that when she was “safely in the arms of Jesus,” he and his new wife would “carry on God’s plan in the world.”

And for me there was “joy beyond words” on the dawning of Mom’s last day, when I sat at her bedside, holding her hands while quietly singing German Lieder to her, and I suddenly noticed that she, who had been in a coma for 24 hours, was mouthing the words, “Gott ist die Liebe … Er liebt auch mich” (God is love … loves even me), and, “Ich weiss einen Strom” (I know of a beautiful stream) along with me.

Those were precious “last words” made more poignant because we sang them together just a few hours before Mom’s earthly journey ended.

For that holy moment I will always give thanks.

Leona Dueck Penner is a member of Charleswood Mennonite Church in Winnipeg.

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Additional Notes

Leona Dueck Penner is a member of Charleswood Mennonite Church in Winnipeg.

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