The Journey

As children, we journeyed to many faraway places - or at least through the eyes of two little girls, places like Nashville and Chicago and Seattle were faraway places and represented excitement and the promise of new adventures beyond the calm, protected lives we enjoyed in the suburbs of Houston in the 1950's.  We loved our family trips, for they gave us a chance to spend time in one another's company without the constraints of schoolwork or chores, and although the journey threw us into close quarters in our family's big white Rambler and into the silver and khaki-colored tent trailer with just enough room for four sleeping bags, we truly enjoyed being in one another's company as our parents opened new worlds to us.


Image courtesy of warramu/freedigitalphotos.net

Every spring, Mom and Dad called Sister and I to the dining room table, and as Dad very meticulously unfolded a large worn road map of the U.S., we looked at each other with great anticipation to the yearly selection of the region of this great country that our intrepid family would be exploring that summer.  Sister and I clapped with delight when a region was finally selected and pointed out on the map spread before us - and then we began carefully penning letters to the various state and city chambers of commerce politely requesting tour books and local maps describing the many wonders their areas held in wait of our discovery.

The annual Pouvons Family vacations were a thing of legend.  Countless reels of 8mm film chronicled each trip as we hiked through the temperate rain forests of the Pacific Northwest, swam in icy lakes hidden away on remote mountaintops in New Mexico, viewed artwork by the master at the MOMA, watched films about our country's beginnings after admiring the Liberty Bell, and observed herds of bison roaming the Plains States while safely tucked into the back seat of the Rambler - and we did these things without the distractions of video games, cell phones, or tablets - just ourselves... our little family... the Pouvons Family... the embodiment of "together, we can."  We shared the joy of discovering a bird's nest, shed tears of frustration when the tent poles gave way for the third time in one night, and argued over whose turn it was to do the dishes or carry the water jugs.

Many decades now separate us from those times, and Sister and I have each gone on to marry our sweethearts and have families of our own.  Nevertheless, our journeys as adults have intertwined many times and, perhaps, most importantly of all, we have learned that the paths to joy and belonging are the only real journeys that count.  The strong and enduring relationships formed along the way are of far greater value than the number or placement of pins on a map. The journey is sweeter for having taken it together.

It was very sad a few years ago when our mother's journey began to take her away from us.  Her attitude and behaviors had changed, and she was no longer our loving teacher, our mentor, our friend.  We thought it strange when she was not excited over an invitation to visit my husband and I in New Jersey.  Once a world traveler, the promise of a Broadway show or a dinner cruise past the Statue of Liberty no longer interested her.  "I have better things to do," was the unexpected response. 

Little did we realize that she had turned a corner into a strange world where she could not even recall where she lived, much less the meaning of the Statue of Liberty.

She had Alzheimer's and as the disease closed the world in around her, all the journeys of her lifetime began to fade away.  Losing the ability to remember those times was as frightening for her as it was grievous for us.  The long goodbye had begun.
 

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A Bandaid for the Caregiver is dedicated to all those families who journey with loss in their lives and the sharing of hope and joy and new possibilities.  In each difficult moment there lies an opportunity for love.

Journey with courage,
Elaine

Author of 
"Conversations with Nora: a Family's Journey with Alzheimer's"
www.pouvonspublications.com