Cinco de Mona

If you've read some of my earlier posts you know Mona and I met in college in Southern California 43 years ago; in February we'll celebrate our 41st anniversary. You may not know that Mona's birthday is May 5th -- Cinco de Mayo -- and so growing up in the Los Angeles area we were familiar with the holiday recognized in the Latino community. We'd only been married a few years when I put the two together and began calling her birthday Cinco de Mona. Mona doesn't speak Spanish, or at least I didn't think she spoke Spanish, until just a few weeks ago.

I'll explain.

It's been almost eight months since she was admitted to the Special Care Unit at Life Care Center here in Casper, WY. A few of my earlier entries on this blog explain it in more detail but Mona was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's nine years ago and early in 2015 the disease had progressed to the stage where I was no longer able to care for her myself. It's been a very difficult, emotionally draining experience watching what this disease is doing to the woman I love but there are times when she is inspiring, and tenderhearted, and times when she is funny. Hilarious, even. Times when she'll say things that cause me to look at her and wonder, "Where did that come from?"

I visit her almost every day and about a month ago one of the nurses aides pulled me aside. "Does Mona speak Spanish?" she asked. "Because she speaks Spanish to me all the time." This was news to me because Mona doesn't speak Spanish. She knows a few words but that's all. She certainly isn't fluent and she's never spoken Spanish to me. Yesterday while I was with Mona this same aide walked up to us. "Scott," she said, laughing. "I can NOT get Mona to stop speaking Spanish. It's the funniest thing. Even if I just ask her if she's hungry or if she wants her sweater she says 'Si'."

Mona was standing next to us, nodding and laughing along -- ("Oh, my. Isn't that something?") -- not realizing we were talking about HER.

The aide looked at Mona. "Mona, do you speak Spanish?"

"Eh...un poquito."

"Mona, say something to us in Spanish."

"Yo quiero...(well, it sounded like 'yo quiero' followed by a bunch of gibberish that kind of, sort of, maybe sounded like it COULD be Spanish)...por favor."

Cracked us both up. And a few minutes later the aide told me when she does get Mona to speak English she speaks it with a Spanish accent. So again I look at her and wonder, "Where did THAT come from?"

Cinco de Mona. Maybe I'd been planting seeds for years and didn't realize it.

Tattle Pup and Whiny Kitty

Mona was a teacher and she loved her job. She taught piano and voice, she conducted church choirs and school choirs, she taught preschool and kindergarten and even home-schooled our kids for several years. She loved teaching and she loved her kids and she was always on the lookout for ways to help them learn. 

Did you ever hear about the conga line she'd set up to help her 5 year-olds learn their vowels? Hands on the shoulders of the child in front of them, she would lead them around the classroom chanting in-step "A-E-I-O-U -- Uh! A-E-I-O-U -- Uh!" The first day it snowed was always reserved for going outside and playing before there was a chance the rest of the day would be cancelled. And have you ever heard of a school teacher who taught their kids to blow bubbles with bubble gum? That was Mrs. Veatch.

And no story about my wife's teaching career would be complete without telling you about Tattle Pup and Whiny Kitty. One summer Mona found two large cartoon drawings of a puppy dog and a kitten, printed them out, laminated them, and posted them eye-high-for-a-five-year-old in a corner of her classroom. Every year on the first day of school she introduced her kids to Tattle Pup and Whiny Kitty, explaining the important job each had. "I'm just so busy I don't have time to listen to tattling or whining," she'd explain, "so if you're tattling or whining you'll have to tell it to Tattle Pup or Whiny Kitty." 

It usually took a week or two for the kids to catch on but they always did. "I'm sorry," she'd tell them, "but you're tattling and I don't listen to tattling. That's Tattle Pup's job so you need to go tell Tattle Pup." It was the same for Whiny Kitty. "That sounds a lot like whining and I don't listen to whining," she'd remind them. "You'd better go tell Whiny Kitty." And they would!

My wife is in the special care unit of the nursing home now, and she's the youngest person there by far. The staff has told me she's at least 15 years younger than any other resident and this is a new experience for them. Early-onset Alzheimer's can be different from -- what do you call it? -- regular Alzheimer's. I won't try to explain it in medical terms because I can't, but I can tell you with early-onset you almost have to ignore what your eyes are telling you, you almost have to suspend belief. This is a chance for the staff at the nursing home to go to school.

I think about that often. That in the midst of this horrible, cruel disease my wife is still doing what she loves. She's still teaching. 

Tattle Pup and Whiny Kitty would approve.

Hail to De Queen

Alzheimer's Disease is a thief. It steals the patient's health and the family's finances; it steals the future. It can also steal joy -- but only if you let it. Believe it or not, you can find joy and you can find humor. It's there if you look for it and take time to appreciate it.

Five years ago this month Mona and I took a trip to see her parents who lived in southwest Arkansas. We'd visited them several times previously but not for a while, and we wanted to make the trip before winter. It was a long drive -- more than 600 miles one way -- so we broke up the journey into two days there and two days back. It was good to spend the time together away from home but in many ways the trip was a tough one for her. She had lost all concept of time, she occasionally didn't remember why we were in the car or where we were going, and she didn't recognize any of the cities or landmarks along the way. 

The past several months had already been tough ones for us. In June I'd had to explain to her that she could no longer teach kindergarten -- and that broke her heart. A few weeks before this trip to Arkansas -- following a frightening episode on the road -- I had to ask her for her car keys. 

J R R Tolkien once wrote that it's not the strength of the body that counts, but the strength of the spirit. Mona was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's in 2007, and since then I have never heard my wife complain, or ask why this happened to her, or feel sorry for herself. Not once. The only time I saw her cry was late one night soon after she was diagnosed; she told me she didn't want her condition to get so bad that she'd no longer be able to praise God. My wife is the strongest woman I've ever known.

We headed south across the boarder from Missouri into Arkansas that day and Mona was quiet for a long time. I let her know when we were getting closer to her parents' house but she didn't recognize any of the surroundings. "Are you sure we've been here before?" she'd say. "I don't remember any of this."

We were less than an hour away when we passed a road sign announcing that the small town of De Queen was ten miles ahead. Her mood suddenly brightened.

"OH!" she said. "I DO remember De Queen."

I was encouraged. "You do?"

"Yeah," she said. "She lives in De London."

Rally Mom

The Kansas City Royals baseball team won the World Series last night. It was their first World Series win since 1985. Thirty years without a championship. Almost thirty years without even being good enough to qualify for the post season playoffs. The team had its ups and downs during the 1990s and then spent much of the first part of this century in last place, losing game after game every season. Things began turning around a few years ago when, with some new leadership and and a group of talented young players, they began to win. Last night they won it all.

My daughter Abigail has been a big fan of the team since she was a small girl. Her closets were always filled with Royals ball caps, tee shirts and sweat shirts, and we had a kitchen cabinet filled with Kansas City Royals stadium cups she and I brought back from the games we attended. She's a grown woman now, married and living in the Seattle area, but her love of the Kansas City Royals has never wavered. When the Royals play the Seattle Mariners Abby is always there in person, cheering for them as loudly as ever.

Many of you know my wife Mona was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's disease nine years ago. She's in a nursing home now and while it's difficult for her to communicate she always lets us know she loves us and she's always a source of inspiration. Last month as the Royals began their march to the championship I thought Abby might like to have a photo of her mom supporting her favorite team. During a visit to the nursing home I took off my Royals cap, placed it on her, and asked her to give me her best smile. It's the photo you see above.

Late last night, after the final out of the World Series, I texted Abby my congratulations and she sent me a photo of herself dressed in the uniform jersey of Lorenzo Cain, her favorite player. Her eyes were red with tears and she told me how important this photo of her mom had been to her. During the playoffs when the Royals reached a critical point in a game and needed a boost Abby would open her phone and pull up the photo of her mom wearing the Royals ball cap. She even gave this special photo a name.

She called it Rally Mom.

In the games of this championship series the Kansas City Royals scored 40 runs in the 8th inning or later. The other nine teams in the tournament combined scored 26. For those of you who aren't baseball fans that's very good. Almost impossibly good. It was comeback after comeback as they pulled games out of the fire at the last minute. The Royals never quit and the significance wasn't lost on Abby. "Dad," she told me last night, "Rally Mom got us there."

Alzheimer's disease is many horrible things but most of all it's a thief. It's stolen years from me together with the woman I love and it's stolen Mona's time watching her grandchildren grow up. However, there are still important things it can't steal. It can't steal the memories we have or the love that's still in her eyes or her ability to encourage and inspire us. My family and I have faced some impossible situations during the past nine years. There's been grief and heartache, disappointment and discouragement. But I've learned so much from my wife about patience and faith, about taking life one moment, one day, one week at a time. One pitch, one swing of the bat, one inning at a time. You keep going. You keep believing. And you don't quit.

Rally Mom wouldn't have it any other way.

"I'm not going to baby. I'm going to courage."

Disneyland October, 1973

Who are those kids in that photo? And was it really taken 42 years ago? How is that possible?

I'm Scott Veatch. My wife Mona and I met in college in the fall of 1972. Rio Hondo College. Whittier, CA. We were in choir together and the semester was about a week old when I began overhearing the concerns. "Where is Mona?" "Is Mona coming back this semester?" "We gotta have Mona."

I remember wondering who this Mona girl was. Mona? I'd never known anyone named Mona. What's so special about Mona? The second week of the semester she strolled into the choir room and it was obvious from the start that "this Mona girl" was Queen Bee of the choir. The Superstar. The redhead with the beautiful soprano voice. The one who got all the solos. I still remember the first time I saw her; she was wearing a yellow dress. A redhead in a yellow dress? That should be illegal.

We got to know each other over the next few months and became pretty good friends. But I never thought of dating her because, well -- we were just friends. One night in March 1973 she stopped by the apartment I was sharing with my buddy Ray to leave some sheet music. She only stayed a few minutes but after she shut the door and left I turned to Ray and said, "Someday I'm gonna marry that girl." What? Where did that come from? "Someday I'm gonna marry that girl." We hadn't even dated. I'd never really thought about dating her. But, those are the words that came out of my mouth. 

"Someday I'm gonna marry that girl."

Our first date was a few weeks later on my 20th birthday and we've been together ever since. I stop to think about that every so often, that the last time I was with someone else I was a teenager. We dated for a little more than a year, got engaged Labor Day weekend in 1974 and were married February 1, 1975. We've been married 40 years. Three daughters, eight grandchildren -- and 40 years with my best friend. 

John Lennon once wrote that life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans, and in early 2007 "life" happened to us. That's when Mona was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. She was 55. It's been almost nine years and she and I have had quite the journey during that time. The disease has progressed into the latter stages and she's now in a nursing home. Alzheimer's has robbed her of the ability to communicate clearly but she still has moments when her words make me laugh, get me choked up, and give me hope.

I admit it's tough. She cries a lot when we're together -- not from sadness but from the emotions gathered over the past 40 years. If I'm with her an hour she'll tell me she loves me 60 times, and how handsome and kind she thinks I am. And while it's hard for her she always works to assure me that she's all right and that she doesn't want me to worry. A few weeks ago while we were sitting together in the nursing home she looked at me and said, "I'm not going to baby. I'm going to courage." In other words, I'm not going to be a baby about this. I'm going to face it with courage.

There's a scene in the Steve Martin movie "Parenthood" where, in the midst of some family chaos, the elderly grandmother -- the one everyone thinks is senile -- shares some words of wisdom. She recalls the times she went to the carnival when she was a girl and how her favorite ride was the roller coaster. She said -- and I'm paraphrasing here -- that some people liked the merry-go-round but that ride was boring because it just took you around in a slow circle. Give me the roller coaster, the grandmother said. It has slow climbs and steep drops and unexpected curves. It makes you scream, takes your breath away, makes you want to throw up -- but it also makes you feel alive.

I've learned some things these past nine years. I've learned about faith, and patience, and perseverance and priorities and gratitude. I'm so thankful that one day I did, indeed, "marry that girl". She's taught me that when "life" happens it can terrify you, take your breath away, make you want to throw up, but you can still face it with courage.

If life is happening to you at the moment I hope you can get some encouragement here. I hope we both can. 

 "I'm not going to baby. I'm going to courage."