by Father Mark Goldasich
“That doggone purse!” I probably said this phrase hundreds of times over the years.
The purse was my mom’s constant companion. What made it “doggone” was its completely black color that blended seamlessly with my car’s floor mats. Inevitably, as we were driving somewhere, Mom would say in a panicked voice, “Mark, Mark, where’s my purse?!?” My left eye would begin twitching as I’d say (for the “millionth” time), “It’s right down there by your feet!”
The purse episodes got more frequent as Mom aged. She took the purse everywhere even when there was no reason to. And several times each trip, Mom would panic about the whereabouts of her purse.
I came to understand that the “doggone purse” was a sort of security blanket for my mom; she was comforted by its presence. My irritation transformed into humor. When she’d panic about it, I’d say, “I swear, I’m gonna wrap that doggone purse in luminous tape so you can see it!” (I never did.) She’d look down, find it and have a good chuckle.
Mom was 101 when she died and only experienced a moderate degree of dementia. She’d repeat stories over and over and get confused when she had to go into the hospital. Also, her short-term memory was, well, really short. But she knew me and others and was funny and pretty sharp. Oh, and she loved to break into song — loudly — with her favorite Croatian tunes.
I wish that I’d had Moira Cullings’ superb article on dementia on pages 7-10 of this issue while my mom was still alive. It would have been of immense help in navigating the waters of a loved one who was aging. In any event, please take the time to read Moira’s article, especially as you interact with folks of an older generation.
I’d end with this poignant German folktale:
There was once a couple who lived with their only son Conrad at the edge of a great forest. Though not rich, they lived a comfortable and happy life.
One day, the husband’s father came to live with the young couple. The old man’s eyes had grown dim, he was nearly deaf and his hands shook like leaves in the wind. When he ate, he was unable to hold the spoon without spilling food on the tablecloth, the floor and himself.
For months, the couple discussed the irritating behavior of the old man. Finally, they set a table for him in the corner of the kitchen. As he ate, he looked sadly at this family. When he spilled his food, he’d sob.
One day, the old man’s trembling hands could no longer hold the glass bowl, which fell to the floor and shattered. The woman scolded him and went to purchase a wooden bowl. As the days passed, the old man said very little as he sat in his corner eating out of his wooden bowl.
Late in the fall, the father came home from a long day’s work to find Conrad carving a block of wood. “What are you making, son?” asked the father.
“It’s a present for you and Mommy,” answered the child. “I’m carving two wooden bowls so that you’ll have something to eat from when you come to live with me in your old age.”
The husband and wife looked at each other and began to weep. That evening, they moved the grandfather back to the family table. From that day on, he always ate with them, and they said nothing even when he spilled his food. (Story adapted from William R. White’s “Stories for Telling.”)
Incidentally, I still have my mom’s “doggone purse” . . . but can’t remember where it is! (Touché, Mom!)
