Finding the Funny
Written in collaboration with René Anderson-Vorfeld
Alzheimer’s is a fascinating disease — a terrible, awful, heart-breaking, gut-wrenching disease, but fascinating nonetheless. As the brain synapses and tissues break down, there’s a regression in the life-timeline that is all too Benjamin Button. Watching our mother deteriorate from a vibrant, intelligent, funny woman into what can only be described as a petulant toddler has been one hell of an experience. My sister and I have felt all the feels and then some. Our saving grace through it all has been that we’ve allowed ourselves to find the humor in an otherwise devastating situation. There are those that would say it’s cruel to laugh at someone so far removed from their faculties but I’d be willing to bet most in that group have either never been in the situation or they had no discernible sense of humor to begin with. Some who are suffering from Alzheimer’s and other forms of dementia become violent. Luckily, that hasn’t happened to our mother — if anything she’s just become goofier. Seriously, she giggles when she sneezes. We take some comfort in the knowledge that if mom from ten years ago could somehow be here and witness what’s happening, she’d laugh at herself and ask why we didn’t toss her in an institution ages ago. *
We do occasionally feel guilty when we start cracking up over something that she said or did, but then we remember that her brain function is akin to that of a small child. And believe me, when my nieces were little I did a whole lot of turning around and stifling giggles when one of their little sarcastic asses said something hilarious (that Aunt Tomi was not allowed to encourage — even though they’re the reason I’m convinced sarcasm is an innate trait as much as it is a learned one). But while it is easy to recognize a person’s childlike brain in theory, it’s much more difficult to reconcile it in your own brain when you’re looking into the face of your mom: she’s daughter, wife, mother, grand-mother…. with the mind of a five-year-old. It just doesn’t compute. So when we’re getting food prepared and she wants to sample everything, all the while declaring that she “hasn’t eaten in three days!” there’s just no choice but to chuckle about it repeatedly and make it the new go-to catch phrase when you’re both hungry.
Mom has also always had a flair for the dramatic and passive aggression has been her WMD when she’s looking to elicit sympathy. One day, a few years ago, when she still knew who we were, I lost it and snapped at her because she was being a bit of a princess and kept getting snarky with my dad. I should point out that my dad has been a hero through all of this, insisting on taking care of her himself for as long as he could before he let us find a place for her (he got to 91 before he decided he was tired). Anyway, she kept snapping at him and, although I knew she didn’t fully comprehend what she was doing or how she was acting, I told her to cut it out and be nice. She then proceeded to pout for several hours, eventually coming to my room as I was trying to pack to tell me she “would never have spoken to her mother that way.” When I related this to my sister I think her response was something along the lines of, “ha! PUULEEASE!” She then told me about some of the arguments between my mom and Nona that she had been privy to as a kid, and we were both in stitches in no time.
Without doubt one of the best instances of comic relief has to be the story she told us about when she lived in Vegas and Frank Sinatra sought her help in dealing with a young soldier who had been wounded in the war (yes, you read that right, Frank, Old Blue Eyes, The Chairman of the Board). This young man had been badly injured and doctors were going to amputate his leg. Luckily, Frank found mom and she told him that her mother worked for a great doctor and that they should take the soldier to see him and find out if he could save the kid’s leg. So Frank piled them all into his jet and off they flew to Wheatland, Wyoming to get the expert advice/medical aid of Dr. Rosene. Who, obviously, was able to save the leg… It should be noted that mom did, in fact, live in Vegas in the early 60s and that she did encounter the Rat Pack from time to time. Whether they engaged her in conversation beyond buying cigarettes I can’t say, but I’m fairly certain they weren’t seeking medical advice from a cocktail waitress at The Pussycat A-Go-Go.
When mom was telling this tale, my sister and I were doing dishes. Luckily for me, my sister was washing, stuck at the sink facing my mother across the kitchen counter. I was drying and was therefore able to turn around and crack up like I did with those funny nieces of mine. At one point I was actually convulsing and had to put down the plate I was drying and leave the room. Poor Rene had to just stand there saying, “uh-huh. Oh really?” and bite her tongue. I’m surprised she didn’t bite the damn thing off.
*Just to clarify, we didn’t “toss” her anywhere. Her facility is quite lovely and charming (as much as a place like that can be) and I’m pretty sure they frown on tossing the old people.
