Timmy had two moms, and even though he grew up in the conservative 1960s, nobody freaked out about it. No one complained to the library or school boards. Nobody in Jackson tried to make laws to stop it.
But for those who knew Timmy’s family well, it was an established fact. There was his birth mother, born in 1919 and 41 years old when she delivered her sixth child, Timmy, in the summer of ‘59. She was, by then, older than her years, aged by a lifetime of hard physical labor, mostly in a garment factory, and child-rearing.
So her only daughter became Timmy’s second mom, changing diapers, soothing him through his sick, sleepless nights, bathing him, keeping an eye out for him and playing games with the child.
She was 15 when Timmy was born and as soon as he left the crib, he shared a bed with Dianne, his big sister/second mom.
Some of his earliest memories were their bed-time routine, which involved first picking out Chopsticks on the piano in her room and then, oddly, each eating half a lemon (she had read in a teen magazine that lemons were good for the complexion or some such), laughing at the skewed up faces they saw when they looked at each other.
Of all his siblings, Timmy loved her best because she cared for him most. That special warmth they shared reached across time, circumstance and distance.
But oh, how great that distance seems today.
For some months now, yours truly (affectionately known as Timmy in the shrinking circle of family) and my brothers had sensed something was wrong.
Over the past year or so, each time we called Dianne she spoke on speaker with her husband, Hal, joining the conversation. Odd, we thought. Then, we lost contact with Dianne altogether. Calls went unanswered, going to a voicemail that was full and no longer taking messages.
We all kept calling, but never got through.
Tuesday, a cousin of ours died, which made reaching Dianne to share that news all the more urgent.
So I reached out to her daughter, Candace, through a Facebook message and here was her response:
“Thank you for letting me know about Norris. I passed that along to dad. They were just there about a month ago and I knew he had cancer but didn’t think it would be so fast.
Mom is not well. I’m sorry I didn’t know you guys were not aware. She has Alzheimer’s. Started a few years ago but dramatic changes in the past year. Cannot function electronics at all. She still knows who we are but requires a lot of care. We have a nurse staying with her and dad to provide in-home care. Been hard on dad in multiple ways.
Please pass this along to the family. I don’t have anyone’s contacts.”
This summer, I’ll turn 65. Somehow that doesn’t seem so old. What alarms me is how old my siblings are. Stan is 86, Terry is 84. Fred died three years ago at age 71. Mick turns 70 in a few months.
Dianne, who as a teenager shared her bedroom with her baby brother, is now 80 and fading away.
To say Dianne is one-in-a-million is not just a brother being sentimental. Nor is it accurate,
Dianne is one-in-six million.
That is the estimated number of Americans who have Alzheimer’s. According to the Alzheimer’s Association, two-thirds of those are women.
A cure or effective treatment may be years away, which means a version of my story is playing out everywhere, perhaps even in your family. It makes what is happening to Dianne all the more sad when I realize how many hurting family members are watching people they love slip into a fog of frustration, fear and loss.
There’s not much anyone can do, Candace said, but there is something I feel like I have to do. Before it is too late, I need to get to Arkansas to be with my second mom in the fleeting days and hours of recognition.
If she still has a piano, maybe we’ll play Chopsticks if we can remember how to peck it out. Maybe we’ll split a lemon, if her spirits are high. We can laugh out each other’s skewed up faces and maybe stir up the ghosts of memories as the shadows of oblivion close in.
Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].
Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].
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