Sweet Elva Jean
written by: Lisa Rivers Kiesling
The afternoon light washed across the room, casting soft shadows on her fragile and trembling hands. Her fingers, once steady and sure, now hesitating over the new puzzle pieces spread about.
Each day spent together was a delicate dance of patience and love. A time that I soon won’t forget.
Her memories slowly slipping away, leaving behind fragments and confusion.
I reminisce alongside her now as she speaks of the endless nights when her children were young calming their fears, bandaging scraped knees, and cooking their favorite meals. I realize the roles are reversed now, and each small act of care is my way of saying I Love You: Even when you forget who I am.
Her hand suddenly gripped mine. “Promise me,” she said, her voice suddenly sharp and clear, “promise you won’t forget me.”
Tears welled in my eyes. “Never,” I whispered. “Never.”
But I know the cruel irony—it is her who will forget-not just me, but everything-piece by painful piece.
Today was another carefully planned day. A consistent routine, a rhythm designed to keep her grounded in the present. I set up the jigsaw puzzle on the dining room table, their colorful pieces waiting to be assembled. She had told me once that she enjoyed puzzles so I thought she would be open to the idea. She picked up a corner piece and studied it with a furrowed brow. “Where does this one go?” she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.
I gently guided her hand toward the edge of the puzzle. “Right here,” I said with a smile. “You’re doing great.”
The fact that we had the puzzle out and on the table was the real victory. My ideas usually never make it past the idea stage. I have spent so many hours researching dementia and Alzheimer’s, and there’s is very valuable information available if you do the research. Í usually hesitate to present an idea or an exercise out of fear I might offend her. She was receptive to the puzzle, so here we sit just staring at the pieces.
She began to speak about her past in the present tense. A blend of both her new reality. I sat quietly, letting her linger in the memory. It was becoming more frequent now—these slips into her past, moments when the present seems to fade away entirely.
I noticed it was time to transition into another activity. She had become restless and anxious, and the more she tries to verbalize, the harder it is for her to find the words.
So, after finishing the puzzle—or as much of it as we could—we moved on to the photo books, snapshots of her life into one cohesive album. She flipped through the pages slowly, her fingers tracing over faces and places long gone. This is an activity that brings her comfort and security. She goes back to a place and time where she is content.
Who is this?” she asked, pointing to the young woman in the photograph. Her eyes, once bright with recognition, now held a clouded uncertainty that broke my heart.
“That’s you, Mom,” I said gently, placing my hand over hers, not sure how she would react to me calling her Mom.
She looked at me, momentarily confused. I can see her trying to reconcile within herself what is happening. Her own mind, failing her. Then a fleeting spark of recognition—a ghost of the woman she used to be—flickered across her face. “Oh,” she whispered, “I was beautiful then, wasn’t I?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You’re still beautiful” I said with authority, realizing how much love I had for this woman.
“Ooooo, look at this one!” she squeeled suddenly, pointing at a black-and-white photo of herself as a little girl. “That’s me here, and this is my oldest brother Teddy. He was a typical teenage boy. So handsome. The girls were crazy about him. I was always just his baby sister. And look, here’s Dennis. He was mean to me when I was younger.” And with that she would always turn the page.
Her smile was radiant, but it didn’t last long before fading into confusion. “will Erik be home today?” she asked hesitantly.
“No,” I said gently, my heart aching with every question like this one. “He doesn’t live here anymore.”
She nodded absently but didn’t seem to fully grasp my words. Instead, she turned another page and became engrossed in a photo of her late husband. “This is Bob, what a flirt he was. It didn’t matter where we were, even with me and the boys, the ladies would be blushing. A good man, and a great father figure for my boys.” she said sadly realizing he too had passed away.
To help ground her again, I suggested we take a drive through town. Our favorite stops are Albertsons and the liquor store. She brightened at the idea, and soon we were cruising down familiar streets lined with storefronts that had stood for decades. As we passed landmarks—she began narrating stories from years gone by.
“I used to own the barber shop,” she said wistfully as we drove by the familiar building, now converted into a strip mall.
Her memories spilled out like water from a cracked vase—beautiful but fragile—and I listened intently as she pieced together fragments of her life.
By evening, we were in her home, and she knew it was time for me to head home. She hummed an old tune under her breath—and when I asked her what she was humming, she perked up and said it was a song the children used to sing on the schoolyard.
“Do you remember this song?” she asked suddenly.
“I don’t think so,” I replied honestly.
“Oh, funny that I should remember it now.” Her hands worked mechanically in a circle as if she was washing them I’m the sink. Over and over, a sign she was experiencing anxiety. I noticed how far away she seemed—not just physically but emotionally too. Her mind was slipping further into that distant world where time had stopped decades ago.
I smiled through tears that threatened to spill over and reached for her hand across the table. Each day, precious moments slipping away—but for now, I held onto what remained: these fleeting glimpses of who she once was and who she still is beneath it all.
“What did I ever do that was so wrong?” she asked. “So terrible that I am paying for it now.”
Her voice began to crack, and she put her head down to conceal the tears.
My heart is truly breaking for her. The matriarch, my mother-in-law, was once a vibrant and independent woman, never backing down from a challenge, and worked hard all her life. Even delivered pizzas in her 70s for extra pocket change. Who gracefully and with great love cared for her mother until her passing. Preserving her dignity until the end. Sacrificed her own life to move to a town, buy a home, just to provide hospice for her son, who passed away just a short time later.
I want so desperately for her to feel that same love. Unconditional and all-consuming. She deserves nothing less. But her disease is progressing so quickly, and life is just flying by, and she wants to stay in her home; she won’t leave her memories and her belongings behind.
“This is what I have to show for my life,” she says.” An accumulation of everything I have worked and struggled for.
Who can deny her the right to live her life? It is all so fragile.
This insidious disease, how cruel it is. Your own mind becomes the enemy. The confusion that feeds the fear of not knowing something that you should, the paranoia that is a result of not recognizing people or your surroundings. Misplacing your things causing frustration and anxiety.
How horrible it must be to live your life confused, fearful, and paranoid. A constant state of anxiety.
It won’t get any better.
Sweet Elva Jean is slipping away.
And she is doing it all alone.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
Caring for someone with dementia daily is an emotional and physical journey that profoundly impacts caregivers. Those who care for their loved ones, often navigate a whirlwind of emotions—grief, frustration, guilt, and love. Witnessing a parent’s cognitive decline brings a sense of loss for the person they once were, while the demands of caregiving can lead to exhaustion, depression, and social isolation.
Dementia’s unpredictability adds layers of stress. Caregivers must manage mood swings, confusion, and repetitive questions while balancing their own needs. Despite these challenges, moments of connection—like a shared smile or memory—offer solace and purpose.
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