Free Caring For Mary by Nicholas Andrefsky Page A

in Richmond. I guess I didn’t hate it after all.
    Around the end of 2009, things began to change subtly. Mom began to forget seemingly small things. Then she began repeating things—asking the same questions over and over—and would grow easily confused. My sister and I would compare notes on the phone about our conversations with her. We knew. It was the onset of dementia.
    She said, “What is happening to me? Why am I like this?”
    For me, the hardest part was that she was aware of this ever-worsening change in her personality, herself, and her life.
    And we were all in for a heartbreaking, frustrating, devastating disease that would eventually invade and change all of our lives.
    My mom could no longer live unassisted. She couldn’t drive, cook, bathe, or dress herself. A nursing home was not an option. Sis and I visited a few nursing homes. The dementia units (despite their glossy brochures and happy, smiling seniors on the cover) were tragic and depressing. We desperately sought another option for our mother.
    Enter Nicholas Andrefsky.
    Nick has been a friend of our family for twenty-five years. He was living with—and caring for—his elderly dad, but he did not need as much assistance as my mom. It came to be that it was a great fit for both Nick and his dad to move in with my mom.
    Don’t get me wrong—at first, it wasn’t all “Skittles and beer,” as my mom used to say. She’d say, “Why is he here? I don’t need any help!”
    But the acceptance came.
    A year and a half later, she now refers to him as “Nick-a-nootz.” They sing opera together, he calls her sweetie, and his unwavering patience and grace with my mother seem to come from some other world. They have their routine: the Three Musketeers, regular jaunts to “Dunky” (Dunkin’ Donuts), great little restaurants, and outings. He recently sent me a picture of my mother grinning in a huge sombrero with a mariachi band gathered around her.
    My mother has her dignity (yes, despite the sombrero!). As much as this disease allows, she has her dignity. She is clean, warm, well fed, well loved, and well cared for.
    Nick’s father is a gift to us. Popi wakes up each morning and calls out, “Good morning, Mary!” He promptly gives her a loud kiss on the cheek. He is a jokester and makes my mother laugh.
    I will eternally love these two men for the peace they’ve brought my family.
    My wish for all who suffer from Alzheimer’s—and its evil, dark cousin, dementia—is that they are treated with love, tolerance, and acceptance. I hope that their families never forget that their loved ones were once young, beautiful, and independent. Treat them with respect—and remember that we may be there someday unless there is a cure.
    We must all keep our humor. Flaunt it in the face of sadness—and tell the people in your life that you love them every day. I hope you enjoy this book as much as I have.
     

Introduction  
    A s Mary’s older daughter, I wish I could boast and sing praises of this poor old woman who now requires full-time care, but there has been too much corrupted water under that bridge.
    Legend says that my birth certificate said “Baby” for nine days because my parents had not yet decided on Beth. Not bad—after all, I was their first, why would they have a name? Although I’m certain no harm was meant, what a disturbing thing to have been told to one so young. My mother said, “Popi and I wanted to get it right.” Ah, thus begins a tale of the firstborn daughter!
    Mom was a beauty. We lived in a small town in upstate Michigan where life was far from wonderful. My father drank. I spent many an afternoon in a bar drinking tiny glasses of Coke that tasted like warmish mildew. I’m not sure where my mother was while my father had charge. I don’t recall ever seeing my father—or my mother—drunk. The couple with whom my parents spent the greatest time (till my mother was slighted) were heavy drinkers. I remember my parents