Barbara with a clothespin in her mouth, not a cigar! My mother, Barbara Denke, was an uncommonly strong woman. She repaired her own cars, loved to garden, and fought passionately for her nine children. She was the primary wage-earner of the family, at one point in her life working sixteen hours per day with two jobs. She was the one who paid the bills and managed the finances. She passed away in 2012, and thinking about her is still difficult.
When I think about my mother now, my mind drifts to some of the things she loved: irises, divinity (the candy), Cervantes, music, birds, cats, and people. I think of her filling the house with amazing smells when she would can her own blackberry jelly. I think of her reading Don Quixote to my brother and me, stopping mid-sentence sometimes to outline the parallels between the main character and my father. I think about the lost potential of her final years, robbed from her by Alzheimer’s.
My father was not always the most kind person in the world, but he cared for my mother in the only way he knew how, as she fell victim to the disease. He lived in denial, took on too much, and kept her at home way too long. As her son, I felt strongly that some of what he did was just wrong – taking her on world cruises when she was not capable of keeping herself safe. But now, when I review the photos from those trips, I see my mother smiling. I see her happy. She spent so much of her life working hard and sacrificing – if she got some happiness out of those times that I thought were so irresponsible at the time, they were all worth it.
In the end, even he had to admit that caring for her was too much for one man and he moved into a memory care facility with her, making sure that her needs were met. He passed away about a year before her. I wish that she had been able to fully experience how loving he was towards her in the last few years of his life.
I miss her terribly, and I hope that someday there is a cure for this disease and no one has to live out their final days as a shell of their former selves.
– Alan Denke