Waning Focus

Mom's focus is waning.

On Easter Sunday, we sat in the first two rows at my sister's church, a wide but shallow building with extraordinary stained glass and stone-carved scenes hanging on the walls that those who grew up going to Catholic school would know as the Stations of the Cross. It's a fascinating place. Dad sat in front of the rest of us in the handicapped section and we positioned mom on the end of the pew beside me in the second row.

The priest led us in prayers and readings and songs and gave a boisterous homily about something Easter-related in his gravelly baritone voice. I am certain mom did not hear a word he said. She was watching the people around her and scratching at the tiny stain on her pants leg.

When it came time for communion, the Eucharistic minister approached the bench and before she could get the words "the body of Christ" out of her mouth, mom reached up and nervously grabbed the host out of the woman's hand and then returned to casually gazing around the church.

Now, I have to admit that I was bored out of my mind. But mom's inability to focus in large settings has become dramatically worse in recent months. We have to keep an eye on her and say things like, "Come on mom! Walk this way" to keep her attention so we don't lose her.

Mass finally ended and the priest released us as he made the sign of the cross. Mom was too busy trying to see around a plant on the alter to move her hand in a cross motion. Mom's focus is waning which means that the rest of us must be more vigilant than ever.

Baseball and the Brain

My dad is kind of a saint.

The time between mom's repetitions has shortened dramatically and her short-term memory is the worst it has ever been. The other day she asked him three times in a span of about 20 minutes if he wanted to save his leftover Chinese food. She had no idea she already asked. This type of interaction occurs on a daily basis.

This week, baseball began. My mom has always been a huge baseball fan. Before her Alzheimer's really took hold and back when dad was more mobile than he is now, my parents attended about six St. Louis Cardinals games per season. They sat in the bleachers where I had my season tickets. Each visit to the ballpark was quite the production. Donning there Cardinal t-shirts labeled "Meemo" and "Papa Joe," my parents left the house hours before game time so they could park at a nearby (and very expensive) parking lot, grab a couple of hot dogs, and catch a bit of batting practice.

Mom always lugged along a thermal bag with bottled water and often pulled a ridiculously large visor on her head to keep the sun out of her eyes. Dad tugged on one of his many ball caps and once he sat in his seat, he usually didn't move until around the 6th inning when they would pack up and head home, listening to the rest of the game on the radio as the cruised back home along the back roads.

Mom doesn't remember this season's opening day, even though we all watched the game together. She doesn't remember the walk-off win, the first win of the season. There are only three pieces of Cardinal baseball my mom remembers every day: Mike Matheny, Adam Wainwright, and Yadier Molina. The three of them have been around long enough that they are a part of my mom's longer term memory.

Now, mom still enjoys the game of baseball. She will watch every single game, keeping a watchful eye out for Yadi, especially. But every game, she has the same questions. Over and over and over, dad sits beside her and reminds her who Randall Grichuk is and tells her why Jose Oquendo is no longer standing by third base. Sunday, dad "introduced" mom to Dexter Fowler about six times and tonight, he did it all over again.

Dad is much more patient than me. He always has been. But he is especially patient now. Sometimes, dad is kind of a saint. But he loves my mom and she loves her baseball so he does whatever he can to keep their love and her love of baseball alive.