On Christmas Eve in the year 2000, an article I wrote, “Love is the greatest gift of all,” was published in the Haverhill Gazette, a sister paper to The Eagle-Tribune.
At the time, my grandmother Frances V. (Anderson) Marchand Mears, was a resident of Penacook Place nursing home on Water Street in Haverhill. She was afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease.
As young as 6 years old I knew I loved writing. That year I handed my grandmother a birthday card I made for her on her St. Patrick’s Day.
“Clovers are lucky, lucky for you; If you will love me, I will love you too,” I wrote.
She thanked me and told me I was a great writer.
I was inspired to write the article at the turn of this century as a Christmas gift to one of the most loving people in my life, and to help others in the same situation realize that while it may be difficult to watch a loved one decline with a memory disorder, all you really need to bring to each visit is love.
The simplest gestures of delivering something to drink or eat are meaningful. I often took Chai tea — which she loved to smell first — and brushed her hair, lightly massaged her shoulders, and told her stories. That’s all she really needed.
I didn’t ask her what she had for lunch because I knew she might not remember that, but we could talk about things from years gone by and it would often create a meaningful conversation.
She has since passed. However, on Oct. 7 of this year, we found ourselves at Penacook Place again, this time to bring our father, Raymond Hackett.
It was a difficult day for my family. We knew he was at that stage of Alzheimer’s disease when he really needed 24-hour care.
We were pleasantly greeted at the front desk by Maureen, who remembered my grandmother as a resident, and our family friend Marye, who was a nurse who took special care of my grandmother. We immediately started to feel a sense of “home again.”
We made our way to his room and were greeted by many of his team players. We were amazed at how many of them had a connection to our lives.
His transition was made as comfortable as could be expected: smiles, grace and comforting words. We left feeling emotionally drained, but also thankfully reassured.
Friendships new and old blessed us as we did our best to bring lots of love and laughter to the staff and other residents while visiting him at lunchtime.
Sadly, we watched him decline, little by little, eating less, losing weight, and in the last week or so refusing to eat anything but a bite or two of something sweet while sipping water, iced decaf coffee, or soda.
When we arrived each day, we wheeled him into the third-floor lounge with a great view of the fire station across the street, the Merrimack River, and the Basiliere Bridge. He lit up every time a fire truck left or returned to the station, and commented on anything else that took place in his view.
As with my grandmother, we massaged his shoulders, made sure he was comfortable, and engaged in conversation about days gone by while listening patiently to his sometimes-rambling stories that his emotions helped convey.
When the visits were over, we told him we needed to go to work or run an errand and that we would be back soon. The number of times he asked us to bring him home became less frequent, but we would still leave feeling the same silent sadness.
With his refusal to eat and physical discomfort increasing, we decided hospice care needed to begin. A more comfortable chair to recline in, an air mattress for his bed, and the discussion of medication to make him more comfortable took place.
On Nov. 17, I was joined by my immediate family to celebrate my father, Raymond Hackett’s, 85th birthday.
My mother, sisters, niece and nephew set up a table with balloons, his cake, plates and utensils while we waited for the nurses’ aid to finish getting him ready.
She wheeled him around the corner in his new chair, shook her head back and forth, letting us know she was sorry. He was sound asleep. We tried to gently wake him up, but he was unresponsive.
Just the day before, my niece Sarah, my great niece Laila and I enjoyed a visit with him. He was very alert, talkative, was making Laila laugh, and seemed to enjoy his visit while he sipped his iced coffee and had a few little bites of a chocolate donut hole. Later that afternoon, a hospice nurse visited him and called us saying he was still sipping his iced coffee and was very alert.
Tears welled up throughout the room, with everyone quietly wondering if he would cross over to heaven in front of us.
We sang a whispered version of “Happy Birthday,” Laila touching the hand of her sleepy gramps.
After more than an hour he started to wake up and wondered what was going on. Sighs of relief could be heard as the energy became more festive.
A hospice nurse showed up and checked my father’s vital signs. She let us know his blood pressure was a little low and that he was most likely dehydrated. She told us a nurse would be visiting him every day and had a few bites of cake before she left.
We sang to him again and were thankful to take a few photos. Everyone eventually left except my mother, sister Sue, and me.
Gary, a resident who became friends with my dad, entered the lounge with his electric wheelchair and told us that his brother Peter had just arrived for a visit.
Around the corner Peter appeared with a smile and a guitar strapped to his back, two hot coffees in his hands. After a brief introduction he saw the birthday cake and balloons, and found out it was my dad’s birthday.
“Are you going to sing to him?” my mother asked.
“Why sure,” he replied, then tuned his guitar.
We sang “Happy Birthday” again and my father’s face lit up.
Gary and Peter sang a song Gary wrote about the two of them growing up on Rainbow Farm in Maine. The song tells a lovely story about their formative years. He then found out that my father liked country and bluegrass music and set out to sing “Amazing Grace,” which made my dad tear up. They sang “Oh Donna” by Richie Valens (I loved to sing that song to my mother when I was a child in the early ‘60s), and ended with “Folsom Prison Blues” by Johnny Cash.
Serendipity and so much love saved this special birthday celebration in ways we never would have imagined.
My father died about a month later on Dec. 15, but we forever have that day, when we left the nursing home saddened and facing the inevitable. We also left with the knowledge that blessings come in many – sometimes unexpected – ways, and that love will always and forever be the greatest gift of all.
Ray Hackett is a Massachusetts licensed riding instructor specializing in Healing Horsemanship, and an A-rated New England 4-H and Open Horse Show Judge, and a freelance writer residing in Plaistow.