In her middle years, Mom took care of older people in various stages of decline. This wasn’t her paid occupation. More like family obligation. She nursed people extensively, without a nurse’s equipment and a nurse’s credentials. But she did it, again and again, with all her skill and devotion.
She didn’t love it. It was hard. Hard work and hard on her heart. Mostly because she saw the ailments of age bring her dear ones down. And it got her thinking . . . what about herself?
In those days, Alzheimer’s was an unknown word, but not an unknown condition. My mother saw her own mother’s decline into memory loss, and it grieved her.
It also disturbed her. “I’m afraid I’ll get old, and my mind will go like my mother’s.” I can still hear my mom’s sorrowful voice saying those words, time and again. She said it often enough that it impressed my young mind.
Mom died at age 79, after experiencing the accumulating effects of Alzheimer’s disease for eight years. She probably nursed that apprehension of memory loss for thirty years before her memory did begin to fail.
After Mom passed, I gave some thought to my own future. My mother had Alzheimer’s, and her sister did too. My grandmother had it, and her sister did too. What did this mean for me? I didn’t like the odds.
A subtle dread began to grow in my heart. When I considered my chances, I could feel a shattering threat. I felt I might fall to pieces if I thought about it enough. I was still grieving my mother’s death, and these distressing thoughts plagued me.
At some point, I realized something true about myself. I found that I cannot bear to live in fear. I knew I had to get a handle on my troubled mind, to shake myself free of useless dread.
I recalled my mom’s recurring statements, how she spoke her fear over and over. With nothing to go on but that recollection, I considered the power of her fear, expressed and repeated. I wondered if that was an element of Mom’s situation. I didn’t know. But I knew I needed something different.
It occurred to me that I am also the offspring of my dad. He experienced some age-related ailments, but he didn’t suffer memory loss. What if I could take after my dad in this instance, I wondered?
Because the fearful thoughts rattled me so much (What are my odds?), I chose to form a different, bracing idea to support my outlook. “I’m going to be sharp until the end,” I told myself. Repeatedly. With zero proof of my slogan, still I summoned that thought often, when my mind strayed into dire territory.
“I’m going to be sharp until the end.”
I pitched it to my sisters.
It’s seventeen years since Mom passed. I guess I’ve fortified myself with my “sharp” saying for at least fifteen of them. It’s a success so far.
I have no guarantee that I’m immune from future memory loss. Supposing I don’t ever acquire Alzheimer’s disease, I can’t foresee what else I might encounter. Nor do I want to.
I can say this: I never worry about getting Alzheimer’s. Haven’t for years. That former dread has lost its hold. I can contemplate the possibility. I can consider the impact on myself and my family. I can wonder what other ailments might inflict me.
But since I can’t stand to live in fear, I do my best to live in assurance that I’ll be supported in whatever I come to experience—now, and in the future.
“Fear not,” said Jesus Christ. “Believe only.” I’m grateful He taught this. Surely He meant it. And I must remember it.
I’ve pondered the power of fear. Can it be self-fulfilling? If so, then it seems similar to faith—like the two sides of a coin. Fear and faith, exercised, each bring their fruits, bitter and sweet.
Supposing fear is that powerful, I wondered if maybe I should be extra choosy about what I’m afraid of. I came up with some candidates:
- I’m afraid I’ll get old and sharp-minded.
- I’m afraid I’ll get old and strong.
- I’m afraid I’ll get old and healthy.
- I’m afraid I’ll get old and beautiful.
- I’m afraid I’ll get old and wealthy.
- And maybe famous!
And it keeps me up at night.
My mother, Thelma Jessop, exercised great faith in her life. I owe my life to the faith she practiced—determined to increase her family when doctors advised against undertaking another risky pregnancy.
She faced more than her share of heartaches, dilemmas, and losses. She taught her children to pray. She read to us—scriptures and faith-promoting stories. She served others all her life. She made us laugh. She fed everyone!
I wouldn’t trade her for anyone, ever.
Thanks, Mom, for your love, and for all you taught me. I love you.
Margaret Peters
“Fear not: believe only…” Luke 8:50