Commentary: Reflection on stolen memories, time, what the next generation won't hear

By Rachael Tolliver-Fort Knox Public AffairsSeptember 8, 2015

Mom waters the garden--
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Bette Lou Martin
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mom and dad
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I hate Dementia. She is time intensive, needy, steals, no one invited her and she keeps too much time with my mother--but that's my view from here.

Oh, I know--you aren't supposed to hate, and I should say I have a "strong passionate dislike for," something. But there are a few cases where I do hate. And this is one.

My mother "magically" made Popsicle sticks disappear when I was three. She pulled bee stingers from my feet because I liked to run barefoot in the summer, and fed me Jell-O when my tonsils were removed.

She took us on long drives to explore untraveled roads, and visit with people we didn't know, where we sat on old farm porches and learned oral history.

Through such experiences I learned about food, history, heritage and family.

A grandfather I never knew owned a farm in Anderson County and raised tobacco--but never smoked--dairy cows and corn. He allowed poor farmers who lost everything in the depression to "tenant farm" on his place for next to nothing.

And WWII Soldiers bivouacked around the fields of my grandparent's farm. My grandfather gave them a "lot of fresh milk," and as they left, my mother--who wasn't very old at the time--collected the Soldiers' mail in a basket so my grandfather could mail it home for them. Later, German POWs worked the farm fields--somewhere mom still has those receipts.

I was graced with stories of how my mother, who learned to play the trumpet and piano at an early age, would accompany my grandfather to the funeral of veterans. He was a WWI veteran himself--rode on dirigibles across France. My grandfather would play Taps at the funerals, and my mother, who would be concealed some distance away, would play the echo.

As a child I marveled at stories of how my mother was a majorette at Anderson County High school, headed a small jazz band of her own, and later joined the Navy because of the returning female veterans who sported "fancy uniforms" that made an impression on her.

At the time my mother joined the Navy desegregation was still just a good intention--except in the military. Because of my mother's upbringing she was used to sharing space, social time, food and conversation with people of other backgrounds and color. So when some of the girls in her boot camp refused a swimming exercise at Naval Station Great Lakes because of black classmates, my mother proclaimed such attitudes "out of date," and jumped into the pool with her black friends.

She was the only female in an all-male "shop keepers" class--to include a dozen or so Middle Eastern classmates who felt women had only a few places and roles in the world and the military was not one of them.

She also attended the University of Kentucky, working night jobs to pay her tuition. She obtained her associates as a paralegal which at the time was a very big deal, especially when so few girls in the country even thought about college, let alone attend it.

Mom was one of the first women to try to get into the Kentucky State Police. Although she passed all the entrance tests, because they didn't have barracks for women she had to settle for a dispatcher's position. And somewhere as a child I ran across paperwork--exploring boxes in which I was forbidden to play--where she was given an award for helping come up with radio codes for the police force.

Later, she worked for the L&N railroad. But, during one of those "do you remember when" conversations at dinner one night between friends, I learned she was fired from that job when she told them she was pregnant--with me. And it was legal.

In spite of all these achievements as a woman during times when women were expected to be homemakers, when they were still fighting for equal pay, the right to serve their country in the military and be recognized for their sacrifices,--my mother gave it all up to be a mother and a homemaker. Her choice.

Now, enter Dementia.

We used to have in-depth, sparring conversations over politics, current events and other hot button topics.

We weren't always on the same side of an issue, but I could always count on her to defend her position with an opinion formed by her lifetime of experiences and from the variety of magazines she read and new shows she watched. Today, our sparring conversations would be more like an aggravated fight over whether or not someone stole her purse--or whether she forgot where she put it again.

She was years ahead of society on the subject of sustainability with ideas all gleaned from growing up on a farm and reading current magazines and newspapers. I enjoyed conversations coming from these projects as well as the "Popular Mechanics" magazine from which we discussed "science fiction" ideas.

But now, she is hard pressed to remember how to get home when she and Dad go to the grocery.

She shouldn't drive. And she shouldn't cook--Dad is afraid, in addition to burning the meal, she would burn down the house.

My father is her caregiver. We see his pain and stress, though he says they are enjoying their time together.

I am "displeased" that they won't have the retirement they had both planned for and the life I think they earned while raising us.

And I hate Dementia--but that's my view from here.