The Alzheimer’s Tree
Oh, the Christmas tree! Maybe my passion for collecting star ornaments began when Frank taught me to look up when someone is trying to love you, rather than looking down upon myself in judgment. With too many stars to count, Frank asked, “Did you have some kind of aspiration to become an astronomer?”
“No, I never really cared where they were. My joy came in simply knowing they were there. Growing up in the country, I would go outside after dark and lay in the yard just gazing as the stars twinkled. When I was little, I wondered if they were winking at me.”
Probably having a ‘caveat emptor’ moment as part of the marriage package, Frank stoked out that half-grin and chuckle as he said, “Okay, more stars.”
At our house, it was never abnormal for heavenly wrapped gifts to wait for placement under the tree until the day before company arrives. I always called it the ‘final dressing of the tree’. Of course, this frantic compulsion came in tandem with checking gift lists for shortages and double-checking for gift-wrapping imperfections.
Those days just fond memories, we are now in year eight living with Frank’s Alzheimer’s. Life is more basic, and again this year is more different than the last. Years of health care expense have taken its toll. Thankfully, the expectation of the surprise of carefully deliberated gifts under the tree is an accepted absence. Almost relieved to step out of the mainstream, I decided that this is a year of ‘traditions only’ and the tree is one of those traditions.
As I stared at the empty skirt of the tree, I said ‘This is the Alzheimer’s’ Tree. Simple. A bit disorganized. Chaotic in places. Slightly irregular, but here to be loved. After all, those that came anticipating a burgeoning supply of gifts, have disappeared and scattered long ago.”
Turning on the tree lights, I started to turn away. But something prompted me to take a private moment and look up. There they were – the stars twinkling and reflecting the light. Not one or two, but a whole tree of stars! In that moment, I didn’t see ornaments. I saw them as symbols representing the people of light that have either come into our life or decided to remain. They are the health care workers that carry our life night and day. They are my beloved neighbors that rescue me without question in times of crisis. Our friends that pray for us, those that drop an occasional note, text or phone call to support us with concern in the long days and years. They are the family members that have chosen to accept and participate on the path that has been allotted. As random as the stars, these are the people that have brought joy with unexpected acts of kindness.
As I pondered the virtues, I saw more in those glistening stars. Those are for the forgotten and dismissed Alzheimer’s victims. I see them everyday. They wait patiently for someone to find the sparkle in their eyes.
Guilty myself, I used to listen to the voices that categorized these patients scientifically. They say that our loved ones brains are a tangled mess of plaque that interrupts the neurons from being received by the receptors making them incapable of interaction. Others say that they are alive, but gone. Eventually, I realized this spirit of self with demands of normalcy mimicked someone looking under the tree for presents as they wonder what’s in it for them.
Suddenly, I saw something different about Alzheimer’s. What is gone is only the unnecessary. Once we conform ourselves to accept them as they are, we see their lives are not filled with obsessions of perfection or personal plans and wishes. Gone are the days of unrealistic expectations or disappointments. Joy is as simplistic as receiving someone with the love associated with a genuine smile or the comfort of touch. Traditions such as music and Christmas goodies ignite memories, even though they cannot share details. Brain transmitters, neurons, and receptors don’t hold a candle to the singular recognition of love.
Realizing that the most important thing in life that remains is love itself, I gazed upon my Alzheimer’s tree and viewed it as pure beauty. Similar to the opinion of those with Alzheimer’s, people might only see my tree as an empty skirt and haphazard preparations. This year, my heart feels a Christmas I would have never expected.
Two thousand years ago, a baby was born in a smelly stable. People turned away at the possibility something so great could have happened in a place so unheard of. But the world was forever changed that day because love was born. And the glimmer of a hovering star led the people to the place where darkness cannot exist.
As I snuggle next to Frank with our arms intertwined, I gaze into his eyes and find that twinkle I now recognize for what it is. God sends his love as a reflection to be seen in the eyes of one another. Thinking of the empty tree skirt, I was touched by the similarity of searching for light under a blanket. We miss the opportunity to share God’s reflection of His love when we are too busy looking inward to ourselves in either judgment, pride, or the inertia of waiting for something to appear.
My Christmas wish is that someone reading this will choose to look up and see that God is revealing His love through someone unexpected. I hope that someone discovers that they can be the reflection of His light for others. Find the peace I have been gifted by merely looking up. It is only by looking up and beyond your circumstances you will find the three most important things in life – faith, hope and love.
Merry Christmas Jesus! And thank you for sending the stars to remind me.