Unforgettable. Linda Goodnight
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Carrie Martin has a wonderful life—a loving husband, a sweet daughter and a feisty mother. But suddenly her mom can’t remember little things…then big things. Now, it’s as if the mother who was once warm and outrageous has become someone she barely recognizes. Feeling lost and alone, Carrie finds comfort in her friends who surprise her by collecting photos worth remembering and mementos worth cherishing. Slowly, Carrie learns that memories are made one day at a time and that treasuring today rather than dwelling on the pain and despair of her mother’s illness is what truly matters. And that hope and lovingkindness have been there all along…
During the writing of this book, our family suffered
the loss of my mother-in-law, Lorene Goodnight. Lorene was more than a mother-in-law. She was the Mom I didn’t have. I loved her and she loved me—as mother and daughter. A Christian since the age of twelve (like Frannie), Lorene’s steadfast faith and unconditional love taught me a great deal about being a woman of God, lessons I’m still learning. During the last year of her life, this precious saint suffered with a type of dementia. So this book is dedicated to her memory because truly, she may have forgotten many things, but God had not forgotten her. Her name was written in the palms of His hands.
I would also like to acknowledge the many
Alzheimer’s bloggers, both patients and caregivers, who gave me insight into your devastating journey. May God be with you the way He was with Frannie.
Unforgettable
Linda Goodnight
Surely they may forget, yet I will not forget you.
See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands.
—Isaiah 49:15–16
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Funny how everything could be normal one minute and utter chaos the next.
For the rest of her life, Carrie Martin would remember that bright Saturday as a perfect spring day in a perfectly happy, settled, safe life.
At ten o’clock in the morning, while on her hands and knees in the front yard transplanting iris bulbs and waiting for her daughter and husband to show up with peat moss from Clifford’s Garden Center, Carrie was jolted by the onk-onk of a car horn. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was, but she did anyway, lifting a dirty gloved hand in greeting as the gold-colored Oldsmobile sailed into the driveway with one final blast of goodwill.
Her mother, the irrepressible Francis Adler—Frannie to her friends—hopped out of the Olds and crossed the grass, her short, green-clad legs pumping with the energy of a woman half her sixty-one years.
Frannie’s enormous hat, also green, formed an ever-advancing pool of shade across the sunny lawn. Today was St. Patrick’s Day and this was Mother’s method of announcing to the world that she was Irish. Even if she hadn’t been, she would have worn the hat.
Frannie never did anything halfway.
“Good morning, Mother.” Carrie rested back on her heels with a smile.
From behind a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses, Frannie looked her daughter up and down before extracting a stick-on shamrock from the pocket of her loose cotton jacket—green, of course. “You aren’t wearing green.”
Well, Mother certainly was.
Frannie slapped the shamrock onto the pocket of Carrie’s white camp shirt.
Carrie glanced down. “I am now.”
“I saved you from being pinched,” her mother said cheerfully. “How do you like my hat?” A pudgy, beringed hand patted the wide brim.
“Very Irish.” Like a plump leprechaun. Any minute now Carrie expected her to leap into the air and click her heels. She would do it, too, if the notion struck. As with holidays, Mother never missed an opportunity to have what she termed as fun. Carrie termed it embarrassing.
Take for instance, last year’s Gusher Day festivities, their small town’s celebration of its oil boom heritage. Mother and her Red Hat Society compatriots, a group of over-fifty ladies with a zest for life, marched in the parade tossing bright red wax lips into the crowd while belting, “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” in a slightly off-key, wobbly-voiced style.
Carrie, watching from the church craft booth, had inwardly cringed at Mother’s outrageous display. How could a Christian woman be so…boisterous? A better question, perhaps, was how had Francis Adler given birth and parented a daughter who was her total opposite?
Candace Ellis, the pastor’s unassuming wife had surprised everyone in the booth by saying, “As soon as I’m old enough, I’m going to join, too. Those ladies have a blast.”
Carrie had managed a tight-lipped smile. Not me, she thought. I wouldn’t be caught dead prancing in front of everyone in the Red Hat brigade.
She loved her mother, truly, but sometimes she wished her only parent was a little more low-key.
“So, where are you headed this morning, Mother?” Using the edge of her glove—the only clean spot—to brush hair out of her eyes, Carrie continued to trowel