In our family, we mark the beginning of my mother-in-law's decline from Christmas Eve 1999.
That night she had a stroke and ended up in the hospital. For the first time in 86 years, she completely lost her mental footing and slid into a world of visions and dreams. The doctor said we would never be able to fully retrieve her. And, despite a valiant effort on her part, the doctor was pretty much right.
Helen died Sunday at age 88.
For much of her life, my mother-in-law lived in fear of losing her memory. Her mother lost her memory early, and Helen was haunted by the distress and loss of dignity it caused. She was determined to remain a functioning, contributing member of the family for as long as possible. She dedicated herself to "maintaining her brain."
She exercised and ate low-cholesterol food — long before such things became a trend.
She stimulated her mind by reading newspapers, magazines and watching programs on PBS.
She played memory games with her grandchildren.
In her early 80s, when she could see her recollections were beginning to blur, she started telling the same stories over and over, the way a child might switch on the light over and over to reassure himself everything's where he left it.
"I really don't need to hear that story again," my father-in-law would tell her.
"I know," she'd say. "But I need to tell it."
We called those stories "Grandma's Greatest Hits." She'd tell of the proper British mother-in-law who called Helen's father "The Master" and her own husband "Brother Whitworth." She told of elopements, small miracles and deaths. The No. 1 tale in her Hit Parade was "The Birth of the Twins," a story that starred a ham-handed nurse who was startled to discover Helen was delivering two babies for the price of one.
All the stories were family stories. All involved the heart. Stitched together, they formed a bright quilt of remembrance — a family heirloom. And when Helen realized the threads of those stories were beginning to unravel in her mind, she shared simple impressions: the height of her brothers, the hair of an ancestor, the hands of her husband. Eventually, as those images faded, she fell silent, offering us only her breath.
For a long time, I thought Helen's "Greatest Hits" would be the legacy she would leave us. Now she's gone, however, I see things differently.
Helen's legacy is not in what she told us. Her legacy is her gallant effort to continue to contribute and connect with us, even as her memory failed. In better days, she made bread for us. When all she had left was her voice, she gave us the bread of her experiences.
To borrow an expression I've heard my wife use, she was a "grand lady."
The Christmas Eve we took Helen to the hospital, I watched her closely. She was dazed, confused, yet seemed determined to make the best of a bad situation. She tried to carry on a conversation. After running some tests, the doctor came to her bed.
"Helen," he said, "we'd like you to stay with us for a few days."
She looked at me, then looked at him, unsure of what was happening. Then she smiled.
"I'd be delighted!" she said.
No, Helen, we are the ones who felt delighted.
You, my mother-in-law, were a delight.
E-mail: jerjohn@desnews.com