Thanks for helping my sister

I think of my sister Karen a lot. Even more in October, her birth month. She would have been 69 this year. Unfortunately, she didn’t make that birthday – Alzheimer’s had other plans.

When the disease took her from us, my first emotion was profound sadness. That was quickly followed by relief, believe it or not. Her life was a living hell. Unable to walk, feed herself or even have a conversation – Alzheimer’s reduced her to a ball of fear and anxiety. No way for anyone to live – a condition I wouldn’t wish on the most wicked person on Earth.

And Karen was just the opposite. One of kindest, most gentle and genuinely nicest people in the world. She was funny – a laugh-riot, even on a bad day. She was smart, a dedicated mom and grandmother, a loyal friend, a voracious reader and a poet. Alzheimer’s erased all that. And it stole Karen from life on Earth, way too early.

That turned my sadness to anger.

When I first envisioned this piece, it saw it as litany against grand larceny – my rant, tilting at windmills. Alzheimer’s, the perfect thief, robbing our beloved Karen of her personality, her memory, her work, mobility, peace of mind and – ultimately – her life.

That was the theme I envisioned. That would have been fine. It would have put a spotlight on Alzheimer’s vicious, Olympic-level power to destroy. It sure as hell would have made me feel better.

But then we gathered for Karen’s viewing. And something wonderful happened that completely changed my plan. Time after time, to person after person, I heard myself saying these words: “Thank you for helping my sister.”

Again and again, over and over. “Thank you for helping my sister.”

I said it to friends and family who took Karen out to lunch or grocery shopping. People who helped her navigate big events like weddings and funerals. People who prayed for her from a distance. People helped her feel loved, if only for a moment, even when she was in a 24-hour panic.

I said it to those who looked after her basic needs and kept her safe at the depths of her disability.

I said it to those who took her oft-repeated phone calls and showed the patience to keep having the same conversation.

I said it to people who had never even met Karen, but who helped my family with their expertise, empathy and understanding after dealing with their own Alzheimer’s crises.

Again and again, over and over. “Thank you for helping my sister.”

Here we were, blowing through Kleenex by the pound, living the true tragedy of this shit-show piece of garbage of a disease. And I was counting blessings by the dozen. It was testament to how well loved Karen was, an opinion shared by scores. And it made me realize how tenacious those who loved her were. They stepped up when she was at rock bottom and needed that love more than ever.

You guys crushed it. If you helped Karen and her family in any way over the last few years, It means the world to me. And in the event I didn’t get the chance to say it to you in person, believe me when I say it, again.

Thank you for helping my sister.