“Everybody’s talking at me.

I don’t hear a word they’re saying,

Only the echoes of my mind.

People stopping staring,

I can’t see their faces,

Only the shadows of their eyes.”

            Fred Neil (music), Harry Nilsson (lyrics)

The big news at yesterday’s Grammy Awards was the passing of Whitney Houston.  I appreciated Houston’s talent, but was never a huge fan, and rarely watch the Grammy’s.  When I heard that Glen Campbell received a lifetime achievement award and various artists performed a tribute to him, I was moved.  Campbell joined in at the end of the tribute singing “Rhinestone Cowboy,” and the audience sang along.  75-year-old Campbell came “out” last June as the latest celebrity victim (hate that word, but will suffice for now) of Alzheimer’s disease.  I suppose whenever I hear about a celebrity’s struggle with the disease, I am more sympathetic to him or her, since my mother has it too.  This morning, I tried to watch the video of Campbell singing, but got too choked up to watch the whole thing.

When I hear the name Glen Campbell, I think of “Everybody’s Talkin’ At Me,” that magnificent ode to the loner, of the stranger in a strange land, the song that injected even more poignancy into the film Midnight Cowboy.  I remember Glen Campbell in the original True Grit.  He wasn’t much of an actor, but he was charismatic and had a wholesome, boyish charm. 

He and his family decided that it was best for him to come out of the Alzheimer’s “closet” so people wouldn’t think he was drunk or high onstage if he appeared confused or forgot lyrics.  His band features three of his grown children, Cal, Shannon and Ashley, who, along with his wife Kim , are a great support system. 

When asked about his illness, Campbell told CNN (June, 2011), “I am content with it.  Don’t cry over spilt milk. Get up and be a man and do what you have got to do.”

“Everybody’s Talkin’ At Me” might be the perfect theme song for Alzheimer’s people (trying to avoid overuse of “victim”).  So much of the time they have no idea what you are saying to them, and they are in a world of their own or a fugue state.  I know my mom is.  I tried to get her to do more art with me yesterday.  Last week she painted a bit and this week I brought children's Play-Doh.  She only worked with one color, green, and I gave her a ball of orange to add to her creation.

  

Play-Doh art from February 12, 2012.  Mom did the green flower with the orange center.

She said, “I don’t want to work when you’re here.  I just want to relax.”

“I thought this would be relaxing,” I said, and worked with the Play-Doh myself.

It seems that everything is work for her:  going to the bathroom, washing her hands, getting ready for bed. 

We watched a cooking show for a while, and then she said, “I’m sorry.  I didn’t do anything for you.”  Meaning, she didn’t work with the clay which she thought I wanted her to.

“You don’t have to do it for me,” I said.

I felt like giving up.  I didn’t know what more I could do for her.  She is in incredible pain and can barely get up off the toilet seat to be changed, which happened yesterday.  I had to hold her above the toilet seat while Comfort, the aide, diapered her.  If I ever need an aide, I want her name to be “Comfort” too.

I mourn for the time when Mom could walk for miles, and enjoyed shopping and going to Catholic mass in the city.  I hate to see her in pain.

Maybe next week I’ll try singing with her.  She was always wonderful at that, although she said she can’t sing anymore.  Maybe I’ll tell her about Glen Campbell and we can watch Midnight Cowboy, one of her favorite films.  I’ll try anything.