Moved by grief over his mother’s
decline into Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s diseases and sorrow over society’s
tendency to make patients’ diagnoses their new identities, Dwayne Clark set out to keep his mother
Colleen’s lifetime achievements and identity alive. The result is a memoir-tribute,
My Mother, My Son. With remarkable
candor, Clark chooses stories to aptly illustrate his mother’s feisty personality,
character, and values, and her contributions to his development. Woven
throughout these stories is their fierce mutual devotion.
Each story (chapter) is dated.
Chapters from the 1920s, 1930s, and 1940s recall Colleen’s early influences.
Anecdotes from 1960s and 1970s illustrate Dwayne’s family upbringing. From
about 1999 through 2010, stories chronicle Colleen’s decline and the family’s
decisions regarding her care. Chapters do not proceed chronologically; rather,
they bounce from present to past, usually for a logical purpose. Generally,
zigzagging flashbacks disorient me, and a few times while reading this book, I
had that feeling. Most of the time, however, I could see why certain stories
were placed where they were. For example, when Dwayne senses Colleen’s
disorientation and loneliness upon finding herself in a nursing facility, he
wonders if perhaps she now feels how she had felt as a young war bride making a
long journey from her childhood home in India to her new home in Washington
state, so he tells the sea-voyage story at that point.
I wanted to read this book because
of the holding on–letting go tug of war in my own heart over my father’s
decline into Alzheimer’s. Dwayne Clark articulately wrote out emotions I’d only
been able to weep out. Here is one example: “It was as if I had come down with
a spiritual and emotional flu, letting all the anger, fear, worry, and loss
fully infect my soul.” Reading this book gave me a sense that I’m not alone.
Not only did his struggle touch my heart, but it also was lively, interesting
reading. Although I could relate to his not wanting to lose his mom in this
tragic way, I could not relate to much of his family background. Still, his
stories were fun to read. And I really, really wanted to get to know his mom.
I’m not even sure I would have liked his mom, had I known her in real life. But
I loved her fierce devotion to him, her support of him, her encouragement of
him. And as the book points out, her consistent, confidence-building words came
full-circle when he grew up to design the very memory-care communities that
would embrace his own mother. One of the most encouraging messages of this
book, for me anyway, was that our parents live on in us. I don’t want to lose
my parents; they carry their own torches more brilliantly than I’ll be able to.
Still, I am who I am because of who they are. Despite the heart-breaking
subject, this book maintains a positive outlook.
As memoir, My Mother, My Son is universally engaging, especially to those of
us in the midst of elder care, but also to a society tempted to diminish the
impact of the elderly and infirm. Colleen Clark was not her diseases. Like all
dear people afflicted by Alzheimer’s disease, she was a vibrant person who led
a full life making a difference in others’ lives. She may forget her stories,
but the people she influenced dare not reduce them to invisibility. In this
moving tribute, My Mother, My Son, Dwayne
Clark succeeds in providing an “antidote to invisibility.”
Because Dwayne Clark is in the
business of providing residential care to mature adults, after he finishes his
story, he offers practical advice, guidelines, and resources for those on the
elder-care journey. I found this section helpful as well.
I received a copy of this book from
the book’s publicist.To buy this book on Amazon.com, click this link:
http://www.amazon.com/My-Mother-Son-determination-memories-lost/dp/098481521X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1336506953&sr=8-1
On the
day after Mothers Day, my vases tell a short story about a longer story, a one-day
flash about a 10,950-day saga, a child’s pop-up book about a thumping
three-inch tome. I love hosting Mothers Day parties. They are my chances to
make my house “pop” once a year to honor the woman who made our family home lovely
for decades. My chances to practice “cuisine-art” once a year for Mom, who
lovingly fed four children about 21,900 nutritious meals. My chances to gather
loved ones to celebrate her, as she did for our special occasions as we grew
up. One day a year is so inadequate a thank-you, the only way I can think of to
truly lavish upon Mom is to fill the house with flowers.
Today,
the day after yesterday’s Mothers Day party, seeing so many vases around my
house brings a smile to my face. I had put two little vases on the patio table
where we ate appetizers. One vase of tulips was on the dining table where we
ate dinner. More tulips graced the living room. 
The three large vases are now
empty because I invited my sister and my mom to split two huge bouquets to take
home and enjoy. Yesterday two of these vases had overflowed with every color of
mum, carnation, and flowers I don’t know the names of (and forgot to photograph); the third vase held
long-stemmed red roses brought by my niece for her mom and grandmother. The
empty pink vase was the same vase my mother used to put a profusion of pink and white peonies
in every spring when I was little. I can still see her standing in her kitchen
to place each stem just so. 
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