Marcia "Marcie" Feinstein

     With Alzheimer's, loss happens in bits and pieces. I've lost my Mom in fragments, fractures over the last 10 years. The first thing she lost was her ability to mom-task. When Hank was first born she'd care for him two days a week while I worked and she'd make us all dinner before I got home. But many nights I'd notice trying to occupy him while running a kitchen had her completely frazzled - something she did with her eyes closed raising me. Then she lost her short term recall and stared asking questions in repetition. Next I'd say she started to lose her self awareness. My mom was always dressed to the nines. My Aunt Susie would say she "wore clothes, they didn't wear her." And she started to wear "uniforms" as we referred to them - same clothes every day, many not matching. Over the years she lost the ability to sew, to drive, to hop on a train to NY and catch a show, to follow a recipe, to dress herself, to text with me, to do her hair, to imagine and create. And while her technical vision was functioning she lost her ability to process what she was seeing - so even looking at pictures became an impossibility. My biggest fear was that she would forget me. And during one visit she was particularly cloudy and I asked her if she had a daughter and she said, no. She had a son. (I mean - fair). But it turned out to be a low point in the roller-coaster that was this last decade and even last week when he closest aid, Pauli, asked who was standing with her, she said "Abby." It was those repetitive questions that gave us all pause 10 years ago and ultimately triggered her diagnosis. The first thing she said was "I'm sad my grandsons won't know me." And I, both naïvely and defensively said - yes they will. But she was right, Hank and Murphy were robbed of their Nana. But I assure you, boys, she was a star of a human, unforgettable, and lives on in me and you.

     I told my Mom one of my favorite stories of hers was that when she was 19 she rescued a baby bird that had fallen from a nest outside her apartment. She brought it inside and made a little nest for him in a shoebox. She went to the library and took out books on birds to find out how to care for him. She'd buy ground beef and cut it into little cubes and freeze them and then feed the defrosted ones to him with a tweezers. She eventually taught him how to fly, first in her kitchen off the table ledge and then by flicking him into the air off her windowsill. He fell a few times but eventually got the hang of it. She said he would land on the closest branch and tweet at her to let him back in. But she stayed strong and forced him to be a real bird, and he did. I love this story because it so encapsulated my Mom - a free spirit, loving, caring, meticulous, dedicated. 

     My Mom was insanely artistically talented. She sewed me a bear that I loved to threads by the time I left for college. And when she and my Dad dropped me off she handed me a box. Inside was the exact same bear but instead of red and yellow terry cloth, he was blue and orange (SU colors). She saved the pattern for 18 years and wrote a note, in the voice of my new bear, explaining that he was Sunny, Crackers' brother, and if that Crackers was too thread bare to continue to watch over me in this new chapter, so he was here for the job. Talk about surreal - it really felt like my stuffy had a legit sibling. She hand-sewed all of my Halloween costumes growing up - an experience I've attempted to recreate for my boys, leaning heavily on the skills of Michael and now Heather. 

     My Mom was the best Mom. She read me stories every night and we'd sit at the edge of my bed and talk with me for hours. When I went away to overnight camp she and I would record tapes for each other instead of writing letters, and I remember being so excited to hear her voice when that puffy envelope arrived with a cassette in it. Every year at visiting day I could see her as soon as she got out of the car because she'd bring a huge balloon flying high above all of the other Moms and Dads wading their way into camp. She was my biggest fan. At 23 I beta tested a solar panel I had designed and we unveiled the product on a roof in Valley Forge to friends, family and investors - and there she was standing with a 3ft sunshine balloon, cheering me on. She drove across the country with me in a Jeep Wrangler - the epitome of comfort - so I could live in a tent in California for a summer. We had grand plans to cross the state line into California playing California Dreaming but it was before the days of predictive arrival GPS so we had to restart the track 11 times as we severely overestimated how close we were. Several years later we'd have another car adventure in Prague and Germany except this time she was accompanying me with my boss and his daughter for business travel. My boss, over 6 feet tall, severely underestimated the size vehicle we needed for four people plus luggage so we spent hours a day cramped up in the back seat (a generous term I promise you.) Out of survival I think we slept most of it. We have many pictures of twinning with our heads back and mouths agape (apparently sleeping with your mouth open is genetic.) 

     Countless people have reminded me that my Mom was full of joy, light, and life. And she was. She was handed a crap deck and she fought so hard. She pushed through a twisted spine, degenerative disks in her neck, an aortic dissection, busted ankles, arthritic hands, and a debilitating memory disease. About a month ago I whispered to her that if she was tired, she could let go and we'd understand. She was appalled. “Let go!? But then, you're gone!” and I said “that's true but you fight so hard and you don't get to do much anymore.” She said “no - I don't want that.” And I said - ok, then I can fight with you. 

     She never lost her will. She also never lost her sense of humor. She turned 76 on  Valentine's Day and we decorated her room with tons of red balloons and 6ft 7-6 numbers (since now it's on me to do the cheering on) and streamers and big red hearts everywhere. And my Dad wheeled her in and she looked around and smiled and said it looked great. So then we stood there for a couple of minutes, I guess just kind of taking it in, and she looks up and says “well this is about as fun as awake.” You can take the woman out of the party, but you can't take the party out of the woman. So we threw on some Thriller and started singing and dancing around her. And then she did something none of us expected - she insisted on getting up and dancing. Mind you she's not stood up in about three months - has multiple brain bleeds and an unrepaired broken hip. We told her she can't stand, but there was no talking telling her anything. She pleaded with us to let her try to dance. We looked at each other and silently agreed if she wanted to dance who are we to stop her. We got an aide and my Dad lifted her up, but after a few seconds of trying to stand she got scared and conceded that she indeed couldn't do it. She was pretty devastated. If you ask me, this was the beginning of the end of this life for my Mom. The party girl who turned her house into studio 54 every Halloween to celebrate her and my Dad’s Anniversary (not to mention actual time spent at Studio 54) could no longer dance. 

     So, after 76 trips around the sun, her soul quietly and seemingly peacefully left her body. 43 of those years I was nothing short of blessed as her only child. I aspire daily to measure up to the bar she set as my Mom and as a person. Will miss you, your smile, your words of wisdom, and your love, every day. And I will hope for the rest of my days here that I will get to dance with you again.