What’s in a name?

June 3, 2010

Both my first-born and my brother’s first-born children have the same middle name as their grandfather: Cleveland.

It’s an old family name.

A paternal uncle with a few “greats” before his name was Grover Cleveland, who was the 22nd and 24th president of the United States. He died just over 100 years ago, in 1908. He spent part of his boyhood growing up in Fayetteville, NY, and I drive by Academy Street where his former home still stands almost every day.

Look at the pictures of Cleveland, the president, and compare the stately way with which he holds his head with the looks of Cleveland, my Dad in this picture taken at Silverado Senior Living where he has lived since October 2008.

President Cleveland was a lawyer and a long-time bachelor. He served as mayor of Buffalo and governor of New York before becoming president, and so far he is the only president to serve two nonconsecutive terms. Historians say he was known for his laser-sharp focus, and they say he was at first ill at ease with the niceties of life in the White House. He’s described as “honest,

fearless and hard working,” in the 2006 Scholastic children’s book, “Grover Cleveland.”

One of the many Grover Cleveland biographies says much about the man with its title, “Grover Cleveland: A Study in Character,” by Alyn Brodsky. The book quotes another biographer who calls Cleveland a paradigm of honesty, integrity and resolution who acheived greatness through strength of character; a man who, though flawed, exemplified “courage that never yields an inch in the cause of truth, and that never surrenders an iota of principle to expediency.”

Of course, strength of character isn’t necessarily handed down through generations, though I’d like to think it is. And I realize that many people hold their bodies square and firm for portraits, making them no more or less “stately” than either Cleveland. Still, I like to think we can trace some traits through our lineage.

Is/was my Dad honest and hard working and principled because his namesake was? Have my son and nephew inherited those traits, too? Sometimes I fret about what their genes hold: the same frontotemporal dementia that afflicts my Dad? Or something benign, like fearlessness or laser-sharp focus, even an aptitude for the law?


Amusement parks as a metaphor for life

April 24, 2010

Whenever we visited amusement parks together–whether at a park he ran, or one at which he was a visitor like everyone else–my Dad always picked up trash. He could not help himself.

If someone had discarded a cigarette butt, a drinking cup, a candy wrapper onto the ground, my Dad would pick it up and carry the trash in his hands until he found a proper receptacle.

Having a father in the amusement industry meant my brother and I got to spend lots and lots of time at amusement parks. We would go to Six Flags over Texas after school each day. One summer, when Dad ran Old Chicago, we spent the summer riding rides and playing carnival games. Another summer we stayed in Knoxville, Tennessee for the World’s Fair, since Dad ran the midway there. My brother has followed Dad’s footsteps into the amusement industry. I’ve watched from the sidelines.

I’ve watched, over the years, how Dad pays attention to keeping the lines moving. There’s a whole science to those queues we stand in to ride roller coasters. Park managers don’t want us standing in line all day; if we’re standing in line, we’re not buying lemonades and souvenir T-shirts and balloons. I’ve watched how Dad pays the same respect to the parking lot attendant as to the visiting dignitary. And, of course, how he picks up trash without qualm, in order to keep the park–his or someone else’s–looking nice.

I suspect he loved his industry from the very first job he had as a ride operator. I know he loved roller coasters and thrill rides; I inherited that gene from him. He told me he wants to be cremated rather than buried because he would rather have cemetery land available for an amusement park.

When I was a baby, above, he would carry me through the park on his shoulders or in his arms. Two years ago, on our last trip to an amusement park together, I tried to hold hands so he would not wander. Eventually, we came to The Scream, below.

And of course my Dad could not help himself. He rode that ride with gusto, like the grandchild sitting next to him, not dwelling on the ups and downs or what lays ahead, but just enjoying the moment.

*** UPDATE ***
The morning after I posted this article, I was brushing my teeth. That picture you see at the very top of this post sits in that porcelain frame atop a high shelf in my bathroom. Very securely, I might add.

Well, it leapt from its perch, landing on my arm. It did not break. And, though heavy, did not hurt me.

Of course I risk sounding loony, but…I suspect the frame was my dad, somehow, reaching out to me.


Contemplations over the loss of a pet

March 16, 2010

One of our guinea pigs died today. I raced home from work but missed her last breath by a few minutes. She was about 6 1/2, which is a little longer than the expected lifespan of a guinea pig.

I remember when she joined our family.

My Dad was visiting over the summer of 2004 and while he was here, he got my son (7 at the time) his birthday gift from Grandma and Grandpa: two guinea pigs.

My Dad had grown up in the country, so he was comfortable with rodents. He told many stories about his mother warily opening dresser drawers, fearful of what rodent (or other creature) he might have stashed in there for safekeeping. He set up the cage and bedding with my son and helped him get acquainted with the new little guinea pigs who would become part of our family.

Eventually Allison provided my son with what he describes as the best day of his life. He came home from school to find three baby guinea pigs in her cage. (We had noticed she had been getting rather fat.)

Lately we noticed she had been getting rather frail. My son came home from school today to find her unable to stand. By telephone, he described her limpness, and her legs that were shaking. “Hold her,” I coached him. “Let her feel you touching her. Pet her, and love on her.”

I arrived home to find him in tears. She was gone. And he felt awful about how she had gone: right there, with him holding her.

I thought about how lucky she was. “Actually,” I told my son, “of all the ways there are to die, the way she went is probably the best.”

And then I wondered if–prayed that–his Grandpa would be so lucky.


What would Dad say about this dementia blog?

March 15, 2010

Would Dad mind that I mention him, that I post his picture on this DementiAwareness blog? That question nags at me.

My father was always very proud of my work as a journalist. And I enjoyed, when he came to visit, that he could open the daily newspaper and read articles written by his daughter. But those stories weren’t about me, or him. They did not publicize our family.

This blog sort of does.

It’s too late to ask my Dad how he feels about, well, pretty much anything. We can’t trust much of what he says (he often says he’s hungry just after finishing a meal) so I have to imagine what his response would be, based on the 44 years I’ve known him. Would he be proud of my work? Or embarassed of the content and its occasional reference to him? Would he feel shame?

My father never sought publicity, at least not for himself. But he was willing to promote certain causes. When I was little, he posed for a magazine cover during the energy crisis, bundled in a blanket for a story about energy conservation.

He was a lover of science, too, and when he watched TV, it was often a documentary or educational program. I remember watching Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom with Marlin Perkins together every week growing up.

So I’m thinking that if he were in his right mind, my Dad would relish learning about frontotemporal lobe dementia. I think he could appreciate the mystery of the disease, if he weren’t suffering from it so. I even think he would forgive me for sometimes referring to him in the past tense, even though he is still alive and, at least physically, well.


Introducing Amber Smith, medical journalist interested in dementia and Alzheimer’s

March 6, 2010

This is my Dad, who–like so many others–hovers between the here and the hereafter in a body gripped with dementia. It’s a sad situation, one with which many of you can identify.

For 22 years, I’ve covered health and medicine in some capacity for The Post-Standard in Syracuse, NY. I’m a devoted and passionate journalist who likes learning, enjoys writing and feels grateful to play a role in helping to make sense of our often-confusing healthcare system.

My background includes training (and volunteering) as a paramedic until parenthood provided other things for me to do with my time. I also spent three years to obtain a master’s degree in Health Services Management and Policy. For a while, I taught at Syracuse University’s S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications.

I’ll blog here regularly, with news and information of interest to people affected by Frontotemporal Dementia (FTD) and Alzheimer’s disease. Check back often. You can also follow me on Twitter, where I’ll “tweet” each post.

Meanwhile, let me know if you’ve got a question related to dementia. I don’t pretend to know everything, but I am pretty good at digging to find answers.

CBANMEP957TR


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