Head Usher

Probably the place where O. J.’s condition was most accepted and forgiven was at our New Hope church For many years he had been head usher and took his job very seriously.
My biggest gripe when the family was young was his sleeping until I had breakfast prepared, then his eating a leisurely breakfast with the family and concentrating on dressing appropriately. He always smelled of Old Spice and was teased that at work the women would follow him with their noses when he passed by. But Sunday he was even more meticulous about his appearance.
While I cleared the breakfast table, washed little faces and tied sashes on frilly dresses he would get dressed. Twenty minutes before time for Sunday School while I was cooking dinner, teasing hair, and putting on lipstick in my underwear, he would sit in the car and blow the horn at intervals for us to hurry up so we’d be a church on time. What I would have done if I had known how to get to that horn.
All our pastors knew that O. J. never prayed aloud in church or at home. One Sunday a visiting speaker called on Mr. Gast to pray and I received a vigorous elbow jab in the ribs. I prayed.

After each hospitalization he would return to his usher position. He stood at the entrance, greeted everyone, teased the smallest, and handed out bulletins. He selected the person to give the offertory prayer during the greeting process. If no one agreed, he would look at me in the choir and wink to ask me to pray before the collection. I guess why so many of our church petitions to bless our tithes and offerings came from me.

One Sunday after a stay in the hospital, he was well enough to return to services. The welcome back was hearty. The pastor reminded, “Don’t forget to ring the Sunday School closing bell at 10:45; the deaconcame by and said, “Ring the bell at 15 until 11.” No bell rang. At 11:00 I went out to him and asked why he didn’t ring the bell.

He said “these people can’t decide what time to ring it.”

At offering he gravely made his way to the front with a partner to collect the money. Since most regular attendees placed checks in envelopes during the Sunday School, very little money went into the collection plates during the worship service when the pianist played, the plates were passed down each row, and the choir came down to sit with family for the sermon.

One Sunday morning when he was advanced into his confusion, he made his way to

the back of the church at the place we always sat,. breathed a long sigh as he sat down, and whispered loudly to me with disgust,“Not a G-- D---- S-- of a B----- put a G-- D---- dollar in the G-- D---- collection plate. The usual silence became more intense. Shaking shoulders and red ears showed that nearly everyone in the congregation heard him. The preacher still swears he didn’t. At the next service the plate was filled with $1s, and $5s. Later the collection returned to normal with a few coins and little green. No one ever confronted him except me and the story traveled all over the county among his friends and former employees at the tire plant. He never admitted doing it and seemed sincerely hurt to be falsely accused of being so irreverent and blasphemous.

RESPITE???

AUGUST 24, 1993

5 AM

My respite has come to an end. Last Friday I had my gall bladder removed and spent one night in a nice peaceful hospital room. Missy and Katherine stayed with O. J. until David’s family arrived then they brought him home. I wonder if they yet realize how fast he is losing it. It helped to have David there to amuse him and keep in occupied for the weekend.

Sometimes I think the hardest part of Alzheimer’s is the feeling of isolation, of not making contact with OJ as we talk. Today I woke at 4:30 to the sound of running water and the strong smell of unine. I turned the light on, and found OJ still lying on his side in bed peeing on the carpet.

When he saw me in the light, he said, “ I want to go home. I’m tired of this Goddamned place” His defiant reaction triggered the same in me. I reached under his side of the bed not 5 inches from the spreading puddle on the floor and pulled out the plastic urinal placed there for emergencies, that he had used many times. The flowered bed skirt was dripping and so were the sheets, the mattress, and the mattress bad.

So much for the post surgery restriction of my not lifting 5 pounds for 2 weeks. The sheets, pillow cases, and mattress pad had to be replaced with fresh linens. While he watched I sprayed with a disinfectant and sponged dry the mattress and the carpet. He sat at the end of the bed pouting like a defiantly guilty little boy, daring me to accuse him of wrongdoing.
He had to be helped out of bed and cleaned up and dressed in fresh pajamas, then led to the guest bedroom to sleep for the rest of the night.

I gathered his pajamas, the wet bedclothes, and mattress pad took them to the washing machine. Soap and disinfectant would make them fresh again, but what would help the straining stitches in my side? I’ll probably regret this tomorrow.

After I put the clothes in the washer and turned it on, I made a pot of coffee and went back to bed. As I lay there with my heart pounding with anger an frustration, self pity whispered, “You can’t even recover in peace and quiet. He doesn’t care that you are hurting. In fact he’s doing things not because he can’t control himself, but out of petulance that you haven’t been waiting on him the last few days.”

Too distraught to rest, I got up and through the dark to the lighted kitchen, poured a cup of coffee and turned on the computer.Better to take my anger out in pounding the keys than to smolder or try to pretend that it doesn’t matter. When he wakens I’ll be calm again.

“Why am I so mad?” I know that dementia is a physical and mental disability and that OJ is reacting at the level of his mental state, but his actions appear deliberate and spiteful as if he is saying ”you have not been caring for me these last few days, so I’m going to force you to clean up after me.”
Over my head hangs the knowledge that things will never be better for him and most likely become increasingly worse as he no longer relates to me as a wife, but as a bossy caregiver. There’s no appreciation of meals prepared or care given, just increasing criticism of life in general and frustration about his limitations.

OJ can be gentle and charmingly defenseless round others. When he can be persuaded to shower and get dressed, he can appear perfectly normal. Greeting old friends in public he appears unchanged from 20 years ago except for the wheelchair. When asked about his health he complains about his knee hurting. When they leave he asks, “Who was that? Do I know them?”

The day is coming when he probably will no longer be able to go out in public, as his sense of propriety fades. I dread that both for his sake and mine. Short trips out to eat or look around make him temporarily more alert and optimistic. Longer trips exhaust him and require days of rest to recover.

People often remarked on my patience as a teacher, yet anxiety and weariness use up patience quickly. I do not like the bossy, pushy woman I am becoming. The image is incompatible with my self image. I hate the thought of acting a martyr and I’m certainly not a saint. I resent the role thrust upon me as caregiver, nurse, housekeeper, groundskeeper, treasurer and scapegoat for all the things that cause OJ frustration.

Obviously the time OJ and I have together is limited, but already much of our relationship is lost. We can’t talk as two adults, or flirt, or share our feelings. To OJ I am the all powerful mother figure who has taken away his truck, his guns, and his freedom. The more he is dependent on me to protect and care for him, the stronger his frustration and resentment toward me.

He wants to go “home”. Back to the time he was strong and confident and in charge. He wants to get in his truck and drive and spend his own money and plow with his tractor. He doesn't realize he doesn't know the value of money in his hand, can't tell time on a clock, but can read the numbers, and can’t find his way to the bathroom 10 feet away.

My heart aches for him and I try to soften the realities as much as possible. He looks at me wistfully and wonders what is happening, knowing that things once were different, though he is not sure how.

Sleepwalking

September 6, 1992
At 2 am I waked to find O. J. had not come back to bed after a trip to the bathroom.I turned on lights as I walked through the house. He was not there. I started calling without answer. Then I unlocked the front door and saw him sitting in the car. When I opened the car door I saw that he had been crying.
"What happened? Why are you in the car?"
"I don't know. I don't know where I am. I came out the door and it locked and I couldn't get in the house." he said.
"Are you alright" Are you sick?"
"Where am I? I want to go home." He was growing angry.
"Let's go back inside." I helped him up the steps and into the house.
He looked around puzzled."Where am I?'
"We're home You must have been sleepwalking?
He looked at me as if I were a stranger. O. J was the most confused than he’d been in several days.
I asked” “Do you know who I am?” “Yes!” Angrily. “What’s my name?”
“I don’t know right now but I know who you are.”
“I ‘m Dorothy and we’ve been married 34 years. Do you remember?"
“Yes...” in a bewildered wavering tone of voice as if he did not quite understand the question.
I led him back to the bed and he just sat there. “Lie down and I will straighten your sheets for you.”
“O. K.”
Even though he seemed unsure he was careful to place his head so that the blood flow not be impaired . Or maybe the scar from the carotidectomy caused him to position his head carefully to avoid discomfort.
“O. J. , do you feel all right?” ‘Yes” spoken softly as a sleepy child. “Do you need a cold glass of water?”
“No.” His voice was a whisper. In minutes he his sleeping soundly. Twenty four hours ago he was alert and estimating how much turnip seed it would take to plant a half acre patch.
I was up about seven am for coffee and television news.
I walked outside looking at fading flowers and the unevenly cut grass. My fault. I’m always cutting in circles to keep from backing up. It used to drive O. J. crazy. His military trained, go by the book mind never got accustomed to my short cuts. But I’d inherited the grasscutting job several years ago.There are a few scraggly peppers still bearing bright red and green fruit in the garden. I pour a cup of coffee and mix one creamer and one sugar before I take it to his bedside about 7:30 . I leave it there without disturbing him.. After forty years of getting up early to go to work at the tire factory, he enjoys staying in bed late. The coffee in bed bit is passed down from my parents. It is a good time to visit before things speed up. At 9:00 when I check on him again the coffee is cold. I try to waken him more energetically. His days and nights seem to be reversed. His night time wandering has begun to get out of hand. It’s not the usual sleepwalking. Each episode leaves him tired and more confused. I need to ask the doctor about it.

Lost

David and his family were living at Verbena, Alabama, south of Clanton, on Lake Miitchell. O. J. wanted to go down to visit and carry vegetables. I had plans for the day,so we separated about 8 am; he went to David's and I to my appointments . I returned home about 2:30 and began supper expecting him about 4:00. At 5:00 I wondered where O. J. was, but knew he enjoyed hanging around when the mussell divers came to shore to see their haul.
At 5:30 I called David and he said O. J. had been there but left about lunchtime. I called the family members concerned that there had been an accident. Calls went out to highway patrol, Tuscaloosa County Sheriff's Dept., Bibb County, and towns along highway 82. There was no news.
When Missy's husband got in from work, he offered to travel the reverse route to see if the truck was off the highway disabled or abandoned in the rural counties along the way.
Telephones were being worked by family members while I kept my line open in case he called. The occasional quick reports from those calling were all negative. No one had seen him at service stations along the route. By 9:00 pm we were convinced that he had been hijacked or robbed and his truck taken.
At 11:00 as I stared at my last cup of coffee, I heard his truck in the driveway. When I opened the door, O. J. was sitting in his truck, crying like a baby. I went to him and helped him shaking and trembling into the house. After he sat down I called family to assure them he was safe.
When more than 8 law enforcement agencies in 5 counties, no one had noticed the little white Toyota pickup on the highway. We called off the search, thanking people for their concern.
When he had calmed, he explained to the circle of family faces, that he had missed the turn onto highway 82 at Maplesville, gone to Selma searching for a familiar scene, and saw a sign pointing to Montgomery. He thought if he could get to Montgomery, he could find his way home. We still could not account for the missing time. From that time on he never went out of the community without another person in the truck and I began to do most of the driving.
He became increasingly irritable, complaining about things he had never mentioned before. He did not want to go places alone and wanted me within sight or hearing. Each morning he wanted to ride, to see things, but did not want to be away from me in a store or large gathering. Our lives were shrinking and he began the ignore friends when they came over in favor of watching television. In weeks our lives would be changed forever!

SUNDAY, JULY 19, 1992

After an almost sleepless night in a chair by the hospital bed I was exhausted. It had been 24 hours since we rushed O.J. to the hospital after he'd shown signs of a major stroke. The prognosis was not good. The patient in the next bed was restless and loud and staff turned on the lights about 4 times an hour to care for him.

Around noon while O. J. slept I made arrangements to go home to get some rest while other family members were there. The doctor indicated that we were mostly observing, in essence waiting for the other shoe to drop.

By the time I was relieved I was near exhaustion. I was shaking and crying as I drove south on McFarland and on to I-20, afraid O. J. might mimic his sisters with domino effect of many stokes leading to death. The odds of recovery were decreasing. .
My prayers sounded like blubbering. "O LORD, please don't let O. J. die. Please we need him; I need him. Please make him better." Over and over through the Sunday noon traffic. Then very clearly I heard within me, "Dorothy, do you know what you are asking? Are you willing to go with him through whatever happens?"
"LORD, just let him live. I'll take care of him. I'll love him. Please leave him here."
I left the intersate with so many tears I could hardly see the highway. I was meeting cars that had just left churches near by. My breathing was ragged from the fierceness of my crying. On the way home I blamed myself for not caring for him better or for not insisting that he exercise. Then I blamed myself for nagging him to exercise.
I remembered a recent nightmare of his being “gone” and wondered if I had been subconsciously cataloging all the small symptoms and dreaming the worse. I even wondered if my dreaming it had made it happen.

Cars from my own church were meeting me as I reached Romulus. As I went into the silent house still messy from our hurried departure, I felt a frenzy to set things right, but found myself scattering, dropping, and spilling everything I touched.
Finally I gave up, took a bath and Missy brought me something to make me sleep. I took it, crawled into bed , and slept almost 2 hours. After putting a few clothes in an overnight bag, I drove back to the hospital. David reported that Dr. O. had been in and seemed unconcerned. O. J. talked some, but seemed drowsy and unable to focus. Two of his sisters had died with domino effect strokes and doctors weren't giving us much hope.

Late afternoon there was dramatic change. O. J. was awake, recognizing the many visitors who came to check on him and congregated outside the hospital room.

By 8 PM O. J. was quite alert, joking with Martha, Taffy, and her friend, Will. A sudden shift of mood and O. J. announced that he was going home. Attempts to calm him increased his agitation. He seemed delirious. He pointed to a mirror and said he was going through that “door” .He started climbing over the foot of the bed and over the portable table laughing gleefully at our attempts to stop him.

The heart monitor alerted nurses and soon 6 of us were trying to keep him in the bed. He was very strong and wrestling all of us. Finally a restraint band was placed around his waist . Quickly he escaped it. Then wrist restraints were put on and the doctors called. His exhilaration was turning to anger. He struggled and became very fearful. A nurse administered a shot to calm him and told us he would be carried down for another CAT scan at around 10 PM.

Family was baffled. Martha said the process was called "sundowning", but the rest of us were struggling. Was he better? Was this one last splash of lucidity before darkness? Tests, questions, and more tests. The suspense was painful watching the rapid changes of mood and personality. Periods of mania, then fear, then a great weariness seemed to enfold him. Family brought me clothing and food so I could stay with him constantly. I slept in the chair again that night.



July 22

O. J. was moved to a private room on the 2nd floor. He seemed more relaxed and alert. Bro. Channell and Mary came by to visit and found him sitting comfortably in a visitor’s chair, dressed and very coherent. Anyone meeting him for the first time would not recognize any physical or mental problem. The nightmare of the last week had vanished.

[JANUARY 31, 1997, WE HAD NO IDEA THAT THIS WAS THE BEGINNING OF A LONG, HARD TIME-A WINDING DOWN OF O. J.’ S LIFE. iT IS WELL THAT WE COULD NOT ANTICIPATE THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE NEXT FOUR AND A HALF YEARS.]


What's for dinner tonight? Find quick and easy dinner ideas for any occasion.

Stroke Again 1992

Saturday, July 18, 1992

O. J. woke up about 5:15 and went to the bathroom. He came back to the bed to get me up. He complained of a bad toothache on the left side of his mouth and wanted me to get some pain killer and a cup of coffee. He lay back down and I went to the kitchen for coffee and aspirin.

I put water and coffee in the coffee maker and turned it on. Then I transferred the wet clothes washed at bedtime to the dryer and turned on the dryer. The coffee grounds and water began overflowing and running all over the counter. At the same time smoke began billowing from behind the dryer. After I stopped the dryer and fanned the smoke out I cleaned up the coffee the coffee mess and made a new pot of coffee. I was too frustrated by the mess to be spooked by all that was going on.

About 25 minutes after I left to make coffee I returned to O. J. with the hot coffee and placed it on a table by his bed about 14 inches from his face.

“Where’s my coffee? What took you so long? His speech was slurred as it often was when he first waked. I thought he was teasing .

“If it was a snake..." I teased.

“Damn it, where is the coffee?" he said growing angry.

He can’t see it.

“Here, O. J., let me help you sit up.” I helped him to an upright position with both feet on the floor and handed him the cup.

He made a grasping movement about 12 inches from the cup. I placed the cup in his right hand and guided his left to a steadying position.While he was drinking it I called Missy, our daughter, who lived next door. She dressed and hurried over.

By the time Missy arrived I had helped O. J. get his pants on and had tested his sight by holding up fingers in front of his eyes one at a time. We finished dressing him to go to the hospital and called Martha, the daughter with an RN, to meet us there.

With our help he walked to the pickup still complaining of a toothache and talked drowsily as we went to the hospital. He wanted to walk in but Martha and an orderly persuaded him to ride in the wheelchair while I parked the car.

O. j. was immediately checked by the triage nurse then sent into an examination room. A resident took more information from me and Martha with O. J. giving weak responses when asked direct questions. We related facts about a major stroke in June, 1977, and the increasing frequency of TIAS within the past 28 months. We listed occurrences and the time lapses before the recovery with small residual effects.

After a CAT scan it was documented that there had been a “significant stroke” possibly the beginning of a larger episode. O. J. was sent to the 7th floor to the stroke unit for care and observation.

Going Down A Caregivers Recollection by Dorothy Graham Gast

In the vernacular of the rural South social interaction not only asks about the health of the second person, but also the mother, father, or other family leader. If that person’s health is failing, the response is that the person is “going down”. Of course the ultimate is death, but the question and its answer shows the preoccupation with the journey as well as the condition.
O. J. Gast turned 70 in 1989. He was vigorously farming, traveling, involved in many community and church events. And enjoying his retirement. People often thought him much younger than his actual age, because of his vigor and his youthful outlook on life. Then little things began n to happen. He was not forgetful as I have been all my life constantly losing things and forgetting occasions, but forgetful about generalized information. Telling time and counting money became more difficult. Because cataracts had developed, he had surgery to remedy that, then came to realize that something more was going on. Having 20/20 corrected vision did not improve his diminishing perceptions.
The cataloging of the steps in the failing process reminded me of pictures in old geography books showing the distribution of cotton farming. Dots showed number of instances. A few scattered dots in the fringe areas, going closer and thicker in coverage until the focus area would be completely covered. Small occasional instances perhaps twice a month accelerated in amount and severity until suddenly the facts could no longer be ignored. O.J. Gast was “going down”.
Letters and journals written during O. J.’s decline exposed a pattern I had never seen during the beginning months. These have been put together in a loose chronological order to show what mental incapacity does within a home and a family group. Alzheimer’s disease where the brain becomes less able to function normally because of chemical and/or physical changes and multi-infarct dementia where many continuing strokes, large and small gradually cut off oxygen to the brain and the affected part fails have basically the same symptoms. Only an autopsy IS conclusive.
This is the story of one man and his path through the maze while he was “going down.’ He agreed that we should be open and transparent as the disease progressed, never pretending that everything was alright. He laughed at the time nurses confused us and thought I was the patient. The staff from Home Health and later Hospice were wonderful and helped as much with our emotional health as his physical health.
As his wife, my writing is biased with the tender eyes of a family member, and I have no medical training to counterbalance it. Yet I spent more than 6 years in concentrated study with individualized instruction from many medical specialists. With apprehension, I open the records of our family life with all its weaknesses and difficulties to the world, hoping that to some there may be found in this increasing darkness rays of light. Most of the names are changed to protect privacy. The information is our personal experiences presented in my point of view. Sometimes brave, or wise, or funny, but mostly ordinary, or frightened, or discouraged, they are a record of a family’s efforts to face and come to grips with approaching death of a loved one.
Going Down is my tribute to the man who refused to let disability destroy his love of life and family, his sense of humor, or his dignity. I hope readers can see that the situation is filled with moments of joy and fun as well as the long corridor of darkness often portrayed. We have no right to say someone is dying until the last breath is drawn.

Can love help you live longer? Find out now.

Will You Still Love Me?

WILL YOU STILL LOVE ME?

Will you still love me if I don’t know your name?
When my eyes have failed and nothing’s the same?
When I don’t know the date or even my age,
Or what is this book and where is the page?
Will you take time to remember and cherish our past
And make our shared moments sweet long as they last?
Will you hold me and touch me and wrap me in care
And whisper reminders of the history we share?

Will you hold on to me when my Self fades away
And you are a face from a dim yesterday?
When I want to go home and home’s where I stand
Will you gently remind me and hold to my hand?
When I call you Mama and forget you’re my wife
Will you kiss me and tease me and rejoice in my life?

Will you hold on to my world when I cannot see?
Will you keep a sweet thought for our used-to-be?
Will you keep family together and memories bright,
Reminding our children to seek for the right?
And when I no longer can hold up my share,
Will you still take time to show me you care?
Will you hold on to my world for me?

By Dorothy Gast January 3,1996

Being in Love

BEING IN LOVE

Being in love is an awesome way to exist.

Colors are brighter, melodies clearer,

and all our senses become more finely tuned.

We become more alive, more vital, and wiser.

There is a vivid texture to common everyday life

that intensifies our every awareness.

Life is Beautiful!

We smile at teenagers in the hazy emotional state of warmth,

well-being, and happiness

that society defines as being in love.

And life tells us being in love is intoxicating as long as it lasts.

But, so often it doesn’t.

Extremes beget extremes and the happiness and exhilaration

often fall prey to doubt, anger, or disappointment

when the object of our affection

fails to meet all of our expectations.

We may pile all of our dreams on relationships

not meant to carry so heavy a load.

But Jesus came to earth to show us a way

to capture all the joy and satisfaction

in a way that transforms our world

and spreads like a good contagion.

The secret is not in enjoying our own love for one person,

but learning to live in an attitude of love.

We CAN live in His love.

At the Last Supper,

that goodbye meal with 12 of His best friends

He said in John 15:9-12, “Just as the Father has loved Me,

I have also loved you; abide in my love.

If you keep my commandments, you will abide in My love;

just as I have kept my Father’s commandments

and abide in His love.

These things I have spoken to you,

that My joy may be in you,

and that your joy may be made full.

This is My commandment that you love one another,

just as I have loved you.”

When we live in obedience to Him

we are granted the gift of love

and we are commanded to use it.

By keeping our thoughts on God’s way,

by trusting in His power and His grace

we can be “in love” all our lives.

When we are in a love relationship with Him,

we receive the ability to really love others.

The best part about is the renewal of hope and joy

that floods our lives and overflows into all we may contact.

Just as light is always stronger than darkness,

joy is always stronger that fear, hate,

disappointment, or common depression.

Obey Him, love others, and abide in His love.

“The joy of the Lord is my strength.”

by Dorothy Gast

Going Down ----the Journey

I have been writing about about dementia and its effects on family. Thought you might be interested and might want to add your input. DG

In June 1977 I returned from the grocery store to find Missy and David in a state of near hysteria. B. F. Goodrich Tire factory had called to say O. J. had had a stroke and collapsed at his work station unable to move or talk. He was conscious, but helpless.
The 25 minute drive to the hospital took 15 minutes that Monday. O. J. was lying still, but his eyes were filled with panic. The most fearless person I knew was looking all around unable to move anything except his eyes. The doctor explained that he had indeed had a stroke and was paralyzed and that there was a possibility of other strokes to follow. We were told that the prognosis was not good and that the next hours would be “wait and see”. If there was no improvement in 24 hours the damage probably be permanent.

Family members came and went as hours drug by and our talking to him seemed to relieve the panic somewhat. The next morning there was movement under the sheet; his thumb had moved. Gradually in the next hour he moved his hand, a foot, a leg, and turned his head slightly. The small effort exhausted him and he dozed off while we waited for Dr. Baker’s report. Tests indicated an embolism at the back of his neck, but continuing improvement in movement in varying parts of his body encouraged us that he was going to live

. By the end of the week we knew he had lost the ability to talk although he obviously could understand what we were saying. In two weeks we took him home and began the slow process of relearning to walk and talk. The therapist warned us not to do things for him that he could do for himself. He’d point to something and we’d ask, “Do you want a glass of water?” He’d nod, and reach and try to say, “water”, but it was not very clear. He learned to talk again fairly quickly, because he already possessed the the concepts.
He was not very patient. If we did not understand he would grow very angry and soon had a range of profanity that we had not heard before. This was part of his vocabulary for the rest of his life. His physical strength returned, but there was difficulty with balance and a limp that diminished, but never disappeared. He worked very hard at his physical therapy as well as his speech and by September was able to stay home while the rest of us returned to school.

He could drive and prepare a light lunch for himself. He was doggedly independent, and became angry if someone supplied a word he could not remember. By the first of December the doctor oked his return to work. The family noticed a change in his personality. Although he was easily frustrated in speech, he was more gentle and empathetic with others. There was a compassion in his eyes that I had not seen before his disability. He watched the family and seemed to be more aware of little details than he had shown when he had worn his master sargeant personna from 12 years in the military.
. Our son was seventeen and grieving over the changes in the dad he had followed from the time he began to walk. The youngest at 14 tried to do more things for her dad than O. J. wished. Therapists continued to remind us not to do so much that he would begin to rely on outside help. A year after the stroke no one who had not known O. J. before would be aware of the disabilities he had overcome. His language was more salty, but not incompatible with his personality. He might occasionally cry at appropriate times, something I had never seen before. The slight limp made him appear bowlegged, but that was minor. He withdrew from disciplining our teens, partly because his speech was not completely under control and partly that he had softened his stance in handling problems. I became the “bad cop”. The family became accustomed to the “softer” O. J. He still loved to get on his tractor as soon as he was home from work and worked on repair jobs on cars, water pumps, or any other motor. He could hear a car go down the highway 300 yards from the house and tell which spark plug was bad. We raised corn and peas and had a big garden enough to share with our married kids, Mama Annice and other family members. The small amount we sold was because there was not enough space to freeze it ourselves. Life had returned to normal except for more diligent health care. He had given up cigarettes five years before, and had adjusted to a lighter diet with less fried food and meat products. He looked vigorous and strong and had few residual effects. He retired early at 62 to farm and lead a slower lifestyle while my professional life was becoming more hectic. He worked the farm, hung out at the local country store and did minor repair jobs for friend in the community. This was probably one of the happiest periods of his life.