My mom Linda was a coal miner’s daughter who grew up in eastern Oklahoma. She was the second oldest of six children, with two younger sisters and three brothers. They had a bit of land and kept chickens, pigs, cattle, and a good-sized garden. She told stories of being the first ones on the school bus early in the morning and the last ones off in the evening since the farm was about an hour’s drive on rough roads to the nearest town. She loved Elvis Presley, chocolate ice cream, and her family.

Mom and Dad started dating at 14, and by 20 they were married and working their way through college. High school sweethearts, they both pursued degrees in education. Then came Vietnam. Mom was expecting her first baby (me) when Dad was drafted into the Army. Dad’s older brother Bill was in a combat unit in Vietnam, so Dad was sent to Seoul, South Korea. Because he was a bright, educated man, he was quickly made assistant postmaster for the base in Seoul.

While my dad served in Seoul, my mom delivered me in a little hospital in Poteau, Oklahoma. I lived with my mom, grandparents, and aunt for those first few months of life. However, it wasn’t too long before my dad got approved to have his family join him in Seoul. Mom and I flew (the first time for both of us) from Oklahoma to California thru to Hawaii then on to Seoul. The trip must have terrified her, but she told us she would have gone anywhere to join Dad. We stayed in Seoul for about six months, and Mom later told us stories of how the Korean people came up to her and touched my blond hair while she was holding me.

When Dad was discharged from the Army, my parents settled in Oklahoma and found jobs teaching school. Dad taught high school science, and Mom taught second grade. She loved teaching her students to read and write, and she delighted in being an educator. Both earned master’s degrees, and Dad quickly advanced in his career to be a principal, assistant superintendent, and finally superintendent of schools in Wynnewood, Oklahoma. They had a comfortable, happy life, and my sister and I enjoyed an idyllic childhood in smalltown America.

When I was in high school, we noticed that Mom started having memory problems. It started with little things. She’d lose her keys or misplace her purse or forget to turn off the kitchen sink. After my high school football games, she wouldn’t remember where she’d parked her car, or she’d forget her stadium seat up in the stands. Sometimes we’d find the cereal box in the fridge beside the milk, or we’d find one of her shoes out in the flower beds.

She’d tell the same stories over and over, but people loved her and considered her just a little scatterbrained. Yet over time, these little slip-ups became more frequent and more severe. She got to the point that she couldn’t remember the end of the story she was telling. She couldn’t finish her thoughts. She had several fender benders in parking lots, and to everyone’s sadness, she started having problems dealing with her second graders in the classroom.

This forced her into early retirement at age 54. My age now.

When Mom retired, my sister and I were both living out of state, but we made it back home pretty regularly. For several years after she retired, Dad was able to keep working, but he was tied to home as he was always checking on her. As her disease progressed, friends from school or church would help Dad by popping in to sit with her while he went out to feed his cattle or run errands. Eventually though, he had to hire home health nurses to assist him. In spite of her continual decline, Dad kept her at home. He moved a hospital bed into the front room so he could spend as much time with her throughout the day as possible. He fed her chocolate pudding, told her stories of her grandchildren, and sang Elvis Presley songs to her. He never seriously considered moving Mom to a facility. They’d been married 42 years when she passed on April 5, 2011.

Alzheimer’s is terrible. The disease takes the very parts of us that make us who we are. It steals time, memories, speech. It takes its victims piece by piece. Alzheimer’s took away pieces of my mom year after year, eventually destroying her from the inside out. Watching her wither away had a devastating effect on my father as her primary caregiver, and he passed away the following year.

I am grateful for the opportunity to tell this story and to partner with my friends in an effort to fight this thief of precious time. On September 14, 2024, please consider walking in the fight against Alzheimer, either alone or with friends. This is a day we walk in remembrance of someone who fought or someone who is fighting now. I will be walking for my mom Linda C. Stark and her primary caregiver, my dad Jim A. Stark, Sr.