“You’re on belay, Mom.”
“What does that mean?” she replied.
“You’re safe, Mom. Climb when ready.”
Over the last five-plus years of her life, before she passed away from complications caused by dementia, we’d often say, “You’re safe, Mom,” in an effort to calm a growing sense of restlessness and panic.
Story by D Scott Borden, published in Volume 24 of The Zine. Photos: D Scott Borden Collection
Like me, does the word dementia make you feel uneasy? Perhaps for my own sake, we’ll use a capital D here instead, but unfortunately, I’m not sure it makes writing this story any easier.
They say D is slowly watching the death of someone you love—not only the physical but also the emotional and intellectual death of that beloved person. You’ll lose sleep, worry to the point of sickness, and you, and those around you, will cope with it in unhealthy and unproductive ways. Dying, after all, is ugly business, and no one prepares us for being in charge of our parents.
D is a general term given to a decline in cognitive abilities that affects a person’s day-to-day life. The most common symptoms are memory impairment, disruption of thought patterns, self-neglect, mood swings, difficulties with language, and decreased motivation. There are several causes of D, with Alzheimer’s disease being the most common. This disease attacks the brain, usually starting slowly and later progressing. Life expectancy is only three to nine years, with no known cure. D is the seventh-leading cause of death in the US, has 10 million cases reported every year, costs the US economy roughly $7 trillion annually, and is, like all degenerative diseases, a real fucker.
My mother, named by her oldest grandson, Grandma Bibby, was a gritty lady. She is also the reason I’m addicted to climbing. In my teen years, equipped with knowing everything, I asserted that I wanted to attend college in our hometown. Looking me up and down, she wisely told me to figure out my own expenses and even asked if college was for me. I, perhaps predictably, rebelled and sought a school as remote and far away as I could. Triumphantly, she offered to help me move out West and signed me up for a two-week-long outdoor orientation program at a university in Colorado. Moving west would prove pivotal in setting climbing as a top priority throughout my life.
Grandma Bibby was also the inspiration for Grandma Squeak in the Squeak Goes Climbing children’s book I authored. Like her, Grandma Squeak is calm, courageous, wise, and unassuming, always the heroine and never boastful. While these memories are about a strong woman with a high degree of “soft power,” the story I want to share is about one specific adventure: the one, and only, time I had the pleasure of roping up with Grandma Bibby at her youthful age of sixty.
On this hot Wyoming summer day, at a dude ranch celebrating a family reunion, I asked if anyone wanted to go climbing. Most everyone opted for riding horses, but Grandma Bibby was game on. “You want to go climbing?”
“Of course!” she responded.
She always said yes to an adventure, and she always declared it with a contagious smile. On this occasion, she knew her recent diagnosis of multiple sclerosis meant every day out exercising in nature was a gift—a gift I was certainly not going to keep from her.
We bellied up to a limestone crag hugging the outskirts of Yellowstone National Park. I picked the shortest and easiest route—a tunnel of gray, slightly vertical stone that required stemming. Leading up, Mom belaying me, I tried my best not to die in front of the person that gave me life. Setting up a toprope, I quadruple-checked my anchor. Every locking carabiner was inspected, locked, and relocked. I tied and retied all knots, paying close attention to load lines. Her harness and figure eight knot were meticulously examined. By goodness, this one-hundred-pound, fragile old lady was safer than safe.
I put her on belay. “You’re safe, Mom. Climb when ready.”
So up she climbed. The first twenty feet went well, but that’s when she took on the rope and started trying to pull her way up on it—Batgirl-style. The first few microwhippers she took from shock loading the system made her think twice about this strategy. She returned to groveling and stemming the chimney. Blood dripped from her legs and splattered next to me as I belayed her upward. “Are you sure you don’t want to come down?” I pleaded.
Against my offers to lower her, she persisted.
This was the same lady that raised three kids on her own and worked three jobs at one point to feed us. She was too gritty to be convinced of coming down. After an hour, or more, of struggling and bleeding, she reached the top. Exhausted, but still smiling, she had accomplished her goal. Back on the ground, I questioned her, “Are you happy you did it?”
“Absolutely!” she beamed.
“Do you want to do another?”
“Hell no, I did it and never have to do that again!” she proclaimed, again grinning with delight.
And, that was the first and last time I climbed with her. A few years later, D set in, and I went from being belayed by my Mom to being a caregiver. Fortunately, the lessons we’ve all learned from climbing helped with this transition.
Climbers are masters of control, understanding where to put our feet, how to place gear safely, and the delicate balance of exerting energy efficiently. We constantly wrestle risks and pin them under the weight of experience, physical power, and elegant movements. These same lessons can support us in finding control and empowerment over disease and illness—D or otherwise.
The first step is to learn about the stages, help, and resources available. This will aid in making a plan with others to care for your loved one. You’ll want to consider power of attorney in early stages and guardianship and conservatorship in later stages.
As it progresses, you’ll need to advocate for this person more and more, as, sadly, our medical and other systems seem to want to avoid our most vulnerable community members. Lean into your family for support and find strength in the opportunities to comfort them in their grief. Most importantly, give yourself, and others that love this person, grace. We’re all trying to do our best, even if it isn’t, and never will be, perfect.
Remember that this person’s life is bigger than a disease. The arch of their life reminds us that they had many meaningful relationships and left the world better than they found it. This arch was filled with adventures and wild experiences. They might have birthed you, cared for you, and even inspired you to love something crazy, like climbing rocks. Again, we are a collection of our past experiences, not just a disease, a statistic, nor a lifeless body in a hospital bed.
Finally, when those last moments come, and you hold their hand in yours. You can look them in their fading eyes and fall back on similar words to those spoken on a hot day in Wyoming: “You’re safe, Mom. Climb when ready.”
If you have someone in your life suffering from a cognitive disorder, you can find facts and a community of support at alz.org.
D. Scott Borden is a proud dad and author of the children’s book, Squeak Goes Climbing in Yosemite National Park. He lives in Spain with his family where he teaches university classes, conducts research on promoting environmental behaviors, drinks local wines, rides mountain bikes, and tries to climb as hard as he did in his thirties.