Sarah Smith liked to listen to music but couldn't tolerate the feeling of the headphones. Her daughter hated seeing her mother wheeled in front of "The Price is Right" in the nursing home common room when she knew Frank Sinatra would better soothe her.
So Barbara Smith invented a solution.
She attached a CD player to the top of a straw hat with Velcro. Then she cut holes in the sides for the headphones, which rested about an inch away from her mother's ears.
The Musical Hat, as she called it, is only one example of Barbara Smith's sometimes ingenious and always positive approach to her mother's long ordeal with Alzheimer's. Every other day for seven years, Smith visited her mother, first at an assisted-living center and later at a nursing home, as Sarah slowly lost her mind and body to the disease.
Such places can depress the hell out of people. Children are uncomfortable seeing the people who raised them slumped in a chair talking gibberish with that day's pot roast lunch spilled on their sweater.
Smith understands the unease. But she also knew tears wouldn't make her mother better, and staying away would make her worse.
"As horrible as it seems," Smith says, "if you don't visit, it's more horrible."
On Thursday night, Smith spoke to a group of caregivers at an assisted-living center in Peabody, the first of what she hopes will be many such talks on the North Shore.
The Hamilton resident is an occupational therapist, trained to focus on a person's abilities instead of disabilities. Her specialty is children, but she took the same practical approach with her 80-something mother.
Smith discovered — and sometimes invented — easy steps caregivers can take to engage people with Alzheimer's. She wrote a book, "Still Giving Kisses," about her experiences, and she plans to teach an upcoming class at Salem State College.
Slowly losing a loved one to Alzheimer's is sad and depressing and unjust. But Smith chose to concentrate on what her mother could still do during visits together.
She could still belt out her favorite songs. She could still smile as Smith recited Yiddish words. And, even near the end, she could still pucker her lips to indicate that her daughter should put her cheek next to her mother's face for a kiss.
Smith recommends creating a simple book about the person's life with photos, dates and names in large type. Her mother read "The Story of Sarah Smith" over and over. When she couldn't speak anymore, Smith read it to her.
She brought in lotions to rub on her mother's hands and scented candles to wave under her nose. They listened to music together, show tunes and Jewish songs and The Beatles.
One of the nicest things they did together was take walks outside. Some days, Smith would bring along paper and pencil to sketch her mother, sitting silent in the sun.
She decorated her mother's room with pictures of rabbis and a menorah to make her feel connected to her Jewish identity. At the Christmas party, she suggested they sing a Hanukkah song. When the nursing home served ham to her mother, a woman who kept a kosher home, she complained. Her mother thought it was chicken.
"But she would have wanted me to speak up," she says.
Smith's approach to what so often is a depressing topic is surprisingly uplifting. She says she grew closer to her mother during this time and takes solace in knowing she helped make her life better.
Sarah Smith died last April, eight years after being diagnosed with Alzheimer's.
Three days before her death, she could still squeeze her daughter's hand and move her feet as her daughter sang to her.
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To learn more from Barbara Smith, check out www.barbarasmithoccupationaltherapist.com.
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Staff writer Susan Flynn can be reached at sflynn@salem news.com or 978-338-2658.


