THE LONG GOODBYE

Over the years, the Seabaugh residence has descended into a state of necessary clutter.

There are clean sheets and towels covering two living room chairs. A CD player and several scattered CDs and hymn books sit atop a table. A plastic medical supply cabinet, stuffed full of lotions, wipes and the like, sits by the television.

And right in the middle of it, lying on a high-tech hospital bed, is the reason for the mess. Her name is Lydia Seabaugh. She is 80 years old, and she has Alzheimer's disease.

Her daughter, Lois Seabaugh, scurries between the chairs and everything else. She feeds her mother juice from a syringe, or changes the sheets, or sings hymns, or completes the hundreds of other little tasks that go along with caring for someone with Alzheimer's.

At age 52, Lois has been at the job for seven years.

She tried to balance it with her two-decade career at Procter & Gamble in Cape Girardeau County, but it didn't work. Twelve-hour shifts working on machinery followed by four-hour shifts of caring for her parents was too much.

Lois left the job in January 1994. Her father had a massive stroke and died in March 1995.

Now it's just her, her mother and a poodle named Sidney living in a little white house off Highway W. Lois's older brother lives down the road and stops in for occasional visits.

Lydia started showing signs of her disease in 1989. She had trouble doing pleasurable activities that required skill, like playing the piano, sewing and crocheting. Then she forgot how to use the stove and washing machine.

She started getting lost, wandering around the mailbox. Typically a calm woman, she started making scenes in public.

"One week, she absolutely threw a hissy fit in Schnucks," Lois said. "She wanted to buy a box of pancake mix, and we had four boxes at home. But pancake mix was familiar to her. It made her feel better."

Life these days makes Lois longingly remember simple trips to the grocery store. The combination of a broken hip and nasty bedsore means Lydia is bedfast. She also is incontinent, and that means long, hard days of work for her daughter.

Those days begin at about 6 a.m., when Lois rises to take a shower and eat breakfast. Sally Cotton, a homemaker with the Visiting Nurse Association, is due at 8 a.m. or 10:30 a.m., depending on the day. If it's a 10:30 a.m. day, Lois gets her mother cleaned up and feeds her breakfast.

Cotton is there for six hours a day, five days a week and is responsible for bathing and providing other care for her charge. During that time, Lois goes shopping, has lunch with friends or works in the yard.

At some point in the day, a nurse from Southeast Missouri Hospital Home Health comes to check Lydia's bedsore, heart rate and other vital signs. On Tuesday, it was Dianne Martin, R.N., but Lydia didn't care. She doesn't know any of them, and she doesn't like any of them.

"I don't want that old cold stethoscope in there," Lydia said, her eyes opening widely. "I'm not gonna go again, again, again. I wanna go home. I wanna go home. Home, home, home, home. ..."

She slowly trailed off into a high-pitched moan.

Lois stepped in. She started up one of the CDs -- her mother likes gospel, Cajun and country-western. On other days, she grabs a hymn book and sings one of her mother's favorites.

And slowly, Lydia stopped whimpering and returned to her usual glassy-eyed stare out the window.

"Lydia is getting excellent care," Martin said. "This is a 24-7 job for Lois, but is rare that she ever gets down. She is really an inspiration to a lot of us."

Lois isn't ready to take a medal of honor. She said she is doing what it takes to keep her mother happy, and she was lucky to have enough money to take early retirement.

It gets depressing sometimes, being there every day to watch a parent die.

"I feel very cheated," Lois said, tears in her eyes. "I don't have a mother anymore. Things I would talk to my mother about, I can't now.

"Alzheimer's just took away one thing at a time. That's what is so devastating. How I finally came to resolution was going back and thinking about the good times we had. I look at picture albums and talk with her about things we used to do. Everyone calls it `the long goodbye.' They're right."

Other people can do things to make Alzheimer's patients and their caregivers feel better, she said. Just come by and visit. Talk to the patient about the old days, and don't fret because he or she doesn't remember a name or face.

The government could help more, too, she said. Although Lydia qualifies for Medicaid assistance that pays for home health agencies, many patients don't. Their Social Security and pensions aren't enough to pay for home healthcare but are too much to get Medicaid.

Doctors won't tell Lois how long her mother has to live, but she knows the end is coming. When it does, she wants to be an Alzheimer's advocate.

"I want to help other people," she said. "This job is more challenging than anything I've ever done, and I want society to understand how overwhelming it is to take care of someone."

Memory Walk 1996

Because October is Alzheimer's Disease Awareness Month, Union Electric Southeast District is sponsoring a Memory Walk to raise money for Alzheimer's care and research.

People can walk, ride bicycles or travel in the car.

Here's how to help.

WHEN: 3:30 p.m. on Wednesday.

WHERE: West Park Mall's Center Court to Deerfield Southwest on County Road 313, a total of five miles. Refreshments will be available at the end.

WHAT TO DO: Preregister with Union Electric employees Brenda Harper at 651-5723 or Jackie Griffith at 651-5656, or register at the mall. Try to get sponsors to donate money for the walk. Checks should be made to the Alzheimer's Association.