Saying goodbye to Anna
Katie Fehl kisses her grandmother, Anna Snatchko, after tucking her into bed in February.
Anna Snatchko enjoys happier times with her daughters, Judy Souffrant of Weirton, W.Va., left, and Betty Brooks of McDonald.
When I met Anna Snatchko in early February, she was nothing more than a name to me.
But it didn’t take long for me to realize that she would become so much more than that, and that her family’s devotion and support in dealing with one of life’s cruelest diseases would become so inspiring.
I treasured my weekly visits with Anna, even if it was just to look into her beautiful crystal-blue eyes or watch her engaging smile, which, admittedly, didn’t come without some playful coaxing, broaden across her face. Anna couldn’t remember my name, but I could see a flicker of recognition whenever I walked into the room, and that was enough for me.
Today I grieve the loss of that charismatic woman, who quickly became the face of the Observer-Reporter’s “No Longer Me” series, and she will always hold a special place in my heart.
Anna, who turned 87 years old Oct. 31, died early Wednesday of congestive heart failure in her Burgettstown apartment.
Her granddaughter, Katie Fehl of McDonald, said it was a blessing, and that may be true. Anna was no longer the Anna everyone once knew. Her mind – and dignity – were stolen eight years ago when she began to develop dementia.
I wish I had known Anna before the onset of dementia. Based on the stories her family freely shared with me, Anna was a woman whose perky personality and jovial spirit paled in comparison only to her selfless dedication to her family. Fortunately, I was able to glimpse those character traits during some of Anna’s more lucid moments, and whenever she was asked how she was doing, her trademark response was, “Good.”
Although Anna needed 24-hour care, her family may be able to take some comfort in the fact she was spared some of the most horrific aspects of dementia. She was never bed-ridden. Her daughter and primary caregiver, Betty Brooks, was able to shower her on a daily basis, and even though it was becoming more difficult, Anna never lost the ability to swallow.
Anna even had some cantankerous moments – and the strength to prove it. I never witnessed Anna at her worst, when she would unknowingly become stubborn, combative or uncooperative, but I did see the battle scars.
During one of my visits in May, I took one look at Anna, and I knew immediately that she had had a rough week. A gash on her forehead and a cut on her nose were healing, as were the blackened eyes. She had fallen in the bathroom and smacked her head on the tub. Betty then lifted the blanket from Anna’s legs to reveal a sizable brush burn on her leg. That, Betty said, occurred when Anna got it stuck in her bed rail during the night.
Betty said there were times she would lose her patience with her mom, but not once did she ever think about giving up on Anna – no matter what the cost.
Betty had disagreements with family members – and even an intake supervisor with hospice – about the dozen or so supplements and vitamins Betty would give Anna each day. The hospice supervisor point-blank told Betty it wouldn’t help Anna at this stage.
But Betty was determined to do what she could to make Anna as comfortable and functional as possible.
“She’s my mother,” Betty would always say.
One image that will forever remain with me occurred a few weeks ago. I was seated next to Anna, who was in her recliner, with tears trickling down my cheeks. She stared at me with compassion in her eyes, her ability to comfort me betrayed only by the dementia.
I last visited Anna on Sunday at Manor Care in McMurray, where she was spending a respite weekend so her caregivers could attend a few family functions.
I walked into the room, and I quickly became concerned. Anna was slouched in her bed, her right arm and leg incessantly shaking as she clutched the blanket with her right hand and her oxygen tubing with her left.
There was no hint of recognition in her eyes, and, for the most part, she merely gazed at the ceiling and the walls. Her lips kept moving, almost like in silent prayer, and once she forcefully blurted, “Oh, God!” Moments later, she yelled, “Father, father!” They were about the only coherent words she said during our visit.
There was no twinkle in her eyes, no heartwarming smile and, for the first time, she did not respond, “I love you, too,” as I walked out the door.
I attributed her demeanor to sundowner’s syndrome, the name given to an ailment that causes confusion after sundown and is prevalent among those with Alzheimer’s disease and dementia. Betty had warned me early on that her mother’s sundowner’s was particularly troublesome, and I had witnessed it once before.
But Anna’s physical decline continued after she returned home Monday afternoon. Katie said she was “out of it,” and she was having difficulty breathing.
Tuesday morning, Anna awoke soaked in sweat, and when Betty tried to help her stand so she could bathe her, “she went down like a rag doll.” A hospice nurse arrived soon thereafter and gave Anna a shot of morphine to reduce her labored breathing.
Wednesday morning, Anna died in her sleep, and now she is finally free to rest in peace.