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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

Please Accept My Apology

Ann Landers Creators Syndicate

Dear Ann Landers: I am a 55-year-old male who has been reading your column for many years. Although I have disagreed with some of your advice, I have never written to you until now. When “J.R. in Houston” complained about diners in tank tops with hairy armpits, you asked if he were dining at truck stops.

Obviously, you have never eaten at a truck stop, or you would know customers in tank tops are not allowed in the dining area.

Also, Ann, before you make disparaging remarks about people in a specific line of work, you ought to give some thought to what those people contribute to your life. If you ate it, drank it, wore it, looked at it, slept in it, lived in it, drove it, flew in it or sailed in it, be aware that several truck drivers made it possible.

I doubt very much that you will print this letter, but if you do, it’s OK to use my name. Bob Lawley in Fairfield, Calif.

Dear Bob Lawley: You are right on all counts. I have never eaten at a truck stop and had no business assuming that they were frequented by males with hairy armpits wearing tank tops.

My apologies to all the truckers and their families whom I offended.

Dear Ann Landers: I was very pleased with your response to “Every City, Worldwide,” who wrote you about caring for her Alzheimer’s-stricken mother. I read it in the Oregonian.

Like you, I believe love, affection and compassion are the only reliable ways to penetrate the wall around the victims of this terrible disease. My belief is founded in my experience with my own father, who died of Alzheimer’s four years ago. I knew nothing about the illness but became an authority when I had to deal with it on a personal basis.

After two traditional nursing homes had evicted my father because of his increasingly temperamental behavior, he ended up in the Oregon State Hospital. I visited him regularly, and toward the end, he neither recognized me nor acknowledged my presence. It is not possible to describe the pain of not being recognized by someone you have been close to and loved for years.

One day, after sitting with him for an hour, talking about our many happy times together on the off chance he might hear and understand, I kissed him on the forehead as I was leaving and told him I loved him. For a quick moment, the fog lifted. He looked up at me with clear eyes and said, “I love you too, Pal,” which was his pet name for me when I was a little boy. Then, as quickly as it had come, the recognition passed and he returned to his Alzheimer’s world of solitary confusion and frustration. Mine were the last words he ever understood and his were the last he ever spoke. He died several weeks later.

No one knows what Alzheimer’s victims feel or how much they know. But I can attest to one thing - that wall can be broken down, if only for a moment, and it is worth a lifetime of trying. - L.B., Portland

Dear L.B.: What a beautifully sensitive letter. It is sure to bring comfort to those who have family members with Alzheimer’s. It also will let them know they aren’t alone. Bless you for writing.

xxxx