Mary Jo Podurgski speaks candidly about mother’s battle with Alzheimer’s
John and Del Cirelli pose with grandchildren, Lisa Podgurski, left, and Nate and Amy Podgurski at Easter 1990.
John and Del Cirelli
Mary Jo Podgurski with her mother, Del Cirelli, on her wedding day
John and Del Cirelli in 1937
Mary Jo Podgurski hands out necklaces to Treasure Caldwell and other students at the Common Ground Teen Center in Washington following a trip to New Orleans. The teen center is operated by Podgurski’s Academy for Adolescent Health.
Mary Jo Podgurski starts a meeting at the Common Ground Teen Center in Washington with students Kellie Mendicino and Daniel Pascoe. The teen center is operated by Podgurski’s Academy for Adolescent Health.
Death doesn’t frighten Mary Jo Podgurski.
Alzheimer’s disease, however, does.
Mary Jo’s mother had Alzheimer’s, as did most of her mother’s 10 siblings, including a brother who was part of an Alzheimer’s study at the University of Pittsburgh.
While research has linked family history to the disease, Mary Jo is hopeful she will dodge the genetic bullet.
“I spent my entire life with my dad’s side of the family’s body, so I’m hoping that it passed me by, but we don’t know,” she said. “It’s frightening.”
In a recent interview, the 64-year-old nurse, educator and counselor, who is probably best known in the community for her work with young people as founder and director of the Teen Outreach program, spoke candidly about her mother’s battle with Alzheimer’s, her father’s unwavering dedication as his wife’s primary caregiver and the guilt Mary Jo felt after becoming entrusted with her mother’s care.
“My papa died in June 1996, and my mother died in October 1996, and I grieved him,” she said. “It hurt. It was raw that I lost him. I missed him almost immediately. I didn’t grieve my mother in the same way, and I felt guilt over that until I realized that I had lost her 10 years before.”
Mary Jo was very close to her parents. “As I always say, I won the parenting lottery.”
Her father, John Cirelli, immigrated to the United States from Italy when he was 14. Her mother, Anne Delphine (Del) Dent, was born in Jeannette to Italian immigrants. They met at the age of 19 and 20, respectively, at a wedding.
“My father would always say he saw her at the wedding, and she was the most beautiful woman. He threw a grape at her to get her attention,” Mary Jo said with a laugh.
They were married a year later.
“There wasn’t a lot of money, but I always felt like a treasure,” said Mary Jo, who was the couple’s only child. “Their job, and they would tell me this, was to educate me. Every day was a learning experience.”
Her father was a glassworker for the former Westmoreland Glass in Grapeville. Her mother never worked outside of the home and never learned to drive.
Delphine Cirelli was very strong, though. “She was sharp, very political,” Mary Jo said. “She loved to talk politics. She read everything. She read every newspaper she could get her hands on cover to cover.” She passed along her passion for learning to her daughter, even though she herself was forced to drop out of school in the eighth grade to care for her siblings when her mother died. She was an accomplished quilter whose stitches were as perfect as any machine could produce.
When she was in her 60s, Del enrolled in a writing class at Westmoreland County Community College, and authored the family’s history, “Oh, America.”
The Alzheimer’s diagnosis came eight years before her death at age 84. But Mary Jo suspected she had “gone over the edge” two years before, at the birth of Mary Jo’s youngest son, Nate.
“She was not herself at all,” Mary Jo said. She was given a diagnosis of clinical depression and was prescribed medication and therapy for about 18 months. She improved a little, but “little pieces of her were gone.” By the time Nate was 5 or 6, she had no idea who her grandson was.
Mary Jo smiled as she described her mother in the years following the diagnosis.
“I knew she was lost in space, but she was cute. She had the cutest personality. She was 4 foot 11. She was bald and had no teeth,” she said with a laugh. “When she took off her wig and teeth, she looked like a little munchkin.
“Her personality never really changed. She was very nurturing. I’d come into the house, and she’d fix me something to eat. She stayed an Italian mama. She didn’t remember how to do most of it, but Papa would help her. It gave her great joy to have holidays, to have us over, to hold my babies, so that part is kind of bittersweet. Even though she didn’t know who we were, she really liked us.”
Mary Jo’s father cared for Del in their home, assuming all of the cooking and cleaning responsibilities. They played cards, she said, quickly adding, “I think he must’ve let her win,” and they watched television together. He took her to “every single county fair in the region and every single church festival. And she went, and she was happy.”
A history buff, Del spoke with accuracy about the past, recalling facts about World War II, the Roosevelt administration and the Great Depression. Her short-term memory, however, had evaporated.
“She didn’t seem unhappy, though.” Mary Jo said. “That’s the only thing that gives me some comfort. Not all people who are living with it are at peace. But she seemed to be.”
Until John Cirelli died from lung cancer – just four days after he and Del celebrated 64 years of marriage – Mary Jo didn’t realize how far the Alzheimer’s had progressed. He had been “buffering” so much, she said.
Her mother refused to go to her husband’s funeral, telling Mary Jo, “‘Why should I go to that man’s funeral? I don’t know that man.’ It broke my heart.”
Mary Jo was now in charge of her mother’s care. “This is the only thing in my life that I feel guilt about, but I’ll be honest about it.”
For two months, Mary Jo paid caregivers around-the-clock to stay with her mother in her Jeannette home. It did not go well, she said.
Fearing her mother would roam, Mary Jo would sleep with her mother on the weekend nights she would stay with her in her home in Jeannette. On one of those nights, she had a “really bizarre experience.” Her mother awakened and began staring at Mary Jo, who awoke when she felt someone staring at her.
“She was leaning over me, and she said, ‘You’re my baby, aren’t you?’ I said, ‘Yeah.’ She said, ‘You’re Mary Jo, aren’t you?'” And for the next 30 minutes, they talked about the family, naming each of Mary Jo’s three children and her husband, Rich, and the Outreach.
“She was as sharp as a tack. And I thought maybe I was dreaming.”
They had tea and talked some more before returning to bed. When they awakened the next morning, Del didn’t remember a thing.
“I’ve heard of this kind of stuff, and I’m very skeptical. But I lived it. I had a window where she absolutely knew who I was. But it was real. I think it was a gift. I have no idea why it happened.”
The doctors had no idea, either, but said they had heard of similar occurrences. It never happened again.
“She progressively got worse. She would take off clothing. She would try to leave. I went there as often as I could.”
Her mother stayed with Mary Jo for a while, but that didn’t work, either. She was unable to travel the stairs and became incontinent. “It was hard to acknowledge she had gotten that much worse.”
Mary Jo found a small personal care home in Washington, and “I went every single day because I felt such guilt. I didn’t think I would ever have to do that. She was cared for very nicely here in town. There were only seven women in the place. I feel guilty because I couldn’t keep her at home. I tried. I really tried. But that was hard. She didn’t get worse after he died. She just plummeted.”
Del suffered a heart attack four months after her husband’s death.
“She always had heart problems,” Mary Jo said. “She went very quickly. She just all of a sudden took ill and was gone in four hours.”
Mary Jo doesn’t worry much about what her future may bring. She admits to playing that “silly thing on the computer called Luminosity” and does crossword puzzles to keep her mind sharp.
“I know it’s there. It frightens me more than dying does. I’m not really afraid of dying. I’m very comfortable with death. I’ve worked with it for years as an oncology nurse, so death in itself is a part of life.
“Alzheimer’s takes away your personhood. It makes you lose your dignity. And that’s the scary part.”