Mother’s Day this year was different from all the
previous ones I shared with you, Mom. We
always had the big family celebration with a house full of your children,
grand-children and in later years, great-grand children. This year, I visited you alone at the Special
Care Home. While I was there, you asked me who my mother is. For the first time
since you and I set out on this journey into the unknown world of Alzheimer’s
Disease, that question suddenly made everything real. There is no going back,
no second chance to repair our relationship, no opportunity to ask questions I
should have asked years ago. It has taken that away from you and I, just as it
is slowly but surely taking you, our mother, away from me and my siblings. This
disease is always the victor and we will never win the battle we are engaged
in.
I am constantly amazed at the puzzle that has become
your memory, and at the holes and gaps that are now a part of your life, at
what you remember and what you don’t remember. Yet, in some ways, as you
retreat deeper into your dementia, I am learning new things about you and who
you were.
When I was growing up, I thought of Dad as the “head
of the household”, the strong one. I never really saw you as his “equal
partner”. I didn’t think he valued your opinion or even considered it, yet you
were always very concerned about his. After we moved you into the care home, I
found a stack of letters Dad had written to you when you and he were courting.
I read with amazement how much he cherished you, respected your thoughts, and
how he wrote to tell you how important you were to him. As I read the letters,
I found that he actually saw you as an equal partner. I had never seen that and
it made me start to see you in a new light.
As a child, I loved to look at the stack of pictures
of you that Grandma had in her attic. In many of the pictures, you are
arm-in-arm with different men. I never asked you who they were or what they
meant to you. Were you in love with any other of them, with all of them? Where
were the pictures taken? Why were there so many pictures? Now I can’t ask you.
I tried, but that day you didn’t know who the people in the pictures were,
including yourself. Should I ask again on a “better” day - will there ever be “better” days? Or should
I just let it go?
I always thought that someday you and I would
understand why we had such a strained relationship. I always knew you loved me
unconditionaly, but I also knew – even as a child – that you didn’t like me
very much. We never talked about it, it was just there – that invisible wall
between us. You were different with the other kids, so I never understood. Realize now that we will never have the
discussion about it or try to understand what it was between us that made our
relationship so difficult. In a way, that will be our legacy, you and I, Mom:
our uneasy relationship.
One last thing, Mom. I always thought you were weak
because you always “gave in” . You allowed yourself to be hurt rather than have
harsh words with anyone. When we hurt your feelings, you suffered in silence.
You never stood up for yourself and you were always the one doing everything
for everyone. I saw that as great weakness. It has taken me a lifetime to
realize that was not your weakness but your strength. To internalize pain and
keep peace, to be the angel of mercy with unending patience and even to be
willing to appear weak are the characteristics of an incredibly strong person. I
know that now.
So, your eyes dull, your mind not comprehending much, you asked me who my mother is. You are, Mom - in ways I never thought possible.
Making the
best of Mother’s Day, no matter what . . . it’s a good thing.
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