A Moment Through The Fog

“That was my little girl,”  I heard my mother  telling another resident at the special care home as I walked down the hallway toward the elevator after visiting with her.  I had left her in the common area so she could watch television with the others before it was time for them to go to bed.  Her comment made me smile for a number of reasons.  First, “little” is not a good description of me, and secondly, I have not been a little girl for a few decades.  But more importantly, I had spent our visit thinking she did not know who I was and that her Alzheimer’s had robbed her of that memory today.  Most days she still remembers her children, but that evening she seemed to be searching when she looked at my face for a memory and for recognition.  Another reason her comment surprised me so much is that she now rarely forms complete sentences.  Alzheimer’s has made it almost impossible for her to find the right words for what she is trying to say, so it had been a very long time since I had heard her complete a sentence using all the correct words.  Therefore I was surprised when I overheard her comment.  As well, she spoke those words in a strong voice which drifted down the hallway to me, reminiscent of the past when her voice carried her words across the classrooms she taught and indeed down the hallways of the school.  I had not heard that strength in her voice for a long time as the disease has weakened her body and her words are softly spoken now.

I could hear Mom continue to speak and I started to slow down to hear what she was telling the other residents.  Then, on second thought, I decided not to; I decided that I didn’t want to hear any more.  I knew that what would follow likely would not make a lot of sense, as her lucid moments are becoming fewer all the time.   It felt good to hear her identify me and to complete her sentence in one connecting thought once again, almost like she didn’t have this terrible disease for at least a moment.  I didn’t want to ruin it.  I wanted to take her perfect memory, however fleeting, and her perfect sentence home with me to cherish that evening and to pretend for just a little while that everything was the way it used to be. 

I am constantly amazed at the puzzle that has become Mom’s memory, and at the holes and gaps that are now a part of her life.  As her Alzheimer’s progresses, we learn new things about this unrelenting disease and its effect on its victims and their families.  It seems that we are always taking another step in this battle we will never win. Her disease has progressed to the point where she now needs constant care and resides behind closed and locked doors for her own safety.  But every once in a while, her old personality comes through and reminds us that she is still there, behind the fog and the confusion.  Those are the moments we hang on to, even if, or especially when,  it means being called a little girl. 

Hanging on to the special moments . . .  it's a good thing!