—Rolan
Lisa,
I’ve been following your blog for some time now. To be honest, some days I can’t bear to click on the link. I don’t feel strong enough to read what are, more times than not, words of loving amazement, understanding, and acceptance of all that your beautiful mom is/ has become. Some days I feel too upset, too distraught, too guilt-ridden, or too much in denial perhaps. I don’t know. But I want you to know that since I first came across your blog, at a time when I was in a much darker place than I am this year, I have learned so much from your experiences and from your expression of honest emotion. Thank you so much. I cannot write about my own mom’s descent into Alzheimer’s as you’ve done. I might do that someday I hope. But I have begun to turn a corner in my grief for the mom I once was so close to, the mom I still love but who is quite lost to me. I’m learning to treasure what we still have. It’s tough. But your posts show me that I have much left to learn from the woman who has always been my greatest ally. Please know that your posts are making a difference, I am sure of it, to any and all who come across it here in cyberspace. God bless.
—Julie
August 31, 2012
Because I Love You
My mom’s greeting to me directly after saying our good morning hellos was, “When are you coming to see me?” “Mom,” I fibbed as usual, “in a couple of weeks.” “That’s wonderful, and who are you coming with?” “My husband,” I replied. “You’re married?” “Yes, Mom, I’ve been married for thirty years.” “I can’t believe you’re married, you look so young. You look like a baby.”
As I smiled to myself and felt all the sentimental love coming my mom, I also flashed on when I was a little girl, which was many years ago. I thought of my mom in her youth and all the things we did together. That was then and this is now.
She then asked where I lived, and I answered, “New York.” Mom was able to have a moment of memory for she answered, “I used to come to visit you a lot in New York.” That’s true, Mom, I thought, and you also were born and raised here. New York was your home.
Mom lived here till she was sixty-two years old. She moved right before I became pregnant with her one and only grandchild. Logan is his name, named after her dad Louis. He will be turning twenty-five in several months. Today, with all the love she has felt for him and all the special moments they shared, he is just a fading memory in her life.
Last week when I mentioned Logan’s name, she said it sounded familiar to her. Her grandson that she so adored is now just a glimpse of a shadow in her world. I know in my heart that all her love is still there for him, it’s just that she cannot connect all the pieces. Sometimes when we speak of her grandchild, she thinks that he is still a young child. She will ask why I allow him to do some of the things I share with her. She cannot believe how old he is, what he looks like, or his stature of being six feet tall.
Deciding to lighten the conversation and to have some fun, I asked Ruthie if she’d like to live with me in New York. Mom used to express that her wishes were to remain in Florida. This time to my surprise, she said, “How would I get there?” “Well, Mom, I could come and get you.” “When would that be?” she questioned. “Maybe soon.” “Okay, let me think about it.” Of course this conversation, like so many others, quickly faded into the distance. The next time we spoke, Mom had no memory of it.
Alzheimer’s, now that I can see what it has stolen from her life and her existence, still leaves me with the question of, “How can this disease just eat away your life, as if it never existed?” It is mind boggling to me.
As our phone call came to an end, Mom softly whispered to me, “Please come visit. I have a home you can stay in. Lisa, you know that you can come whenever you want, because I love you.”
At that moment this little lady, who is no longer five feet tall, broke my heart. I wanted to pick her up and hold her in my arms and tell her that everything will be okay. Yes, I know that is not the way this illness usually ends. Yet for now, I still can hear Mom speak those tender words to me. For me, at the moment, this is all I need. I feel all her love and deeply cherish all that we still have, no matter how little it may be.
COMMENTS
This is absolutely touching.
—Anonymous
My ma has dementia. I am her caregiver as well as being her daughter. She is a couple of years into it and at the moment still remembers who we all are. She has difficulty getting words out that she wants to say or forgets what she wants to say. It is getting more and more like a game of charades. I love her so much, and
