Sometimes feelings are so strong that I need to write them down and put them somewhere out there in the universe. And yet - these big feelings are things I never really talk about publicly.
I am missing my mom so very much. I am grieving our very good talks and the way we would each make each other laugh during a phone call to catch up. And even though she's only 15 miles away, I know I'll never see or hear my "real" mom again.
My mom and I had a very complicated relationship when I was growing up. In my adult years, all those sharp edges and harsh words softened into a sort of friendship. I think we both finally recognized the one thing that took years to accept—we are actually far more alike than either of us would like to admit. And so it was that common bond—one woman seeing pieces of herself in a different generation of the same flesh and blood. Her flesh and blood.
I can still hear her laugh. A throaty chuckle that blurted out of a smile framed with perfectly straight teeth. No need for braces. Her smile was so striking that a bus driver in St. Paul once gave her a free ride in the early 70s. Me? I had four years of braces, a night brace, and a retainer all to fix a snaggle tooth and a horrendous overbite that buried my chin into my neck.
We didn't see ourselves in each other, but later, we could feel it—the same feelings, the same insecurities, the same flaws. I am my mother's daughter.
At 48, I thought I'd have my life figured out. But I sometimes feel like I need my mom more than ever. And that's when I listen to the thoughts and feelings in my head, trying to wave off the haze that floats between the present day and recollections of my mother's voice and the advice she'd dispense. Firm, kind, maybe a little self-righteous, but annoyingly prescient.
Mom doesn't have much advice these days.
Amazingly, she has gotten more appreciative of life and her loved ones, even as time steals Mom's memories and simple joys like reading books and watching movies. She used to be a voracious reader and was even involved in a women's club that discussed global events and civic concerns. And Mom would read volumes of pages of the New York Times and have an opinion on every shitty politician in Washington. When we moved to the East Coast, Mom picked up the art of swearing and later would drop an appropriate F bomb to emphasize the passion felt about an issue. She was a trip. A very kind woman (actually, it's 'Minnesota Nice') who people in Connecticut mistook for an idiot because she was so good-natured. But let the woman talk for a minute, and you'll discover why she was offered a scholarship to attend the University of Michigan.
Alzheimer's has stripped away the essence of my mother.
Well, if we want to be honest, it is the remains of her brain tumor - the parts wrapped around her carotid artery and another that leads to both of her eyes - the growing butterfly that is spread across her frontal lobe. The tumor took away the vision in Mom's left eye, and four years ago, she was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. My grandfather had Alzheimer's in his 80s, and my mom's diagnosis came at 71.
Most of the time, I'm able to ebb and flow with how Alzheimer's has changed our family forever. My mom used to be the caretaker, the homemaker who would open her home to host the entire family for holidays that spared no tradition and included every flounce and frill. Beautifully decorated mantels with seasonally appropriate decorations, a finely dressed dining table with rich linens, heirloom place settings, and exquisitely prepared meals.
Mom made every family occasion a special memory, and I'm so very glad she did. Those memories are the ones that keep me going, almost as a roadmap for how I want to treat the people I care about.
Today, we all pitch in - someone handling the holiday cooking (on occasion, we pick up a delicious spread from my favorite caterer) - with others hunting down linens that have been squirreled away or finding serving dishes and hastily displaying decor appropriate for the gathering.
Mom usually comes downstairs after a long day of napping and the ordeal of bathing that is expected for a person with growing mobility challenges. Partial blindness makes Mom unsteady on her feet, and she walks more like a toddler than a lady. I'm starting to smile as I write this because Mom would always tell me to "Walk like a lady" when I was little and reckless. These days, we're the ones who gently remind Mom of her manners.
I am grieving the memories of the Mom I once had.
It makes me cry at the most random of times. When I'm out walking my dog or driving in my car. Sometimes in the shower. Today, I've been crying for several hours, thinking about how I'll never see my mom the way she was ever again.
There are textbooks and studies and experts who have studied grief. And they've come to a consensus on a sort of cadence of things. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Everyone travels that road alone on their own, a sad and wistful "choose your own adventure" that no one asks to go on.
As a family, we all had a good bit of denial at the beginning, some of us more than others. In a crisis, my profession has instilled in me a compulsion to know what is happening and how to immediately attend to it. And so, I got through the denial pretty swiftly and threw myself into research and understanding. Most of the time, my grief wavers between depression and acceptance. I haven't hit anger and bargaining yet, but I imagine those will be the two biggest feelings I feel when this road on the "long goodbye" concludes.
My mom is still with us, thankfully. I love seeing her. She is riddled with delight anytime her loved ones are with her, and despite all of her challenges, Mom goes to great effort to join us and make it feel like old times. She'll put on one of her cute striped tops and a pair of pants, a sparkly headband, and lots of blush. For some reason, Alzheimer's has really upped the amount of blush my mom uses, and my sisters and I kind of roll our eyes and chuckle, and it gives us some comic relief in a sometimes very dour occasion.
I can still call up my mom. I like hearing her voice, and I like hearing her say how much she loves me. Our conversations are pretty surface level; we both ask softball questions, and I make the effort to keep the verbal volleys tossing to and fro. There was a time I'd share my big problems and worries with Mom, and she'd be quick with a solution or recommendation to ease my mind. These days, I don't want to say anything to concern my mom and add to her worries.
Well, I've been writing for about an hour now, and this exercise reminded me of why I liked to blog so many years ago. Journaling gives me a chance to clear my head and think through things—good things and bad things. It helps to just get it out there, you know? Even if no one is going to read it.
Now I'm going to go call my mom.
XO
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