I Miss My Mother

My mother has had Alzheimer's for ten years. For ten years, I haven't been able to call her and have a sensible conversation. For ten years, she's suffered the confusion of not knowing who she is, where she is or whether she is safe or not, and there's very little we can do for her other than tell her lies to comfort her, which she'll forget in an instant anyway. It's a far worse disease than merely forgetting. I had no idea.

Since she's been "gone" so long, you'd think I was used to it. But I still find myself thinking, "I'll call Mama and tell her what happened. That will make her laugh (or she'll come to my defense, depending on the situation)." Or, "I'll call Mama and ask her how to cook this (or handle that)."

But I can't call Mama. She's still among the breathing and sometimes among the laughing and talking, but those phone calls are gone, along with her memory. It's been ten years. You'd think I wouldn't still have the impulse to call her, and then have to remember that's not a possibility.

I have a friend whose mother died when my friend was a pre-teen. Her growing up was hard, but she says now that she's grateful that she's not having to deal with an aging mother. Though that sounds cold, there is some truth to it. And elderly parent can be a blessing and/or a burden. Since my friend had no choice about losing her mother when she needed her most, she may as well have reconciled that with something positive.

I'm beginning to realize that when my mother is really gone, and has been gone for decades, I'll still be seconds away from picking up the phone to call her. It's not quite as good as the real thing, but at those times I can summon up something from my memory about her and visit with that. When she could still answer the phone, I believe I called her up enough to almost be able to predict what she would say. No, that's not true. Sometimes the call wasn't about the question, but about the loving presence on the other end of the phone.

People who love a person with Alzheimer's are said to have "frozen grief." Mama is gone. But she's still here. So my grief is frozen somewhere, stuck between loss and not-yet-lost. It would be a mercy if she were released from this terrible disease, sent to heaven where her wits and her own mother wait. Could I, would I, miss her more if she was really gone? Would knowing that she's free but no longer here be worse than seeing her captive and confused but within my touch?

A counselor once told me that grief is a blessing because at least you have something to grieve -- something good that was lost.

That's my mother, one foot planted in the here and one in the hereafter, straddling the abyss of Alzheimer's. Still here, but surely lost.

Comments

[groovyoldlady]

The sandwich here gets a little uncomfortable at times, but the worst is when something happens and Grampy gets confused. Happily for us (and for him) it's usually just temporary. All the rest (with 3 remaining folks, 2 in poor health) - the doctor visits, the loooooong phone calls, the needs, the misunderstandings, the fatigue, the frustration - they are all so small compared with what you are going through.

((((((Anne))))))

[Ev Nucci]

Years ago when I was just starting my career I worked for Johnson & Johnson, my nursing team worked in nursing homes and I spent a lot of time with Alzheimer patients and I love them.

When their families visited, it was heart breaking to watch what their families went through. Their families didn't see what we saw. They didn't see their joy or happiness. Their families only saw their own pain and the fact that their loved one was gone.

It was hard to watch. Who we are is our memories. If our memories are gone...what is left? My heart breaks for you.

[Liza's Eyeview]

My mom is in a very early stage of dementia. She really hasn't gotten the official diagnosis of Alzhimers but I have a feeling that's what she's heading. When she was staying with us, it hurts to see how she's changed from being this confident woman that I know to this insecure woman who is afraid to try new things and afraid to even go out of the house by herself because she forgets a lot and might forget the direction to come back home and therefore get lost.

Anne, I feel you pain. I believe yours is more intense as your moms case is further along than mine - nevertheless, I want you to know that I understand what you're expressing here.

(((((hugs))))