Tuesday, April 10, 2012

My Authentic Mother (Part 1)

"I can't say things are okay because they aren't.  I'm miserable, I'm frightened, I can't stand it anymore", my mother said.  "I understand.  I'm so sorry", I replied.  I've been hesitant to write this blog entry not only because I feel that I am betraying my mother, but also because of my ambivalent feelings about my reaction to her pleas for help.




                                           The Scream, Edvard Munch




My mother has Alzheimer's.  When talking to her, you will observe that she generally doesn't seem to remember thoughts from minute to minute.  At other times, she says something remarkably cogent, and can engage in conversation;  it seems as though she doesn't have Alzheimer's.  The mystery of my mother's internal life, known only to her, will remain unknown to me.  From her description, it sounds sometimes as though there are so many thoughts in her head at once that she can't choose which one is appropriate or relevant.  Sometimes she says there is nothing in her head.  I imagine that she is thinking but is forgetting the ideas so quickly that it seems as if there is nothing inside.

Since my mother's diagnosis, I've read a great deal about what is known about this puzzling cruel degenerative neurological disease, and I'm not convinced anyone really understands what causes it, and more importantly, what the Alzheimer patient experiences.  I wonder about this quite a bit.  I wonder what's going on in my mother's mind.

One of the fascinating effects of dementia in my mother's case is that she seems much freer to say what she is really feeling.  I grew up with a perennial monotony of her saying, "I'm fine.  Everything's okay".  And, as a late adolescent and young adult, whenever I called her for some solace, she would say, "Call me when you feel better."  Since she denied her own anxiety and fears, I surmise that she certainly could not tolerate mine.  Better to deny everyone's feelings.  This is Part 1.  I'll write more when I feel better.





5 comments:

  1. Obviously, it's painful, as well as fascinating, to read this. Your mother is such an intelligent, insightful woman. That doesn't change. It's hard enough when you're healthy and "normal" to feel that you're keeping your eye on the target. The mystery her is moving targets, shifting perspectives, and the impossibility of keeping shadow and light straight. I'm so, so sorry. You'll get through this, though. You really, really will. Curtis

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  2. I SO appreciate what you've said, and your framing of Alzheimer's in terms of "keeping shadow and light straight" is very intriguing and so perceptive. It's odd, but I feel closer to her now than ever. Nell

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  3. I think the confusion she is experiencing is actually being reflected accurately in the uncertainty of your own thoughts about what she feels, precisely because she is more open to you now than before.

    There is a second layer of uncertainty, captured in your last paragraph, that is much older and relates to a version of your mother (fortified, resistant) that perhaps now belongs to the past.

    "I'm fine. Everything's okay." Do I ever know that song. It's the national anthem of my family. And with the pain that Alzheimer's or something very like it brought my grandmothers, who can wonder?

    Curtis is right, you'll get through this. I wish you well.

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    1. Chris: Also, so sorry to hear that you were subjected to the "I'm fine" mantra. I'm guessing that you went along with it and tried to "be fine" when you were growning up, even when you were far from fine.

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  4. As always, Chris, thank you for your astute insights.

    It is so difficult to let go of the old "version" of my mother, in part, because my mother maintained her stoic disposition until she began to display subtle symptoms of Alzheimer's. In fact, I remember about 2 or 3 years ago talking to Dr. B about a shift in my mother's behavior. During our frequent phone conversations, she had started to sincerely inquiry about me and my husband, and suddenly seemed very interested in what we were doing. At that point, I almost began to stop dreading our talks - they seemed more balanced. In the past, our conversations were essentially about her.

    During my years in therapy, even prior to my analysis, I began to understand (I think) the events that shaped her personality and behavior. I began to slowly internalize the probability that her feelings and reactions toward me, at times, had almost nothing to do with me.

    I am getting through it. Part of the ambivalence I mentioned is knowing that I am getting through it and the associated guilt that goes with that. Nell

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