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.

The Inner Judge

My inner judge is relentlessly telling me what I should and shouldn't do.  For example, I bought a red floral frilly blouse for the season.  I've always had a penchant for floral prints, and they seem to be in style this Spring.  On Thursday, I decided to wear it for the first time.  I am not exaggerating when I say that I spent about twenty minutes procrastinating as to whether I should  or should  not wear it.  Yes, ambivalence was kicking in full steam ahead.  Ambivalence emerged from a harsh place inside me.  "I adore this blouse and would love to wear it today, but, is this too young for me"?  Or even more harshly, "This IS too young for me".   I finally decided I would wear it because I like it and I wanted to, and when fully dressed thought I looked rather fine and frilly, indeed.  Still, my inner judge kept reminding me that perhaps I looked terribly foolish.  I imagined strangers saying to themselves, "What a ridiculous looking old woman".  But then, something remarkable happened.  At the end of my dance lesson that afternoon, a young man who couldn't have been more than 25 came into the studio to wait for his lesson.  Mind you,  I'm self-conscious just dancing alone with my instructor.  With an audience, I found myself stumbling and forgetting moves I thought my muscles had memorized.  So, when I left, I felt compelled to say to the young man, "I'm a BEGINNER!".  To my surprise, he said, "Well I'm a beginner, too.  Maybe we can dance together sometime.  You're pretty and you can dance". Pretty!!  Music to a sixty-plus woman's ears!  Although I suspect he was just being polite, I didn't care.  I'm so glad I permitted myself to wear my red floral frilly blouse.  Guess what?  I'm going to wear it again today.