My Authentic Mother (Part 2)

     "You know I've never asked for anything before, but I've never felt this bad.  I need you to come here", my mother said.  She called me at seven o'clock this morning.  I told her, "I know you've never asked for anything before, and I understand how bad you feel.  I'm so sorry.  I understand.  I wish I could help you. I will do everything I can do to help you."

    Yet I was thinking as I tried to comfort her: "I can't count the times that I've needed you, that I needed your comfort, that I hoped that you would say, 'I understand how bad you feel, and I love you'.  You were never there for me.  You pretended I didn't exist.  You couldn't cope with an imperfect unhappy daughter.  You abruptly ended phone conversations when I even hinted that things might not be fine. You left me alone to fend for myself, and I did."

    I am angry at my mother.  Yet, I cannot abandon her.  I want to help her.  I want to be with her.  I want her to know I love her.

                                          My Mother and Me (circa 1951)

    But I wish she could apologize.  When she was hospitalized in February, I went up to Yonkers to be with her.  She was clearly comforted by my presence.  During the course of a mundane conversation we were having, she suddenly said, "I wasn't a terrible mommy, was I"?  I wanted to say, "You were a horrible mother, but I know you did the best you could do."  Of course, I replied, "You were a wonderful mother, and I love you".  And I meant it.

The Memory Unit (Part 1)

     I dreamed the phone was ringing.  Unfortunately, it wasn't a dream.  I fumbled for the handset in the darkness and finally pushed the talk button.  "What are you going to do to help me?  I'm locked in here?  Where am I? What's wrong with you, can't you see I'm not well?  Where are you?  Where's your brother? What are you going to do to help me?  I've got to get out of here!"  My mother was yelling at me.  Her aide took the phone and apologized for  dialing my number but explained that my mother had insisted.  My mother took the phone again and resumed her tirade.  According to my sister, after I spoke with my mother, she somehow managed to escape from her apartment and started banging on all the other apartment doors on the floor.  Thus began her journey to the Memory Unit.

                        Ilustration of Beta-Amyloid Proteins Forming A Plaque


     I called my mother the next morning.  My mother did not know she had a husband, and when I confirmed that she did, she could not remember his name.  Alarmed by this, I immediately called Sylvia, the Director of Nursing, to inform her that my mother's mental state had shifted dramatically.  By early afternoon, my brother had met with Sylvia and the psychiatrist.  According to my brother, Sylvia walked into my mother's assisted-living apartment, took one look at her and said, "Memory Unit".  A cruel euphemism considering its residents are suffering from a lack of memory.

     The move is scheduled to happen within the week.  I will not be there.  In fact, Sylvia preferred that family members not be present.  Thank you, I thought to myself.  I felt a quick rush of relief at the time.  In fact, since I was told of the decision, I haven't spoken to my mother.  It's hard to admit this, but I'm angry at her, for at least two definitive reasons that come to mind that I'm unable to share right now.  Thankfully, my brother has been handling all of the details, and apart from the stress of having to deal with new leases and logistics, he doesn't seem to affected at all.  I know that is not true.  I wish we could talk to each other about our ambivalent feelings.

     About two months ago, the landline voicemail box was full, so I decided to listen to the messages one by one to decide which to save and which to delete.  I accidentally deleted an old message.  It was  from my mother.  She had called during one of the great blizzards of 2010 to ask if we were snowed in and if had power.  It was her last phone call to me.

   

Getting Through This

I can hardly believe that Dr. B has been away for almost two weeks.  Equally amazing is the realization that I'm not just getting through it, but I've been feeling happy at times; it's hard to admit this. 

                                      Flying Colors Doves, Allison K. Jones

Getting through it despite being a bit unsettled as I cope daily with a health crisis that has beset my aging parents and the associated innumerable phone calls.  Getting through it even though I am undergoing some mildly unpleasant treatments for a chronic health condition of my own. Getting through it although I haven't had the luxury of a welcoming voice inviting me to say whatever is on my mind.  Getting through it without hearing my voice aloud, yet hearing it within.  Getting through it with a flying color or two.


Furthermore, I don't feel particularly guilty about feeling happy at times.  At least not in the old way.  I'm sure the guilt is still there, but it's not getting in my way.  I drove to Falls Church yesterday for a West Coast Swing lesson and worked on my footwork, my posture, and what Lara called "my smoothness".  Today, I went to Springfield for a gloss and a haircut and smiled as I listened to the employees speak to each other in an Arabic and Spanish.  If I'm feeling guilty,  it's not preventing me from letting a color or two fly.

 

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.