"How is your mother?"
I hear it all the time.
That same question, followed by that same answer.
"She okay," I reply trying to sound hopeful,
upbeat, more energetic than I feel. "She's
hangin' in there!"
The sympathetic friends surround me with encouragement. "You're doing a great job," they
tell me. "Your mother is so lucky
to have you!" I sigh. It isn't easy. It is taking its toll on my nervous
system. I am tense and stressed most of
the time.
I fear that her Alzheimer's is affecting her balance. Just a short while ago she fell for the
second time today. It frightens me to
see her stumble and it terrifies me when she falls. Each time I wonder if this is the moment that
will cause injury...if this is the time she will hit her head, break her hip,
cause irreparable harm that will end her life.
I want to confine her, to protect her, to limit her movement but stop
myself. For the little time she has left
on Earth she deserves to walk about, to feel the sun on her face, to look out
at the sky, the sunset, the stars, to move about as she wishes. I do not want to take this away from her just
so that she will be safe. What good will
come of that protection? She might live
longer but she will not be happy. I
notice that she is rocking herself to sleep in a chair on the porch and worry
that it might be too cold. I check on
her and she smiles broadly. I notice
that her lip has swollen where she hit it as she fell. I struggle to think of something...anything
that I can do for her. I offer her a cup
of tea and she takes it gratefully. I am
still shaken by the image of her falling backwards and nearly hitting her head
on the corner of the table. How is it
that I have become more mothering, more hovering, more careful than I was when
I was raising my own children?
I sit down for a moment to quiet myself. I observe that my hands are shaking, my
throat is tight. I struggle to
relax. Immediately I see that Mom is
making motions to rise from her chair. I
rush to assist her. She thanks me and
tells me that I was named incorrectly. I
look at her quizzically.
"They should have name you Angel," she tells me
sweetly.
"They?" I question. It is clear that she doesn't know how I am
related to her. I press on. "Who gave me my name?" I prompt her
hoping that she will come up with the correct answer.
She frowns in concentration and answers, "I don't
know."
"Who am I?" (I pray that she will remember this
time.)
"Are you...are you a relative?" she inquires
hesitantly.
"Yes. I'm your
daughter," I remind her. A spark of
recognition is replaced almost immediately with that expression she wears most
often -- the clouding over of the eyes, the distant expression, the behavior
reserved for a stranger. She has a
formality in her response. I force a cheerful
smile and go inside providing her space for her dreams, her solitude, her
freedom to dwell in that place of benign forgetfulness that is neither
bewildering nor a nuisance to her. It no longer bothers her. She doesn't
challenge herself to remember. I wonder
if it is acceptance or simply lack of comprehensions that she has forgotten
everything. Whatever the explanation, I
am happy that it doesn't cause her any angst.
She remains happy, smiling; she is oblivious to stressful events, to
anger, to sorrow. Her childlike innocence carries her through her waking hours
as I struggle to protect her from those things that concern me. Where once she was, I am now. We have traded places. The transition, the shifting of roles is unspoken
and unexpected. Little by little, moment
by moment, day by day...I have become her protector, her champion, her care
giver. I see to her survival, her
remaining happiness, her comfort, her protection.
"Yes," I say with relief to those who ask "My mother is okay today.
