A Bitter Pill to Swallow

I have not been talking about it...I prefer not to think about it. My mother's condition has been steadily deteriorating and while I have written about the myriad incidents that send me into a tailspin, I have spared the reader the ugly details.  There are things about which one does not (politely) write or discuss.  I edit my writing and my conversation.  I even try to edit my memories.  I search for the humor and when it doesn't present itself I try to erase the memory.  It is too ugly, too difficult.  It is the most bitter  pill to swallow.  Memory loss and lack of cognitive ability, lack of recognition, lack of understanding is all part of the process -- the brain-killing disease that has stolen my mother from me.  I have accepted this as our fate.  I have strengthened myself and grown as a result.  I have done things I never thought I could do. I have dealt with certain tasks in order to spare others as well as to protect my mother's last shred of modesty.  I would like to think that part of her, deep down in her being, in her soul, knows that I am doing this for the woman she used to be.  I still respect that person who had dignity, who had manners, standards and decorum,  modesty, cared for her appearance and never ever left the house without lipstick on and every hair in place.  She was the mother who wanted to raise her daughter to do the same and so she scraped together enough money to send me to finishing school to learn etiquette, comportment, elocution,  and any number of other skills long since forgotten.  For my mother, it was important. So, how can I abandon her now as she has forgotten these practices herself?  

Within the past several months many of my friends have lost loved ones.  It is always difficult news, but particularly right now as I prepare for my own mother's inevitable demise. I think that it is not too long from now.  A dear friend whose mother had dementia and was closely  following the process in my mother told me that since her mother was about three years behind my mother she would learn from me.  We talked often and shared stories.  This past week her mother passed away and when I spoke with my friend offering comforting words, she told me that she had thought that she would be the one (first) to be offering comforting words to me.  How could this be?  How is it that my mother is still hanging on?  No...no, I am not wishing her gone!  I am not complaining; not really.  Except...well, I wonder about the quality of life, the degradation, the humiliation of the body giving out, losing control, no longer a useful vessel but a trap -- imprisoning the eternal soul.  I want to protect that beautiful and loving part of her -- that part that saw a need to send me to finishing school.  Instead I am dealing with reality, with the ugliness that dementia creates.  In an infant, these things are not considered ugly but in an adult it is so different.  When an infant spits up we tsk, tsk and swipe at the mouth casually.  In an adult we are repulsed, avert our eyes and pray that someone else will clean up the mess. Human excrement is a necessary mess to clean in a baby but disgusting in the elderly. Bathing a little one is a joy but a detestable job with an old person.  Why?  Why are our standards so different?  I grapple with this knowing that logic dictates that there should be no difference but finding that my emotions disagree.  The things I must do, I do; but, yes,  it is indeed a bitter pill to swallow.