At times I mourn the loss of my mother, but truthfully, often I don’t think about her. Both of those conditions are strange because my mother is very much with us. She is on that journey with Alzheimer’s (presumably) which takes her to places I do not understand and turns her into someone I do not know.
I try to be there for her, but I know that I fall extremely short of her needs. When the time came that she could no longer live on her own, I found a homey, caring place not too far from my home. I agonized over whether I could bring her into my home. I did not think I could care for her the way she needed, so I found a “memory care assisted-living home” that could. The weekend that Mom spent with me before she moved erased any doubts that I could have been a full-time caretaker. Forty-eight hours under my roof was exhausting. Having her with me was somewhat like having a toddler except that logic made no sense to her. Instructions were forgotten as soon as they were given.
I visit Mom as often as I can, which comes out to about twice a week. I stay as long as she allows, which is about 20 minutes per visit. That frequency and duration are woefully inadequate. When I see her I talk about the things we used to do together and the things she used to like to do. She remembers none of these things. Occasionally she remembers my name or will tentatively ask me what it is. When I reply, “Celeste, your daughter,” she smiles and says, “I thought so.” Yet when I speak to her about my father, her husband of 49 years, she does not remember him. She claims that she never got married and never had any children. Dad has been gone for five years, and she has no memory of caring for him during his illness the last few years of his life.
I struggle with the idea of visiting more often. I am her only relative in town and rarely does anyone else visit her. If I don’t visit, no one does. Truthfully, twice a week is about all I can handle. Visiting her is not a logistical problem. She’s not that far away, and I’m not that busy. Well, I am that busy, but that’s not a good excuse. It’s more that the experience is always so draining. I try to show her that I care. I hug her. I rub her back. I try to converse with her. She speaks, but she can’t carry on a conversation. She contributes nothing.
I ask if she needs anything. She is incapable of answering. She always says no, but there are a lot of things she needs right now. She just can’t articulate what they are. So I check her supplies of personal needs as best I can without her input. I bring her things, but she never understands what they are.
The only thing that Mom talks about is “going to Virginia.” She grew up there but left 53 years ago. Sometimes what she says is unintelligible. She forms sounds but not words which are mixed with actual words. About the only thing I can piece together is that she wants to go to Virginia to see her Mom and Dad. They know her there, and they are still there, according to her malfunctioning mind. She does not pester me to take her but often asks if the bus to Virginia is here yet.
At age 74, Mom is in pretty good physical health. She takes a blood pressure medication, but that’s it. Her only physical issue these days has been an on-going weight loss that baffles us all. She eats well, actually she eats a lot, but now she is close to being dangerously thin.
So I do what I can and I leave. It feels cowardly and like the bare minimum. I suppose I am practicing some sort of self-preservation. I can’t save Mom from this disease. I can save myself from the depths of despair. Somehow that just doesn’t seem right for someone who gave so much to others.
