Long-term memories were no problem for my mom. We could talk about the people from her childhood: her grandfather with the big house and beautiful rose garden on Cranbrook Road outside of Detroit. There was also Mother May, her maternal grandmother who lived with Mom as a child. The sweet irony is that these two people died long before I was even born. It’s through my mother’s aging mind that I'm getting acquainted.
I thought I knew a thing or two about patience and living in the moment, but her limitations advanced me in the area of being more present. But maybe that’s what all great parents do without even knowing it.
For all of those years before Alzheimer’s, Mom was sweet and even-tempered and clear as can be. And ever since Alzheimer’s, she remains sweet and mellow but with some added OCD for good measure. It seems the routine and familiar faces and spaces are all she has to soften the blow during those moments when she has absolutely no idea what day it is.
She hides her confusion, but will occasionally confide with a heavy sigh, full of exasperation: “I just don’t remember.” She’d say it as if I’d never noticed.
When I think of the way a parent with Alzheimer’s makes me feel, I wonder if there is a word for when you need to cry, but laugh instead.
Back to that pre-dawn and letting my mom know her husband since 1951 was no longer alive: It was a lonesome and quiet morning with just me, my deceased dad, and my sound-asleep mom. I’m not much for drama, but the moment I sat at her side and touched her on the shoulder, she awoke in tears.
“Mom, Dad is in heaven.”
I anticipated only questions and confusion, but she just sobbed into her pillow. It's still a mystery to me; I have no idea how she could react so clearly. This is the same woman who months ago put the cordless phone in the trash bin under the kitchen sink.
Her tears brought me to tears.
“Come on,” I suggested.
“Okay,” she said, just like that. I helped her with her robe and she grabbed my hand to see Dad.
Lucid as can be, she cradled his face in her arms, talking through sobs.
“My Bobby. My Bobby . . . ” If she could’ve crawled up onto the gurney, she would have. “You were such a wonderful man and husband and friend. I love you, my dear Bobby.” She kissed him on the forehead and on the cheek.
It was as if I wasn’t even there, which made it even better.
I remember thinking how I wish my brothers and sisters could’ve been there to see such raw emotion. It was all privilege. Who in the world was I to witness—be present for—that particular moment? I stood speechless, a jumble of inconsolable voyeur. Three minutes passed or five? Mom then looked at me and said, matter of factly: “We should go back to bed.”
There is no arguing with an Alzheimer’s patient.
“Ok,” I said and walked over to hug her.
“Will you cuddle with me?” she said.
I can do this, I thought, because when your 83-year-old mother asks to cuddle and takes you by the hand, you’re grateful. We got into bed—she still insisting—and then me keeping awkwardly still as my mind raced between being in the moment and wondering where to find the 24-hour hospice hotline.
As soon as she fell asleep, I was up and on the phone.
Mary and Shelly arrived a little while later.
By 10 a.m. or so, my sisters went in to help Mom get dressed. Mom’s memory of her tearful farewell to Dad was lost, so there she was. She emerged from her bedroom, seeing for the second first time that her beloved Bobby had passed away into the morning.
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