When the Parent Becomes the Child: And Then There Was One

I’ve never minded solitude. For a writer, it’s a natural condition. But caring for a dementia sufferer leads to a particular kind of loneliness. —Laurie Graham

My mother is leaving me.

Her mind allows her to tell me about my favorite stuffed animal when I was three, my Effalunt, but she is unable to tell me what she had for breakfast. It is as if her mind is in self-preservation mode and has limited capacity for memory storage. If it happened decades ago, it is carefully filed away. If it happened five minutes ago, it has become obsolete and irretrievable.

 

Her mind has sacrificed recent memories in order to keep the past preserved.

Three years ago I wrote When the Parent Becomes the Child. This essay was an observation about my Moms (I had two) and their aging behaviors. Three years ago I believed this was solely about growing old. I wrote,

It’s about loss of independence.
It’s about aging.
It’s normal as we grow older.
There is nothing wrong with them.

How wrong I was.

None of us wants to be reminded that dementia is random, relentless, and frighteningly common.—Laurie Graham

My Mom, a highly-educated woman with a brilliant mind and sharp wit is now deep into dementia. She did not wake up one day in this state. It seemed to happen slowly, where I thought it was forgetfulness, and then all at once it became obvious dementia.

My other Mom had habits of keeping valuable jewelry in robe pockets, hiding all of her 1099s at tax time, and an aversion to showering. Three years ago I thought they were quirks. They were not quirks, they were symptoms. She died nearly one year ago of Alzheimer’s-related causes. Mercifully her illness was brief. But she left a huge hole in my life and in my heart. I am reminded of things daily, like her love of movies, chocolate malts, and her special kindnesses to me. I grieve all over again.

Dementia is our most-feared illness, more than heart disease or cancer.—David Perlmutter

So there are two things.

Thing one is I must create a comfortable and loving environment for my mother.
Thing two is at the same time I grieve over the loss of her partner—my other mom.

I often muse that I never thought my life would be like this. I left my California home and unwillingly returned to Arizona to care for The Moms. They drove me crazy, yet I would give anything to have them back together again, wholly in my life. And now I am unable to leave Arizona, or my mother, because I am her lifeline.

For a good part of my life my mother was my kryptonite. We were polar opposites in nearly everything which segued into a constant combative relationship.

It is of great irony to me that the daughter she seemed not to like has now became her caregiver. 

She has became a petulant preschooler—capricious and demanding with a quick temper. The woman who taught her children impeccable manners has now forgotten please and thank you, and eats with her fingers.

This is what dementia looks like.

I mourn everything that she was which has now evolved into simple, childlike behavior. It drags me to the saddest of places and I find myself clinging to remember the sweet things she has done for me. In spite of our contentious relationship, the mother-daughter angst is gone.

That’s the thing with dementia. If you’re with somebody who has a serious illness, you can usually talk to them, have a laugh every now and then—the person is still with you. With dementia; there’s no conversation; there’s no togetherness, no sharing.—Judy Parfitt

About my brothers.

They do not share in her care and I do not blame them. Unkindness and an inability to be nice have been her hallmarks as my brothers and I grew up. Her sarcastic demeanor pushed us all away, as if she gained a perverse sense of satisfaction from her meanness. I worry that they will feel guilty when she’s gone.

Despite ambivalent feelings over an erratic childhood, I cannot punish her by withholding my presence. It’s different for daughters, I suppose.

I know, like with her partner, there will come a day when I won’t be able to call her, visit with her, or even complain about her. My stepsister Kori, from my other Mom, believes that she misses Mom Two too much to go on alone. I fear this, yet I understand this.

But as I wrote three years ago, forgiveness rules, and I do everything with love. A love so strong that sometimes I cry when I leave her and wonder who she will be when I return.

And now there is one.

But in passing will grow older every day
Just as all that’s born is new.
You know what I say is true
That I’ll be loving you always.
―Stevie Wonder, “As”

Photo by Tulay Palaz from FreeImages