Stories My Mother Can No Longer Tell

At first, I attributed her forgetfulness to strain and exhaustion.  What began as skin cancer behind my father's ear became cancer in his saliva glands, his lymph nodes, his bone, and finally, his brain.  My mother took care of him throughout all those years of surgery and radiation, until the day before he died.  In the last weeks of his life, helping him out of a chair was an enormous challenge, yet my father insisted on using a walker instead of a wheelchair, and my mom, being stubborn and independent, cared for him at home for as long as possible.  One day, he had a stroke or seizure and fell, for the last time, onto the floor of their bedroom.  A hospice team took my father to the hospice house, and my mother, still hoping he might come home, carefully packed a suitcase with a razor, a hair dryer, and his favorite Grape-Nuts cereal.  He died that night, before he could use anything my mother sent with him, and it was only then that we realized there was something wrong with my mother's memory.

My first clues came when we were driving to familiar places, like the grocery store.  "Look," my mother would say, pointing at a construction site near her home.  "I wonder what they're building there."  Every time, I answered, "Condos" and assumed this was a symptom of grief.  Other landmarks remained equally mysterious to her:  in particular, a closed grocery store and a recently opened Wal-Mart Neighborhood Market surprised her each time we drove past.

However, my mom was able to shop for groceries, cook her own meals, and do her own laundry, so I didn't pay that much attention.  I was absorbed in my own grief, and I had my own life to live.  Later - a few years later - we would receive a diagnosis of vascular dementia and untreated diabetes.  A few years after that, my mother would enter Alzheimer's care.

Sometimes, I wish I could call my mother and talk to her, but I don't call anymore.  The voice on the phone is familiar; the woman I knew is gone.  At least once a week I stop by with Depends and baby wipes, toilet paper and snacks.  We sit in her room and talk about inconsequential things.  I hug her and kiss her before I leave, and some staff member distracts her so I can key in the combination and slip away before she realizes that I'm gone.  None of us want her to realize that the door is locked, and she is no longer free to come and go.

As my mother's short-term memory and independence slipped away, so have the stories of her life.  I regret now that I was not a better listener, but I do remember some of her life history.  This month, I want to share some of her story with you, in honor of her and of all those who can no longer remember their own stories.

So, December's theme is "Stories My Mother Can No Longer Tell," in honor of those we love who are slipping away from us one memory, one moment, at a time.