October 2001 Archive

Dear friends, you have observed the journal of my thoughts.  You are the lines on which I pen this story.  In fact, you have become a part of the story, because in reading you share in the memories of my family.  

I realized yesterday that the stories I share with you are precious, but momentary.  And, with each changing moment, the stories alter and quite possibly will lessen over time. And it makes me wonder, what will happen when I can no longer tell you the silly things that mom does?  What will happen when I can no longer hear her voice?  What will happen when I can not feel her gentle touch, or smell the scent on her pillow, or see her smile at dad?

The other night, I found myself longing for a womanly influence in our home.  My sister is now married and out of the house, and although my dad tries so hard, it's just not the same.  Thus, the other night, I looked at my mom and wished that she would return to me.  I longed to hear the advice she once gave me.  However, I think in the end, I will miss her presence and love more than her words.  Even though she cannot offer me grand wisdom or motivational words right now, she is near me.  She is my shadow… the one who follows me wherever I go.  She is near and that is comforting. 

Occasionally, I have moments when the Lord reminds me of the reality of the fact that one day she will no longer be here.  Her absence is what frightens me most.  I do not want to lose her.

I know that the Lord’s timing is perfect.  I trust that.  And, there have been many moments when I wished that this would all be over quickly.  But, right now I feel like time is soaring past me.  I feel like each day I lose another part of her.  I see the digression, and I wonder, “Why Lord, why so soon?  Can we have some more time?”  I wonder how much longer it will be.  When will her ability to communicate cease?  When will she forget my face?  The Lord knows best and He gives greater grace with each moment. 

Mom is sitting on my bed right now.  She is holding my stuffed animal, Turtle.  She is telling me, “He needs his mama.”  I'm his mama.  She is babysitting my animals for me while I type.  Her motherly ways are ever-present.

 I’d like to end with a thought by Amy Carmichael.  She said, “I had feelings of fear about the future… The devil kept on whispering, ‘It’s alright now, but what about the afterward?  You are going to be very lonely.’ … and I turned to my God in kind of desperation and said, ‘Lord, what can I do?  How can I go to the end?’ and He said, ‘None of them that trust in Me shall be desolate.’  That word has been with me ever since.”  Amen.

Archive Entry 2: Becoming a Mother

We used to go shopping together on Saturday mornings.  It was a time that we both looked forward to and enjoyed greatly.  I find this very hard to do now.  Mom is unsure of how to lock and un-lock the dressing room doors.  Without instruction, she will walk right out of the dressing room in the new clothes, with no awareness of needing to pay for the items.  Then, once we arrive at the cash register, she is not sure what to do, how to pay for the items.  It is as if she is in a new country with a different currency, and she desperately needs someone to help her. Not only are her counting skills vanishing, but so are her skills in general awareness/memory of former information and ways of doing things.

I look in her face and I see a child.  This is particularly evident when she experiences pain or loss, whether through skinned knees or a broken toy.  She is distraught.  It is as if I am soothing the heartache of a wounded child.  The troubles of life are weighing heavily upon her.  She’s had years of growth and maturing, and it’s as if it has all been taken from her.  She’s fragile, needy, sensitive, and dependent. She has nothing to draw upon in this moment, no wisdom of her own.

I have become a mother, and I’m not prepared.  She is looking to me to fulfill this role but I feel too young.  I still need to learn from her; I am not ready for this.  There are days when I have so little to give; I need comfort.  I almost want to place distance between us because it feels easier.  But, I know this is not the right answer.

Archive Entry 1: Preface

Preface in the journal (written in the end stages). I am spending this evening in our dimly-lit living room, carefully sifting through a box of old photographs.  There are countless photos of my mother, and in this moment, I feel as if I can almost touch the memory of her. 

It is a journey of fascination and sorrow to see the decline in mom’s expressiveness over the last 11 years due to Alzheimer’s disease.  I smile at her vibrancy of life, and I grieve to see it replaced by a blank and distant expression.  The world may view her as an empty canvas, but I know there is more within her.  And when it seems like I can’t find more, I remember.

This is for my family, for all who have prayed for us, and most importantly, for the Lord who enables me to grieve with hope. 

Title: Miss-matched (First Entry)

Our clothes are worn out and exhausted.  I question why Mom is spending so much time in the basement.  After a little investigation, I come to observe that half-way though the laundry cycle the clothes are being prematurely transferred to the dryer, sopping wet.  Even at the close of the dryer cycle, dampness still lingers on the garments. 

I find a cd in the refrigerator, in the oven a cassette, and in the shower, eye glasses.  Miss-matched socks fill our laundry baskets.  Meals are minus vegetables, and Mom cannot recall how to set the dinner table.  Our home is losing its sense of normalcy and Mom is losing a part of herself. 

I find myself repeating stories and conversations for her benefit.  I work so hard to keep her attention so she will not tune out of the conversation.  She has always wanted to be in close communication, growing together.  Why does she no longer seem to care?  I miss her presence and she is still right beside me, speaking.

Forty-nine years old.  Alzheimer’s disease.  Only 15% of Alz’s patients are diagnosed as young as Mom.  We have no family history.  It is a unique situation; she is still relatively young with children who are just on the brink of adulthood.  We need you, Mom; please don’t leave us.  What would we do; how would we survive the loss of your presence? 

Christmas has come so quickly this year, and I’ve tried so hard to make it all slow down, to pause.  I have no sense of how long we will have with Mom and I wish time could cease and we all just remain as we are. 

For the first time in my entire life, this Christmas has no decorations, baked goods, or presents. All the thoughtfulness of gift giving is absent. My Mom is here with us in this house, and yet I've never felt more abandoned.

Rewind

Several friends and readers have noted that the posts regarding my mom have been touching, perhaps even helpful as you face your own journey. I think grieving is something we all do in this fallen world - it may take different shapes and forms, but it's part of our reality. It's our commonality. We share it. We can bear some its burden for each other. This is good to do.

Long before my scattered and disjointed blogging days, I kept journals. Through the years, I've parted with some of them, but one journal in particular I have always kept - that being my Mom Journal. I'd like to post those early entries, the days when we first noticed something was different about Mom. It is my prayer that you, reader, will find them helpful - like letters from a friend as you walk your own journey. Perhaps you'll weep as I wept (and do now at times) - that's good - that's biblical. You may laugh at some of the silly things that Mom did. That's good, too. Most of all, I hope at the end of the journey, you walk away knowing, as I am learning, that God is always good, His faithfulness really does endure through all generations, even in the midst of very dark seasons. May I praise Him evermore.

Thank you for reading. 

Unexpected

We traveled to Maine last week with our two precious girls in the backseat. The older of the two pleasantly occupied with a Wal-Mart 88-cent activity book for ten hours, the other needing more coddling and support. There I was, the Mom, doing things I remember my Mom doing on that long journey to Bethel.

The hours passed as we embraced the Vermont and New Hampshire hillsides, their long bending roads, tasting a bit of each town, driving through sun, clouds, sprinkles, and pure ecstasy, as if a canvas spilled out before us in all its array, each color marking its place. The clean air circled and danced through our car as we breathed through teethy smiles, our wide eyes soaking it all in. Bliss.

My heart was so delighted when we arrived. I actually felt it jump, so happy. To see my husband holding our sweet baby, and our older one standing so ready for adventure. We made it and were so ready to begin our week. This was our journey, our little get-a-way. I thought of so many things prior to our going: a grocery list, places to see, snacks, projects for A. The one thing I didn’t think I’d see, though, the last thing I thought of in preparing, was how often I’d be reminded of her. Of Mom.

Yet there she was in all that I did. In the gentle pace and crunch of our feet on the sand. In the dark paths lit only by stars at night. In the great big field where I held her hand and dreamed with her. In the flowered bed sheet that she shared with my dad for so many years. And there he lay without her. A luggage bag on the other side of the bed. Where she should be.

I saw her in the old country store with the woman who continues to make the same molasses cookies. There she stood with her familiar sweet face and her pure white hair, so old and rightfully so. She asked my mother’s name and if she’d remember her, if we were from around there. In moments like that I almost don’t know what to say. She’s so far away. How do you speak of someone who’s no longer in your world? How do I explain our story (without crying) to this precious lady wearing a lovely vintage apron in an almost-perfect store decorated with wooden toys and canned beets? I don’t. I keep it simple. I talk about molasses cookies and how we’ve always loved them.

I often wonder what it would be like to sit on the picnic table bench with her now, to touch the vinyl tablecloth and see her fingers hold her coffee mug. To see the steam rise in the cool Maine air. To observe her watching our girls and making them laugh. To go to the diner we used to visit and hear the waitress call us “sweeties”. God, how I miss her. What a gap remains in her absence.

As I sat in our cabin each morning, the first to wake, nursing my sweet baby girl, I’d glance at my dad sleeping. I’d envision her next to him, her graying hair in its beautiful waves. I’d see her smooth, soft skin. See her hand on my dad. Her loving touch that graced us all. I didn’t expect to see her so much on this trip, and as much as I weep, it was good and cleansing.

I often wonder what she’d think of me now and who I’m becoming. What we’d talk about. This is just one of those days when I wish she could be on the other line.