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.

Must Read

This article is simply fantastic: http://solofemininity.blogs.com/posts/2011/05/alzheimers-and-gospel-transformation.html.

Messy Grief

Yesterday morning at the traffic light, I turned to the car beside me. A woman was wearing a watch that looked identical to one my Mom used to wear. I then observed how her jacket was the same style and color as what Mom used to wear. The glasses were also similar, as was her hair and her face... she looked just like her. I had to pull myself out of staring. My heart raced. I turned my eyes away. The light turned green. It took all my might to press the gas pedal and leave her behind. All I could do was cry.

I asked the Lord why I took notice of this woman. Perhaps to replace the images I carry in my mind of Mom’s final days. Or maybe to remember how she would have been now, had she not been ravaged by Alzheimer’s Disease. Perhaps just to be reminded that she is healed now – far better than she could’ve ever been here on earth. Or maybe just to expose my feeble heart that sometimes just needs to cry again. To continue to grieve even when it feels like I’ve done so much grieving.

The other week a friend and I took the kids to a playground. It was a fun place – lots to see and do, lots to chat about. She just asked how I was doing. I started talking and within three minutes I was bawling. When I give words to my feelings and memories, I can’t help but cry.

I don’t want to think about certain elements of this whole situation. I thought for sure I’d want to go visit my Mom’s roommate again, but I don’t. I don’t want to go back down those halls; I don’t want to be in the room where I saw her dying body for the last time. I don’t want to smell the food cooking because it will remind me of all the times we sat next to each other. And it will remind me of when she could still walk and talk and it’s just all too painful.

Each week when I drive to visit my Dad at his house, I feel like I’m driving to go see her and I wish I could but I can’t. She’s not there.

I was trying to envision the other day what life would be like if Mom was here and healthy. Would she be working? How often would she come to visit us? Would we go shopping together? Would she love to do certain activities with A? The truth is – I feel her absence so profoundly.

I don’t like to idolize my Mom. She was not perfect. She made mistakes. We didn’t always get along. But, I loved her dearly and I miss her. I never knew quite what it would feel like to NEVER see her earthly frame again. I miss her presence. I miss walking into a room and looking for her face. I miss touching her skin. And knowing that she could still hear me. Just being near her.

Now that she’s gone, I remember more of who she once was. I’m able to see past what the disease made her. As we go through the things left behind in my parents’ house, my memories are restored. But, it’s as if this immeasurable gap remains between the Mom I grew up with and the person who left us. It’s been so long. I don’t know how to bridge the two worlds together. I feel the gap all the more since she’s gone.

When I was a child, I always wanted to be with my Mom. I missed her everywhere I went. I found a journal the other day from when I worked at a summer camp. I wrote of how much I missed home. I was weepy every Sunday evening I went back to college. I feel as if I’m experiencing the greatest separation that could ever exist and everything within me hates it. I hate it. I want nothing to do with this. I want to put up a fight. But nothing I do, nothing I feel can restore what’s been broken. And nothing can bring her back.

I’m left with painful images of dying, death. I’m left with that last day when I wanted to go back and see her and didn’t. I’m left with the night I knew death was near and I climbed into my bed. I’m left with our phone being downstairs the morning she died, never hearing it ring. Packing a picnic lunch to go see her to realize my Dad had called to tell me she had died. I’m left with every detail of pain, every feeling of loss. Every last look into her eyes. Every last feel of her feeble hands.

There is nothing right about death. I can’t say this enough.

Yet in this great loss and separation, Christ comes to lift me from such darkness. “But you, O Lord, are a shield about me, my glory, and the lifter of my head.” (Psalm 3:3) And, He reminds me that I was once separated from Him, but no longer am.

Christ came to bring me near, to restore what had been broken, to usher me into fellowship with Himself. Un-ending fellowship and relationship. And, He assures and promises me (and He always keeps His promises) that He will never leave or abandon me (Hebrews 13:6). He will never be overcome by something bigger than Himself. He will always be the sovereign, powerful conqueror. I don’t have to fear Him going away.

Luke 15:31 Jesus says, “’Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours.’” It’s Sonship. It’s family. It’s a tie that is not broken. I’m His child. And, as His child, I want to be meek and humble like Christ is (Matthew 11:29), who submitted Himself to the will of God, knowing it would entail great suffering. I want to be fully surrendered to the work He wants to do in my life. And, right now, presently, this is the work He’s about. And, I can trust His hand and His presence will be with me the entire way through this journey.

Sinclair B Ferguson says meekness is “… the humble strength that belongs to the man who has learned to submit to difficulties, knowing that in everything God is working for good.” He then goes on to say,

“We have seen that mercy is God stooping down to man in his weakness and inability, to bring him healing and restoration. He is the Good Samaritan, binding wounds, carrying burdens, and providing for the man who was attacked by robbers (Luke 10:33-35). This is what God does for us in Christ Jesus.”

This morning it hurt to wake. I cried out for Him to carry this burden. And He did. He is continually lifting my head and my heart! And He will never stop doing this. He is redeeming and restoring everything the robbers’ stole. And it’s all been accomplished through His everlasting work on the cross. His saving work is finished, but His ministry to my heart continues. And I will always be thankful for this!

I am not alone.

“Though the fig tree should not blossom,
nor fruit be on the vines,
the produce of the olive fail
and the fields yield no food,
the flock be cut off from the fold
and there be no herd in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord;
I will take joy in the God of my salvation.
(Habakkuk 3:16-18)

Do you believe this?

When a person passes away, there are all sorts of things left over – it’s hard to know where to put them or what to do with them. Like the place she lived. There it stands with all the people inside, all the caregivers and patients, all the food being prepared and served each day. The same beds, activity rooms, wheelchairs. Someone else is now using Mom’s bed and wheelchair.

And then there's her birthday. It was Monday. What do you do when you have a date on the calendar, but the person no longer uses it? There it stands - empty. You know it should have plans all over it – the planning, making of the cake, gathering together, going home tired. But this April 11th was quiet. Reflective. Still.

Amidst all the things that feel so misplaced, immeasurable treasures have been gained. In the darkness of impending death and just after, I couldn’t think about the next day. I couldn’t picture what waking up would look like or what our new normal would be. Everything just hurt.

Paul Tripp says, “Death is the enemy of everything good and beautiful about life as God planned it. Death should make you morally sad and righteously angry. It is a cruel indicator that the world is broken; it is not functioning according to God’s original design… God encourages you to mourn… You will hunger for the completion of all things. You will long to live with the Lord in a place where the last enemy—death—has been defeated.”

Last week, a friend approached me in the church parking lot. She hugged me. She said how sorry she was. And she told me that when her father died, she left the hospital upset, confused, and angry. She said, “I couldn’t understand how people were smiling. I wanted to shout, ‘Aren't you aware of all the pain that exists in this world?’” She went on to affirm how there is nothing right about death. My heart danced for it was understood. I needed to hear how wrong death was. I needed to talk about that. She was a huge blessing to me that morning.

I felt the same way about buying a dress for my Mom’s Memorial Service. I was weighed down by a sense of “a daughter should never have to pick out a dress to wear at her mother’s funeral. Everything about this is wrong.” The cashier splashed a generous smile across his face as he handed me my change and said, “Penny for your thoughts?” I mustered up a mild grin and thought to myself, “Oh, sir, you do not want to hear my thoughts!” I was hurt. Upset. Angry. Feeling such immense loss. I wept the entire way home, with my black dress neatly folded in a little white bag on the passenger seat.

In the days approaching Mom’s death and just after, I clung tightly to Psalm 23. With all my might, I held the promise in verse 4: “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and staff, they comfort me.” I knew that despite the darkness I saw and felt, I was not alone. God had not left me, and He was never going to leave me. And, His care and protection over me would remain my comfort. All I can do is praise the Lord for this promise. He has been so faithful. As He welcomes my tears and collects them all, He comforts me like no other. I do not grieve without hope.

I am sad over the loss of my mother. I am sad that I will never hear her voice (that I actually haven’t heard in years) again. I grieve that I’ll never hold her hands or see those beautiful eyes. I weep at the reality that death will continue to destroy more lives. That I will attend more funerals. But, praise the Lord – all that is within me, praise the Lord that Mom is HOME!

When I was an early teenager, my friends and I prided ourselves in memorizing a verse from the Bible. It was, of course, the shortest verse: John 11:35, “Jesus wept”. Regardless of my motives for memorizing, His Word does not return void and now I delight in this precious story of Lazarus’ death. Jesus joined His friends in their heartfelt sorrow and loss. This shows that there is a reality about the sorrow of death that even Jesus participated in. We do grieve. Jesus did. We do cry. He did as well. And just as He looked forward to the resurrection, so do we.

Paul Tripp says, “As you weep, know this: the One who weeps with you is not content for things to stay as they are. His death was a cry and His resurrection a promise. The living Christ will continue to exert His power and you will grieve no more.”

There is victory. The grave has been conquered. “The last enemy to be destroyed is death” (1 Corinthians 15:26). This has been secured and one day we will see the fullness of this reality.


I have to admit that I was quite anxious about the Memorial Service. The day before, I experienced a great deal of anxiety. I called upon two friends to pray for me. They did and by evening, every weight and concern was lifted.

I have envisioned my Mom’s service since the day of her diagnosis. I know that might sound unusual, but it’s true. A diagnosis of terminal illness just makes you think that way – diagnosis ultimately leads to death. There was no other road to take. It was a long 12 years leading to one destination.

And, for those of you who joined us at the service, you know what a beautiful day it was! In all my visions and expectations, I could have never imagined it to be as wonderful as it was. Above seeing so many people who have walked through this journey with us, and superior to the lovely music and beautiful building, there were three things that impacted me dramatically:

1. Three of Mom’s nurses' assistants came to greet the family. My dad hugged each of them and said through tears, “Thank you! You were the best nurses! You cared for Sharon so well! We will always remember you and be thankful!” Tears freely flowed from our eyes.
2. An outstanding message sincerely delivered from our dear friend and Pastor, Peter Bogert.
3. The restoration of memories as my Dad and Mom’s best friend shared personal reflections. In 12 years of losing Mom, a part of us forgot who she was before Alzheimer’s. God is restoring these memories and it is SO good!!

And, now for the really amazing encouragement! Our Pastor began the message by describing what people often say at a funeral to the family who has lost a loved one. “We’re sorry for your loss. We’re praying for you, etc.” And then he said, “What would Jesus say to a family at a funeral?” He took us to the story of Lazarus.

Jesus told Martha, in the midst of her sorrow and pain, “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die. Do you believe this?” She said, “Yes, Lord; I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, who is coming into the world.” (John 11:26-27)

No one said these words to us in the receiving line. Either Christ was insane or He was God. Only He was able to declare that he was the only way to salvation and secure it.

As Peter preached these verses, S and I turned toward each other with wide eyes and tears streaming down our faces. Because the evening of Mom’s death, as I stood over the frame that no longer contained her spirit, all I heard resounding in my spirit was this: “Do you believe this? Do you believe that Jesus has and will secure all that He has promised? Do you believe this reality?” It was one of the most challenging moments of my life. And, I praise the Lord that as Martha did; I was able to shout from my heart, “Yes, Lord; I believe!” Even this is a gift from the Lord!

So, Mom is gone. And often times throughout the day I hear myself say, “Jesus, I’m so glad she’s with you now. I’m so glad you have her. Tell her how much we love her. I know you are caring for her so well!”

I do not grieve without hope. I keep moving forward, trusting His promises, and awaiting the many more memories of Mom He will restore to us. I know He is a redeeming God.