Yesterday, windows down and “RIP” blasting, I impatiently navigated through rush hour traffic on the way to a meeting for volleyball parents at my sister’s soon to be high school. The tri-tone text alert of my phone cut once, then twice, through my half-hearted attempt at rapping. Entering my password with a sigh, I glanced between the road and my screen at the messages from my sister: “Are you here yet?!?!?!” “They’re starting soon.” I assured her that I was not far, and resumed my Jeezy impersonation.
I slipped in just in time, and was met with a look of relief from my sister, and warm smiles from the volleyball moms I’d met earlier in the year, during the middle school season. The coach opened the meeting with a welcome, and encouraged us to all be proud of our daughters, some of whom will be freshmen next year, but still managed to surpass the freshman team and make JV. I smiled, but my heart fell a little, thinking of my mother. Thirty minutes passed, and I zoned in and out during talks of BBQ fundraisers, practice & game schedules, and carpooling for “your daughters”.
On the way out with my sister, I introduced myself to the head coach, explaining that our mother was sick, & that I was attending in her place. I kicked myself for my vague word choice when she replied “That’s so sweet! I hope she feels better soon.” The reality is that she won’t. Ever. And that I’ll need to have a talk explaining my mother’s illness, and my role as guardian/effective second parent, for what feels like the 50th time. But as I reflected on the necessity of the conversation, I considered the fact, like I did on Mother’s Day, that despite the circumstances, my mother is still alive.
The true evil of Alzheimer’s, in my opinion, is that it steals a person from you twice. You watch as personality traits, speech, memory, and recognition become things of the past. You mourn their loss. And then you must grieve a second time as the person–who is effectively already gone–is permanently lost by way of death. There is a constant hurt I feel in the caregiving role because my mom is not herself anymore. She is frail, unable to lift her head; she seldom speaks, mostly in gibberish; she is wholly dependent on my care, like a child.
But there are times, as I’m feeding her, that she’ll touch my face and smile. Today, as I entered from a different room, she lit up, saying “Hey, I know you!” Frequently, as I change her clothes or sit with her throughout the day, she silently extends her hand toward me, and as I hold hers, she pats mine. A couple months ago, for the first time in two years, she said my name, and I wept with joy. Although she is ailing, my mother is still living. For that, I am eternally grateful, and careful not to take a single minute that she has left on earth, for granted.