My mother's daughter — trying for joy

I am my mothers daughter. For so many years I have fought against this, wanting to distance myself from her and her disease. I openly talk to anyone that will listen about recipes, foods, exercises that might keep this at bay- that dementia won’t be part of what I inherit and pass down. I saw them as one- my mom, who has Alzheimers’s. Like it was a personality trait that she was poorly managing. When we went out to eat there would be ugly moments where I barely wanted her at our table. I was embarrassed of her. Of what she said, or how she ate, or how many times she stared blindly at the menu, completely lost. I hated when people said we looked alike (which I wrote about 3 years which I wrote about 3 years ago)) or that my hands were the same as hers. I saw others distancing themselves from her as well- unsure or unable to walk this road with us.

But now, as we are losing her, I look at the pictures of her at my age and see someone beautiful. When the loving, caring people that have been taking care of mom say that she is beautiful I just nod and agree. Because, for a few minutes, in this straight up cesspool of a disease, I can see the whole person. And she was/is a beautiful person. When I think I’m out of tears or out of goodbyes I see something that makes me think of all that she was and not just the person now that has been robbed of memory. A thousand goodbyes are not enough for that person. I stand on the brink of having no parents and god, that is crushing. Even at 42, an age my son called “a really old lady” last week, I feel so sad about not having parents.

It was this one that called me a “really old lady”.

I thought I became an adult when I got married. And then I hit a new level when I became a parent. There was a separation. I had to clarify that when I said “my family” I meant my tiny row home in Philadelphia, my partner and our babies. When I said “home”, I no longer meant my suburban Connecticut home where I grew up. But now I don’t clarify. That home is long gone and my last parent is transitioning. My sister and I talked to hospice the other day and I just looked around as she was giving us heavy, complicatedly sad news. And all I could think was “oh, I guess we are the adults now”. Which is stupid because I’m such an adult that I have both a backpack and a Fanny pack.

Whether I was able to talk about it or not, the reason why I am so scared of this disease is that I am very much like my mother. And I can’t bear the idea of dying the way she is dying. But I also can’t bear the idea of not being compared to her, seeing how alike our hands are or talking about how maybe my grey hair will come in like her grey hair did. I want to get to the point in grieving for my Mom when I can remember how it felt to have things in common, to laugh at the same things, to annoy each other with our similarities. So in these last days, I’m trying to sit quietly with mom, just being my mothers daughter for a bit more.