Mom was Mom even when she forgot who I was.

My first month with Mom

In 1995, my mother fell. She didn’t break anything, but she couldn’t get up. My dad couldn’t lift her up, even with my help. My husband was able to help her up, with Dad and me assisting She was not a big woman - 5’2”, 145 pounds. The next day, she fell again, and my husband and I could not drive the 45 minutes to their home to help. They called 911, and an ambulance transported her to the hospital. That was the day that everything changed between my mom and me, and my mom and the rest of the family. 

Mom was never diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. But gradually, over the next two years, she forgot how to do the most elementary tasks. She wasn’t brushing or flossing her teeth - a daily ritual she thought essential. Her clothes didn’t change, and it seemed that she wasn’t undressing and dressing herself. She was just living in the same clothes. Her bathing habits changed, and she looked at eating utensils as if they were foreign  objects. She didn’t know what day of the week it was or the time. So many other daily rituals were forgotten and abandoned. The final straw was when she hallucinated loud, out of control parties in the backyard, and called 911. She could no longer live at home. By April 1998, she flew to California to live in a nursing home’s memory unit near my two sisters and my dad. They said she had dementia. 

Mom was still my mom, even though she no longer knew who I was when I flew to California twice a year to see her. Every morning I would arrive at her room to be with her for the day. We’d watch television together - programs that did not require much thought, like PBS children’s programs and game shows. Sometimes I would read to her. When her food was delivered, I’d feed her. If one of the staff asked her about me, she’d say I was her mom, or her sister, and then she might remember and say I was her daughter.  After awhile, she no longer spoke. Our roles were reversed, and she was like my child. 

Instead of sitting with me when I was sick, holding my hand and telling me everything would be better in the morning, I was sitting with her, holding her hand, and praying tomorrow would be better. She loved writing letters to Dad when he was serving in the Army during World War II. She taught me to love writing letters to friends and family to let them know how my life was going. Now I was writing letters to anyone interested in her progress. Her hands could no longer hold a pen, or create legible sentences. She didn’t tell me what to say. I made it up as I went along. She loved to sing, and taught all of us to appreciate all kinds of music. Opera was her favorite. My sisters were better singers than I, but sometimes, I would sing softly to her, and she would smile. Books were also important to her, and we always had books to read. When I visited, I brought several books, reading to her until she lost interest, and fell sleep. Then I’d sit quietly and read to myself.

 The last year of her life, she was in and out of hospitals every other month for respiratory infections. For my last two trips to CA, I visited her in intensive care units. I used hand sanitizer before suiting up in an isolation gown, gloves, shoe covers, and mask. My visits were short since she slept most of the day. Instead of staying with her all day, I spent time with my father, my sisters, or I drove around Los Angeles. In January 2006, she passed away in her sleep. I always wondered if she forgot how to breathe. No autopsy was performed, so we never knew if she had Alzheimer’s or some other form of dementia. Doesn’t matter - she was and always will be my mom, even if she forgot me in her last eight years on this earth. 

It’s Mother’s Day, and while I’m remembering the last ten years of her life, I’m also remembering the prior 44 years of her life when she knew me and raised me to be the woman I am today. She taught me so many lessons, but the best lesson she taught me was gratitude. She’d be proud of me as I always show gratitude for every act of kindness, great or small. With each act of gratitude, I think of her. She taught me that gratitude could be as simple as a written note or a phone call, or something bigger,  like a gift certificate for dinner or a favorite store. This is my act of gratitude today, on a day I always called, or wrote, or sent her flowers, or took her out to dinner. Thank you, Mom, for teaching me to be grateful for everything and everyone in my life. I will never forget you. 

Our 1981 wedding day, with Mom, Dad, sisters