Updated: August 16, 2015
Originally Published: April 19, 2015
Earlier today, we shared a somewhat humorous moment in the bathroom while attempting to collect a urine sample. This task is far from straightforward: crouching, aiming, and figuring out where the stream will land in the cup. Add in a daughter trying to guide her mother through the process and a line of patients outside, visibly impatient and shifting in their seats, and you have the makings of a comedy sketch.
At times, my mother and I resemble a comedic duo, bickering in front of bewildered strangers in harsh fluorescent-lit hallways. We are like a modern version of a classic comedy duo, navigating the complexities of post-stroke dementia. I’ve finally found my place in the world of humor, even though I’ve been performing for three decades.
Did those classic comedians ever tackle the weighty theme of loss in their work? Probably not; death tends to dampen the humor. Yet amidst the confusion caused by dementia and the frustration of a caregiver, laughter still finds a way to emerge.
As we sit in the chilly air of a winter day, waiting for the bus just outside the hospital—only one stop away—I experience a fleeting moment of clarity. The burdens of brain injury and countless hospital visits seem to fade temporarily. Today, we are getting along unusually well, and I feel as if a curtain is about to lift.
Just ten minutes earlier, we left the doctor’s office where I had to absorb the heavy news of my mother’s medical choices—my choice to proceed with urgent surgery on a new health concern. I find myself staring at a grim brick wall across from the bus stop, part of a dilapidated housing project. It looks bleak and I can’t help but laugh bitterly at the irony.
“What’s so funny?” my mother asks. She struggles to hold onto our conversations, and I often grow tired of repeating myself—it’s a relentless cycle.
I look at her: She’s 75, and I take a certain pride in sharing that with doctors who often express surprise. My mother was once a dancer and figure skater. In the past two months, she has endured abdominal surgery, a blood transfusion, and the instability of a thyroid that sends her emotions on wild swings. She has faced the aftermath of a devastating hemorrhagic stroke that occurred in November 2009, which left her with severe cognitive impairments.
The doctor once told me she wouldn’t wake up from the ICU. Yet, just two days later, she opened her eyes and even showed off some ballet moves to the astonished medical staff. When I mentioned her boyfriend was coming to visit, she asked for mascara and a hairbrush, revealing that she still remembered me. However, the stroke had severely affected her short-term memory, and most pathways for forming new memories did not heal.
Despite her frail appearance, the trauma hasn’t visibly affected her. Her big brown eyes, red lips, and bobbed hair still radiate life, and her legs, still elegant in jazz pants, suggest a dancer’s grace. Most people would never guess she struggles to remember her own birthday or her grandchildren’s names.
I turn my gaze back to the brick wall in the dull light.
“I have a confession, Mom.”
My mother has always loved winter, perhaps because it allows her to stand out from the crowd. As a figure skater, she has always embraced the cold, often feigning surprise when others express their dislike for winter. It’s as if she enjoys contradicting the typical feelings that accompany the season.
Marriage brought her to Los Angeles, and my sister and I grew up under palm trees, where our “winters” barely dipped below 50 degrees. The harsh realities of a New York winter were a world apart from our experiences in California; I knew this even as a child. We did not experience autumn leaves or snowmen, nor did we huddle by fireplaces. My romantic inclination and loyalty to my mother have led me to embrace winter, and now, having lived in New York City for half my life, I truly relish the arrival of autumn.
“I confess I’m really looking forward to spring, Mom,” I admit. “This year has been different for me, and I don’t want any more winter. I want sunshine, light, and flowers.” I pause, feeling a bit ashamed as I await her response.
“Me too,” she replies. “I feel that way now too.”
My heart stops for a moment. If she’s lost her steadfast love for winter, what remains of the person I once knew? Is she still the same? How do we even define a person?
We sit side by side, gazing at the wall.
But then I shift my perspective. My mother and I are traveling the same path, looking in the same direction. Greeting cards often tell us this is the hallmark of a healthy relationship. Over the past five years, our bond has been multifaceted: intense, loving, contentious, and burdened by sorrow. It feels refreshing to share this moment of mutual understanding with her.
If conflict fuels comedy, I would trade every laugh with my mother for this newfound sense of agreement. You won’t find a comedic routine about two people sharing a moment of harmony at a bus stop—it’s simply not entertaining.
Yet, because of spring, my mother and I experience a renewal of our relationship at this grim, ice-covered bus stop at the end of January. She may not remember this moment, but I’ll hold onto it, and I don’t need to ask her to keep it secret. I will carry with me this resurrection of our connection—something that existed before her stroke.
Was my mother lost that day in November five years ago? Am I connecting with a mere shadow of her former self? Or has our repeated conversations brought her back? Today, she has embraced a new perspective, something that contradicts her lifelong beliefs.
What better definition of being “alive” is there?
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In summary, this piece reflects on the complexities of navigating a changed relationship with a parent after a life-altering event. It explores themes of identity, connection, and the bittersweet moments of rediscovery.