My mother is preparing to attend a wedding, and she requires cosmetics. I spend a minimum of ten minutes selecting the perfect blush, eyeliner, and just the right shade of lipstick.
We’ve already gone shopping for high heels, and I feel utterly exhausted. Navigating the complexities of caregiving becomes particularly challenging when your parent has dementia; minor suggestions seem to provoke frustration. In the Easy Spirit store, I find myself juggling my energetic 2-year-old, who keeps darting toward the open door, while my mother struggles to fit a stiletto on the wrong foot over an athletic sock, insisting the staff has given her the wrong shoe. Amidst this chaos, I attempt an inconspicuous conversation with a salesman, “My mother has dementia, so I’ll handle the explanations. Please don’t address me; speak directly to her, but listen to me.” It’s quite entertaining to see the expression on a New York shoe salesman’s face as he navigates these complicated family dynamics.
Every part of my brain buzzes as I try to manage the needs of both a toddler and a parent with dementia. Both my mother and daughter are acutely aware when they are spoken about rather than spoken to, so I’ve honed my skills like a secret agent working undercover. Unfortunately, with my mother, I often fall short, leading to dramatic arguments worthy of Eugene O’Neill. We frequently vow never to see each other again. She accuses me of “making her memory worse by denying her choices,” while I express my frustration at her behavior.
In five minutes, she won’t remember our quarrel, and I won’t feel angry anymore. I will simply see my mother, or the woman who shares her history and memories but lacks the vibrant eyes of my true mother. We will reconcile, take my daughter out for lunch, and I’ll manage both of their needs throughout the day, even though neither can fully care for themselves.
I choose to visit the cosmetics aisle alone, treating it like a ceremonial act. I’m preparing a gift bag for my mother’s boyfriend for the wedding. He remembers her from “before” and, like me, clings to that memory while trying to appreciate who she is now. She can still be lively; you just need to catch her on a good day, and her wit remains sharp. Recently, a friend remarked that despite her significant health challenges five years ago, my mother appears to be “her old self.” Without missing a beat, she replied, “I wouldn’t know.”
I have a fondness for old-fashioned pharmacies that sell charming soap from Rhode Island in tin canisters adorned with sailboats. The same company carries talcum powder. Does anyone even use talcum powder anymore? I can’t help but linger there, reminiscing.
My mother gifted me my first bottle of perfume when I was a teenager. We lived in a modest apartment in Los Angeles, where I had my own room. Minimal items filled my space, as my mother strongly believed in cherishing a few precious possessions. A dusty pink vase proudly displayed stalks of elegant pussy willow in one corner, while my pristine white desk—an heirloom from my sister, now away at college—faced Gregory Way.
On my 17th birthday, I awoke to find a curved glass bottle resting on my white desk, illuminated by sunlight. My mother had an eye for detail. It was “Beautiful” by Estée Lauder. I reveled in the promise it represented. I had no boyfriend, no parties to attend, and no dates on the horizon. I didn’t go to my junior or senior prom; if anyone wanted to ask me, they never did.
Yet, my romantic life was rich in other ways. I remember my mother imparting wisdom she had inherited from her own mother, lessons she deemed true, and insights she had gained about relationships. Though she wasn’t always present during my teenage years due to health issues, when she was, she was fully engaged.
One afternoon, I played her a song from a cassette I had purchased at Tower Records on Sunset Boulevard. It was Ella Fitzgerald. I imagine experiencing Ella for the first time is akin to discovering a rare gem. Words escaped me, but my mother articulated the sensation beautifully. We sat on the carpet, eyes closed, and she said, “She’s silk and honey.” We listened to 14 minutes of Ella scatting “Take the ‘A’ Train” before rewinding the tape.
I don’t have hazy memories of my mother; she was sharp and defined. She was the first to explain the concepts of tragedy and drama. A world-class champion figure skater, Broadway dancer, and television actress, she was also a screenwriter and novelist. Yet, she always believed her daughters were infinitely more talented than she. It’s said that girls absorb their mother’s self-esteem rather than her praises, emphasizing the importance for mothers to avoid self-deprecation. Regardless, she made me feel like I was crafted from silk, a unique creation born from her imagination.
The night before the wedding, my mother called me in tears. Her boyfriend had informed her that he would be picking her up for a formal event the next day. She was fraught with anxiety about her roots needing touch-ups, lacking makeup, jewelry, a dress, and shoes. I reminded her yet again that everything was packed in a shopping bag: shoes, pantyhose, a dress, cosmetics, a patent leather purse, pearls, and heels. Her boyfriend would deliver them to her apartment in plenty of time. I encouraged her to look in the mirror—her hair was freshly cut and colored.
She sobbed, “Thank you.”
“Oh, Mom. Thank you,” I replied.
This article was originally published on June 9, 2015. For more information on pregnancy and home insemination, consider checking out this excellent resource.
Summary
This article reflects on the complexities of caring for a parent with dementia while managing the energetic needs of a young child. Through the lens of preparing for a wedding, it explores memories of a mother-daughter relationship marked by love, wisdom, and the painful realities of memory loss. The narrative captures moments of connection, nostalgia, and the bittersweet nature of caregiving.