Earlier today, I found myself in a rather amusing predicament in the bathroom while trying to help my mom collect a urine sample. Let me tell you, it’s no easy feat: crouching down, aiming, and guessing where the stream will land. Picture this: a daughter hovering over her mother, attempting to micromanage her urine flow, while a line of impatient patients waits outside, rolling their eyes and adjusting their waistbands. It’s a scene straight out of a classic Mike Nichols and Elaine May comedy sketch.
In our new normal, my mother and I have become a bit of a comedic duo, bickering our way through fluorescent-lit hallways, embodying the Nichols and May of post-stroke dementia. Who knew I’d find my niche in the world of entertainment after 30 years of performing?
Did Nichols and May ever tackle the heavy subject of loss in their acts? Probably not; after all, death isn’t exactly a laugh riot. Yet, amidst our silly arguments shaped by dementia’s time distortions and the frustration of a child turned caregiver, laughter often breaks through.
As we wait outside the hospital for the bus — just one stop away — I feel a moment of suspended time. For a brief instant, the weight of brain injury and countless hospital visits seems to fade away. Today, we’re getting along unusually well. I sense something significant is about to happen.
Just ten minutes earlier, we left the doctor’s office, and I wonder if that time is enough to erase the memory of the doctor outlining my mom’s treatment options, including the urgent decision to operate on a new medical issue. I find myself staring at a dreary brick wall across from the bus stop, a grim housing project that I can’t help but find humorous in its bleakness.
“What’s so funny?” my mom asks, her curiosity piqued. Since she often forgets our conversations, I’ve grown tired of explaining my thoughts; it feels like a never-ending struggle.
I glance at her. At 75, she still manages to surprise doctors with her youthful spirit. She’s a former dancer and figure skater who has faced a lot over the past two months: surgery, a blood transfusion, and a thyroid acting up like a rebellious teenager. Most significantly, she survived a massive hemorrhagic stroke in 2009 that robbed her of her short-term memory.
The doctor had told me she might never wake up, yet here she is, demonstrating ballet moves to a room full of wide-eyed residents just days later. When I mentioned her boyfriend was coming to see her, she asked for mascara and a hairbrush, proving she was still very much herself. However, the stroke left her with memory loss that hasn’t fully recovered.
Physically, she looks as beautiful as ever, with her striking brown eyes, full lips, and stylish bob. You’d never guess she struggles to remember her own birthday, address, or even her grandchildren’s names.
I turn back to the brick wall, feeling a mix of emotions. “I have a confession, Mom,” I say, breaking the silence.
Winter has always been her favorite season, perhaps because she thrives on being different. As a figure skater, she embraced the cold, often feigning shock at others’ dislike for winter. Growing up in Los Angeles under palm trees, my sister and I experienced winters that barely dipped below 50 degrees. For her, a New York winter was the epitome of normalcy — a stark contrast to our sunny lives.
“I confess I’m really looking forward to spring, Mom,” I admit. “This year has been tough, and I crave the warmth, the light, and the blooming flowers.” I pause, feeling a bit guilty for wanting winter to end.
“Me too,” she responds. “I feel that way now too.”
My heart does a little dance. If the fierce love she had for winter has faded, who is this new version of my mother? Is she still the same person? How do we even define who we are?
As we sit side by side, gazing at that unremarkable brick wall, I shift my perspective. We’re on the same path, looking ahead together. Greeting cards often tell us that sharing common ground is the hallmark of a healthy relationship. Over the past five years, ours has been a whirlwind of emotions: fierce devotion mixed with sorrow and conflict. But today, it feels refreshing to agree on something.
If discord fuels comedy, I’d happily exchange all our humorous moments for this peaceful understanding. You won’t find a Nichols and May skit featuring two people in perfect harmony at a bus stop; that’s just boring! But thanks to the promise of spring, my mom and I have experienced a rebirth in our relationship right here at this icy bus stop in late January.
While she may not remember our conversation, the beauty is that I will. I’ll cherish this fleeting moment of connection, a secret just between us, even if it’s only in my heart.
Did my mom pass away that day in November five years ago? Am I now speaking to a shadow of her former self? Or has our repetitive exchanges finally brought her back? Today, she embraced a new perspective, something that contradicts the unwavering traditions she held for so long.
Is there any better sign of being truly alive?
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Summary:
In this heartfelt reflection, Jamie navigates the complexities of her relationship with her mother after a life-altering brain injury. Amidst hospital visits and challenges, they find moments of unexpected connection and humor. As they await a bus on a winter’s day, they share a poignant realization about change and acceptance, highlighting the evolving nature of identity and relationships.