My mom is gearing up for a wedding, and guess what? She needs some cosmetics! I find myself spending at least ten minutes picking out the perfect blush, eyeliner, and just the right shade of lipstick.
I’ve already dragged her around for high heels, and I’m feeling utterly exhausted. Dealing with a mother who has dementia is a delicate dance; any suggestion I make can feel like a harsh judgment on her independence. As I navigate the Easy Spirit store, my 2-year-old is making a mad dash for the door, which is wide open to embrace the lovely spring day. Meanwhile, my mom is trying to cram a stiletto onto the wrong foot over her athletic sock and insisting the staff has mixed up the shoes. I’m running up and down the aisles, scooping up my little one, while attempting to have a discreet chat with the salesman: “My mom has dementia, so I’ll do the talking. Please address her directly, but listen to me!” It’s always a blast explaining this to a busy New York shoe salesman who clearly loves navigating complicated family dynamics.
My brain feels like it’s on fire as I juggle the needs of both my mother and my toddler. They both sense when they’re being talked about rather than directly engaged. I’ve become a sort of undercover agent, trying to communicate with each of them. Unfortunately, with my mom, I often stumble, leading to a dramatic quarrel worthy of Eugene O’Neill. We end up vowing never to see each other again, with her accusing me of “making her memory worse” and me insisting she’s driving me up the wall.
But in just five minutes, she’ll forget our argument, and I’ll no longer be upset. I’ll just see my mom, or the woman who carries fragments of her spirit but doesn’t quite reflect the vibrant person I once knew. We’ll be friends again, taking my daughter out to lunch while I handle both of them, neither able to care for themselves yet both hell-bent on insisting they can.
I decide to venture to the cosmetics aisle alone, treating it like a sacred mission. I’m putting together a bag for my mom’s boyfriend for the wedding. He remembers her from “before” and, like me, clings to that memory while trying to appreciate her in the present. She can still be a blast on the right day, and her humor remains sharp. Recently, when a friend remarked that she seemed “like her old self” despite a major health setback five years ago, my mom quipped, “I wouldn’t know.”
I adore those old-fashioned pharmacies that sell soap in adorable tin canisters adorned with sailboats. They even have talcum powder—does anyone even use that anymore? I can’t help but linger a bit.
It was my mother who gifted me my first perfume. We lived in a cozy apartment in Los Angeles, and I had my own room filled with only a few cherished items. She believed in valuing the few precious things rather than clutter. On my 17th birthday, I awoke to find a stunning curved glass bottle on my desk, basking in sunlight. It was “Beautiful” by Estée Lauder. I reveled in its promise, even though I had no boyfriend or parties to attend. I skipped my junior and senior proms, and if anyone wanted to ask me, they never did.
Still, my romantic life was rich with memories of my mom teaching me lessons about life and love, just as her mother had taught her. Although she wasn’t always around due to health issues, when she was, she was all in.
One afternoon, I played her a song I’d bought at Tower Records—Ella Fitzgerald. Experiencing her music felt akin to discovering a new world, and my mom articulated that feeling beautifully. We sat on my carpet, eyes closed, as she said, “She’s silk and honey.” We lost ourselves in 14 minutes of Ella scatting “Take the ‘A’ Train” before rewinding the tape for another round.
My memories of her are sharp and vivid. She was a world-class figure skater and a Broadway performer, yet she always insisted my sisters and I were more talented than she could ever be. They say daughters inherit their mother’s self-worth, so it’s crucial for moms to avoid self-deprecation. Yet, she made me feel like I was crafted from silk, a marvelous creation born from her imagination rather than just her biology.
The night before the wedding, my mom called me in a panic. Her boyfriend had just informed her about the formal event, and she was in a frenzy. “What am I going to do? My roots are showing! I have no makeup, no jewelry, no dress or shoes!” I reminded her that everything was neatly packed in a shopping bag—shoes, pantyhose, dress, makeup, a patent leather purse, pearls, and those high heels. Her boyfriend would arrive with the goods in plenty of time for her to change. I urged her to look in the mirror; her hair was freshly cut and colored.
She cried.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Oh, Mom. Thank you.
For more insights into home insemination, check out this post on intracervical insemination, or learn more from the experts at Make A Mom. If you’re interested in the broader conversation about fertility, this Cleveland Clinic podcast is an excellent resource.
In summary, navigating my mother’s dementia while managing a toddler is no easy feat, but the moments of connection and love we share make it all worthwhile.