It begins once more: the relentless cycle, an emotional whirlwind that leaves you gasping for air.
Stage One: Denial
“Have you spoken to Mom recently?” The question I dread each time my siblings ring me.
“Yes,” I reply, closing my eyes before asking, “Why?”
“She just seems… off,” he replies with a sigh.
“No, I haven’t seen anything,” I respond, lying through my teeth.
After hanging up, I attempt to erase the conversation from my mind. I immerse myself in parenting—helping with homework, preparing a lackluster dinner, and engaging in playtime with my children. As I sit at the kitchen table, I mechanically eat, all while pushing the harsh reality of my mother’s illness further away. I nod along as my son animatedly discusses his Lego creations, and I wipe my daughter’s mouth, appreciating her cheerful hum. We sit together, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing just outside our family bubble. I keep telling myself it’s not happening again. But it is.
And soon, we’ll reach the next stage… the one we all wish for.
Stage Two: The Illusion of Recovery
My phone rings, revealing “Mom” on the screen. I hesitate, wishing I could decline the call. But the desire to connect with her, to grasp a fragment of her former self, compels me to answer.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, holding my breath.
“Are you coming to see me for Spring Break?” she asks, her words tumbling out quicker than her usual cadence.
“Um, I haven’t thought about it…”
“I’m clearing out my closet,” she interrupts, her mind racing. “Do you want that brown suit we bought at the mall? You could use it for work.”
“Mom, I don’t work anymore,” I correct, though it’s been seven years.
“Oh,” she pauses, but quickly moves on. “I feel so alive right now! Did I tell you? I’m back, better than ever! I stayed up all night organizing my closet and cabinets.”
I can’t help but visualize our once immaculate home, now cluttered and chaotic. Her beloved teapot collection, once neatly displayed, is now scattered haphazardly across the house. I imagine my father, weary and overwhelmed, trying to manage this new reality while she blissfully ignores the chaos around her.
“I’m glad you’re feeling well,” I lie, knowing full well that she’s not. But this fleeting euphoria she experiences is a stark contrast to the fragility I see beneath. I brace myself, knowing this moment of happiness won’t last.
“I love you, Mom,” I say, forcing back tears.
“I love you too,” she responds, and I know she means it.
Stage Three: Anger
Her name flashes on my screen again. The eighth call of the day. I take a deep breath, knowing what’s coming but unable to ignore her.
“Hi, Mom.”
“I don’t know what your problem is,” she lashes out.
“I don’t have a problem,” I reply, gritting my teeth.
“You and Dad are terrible! Do you think I’m a child?” she accuses, her words sharp and unfiltered.
The illness transforms her into someone unrecognizable. She’s heard snippets of conversations about her care and that terrifies her. The once sweet mother I knew now lashes out at my father, berating him constantly. I worry for him. She would never harm him, but her anger can be frightening.
“No, Mom. We don’t think you’re a child,” I say gently, though we often treat her like one.
“Your husband should leave you! You don’t deserve him or your kids!”
“I know, Mom,” I respond, hoping to defuse the situation. She’s already repeated this accusation multiple times today, along with others that cut deep.
I made a difficult choice to hospitalize her during a particularly challenging episode, and she hasn’t forgiven me. She doesn’t understand why I can’t visit her, why I shield my children from her current state. She deserves to be remembered as the loving grandmother who had candy in her pockets, who sang songs off-key but with joy.
“I’m sorry you’re upset, Mom,” I say softly.
“Sure you are. You don’t care about me!” And the call abruptly ends. I set my phone down, tears streaming down my face because my mother is sick, and I am left grappling with the question: “Why?”
She’ll call me again, many times that day, and I will answer every single one, enduring her hurtful words because she is my mom. I know she doesn’t mean it.
Stage Four: The Void
Days pass without a call from her. Yesterday was her birthday, and I reached out to share a simple “Happy Birthday.” We exchanged “I love yous,” but that was it.
Today is my birthday. Normally, she would recount the details of my birth, her voice animated as she reminisced about her labor. “Everyone from church was there,” she’d say, just like she has every year before.
But not this year. She forgot again. It’s not her fault; her illness has taken that from her. Yet the pain lingers.
I check my phone repeatedly, hoping for a message, but it never comes. I tell myself it’s okay; she’ll get better. She’ll return to me, just like she always does. Meanwhile, I sift through old cards, searching for a reminder of her—the real her.
Amidst the collection, I find a cherished note: “Here’s your mail, Sweetie. Sure do miss you so much. Love, Mom.” And it hits me. I miss her too—so much.
In this journey of loving someone with dementia, we navigate the highs and lows, the fleeting moments of clarity intertwined with the heart-wrenching reality of loss.
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