My mother is gearing up for a wedding, which means she needs a complete makeup overhaul. Selecting the perfect blush, eyeliner, and just the right shade of Revlon lipstick takes me at least ten minutes. I’ve already exhausted myself taking her shopping for high heels. When your mother is living with dementia, it’s a delicate dance—she becomes easily frustrated. Any suggestion I offer feels like a judgment on her independence.
Inside the Easy Spirit store, chaos ensues. My 2-year-old is making a beeline for the shop’s open door, eager to embrace the spring air. Meanwhile, my mother is wrestling with a stiletto on the wrong foot, over an athletic sock, insisting that the staff has made a mistake. As I dash through the aisles to corral my child, I attempt to have a discreet chat with the salesman. “My mother has dementia, so let me handle this. Please address her directly, but listen to me.” It’s an amusing scene, explaining family dynamics to a busy New York shoe salesman who likely prefers straightforward transactions.
Every part of my brain flickers to life as I navigate the challenges of both dementia and toddlerhood. Both my mother and daughter are vigilant about being talked about instead of being spoken to, leading me to develop skills akin to an undercover agent. I often fail, resulting in a Eugene O’Neill-style spat that ends with us vowing never to see each other again. She accuses me of “making her memory worse by taking away her choices,” while I express my frustration: she’s driving me nuts.
In five minutes, she’ll forget our argument, and I won’t feel angry anymore. I’ll simply see my mother, or at least the woman who shares her history and fragments of her soul but lacks the vibrant spark of my actual mother. We’ll reconnect and take my daughter out for lunch, both of them needing my assistance but fiercely determined to assert their independence.
I decide to venture into the cosmetics section alone, treating it like a sacred ritual. I’m preparing a gift bag for my mother’s boyfriend to bring to her for the wedding. He remembers her from “before” and, like me, clings to that memory while trying to appreciate who she is now. She still has her moments of fun; you just have to catch her on the right day, and her wit remains razor-sharp. A friend recently told her that despite the significant brain bleed five years ago, she seems “her old self.” Without missing a beat, my mother quipped, “I wouldn’t know.”
I have a soft spot for old-fashioned pharmacies that offer soap in tin canisters adorned with sailboats. They even sell talcum powder—does anyone still use that? I can’t help but linger there, reminiscing.
My mother gifted me my first perfume—a curved glass bottle of “Beautiful” by Estée Lauder—on my 17th birthday. It sat on my white desk, basking in sunlight, and filled me with anticipation, even though I had no boyfriend or parties on the horizon. I skipped both my junior and senior proms, likely because no one asked me. But I still had a romantic life in other ways. My mother imparted wisdom about love, relationships, and the truths she learned from her own mother.
One afternoon, I played her a song from a cassette I’d purchased at Tower Records. It was Ella Fitzgerald, and I imagined that experiencing Ella’s voice is comparable to discovering a new world. My mother articulated my feelings perfectly as we sat on the carpet, her eyes closed, head tilted, saying, “She’s silk and honey.” We savored 14 minutes of Ella scatting “Take the ‘A’ Train,” rewinding it to listen again.
I don’t have hazy memories of my mother; she was always sharp and defined. She taught me about tragedy, drama, and life. A former world-class figure skater, Broadway dancer, and television actress, she always believed her daughters were more talented than she was. They say daughters absorb their mother’s self-worth, making it crucial for moms to avoid self-deprecation. Yet, she made me feel as though I was crafted from silk, a unique creation born from her imagination.
The night before the wedding, my mother called me in a panic. Her boyfriend had just informed her he was picking her up for a formal event the next day. She was distraught—her roots needed touching up, and she had no makeup, jewelry, dress, or shoes! I reassured her that everything was packed in a shopping bag: shoes, pantyhose, dress, cosmetics, a patent leather purse, pearls, and high heels. Her boyfriend would deliver it all with ample time for her to prepare. I urged her to look in the mirror; her hair was freshly cut and colored.
She cried, “Thank you.”
Oh, Mom. Thank you.
In case you’re interested in home insemination, this is a reputable online retailer of at-home insemination syringe kits. For more information on pregnancy and home insemination, check out this.
In summary, navigating the challenges of caring for a parent with dementia while juggling a toddler can be a complex and emotional journey. Yet, the threads of love and memory weave through every moment, reminding us of the precious connections we share.
Leave a Reply