Maybe there comes a point in the Alzheimer’s journey as in any journey of life, a time when we have accepted the new normal. I thought I had accepted it, come to an unemotional understanding of who my mother is now. We made the 4+ hour trip on Saturday. My brother, a saint in my book, brought Mom to lunch with all of us, my husband and me, my daughter and her 3 year-old daughter, and my sister. The table was alive with conversation, all except Mom who sat patiently as Hunter ordered for her, cut her food, and asked her if she liked it. She was content. But she never spoke.
There was a time not too long ago when she would try to be a part of the conversation. Her words would come in and leave off. Like the thought that created them had shorted out, the energy waned. This time, only a month or so later, she doesn’t even try anymore. Her silence was loud to me.
On Sunday morning, my husband helped me get her to church. It wasn’t easy, but we did it. I sat holding Mom for the service. She fell asleep a few times, but when the organ played, she jerked awake and listened, sometimes singing along. She can still read the hymns and her voice is as beautiful as ever. I told her so in her ear, and she turned and smiled, “Thank you.”
Another time during the service, she turned to me and said, “I miss…” I’m not sure who she was missing, my father, my brother, or one of her favorite priests. For a moment, she was present and missing someone.
We brought her back to her memory care home. She was whisked away by the kind receptionist. I turned away in tears. Every time I visit, it gets harder to leave.
Here is a photo of her holding up a tacky Christmas sweater that my daughter gave to her. She follows directions well, “Hold it up and smile.”
I am grateful for so many things: My brother who deals with all of my mother’s needs, my mother’s contentedness, her amazing care, and the sparkle in her blue eyes. Grief is with me always. I will learn to hold its hand and feel its softness. Someone once said that deep grief comes from deep love.
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Reflections on the Teche 
This post is so relatable- even though I have not (yet) experienced this repeated/gradual/sudden grief. How hard. Thank you for sharing these intimate moments- they bring us all together in our humanity.
Oh, Margaret! From deep grief comes deep love! Thank you for this post. My father-in-law had Alzheimers and my mother-in-law has dementia. She also follows simple directions well. Your words are so healing! Thank you.
Margaret,
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I was part of this journey with my father in law as my own children grew from children into teens and I tried to answer their endless questions and support my husband as he grieved. Yet, as I reflect back, I remember the smiles of delivering “gifts” to all of the residents in the home and the joy of watching grandpa sneak puffs on a cigar in the parking lot of the park while my children ice skated. The years of decline were hard and the experience I would not want to repeat; however, the memories are of the funny and good times as he slowly, very slowly slipped away. My prayers are with you all on this hard journey. May the memories sustain you.
Anita, Thanks for sharing your story. It comforts me so much. There are good times and funny ones.
You capture this poignant time in these small moments from your trip. Her silence being loud to you- that is moving. Your mother turning to say “thank you” to you. The moment your mother realizes she misses someone- then it is gone. You teach us a lot about the reality of Alzheimer’s by telling these small moments so honestly and beautifully.
Oh, Margaret, there are so many smaller moments within this small moment slice that resonate with love and grief–The loud silence, the “thank you.” I’m sending a big hug your way. PS I like to think that in her silence, your mother is basking in all the love that surrounds her.
Margaret, what a beautiful smile your mother has. My grandmother had dementia. When I visited her in the nursing home, I always talked about some memory we had made together like all the summer days picking raspberries and black caps. She didn’t speak or smile, but her eyes sparkled. I believed that she knew who I was. I also thought the memory I shared with her, and my visit made her happy. I think that your mom knew and was happy that you were all there. You two made wonderful memories together-her beautiful singing, her thank you, and her saying, I miss… Perhaps, even in her silence your mother is happy, especially when her family is there and when she goes out to places with you. I’m sending you prayers and love. Thank you for sharing your honesty, your love and your healing.
Margaret, your story was just beautiful…brought tears to my eyes because I know one day I will be you sitting next to my mom having her fall asleep on my shoulder-never hearing her spunky conversation quips. I live 4 states away from my mom, but call her at least 4 times a day. We chat about nothing and she never remembers my previous call, but that’s OK, because I know one day…she won’t chat anymore. Thank you for your story. Even through Living Grief, we can smile with our loved ones.
You understand this time. Last Valentine’s Day I sent her a care package and she called me to thank me. SHE called me. And here we are 9 months later and she doesn’t use a phone or have a conversation. Slip sliding away. Thanks for responding.
I wish there was a ‘hug’ button so I could send you a bear hug. My mom called me last night and I almost dropped the phone in shock. I cherish every chance I get to talk with her, because I feel mine slip sliding away, too. Big sigh…