I used everything I could to stay connected to her as she lost the ability to engage in the hallmarks of linear life. My mother had always loved dancing. When I came home from work, I’d turn on Tina Turner or J Jackson, and we would dance and dance. I’d play her favorite songs on the piano, and she’d place her hand on top of the old upright and sing each note and every word perfectly.
As my mother’s illness progressed, I saw that I could not provide the care she needed, so I decided to put her in a nursing home. Now that she’s away, I dread the day when she will no longer know me. Sometimes she seems lost to me. But then something happens, such as my wedding. Even though she expressed no interest, I needed her there. On my wedding day, she marched in with my father, stepmother,aunts, uncles, and cousins. She sat behind me, occasionally murmuring in time to the minister’s speech as he poured libations. When it came time for me to stand. she looked at me and sang out proudly, “That’s my gal.” I turned to her. “Yes, Mom, it’s me. ”
When I visit her in the nursing home, we don’t carry on typical conversations. Rather, I talk about my day and act out Anansi tales. Or I massage her arms, shoulders, and hands. She grabs my arm and cradles it, talking all the while about how she loves babies. And when I feel like a baby myself, wishing I could just tell all my troubles to my mother and know everything will be all right, she holds my hand tight or pats my head, and I’mforted.
When I tell people, their faces drop. “You poor thing,” they say. Perhaps they tell me about loved ones who became unrecognizable as their brains degenerated, ravaged by Atzheimer’s.
Those who pity me, however, do not know the whole story. While I hate the disease, I have learned to accept and be nurtured by this new Mildred, who still maintains the essence of my mother. My knowledge of my mother is in my very skin, as is her knowledge of me. Not even Alzheimer’s can take that away.