Words said in anger wrapped with spite can be cruel and feel like a slap across the face. But what of words never said? I think they can be just as hurtful. When I was growing up my parents believed that if they acknowledged our accomplishments then we would become soft and not develop into hard-working adults. Looking back on those years, I can tell you that theory doesn’t hold much water. With vivid feelings of longing I recall striving to hear the words from my parents that would let me know they thought I was doing well. When the words didn’t come a hole began to creep inside my self-confidence. In the end I went through most of my life thinking I was sub par, nothing special. In high school I was a member of the first girl’s basketball team. Mom came to one game. I was involved in the school plays, Dad never showed. I pulled the float in our homecoming parade. Not even a word of advice from them as to how I should do it.
I know my parent’s loved me, I’m sure they even told me that. My parents demonstrated their love with providing for us even when times were difficult. They always managed to bring the family an amazing Christmas. Birthdays we were singled out for the day and were allowed to choose the dinner menu and what kind of cake we wanted. I know these actions were symbols of their love. Yet, just once, I wanted to hear the words that would let me know they thought I was amazing and they were grateful I was their child. The only time I remember my mother saying I love you and me, feeling she actually meant it was a few months before she passed away from dementia. She looked me directly in the eye and said “I love you, Rosemary” and then smiled. It was a rare moment of cognizance. Tears still fill my eyes when I recall that snapshot of time that I had waited for most of my life.
I don’t normally make New Year’s resolutions. But, this year I intend to make an exception. I have been traveling down the road of change in my life; the 55 year mark has made me stop and evaluate. With those evaluations I have come to some conclusions. I have decided that I will tell my loved ones just that, I love you. But, I also intend to demonstrate that love with gratitude for their actions and for just being who they are. I’ve been wondering, do I thank my husband enough or like my parents let him go with the assumption gratitude is there? I am going to work on changing that. I have two adult daughters and it is obvious they do not need me on a daily basis anymore. Still, I think, more thank you’s need to come their way. I’ll start with sending notes of gratitude; perhaps for taking time out of their day to spend it with me, perhaps for coming over for dinner, maybe sharing a laugh. I want to emphasize that the small gestures are just as important as the large and any gesture that brings a bright spot deserves recognition. And so, I have started. It isn’t easy. Sometimes it can be days later that I remember, wait that was a special moment and I need to be thankful for that. Other times I slide too easily into taking my husband for granted. I have to remind myself that words are powerful and when used to express gratitude or love can be a gift we give to others.
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Summer Wandering and Mom
This has been my summer of travel. For pleasure, my husband and I took several days and meandered down the east coast, then we bee-lined across the state of North Carolina to my favorite southern lake for a family Fourth of July party. I went on a working adventure with my daughter to help her move into her new apartment before she starts law school. I discovered, while I traveled for The Scotia-Glenville Traveling Museum, the varied regions around the upstate New York area that until now were unknown to me.
During all of those hours of wandering I let my mind wonder, hoping to be inspired. To my disappointment no words jumped out of me begging to be put to print. But, a realization did occur. I have written, over the course of several years, my feelings, frustrations and the day to day surprises that helping an elderly parent with dementia can bring. Consequently, I feel it is time to share some of my words as they form into my forthcoming book.
Recently, I recalled a conversation I had with Mom on more than one occasion. This was several years before any of us suspected something was wrong with her.
“Rosemary, I seem to be forgetting things a lot.”
“Oh, Mom, that’s normal. Heck I forget things all the time.”
“Yes, but this seems to be more than normal.”
“Mom, I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Thus, I brushed her concerns away before she could elaborate more. I suppose I didn’t want to hear about anything being wrong with my mother. So I felt dismay when I recently heard a doctor on a news program say that many people know that they are having early signs of dementia. They realize something is not right. It pains me to think my Mom was alone in this knowledge and that I avoided that conversation more than once.
Eventually, my siblings and I did become aware that Mom was struggling and that something needed to be done. I recall vividly the day I entered Mom’s house to pack her suitcase and bring her to my home for what I thought might be just a long visit. It turned into so much more.
The following is an excerpt from:
A Slow Slide into Nothing
I arrived at the Indianapolis, Indiana airport, rented a car and drove to Wabash. As I pulled the car into the driveway and parked, I realized it was already warm for a day in May. I walked up the sidewalk; I could smell the fertilizer being spread on the fields just outside of town. My nose crinkled and I sucked in and held my breath so I wouldn’t smell the ripe aroma of manure in the air. When I stepped onto the porch, I expected to see Mom at the door, but, instead I had to let myself in. There she sat in the dark living room. I glanced around, remembering the salmon pink limestone fireplace that fills the wall at the far end of the living room, the family portraits, and my wedding picture. I waited for the years of childhood memories to come flooding back but they did not, could not as I looked at my mother. She looked frail, tired, and scared. Her clothing was dirty and full of stains. I was taken aback. How had Mom let herself get to this state? Mom always took pride in her clothing. She had dressed competently for her job as a high school counselor, later sternly as the city court judge. Now she wore clothing that did not match and food had dribbled down the front of her shirt. Seeing her this way was terrifying. I took a deep breath; I struggled not to appear shocked. Mom seemed embarrassed by the way she was dressed; the mess the house was in. Yet, she was unable to make any decisions or act to change it.
In a few short hours, it became apparent that Mom was far worse than I had thought. When she had mentioned on the phone she couldn’t pack her suitcase I assumed, it was not that she couldn’t but that she didn’t want to. I quickly realized she didn’t have the stamina, or the power to decide what to pack. Our past phone conversations raced through my mind, and I concluded she must have been lying to me about her lifestyle. I attributed her condition to depression about my father’s death and her forced retirement after losing her re-election as city court judge. Instead of haunting familiar places and reminiscing, I spent four days visiting Mom’s doctors, getting her car in working order, throwing out rancid food and packing. Mom sat on her bed and weakly told me which clothing she might want to pack. Most of her clothes were not clean, so I stuffed them in a suitcase knowing I would need to do laundry once we returned to my house. Just going through her medication was over-whelming. There were many duplicate prescriptions, some unopened bottles; others were empty with no replacement for them. I was frustrated trying to decide what prescriptions Mom actually needed to take and why.
Over the next few days, besieged with decisions about Mom, I was the picture of business on the outside. But, on the inside emotionally, I was falling apart. I suddenly realized that Mom was now the child and I had become the parent.
On the last day, I helped Mom climb into her packed car. We pulled down the driveway. She barely looked back. I gazed at the house I had grown up in, literally since birth, swallowed my tears, put on a good face for Mom and drove away.
Remembering February
For close to a year the month of February has been looming just outside of my conscious. February 21, 2013 will be the one year anniversary of my mother’s death and the 12 year anniversary of my father’s death. I have prepared myself to be sad. But, what I haven’t prepared myself for are the down times leading up to that day.
On January first of 2012 I was celebrating the start of the New Year with friends. We were at a bar having chicken wings and beer. That was when I received the first call about my mother not doing well. With the help of my sister Roxann, who flew in from Georgia, we spent nearly two weeks watching my mother slowly succumb to pneumonia. Then, miraculously she pulled herself back from the brink of death. Bewildered from what we had prepared ourselves for, Mom’s death, and reality, Roxann wearily went home. As January faded into February Mom improved to the point where some days she didn’t need the oxygen.
One weekend in February, I visited Mom on a Friday. I even took her picture to send to my sisters because Mom looked so good after her close call with death. Unbelievably, that following Monday I was called by the nursing staff because Mom was once again ill. The change in Mom over the weekend was startling. I saw the look of panic in her eyes as she struggled to breathe. With the help of the nurse practitioner, who prescribed, and then the nurse, who administered the morphine, we were able to ease Mom’s discomfort and fear. I sat with her most of the day until she fell asleep. I left knowing I would need to get many tasks accomplished before I began, once again, waiting with Mom for death to finally relieve her of her painful existence here on earth.
The next morning, as I prepared myself and my home for the long hours of sitting with Mom the nurse called. Mom was worse. Since Mom’s illness the month before, her children had resolved not to continue the brutal cycle of stopping the pneumonia, with antibiotics, only to have the illness return very shortly afterward. We were committed to shortening Mom’s downward spiral towards death for her sake, instead of prolonging her dementia bound life for us. But, I won’t lie it was difficult to see my mother laboring to breathe and the fear in her face. I gave the nod and morphine was administered so that she could rest easily. That afternoon the nurse practitioner told me this was it; Mom would not recover this time. I called Roxann. She made plans to return to Upstate New York.
As suddenly as Mom had become ill, she died. She died before Roxann could arrive. She died within 48 hours of my initial phone call. No one on the staff, not even the nurses, thought she would die that quickly. Yet, I had a feeling all of that day, because I sensed my dad in her room with me. I understood that he had come to take her to their afterlife.
I remember many aspects of those long days in January and the few days in February that led to our extended family standing in a grave yard, once again sheltering against the biting cold winds of an Indiana winter. It is with those days ingrained in my subconscious that I sometimes find myself crying for no apparent reason. Why certain songs can turn a bright day into one of melancholy. My conscious mind continues to check items of my list of tasks to accomplish. I go to work. I make dinner. I admire the beauty of the winter blue sky. I enjoy the company of friends, the stimulation of a good workout. Still, I never know when or why the tears will come. They just do.
A Tiny Rosebush
I was in the grocery checkout line picking up some last-minute items for dinner. It was Sunday and our first weekend of skiing and trying out our new seasonal rental was coming to a close. I was tired, but feeling good with all of the fresh air and renewed friendship that had transpired over the past two days. As I was piling my items onto the belt something to my right caught my eye. I turned and there in front of me were miniature rosebushes, the kind you see this time of year in the stores. In that instant my mood fell and I began to cry. Not big sobs but my eyes welled with tears.
A tiny rosebush, similar to this one, was the last gift my sister Roxann and I gave to our mother before she passed away last February. A small token meant to provide comfort and perhaps help guide her way to heaven. At least that was a tale we had heard.
When my mother died, I was more than ready for her to leave this earth. She had been struggling with dementia for years and had spent the last six of them either living with me or near me. During those years I was the one who watched, almost daily, as she slid into dementia. Consequently, I knew she was ready and most of her children agreed, that her struggle with this life should end. After she passed and the initial exhilaration of having more free time ran out, I found myself grieving for the mother I once knew. I grieved for the mother who taught me to cook as I stood in a chair in the kitchen stirring tomato soup. I grieved for the mother who found her calling working with students as a teacher and counselor. I grieved for the mother I had hoped I would connect more with me as an adult, but we never quite got there.
Grief is a funny thing. You can be enjoying yourself and the next moment, because of a song, or a scent or a rosebush, your mood changes and you find yourself sad and crying. Causing those around you to worry and question what has just happened. These moments also make me, at least, realize I am not doing as well as I thought; that my recovery over the loss of my mother will continue to take time. Memories remain with us for our lifetime, both the good and the bad. But, I hope, with time, my sadness will wane and my memories will become more of gladness as I remember the special moments my mother shared with me.
Bad Day
Minor issues that would not normally upset me, or would cause a small amount of frustration before I moved on, have lingered with me all day. At a celebration for the three ski team girls who graduated this spring, I didn’t take any pictures. Never mind that we all had such a great time pictures weren’t really thought of until too late. An appointment this morning went all wrong. I realized that I should have sent a greeting card for an event, but the thought never crossed my mind until it was too late. All minor issues that have grabbed my emotions and tangled them into a knot of regret. It seems I am having a bad day that I can’t shake.
I am in a low place, and maybe this is the reason, why. I find myself reflecting on my relationship with my mother. I worry, that I hurt her feelings without knowing it. My mind rambles back through my teen and young adult days. Did I do and say things that were callous? Was I so wrapped up in myself I forgot that Mom was a person with feelings, too? I know I did. I wonder how many times she forgave me and I was totally oblivious to her grace. Today, even though it is silly, I’m struggling with these regrets that weigh heavy on my heart.
With each step of my life I have realized, as many woman do: my mother did the best she could. When I only had two young toddlers, I could not even imagine how my mother handled three, along with three older children. When my girls and I struggled through the teen years, I often reflected on my feelings about how mistreated I felt by my mother. With age comes the vision of hindsight and with that, the realization Mom was probably struggling to know how to handle my teenage anxiety, just as I struggled with my girls. I did come to one conclusion: Mom could have been more forth-coming with hugs. Perhaps, some acknowledgement of accomplishments would have been nice. I hated being told there were so many kids at the high school far worse off than me, when all I really wanted from Mom right then, was a hug and the words, “I love you.” I carried that resentment with me for many years. I believe that same resentment helped me to be a different and, hopefully, more loving mother to my girls.
We often learn from our mistakes. But, as my mother used to tell me, “I hope you are watching and learning from your older sisters mistakes.” I did watch and learn; not only my sisters’ but my mothers’. Because, as Mom believed, each generation should learn from the old and carry that knowledge into the next. Thanks, Mom. I love you.
Rosemary Christle-Renaud 