I have an elderly mother who I am very close to, she has outlived her first husband, my father, of 58 years and her second husband of four years; he was eighty when they married. She has outlived two sons and a daughter-in-law. My mom is ninety-three, she suffers from dementia and lives in a full care facility not far from me.
I spend many days a week with her, helping her eat her lunch and dinner because she can no longer manage cutlery on her own, and stroll her in her wheelchair around the hallways because she can no longer work her chair on her own. I listen and nod as she talks although the words and sentences no longer make sense. But she is looking at me and smiling while she talks, seeming to understand what she is wanting to share. That’s enough.
Being in this place of endings is a constant reminder that nothing is going to get better. Any changes my mom experiences are going to be for the worse. Her new milestones are reached but not celebrated, only solemnly acknowledged because they aren’t the milestones of progress as when we would watch our children reach theirs; first tooth, crawl, steps, school.
These are milestones of Lasts. I realized this when I was trying to remember the last time my mom was able to get into my car and go out for a drive to the beach she loved, where we used to go frequently; sometimes picking up some burgers and park facing out to the water eating and talking, watching people walking their dogs. Then, when was the last time she walked, the last time she fed herself, the last time she knew my name.
In the past six months her Last’s have increased exponentially, and each last brings her closer; and I know it’s coming, and it will break my heart in a million pieces when it does. But I know that my heart can remain full in knowing I gave her as much as I could, Did what I could. I was there, as I am now to comfort her from the fear and confusion that stole her peace of mind, like a parent reassuring a small child that, all is well there are no monsters under the bed, I am here.
I take comfort in that she had a long life. Has. And I do focus on the positives she can experience in her days, when she does engage in conversation, when her never failing humour will slip in when least expected and we can laugh together, and her never ending gratitude extended to everyone with ‘Bless your heart’.
And I ask myself how could I mourn someone gifted living into their nineties when two nieces lost a father, and another two nieces and a nephew lost both parents when they all were young?
I can’t. And it is all still hard, because- she’s my mom, no matter what age, and I’m bracing for The Day, as I braced for the day when my father and then my brothers passed from cancer. With dementia it is a long and lingering goodby as, piece by piece, parts of who she is take leave and become a shadow of who she was.
My part is to be her touchstone, that maybe deep within her memory she knows she’s not alone, that she has her family near to keep the night-light on in her dark room.