Because You Are My Mother

“Dana, why are you so good to me?”  

I had just finished helping Alice get dressed. Picking out clothes to wear and getting them on was long since too hard. Now I stood behind her brushing her hair as she sat at her dressing table.  Our eyes met in the center of the three-part mirror that had stood like a folded  screen on her dressing table for as long as I could remember.

“Because you are my mother.”

Big pregnant pause. “I’m your mother?”

And another. Alice turned to face me. “Who’s your daddy?”

“You were married to Dave. You had three children. Mark is the oldest, then me, Suzy is the youngest.”

“Ah, yes. I remember.” Alice turned back and I kept brushing, watching her through the mirror. She looked up and found my eyes in the reflection. “I wasn’t very good to you. I’m sorry.”

Unfinished business. That’s one of the reasons she was here living with us. But I never imagined I would hear these words stated so simply.

“Thanks.” 

“So you forgive me?”

“Of course.” On an intellectual level, I had forgiven her years before. 

“How come?

“Because you did the best you could.”  I knew that if I wanted it, Alzheimer’s would let us have this conversation every single day.  

But forgiveness is also action, action that lets me re-do the past. I wanted to stand at this same dressing table and brush her hair without yanking, without getting annoyed at her knots and chopping all her hair off. I wanted to listen to her as she spoke about her day. I wanted to guide her through uncharted territory.  I wanted to face sickness of the mental sort straight on instead of sweeping it under the rug. The rhythm of the brush soothed us both.  

When I set the brush down on the dressing table, next to a bowl overflowing with the strands of beads that Alice loved to wear,  she turned around to face me again and said, “Running a hotel must be very hard.”

Aliceheimer’s

About these ads
This entry was posted in Alzheimer's Through the Looking Glass, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

15 Responses to Because You Are My Mother

  1. Lindsey Lane says:

    You slay me. Every. Time.

  2. While being the caregiver for a loved one with Alzheimer’s Disease can be a trying and frustrating experience,I do appreciate the inflection of humor into your blog as well.Thank you for sharing your journey through Alzheimer’s with us.God bless you and your mother.

    • danawalrath says:

      Thanks so much for your kind words. Humor keeps us going! Thanks too for the work you do. Concrete support is vital too. I am glad to know of your work.

  3. Dianne White says:

    What Lindsey said. Your posts are always amazing.

  4. Dennis DePaul says:

    This post made me tear up. Will this ever be published in a book? I so appreciate this journey. Thank you – for your unending talent.

  5. Susan Lynn Meyer says:

    Wrenching. But I’m so glad she said those words to you. You amaze and astonish me. How do you find that deep, deep goodness, Dana? My life I think has had some resemblance to yours and I truly would like to know, because I am not so wise, so calm, so good.

    • danawalrath says:

      Thank you, Susan. You know the power of a few words.

      And for the harder question, it took time to get here. Raising my own sons, not hiding from the pain, and learning finally to take care of myself have been vital. Jumping away from security and into the mysteries of full time creative work keeps giving back to me.

  6. Yes. Yes. Yes. Ditto. Amazing. Each and every.

  7. Kathy Quimby says:

    Oh. my. goodness. So strong, so powerful. In so few words.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s