Mom and Dementia

“I was married? To who?”

Ever since my dad passed away in 1993, my husband and I practically badgered mom to move in with us in our home on Long Island, NY. She kept refusing using the excuses that all of dad’s memories were in the house they shared.

“I remember when your dad wallpapered this room!”

“I stood at his side, handing him tools when he ran the electrical wire in this room to add another socket.”

"He carefully measured the shelves and then marked the walls before leveling them. He wanted to give me shelves to place my smaller plants.”

And her excuses went on and on.

In 1995 when my brother died, we started badgering her again.

“Mom, this house holds too many hurtful memoires. Come live with us and enjoy being with people that love you instead of living alone.”

Another excuse was uttered. “I won’t be a burden to my daughter and her husband.”

Maybe she felt like she might be a burden because mom never drove. She took driving lessons one summer but decided the art of driving was confusing and since there wasn’t anywhere she needed to go where my dad couldn’t take her, why bother learning. Besides, she said, she was way too nervous.

My husband and I moved to Florida in 1998 and again, we badgered mom to come with us. I wasn’t happy leaving her 1300 miles away, but it was a toss-up of living with my husband or my mother. My husband won and while I was still visibly upset leaving mom behind, we moved in October.

We made the long drive twice a year back to New York to visit mom and the grown children we left behind. My husband’s daughter and son had their own careers and families. I had one son living in Florida and one in New York. Both my sons had families and careers to worry about. My son in New York and his family visited mom often but while I knew they looked in on her and I spoke with her daily, I still felt that “motherless” gap. I missed her hugs and the face-to-face conversations we had. Phone calls didn’t quite make up for that.

Through time, I noticed that mom started repeating herself. At first, I thought if was just loneliness that caused the repetition. When my son and his family weren't there, she had no one to speak to until our phone calls. When you speak with someone daily, you might eventually run out of things to say. Naturally, you would find yourself repeating something you had previously said. I paid no major attention to hearing mom’s stories again, and again.

About 2005, mom began having trouble with her eyes. She was diagnosed with Age-Related Macular Degeneration. It really hit her like a brick! Her sight was quickly evaporating. By 2006, the only vision she had was peripheral and even with that, she needed thick glasses to see.

Even though she now relied on a friendly neighbor to drive her to her weekly church services and grocery shopping, as well as help her pay her bills, she was still adamant not to be a “burden” to her daughter. That’s when I became angry. “It’s ok to be a burden to a stranger but you won’t let your daughter help you?” I almost shouted.

Her reply, if I hadn’t been so angry, would have been laughable. “You can always move back to New York and live with me.”

By then, I was exasperated and gave up trying to convince her to move, that is until that one fateful day in December of 2011.

She was so proud of herself stating that she counted every step on the staircase leading up to the second floor where the bedroom and bathroom were located. My husband and I were finishing our two-week, biannual trip to New York.

Before I could blink an eye, I heard a thud, then another, and as I turned, I saw mom tumbling down the flight of stairs. Her count was off! She missed the top step.

An overnight stay in the hospital, and six scalp staples later, I spent the next week, with the help of my son and his wife, sorting our mom’s belongings: what gets trashed, what can be given away, what we should keep (as keepsakes), and what if anything can be sold. Except for the kitchen table, every other item of furniture was at least forty years old and not in the best of condition. Nothing was worth anything to anyone. My son and I took the knickknacks we liked. My son opted for many of her keepsakes that she kept in her China cabinet, basement, and on her desk. Just about everything else was useless.

When dad died, my son had, with mom’s blessing, taken his tools.

The start of the first week in January 2012, my husband made the long drive home – alone. Mom couldn’t sit in the car for too many hours and the decision was made for her and me to go by plane.

The end of that first week in January of 2012, mom and I boarded the plane and headed to Florida.

Through the coming years, I noticed her dementia was progressing rapidly. Conversations had dwindled to a few words, sometimes but not often, a complete sentence.

One afternoon in the year of 2015 as we sat on the lanai, I asked mom, “Mom, was dad proud of me?”

She kept her steady, unseeing stare straight ahead and said, “Who was your father?”

For a few seconds, I was at a loss for words, but then slowly said, “Mom, my father was your husband.”

She never turned her unseeing eyes in my direction, but I could still see the shock on her face as she asked, “I was married? Who did I marry?”

I wanted to cry. She forgot the man who was her entire life.

Slowly, I took her hand and said, “Mom, do you remember that handsome young sailor? His name was Frank?”

Although she couldn’t see, there was such a spark and twinkle in her eyes. She squeezed my hand. “Frankie? My Frankie? I married my Frankie?” She started to cry.

“Oh, how I loved him. I still do. I miss him so much.”

That was the lengthiest conversation we’d had in years, and the last conversation we ever had, but I knew she finally remembered my dad, and was sure she realized he’d died years ago, but I didn’t mention it. Neither did I repeat my question. What I did instead was to reminisce about my dad and relate stories she had once told me of when they were young.

In October of 2016, mom left to join dad, the man who in her mind, she’d almost forgotten, but in her heart, never would.