The Greatest Treasure

I love summer storms. Curled up with my blanket, I close my eyes and listen to the rain pouring down in the darkness of my backyard. Wetness slowly creeps along the concrete floor towards where I sit under the little covered porch enjoying a glass of whatever red was open. My little people are finally asleep and I’m grateful to have a bit of quiet time tonight. I take a deep breath then exhale slowly, partly to take in the smells of summer that are slowly turning to fall but mostly to expel the weight of adulting I’ve been carrying for the last while. I rarely feel sorry for myself but sometimes I mourn the loss of what I thought my life would be before it became what it is.

A wave of memories wash over me and the sound of the rain recedes as I give the feelings and movie-like images in my head my full attention. It’s times like this I really miss my father. Losing him made me realize how safe he made me feel in the world. It's a feeling I took for granted and one I haven’t been able to find again since.

My phone buzzes and lights up on the little side table beside me, pulling me back to tonight where I’m sitting on the little porch. It’s my step-father. “I found something of your mother’s that I think she wanted you to have.”

I slip back into my memories, this time focused on my mother. Like many mother-daughter relationships, ours had been both tortured and completely intertwined. I started to understand her better after I had children. It helped me see her and everything she did, differently. After my father passed away I finally understood how much I needed her and although we’d never been very good at sharing our feelings, I’d managed to squeeze out “Please don’t let anything happen to you. I can’t lose you too” in a strangled and pleading voice sitting on her deck one afternoon. She hadn’t known how to respond and did her best to awkwardly reassure me.

Two years later, at the age of 60, she was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimers and even though she’s still with us, I’ve lost her now too.

I remember the initial doctor’s appointment when she did the MMSE and failed it. Sitting with her during the initial stages of denial when she was scared and hurt and angry despite knowing something was amiss. Watching and listening as her reality became misshapen by her deteriorating brain’s need to make sense of the world even when what she said made no sense at all.

I remember the time she told me she liked the whale I kept in the backyard and my pet cat as she sat stroking one of my children’s stuffed animals. I finally stopped explaining that her parents had passed away when she asked when they were coming back to get her. It felt cruel to tell her the truth when she forgot so quickly and grieved the news over and over again.

I learned not to feel hurt when she tried to hit me or throw things when she was angry and the period when she thought I was her sister. I appreciate that time now because it meant she still recognized me and could say my name. As things progressed, I started to protect my children’s experience with her so that their memories might reflect who she’d want them to know instead of who she’d become. It’s a cruel disease that takes the person away but leaves their body behind. Losing both of my parents often makes me feel very alone.

I feel a chill despite the blanket and notice that my glass is empty. I respond to my step-father before heading inside “Oh great! Can I come by tomorrow? I’m dropping the kiddies off at their father’s house around noon. I can come after if that works?”. He replies right away “Yes, that works.”.

I climb into bed wondering what he found. Before my mom went into the retirement home she’d hide things all over their house; shoes in dresser drawers; mail under the carpet; balled up tissue thrown in kitchen cupboards. He told us about finding random things in the most unexpected places. As I fall asleep I wonder what it’s like living inside a real-life treasure hunt.

The morning comes and goes with the rhythm we’ve created now that it’s just the four of us. It’s amazing how one less person in the mix completely changes the dynamic of a home. I get my three monkeys ready and drive over to their father’s house. The car feels quiet and empty afterward as I make my way to my step-father’s.

The door is open and I walk in without knocking. I yell hello. He’s in the kitchen sitting at the counter and I see the black Moleskin notebook in front of him. My mom used notebooks all her life. She had them on her desk at work to write down things that needed to be done. She kept a notebook of words she heard and didn’t know to look up later. She was the original ‘To Do’ list maker as far as I know and always had something to write in wherever we went. That little black notebook on the counter is the one she carried with her everywhere after her diagnosis. She’d write in it furiously after doctor appointments and I just assumed she was taking notes on what was said.

“Is this what you wanted me to see?” I ask, reaching toward the notebook. He nods yes and watches as I pick it up. As soon as I open the cover I see my name in my mother’s distinctive scrawl. There’s a message addressed to me and I feel the tears well up quickly:

Michele,

I know I promised you wouldn’t lose me that day sitting on the deck, but it looks like I won’t be able to make good on that promise. I’m so sorry. I wanted to be there for you and get to know my grandchildren. I planned to travel the world and grow old with Raymond. None of that is possible now. I know that I wasn’t very good at telling you how much I love you, but I do and I am so proud of you. You are the best daughter a mother could ever have. I don’t know how much time I have to tell you everything I want you to know but I’ll do my best in the pages that follow.

Love, Mom

I look up and see my step-father watching me. He smiles. “I didn’t read anything after I saw the note to you. Your mom loved you very much.”.

I flip through the pages of her handwriting. The notebook is almost three-quarters full and I’m filled with equal parts excitement and sadness. I know this is something I’ll want to read on my own, at my own pace. “Is it ok for me to take it home?” I ask. “Of course! It’s for you” he says. I say thank you and goodbye and head back home.

There are times that having the house to myself is a blessing even though I miss my little people terribly when they’re not with me. This is one of those times, I need the quiet to read this little black notebook. I tuck myself into the corner of my living room couch and open the cover to start again from the beginning.

As I read it becomes clear that my mother knew me better than I ever realized. This fills me with wonder and appreciation for the woman I thought I knew. Page after page this feeling deepens and I’m suddenly struck by how deeply she loved me and I feel terrible that it took me so long to figure it out. With each word, I can hear her voice again. It feels like a warm hug in the stillness of my living room. Tears pour down my face. Sadness, love, loss, hope, regret, gratitude. I feel it all.

I reach the last page of writing and pause to absorb what I’ve read and what it means. I quickly flip through the rest of the notebook to make sure I haven’t missed anything. A bit of writing catches my eye on one of the last pages and it takes me a while to figure out what I’m looking at. A website and words on two lines. Underneath there's another note for me:

Mich, just for you. Just in case. xo Mom

I find my laptop and pull up the website, it’s a bank I’ve never used. The words from the two lines allow me to log in. My heart skips a beat and for a moment I can’t breathe. A joint account in her name and mine with $20,000.00 stares at me from the screen.

A sob escapes from a place deep inside me that I didn’t know existed. How could she have known? The separation hadn’t even begun when she was diagnosed. I let that sink in and then it becomes clear. She knew it was coming before I did. She’d always known because she knew ME.

I understand now just how special my mother was. I’m in awe of the woman who, faced with her own devastation, put me first and made sure she did whatever she could to keep her daughter safe. My mother knew that I’d need her when she could no longer be with me. So she did what she could for as long as she could in a little black book that is the greatest treasure anyone has ever found.