I’ve been in a caregiving headspace about my mom for two years now. I’ve sifted through the literal remains from her life and distilled a three bedroom townhome into a 600 square-foot room. I still have some of her old papers and photos in boxes in my office.
Her presence is still very much with me. The person she was haunts me and the person she’s devolved into panders to my emotions. I am a dutiful daughter; she raised me that way. At times even now, two years into a dementia diagnosis, I still think she might be manipulating me. Is it wishful thinking? Have I become so accustomed to her abuse that I long for it now as a way to deal with her disappearing brain?
I have even begun to grieve her, though she’s still alive. Perhaps it is a gift to be able to walk upon this journey with her – perhaps it is one I give myself as a salve for the mental scars I carry.
Still, there are days when I humbly acknowledge how hard it is to be a mother, and I am taken by the amount of love and anticipation I have for my children. I’m sure she was the same way, even if she didn’t express it in a way I could relate to well.
Her birthday is this Friday, she will be 84. I feel compelled to bring her balloons. I might have to remind her what they are called, but perhaps not because she always love balloons. It drove me crazy how compelled she was to bring my girls balloons on their birthday. When you have kids, a stale balloon can bumble around your house for weeks under the dawdling security of a toddler. This week the idea lightens me. A dollop for floating hope in an otherwise hopeless situation.