The grieving that went on and on, prolonged indefinitely by the mostly slow progression of the disease, by the lack of knowing what to expect as far as when the end would come. The sadness that came from watching a once strong, competent individual descend into a second childhood, an unwanted, unnatural second childhood. This isn't how things are supposed to be. Death is expected, but not this--this loss of ability for the individual, this mourning that drags on and on for the family.
I remember this from my granddad's experience with Alzheimer's Disease, and now I'm confronted again with this as my mother walks the same path as her father once did.
Tonight I mourned as my parents walked in our door for dinner without a roast in their hands, and I knew she had forgotten it. Yesterday we ate together--a delicious meal of roast beef and vegetables that she had made--and after we finished eating, we decided that there was plenty of food left over for tonight's dinner. I should have reminded her today that she had agreed to bring it. I should have written it down and sent a note home with her to help her remember. But I didn't, and she forgot. The forgotten roast was no big deal; my dad simply walked back down the hill to their house to retrieve it, and we heated it in the microwave and ate it. But the knife that's always present in my heart twisted a little more as I saw again how different she's become from the mother I once had: the mother who could successfully juggle multiple roles and responsibilities, the mother who was always there for me and took care of me so well, the mother who could be counted on to remember a simple thing like "bring the roast!" That mother is only present sporadically. I miss her, and I mourn.
Every single day.
No comments:
Post a Comment