It Used to Be...

...that my mother would occasionally cook Sunday dinner for us and have our family down to eat with them. Living on the same piece of property gives us the advantage of easily sharing mealtimes! And so, it's our custom for my parents to eat dinner with us every day, unless we or they have something else scheduled that takes us away from that time with each other. I'm continually grateful for the privilege of having all of us gathered around our table, and I dread the day when a plate gets taken away and a spot remains empty.

I guess it was about four or five years ago, when I only had two children and Mother was more capable of fixing an entire meal, that we would join them at their house for lunch after church. I'm not sure exactly when it stopped. When was the last time? Clearly, I had no idea at the time that it would be the last time. It was one of those things that we outgrew, so to speak, probably precipitated by me having another baby...and then another baby...and it was just easier for us to eat here in my house where we had baby supplies and a high chair and a crib for when the baby got tired and sippy cups and plenty of plastic plates and...

This makes me think of the children's book by Karen Kingsbury, Let Me Hold You Longer. I don't have that book, partly because it's the kind of book that I can't make it through without crying! But, as I understand it, the premise of the book is that we notice and celebrate the "firsts" of childhood, but how many "lasts" go by unnoticed and unappreciated...

...until one day, you sit down at your computer and you realize that it's been years since your mother cooked Sunday dinner for you and you know in your heart that she'll never do it again. And your heart aches from the memory of it all, and you wish fervently that you could go back in time and appreciate it all a little more. You'd sit at your mother's table a little longer. You'd chew your food more slowly and savor the taste of her wonderful home-cooking. You'd memorize the look and sound and smell of those Sundays in her kitchen. You wouldn't rush up the hill to put the baby in bed for his nap. You would have said "thank you" one more time and given your mother a hug before slipping out the door. You would have made sure she knew how deeply you treasured those times.

If only you had known...

"Do You Need Something, Mother?"

...I ask, as she opens one drawer after another in my kitchen, looking briefly in each one before closing it and going on to the next one.

"Just a knife," she says.

"They're in the drawers to the right of the dishwasher," I tell her; then she meekly goes over to those drawers and finds whatever kind of knife she needs.

This isn't the first time we've had this conversation. Not the 10th time either. Maybe the 100th?

Almost five years ago, my husband and I and our children moved back to this area, buying my parents' home and moving into it while they moved down the hill to a smaller home on the same property. It was their idea, and we've loved being here. So I can see how it might be confusing for my mom to try to find her way around my kitchen...which used to be her kitchen. I didn't put the glasses in the same cupboard. The spices have all been moved. And of course, the knives are in different drawers. But it's been almost five years! Shouldn't it have sunk in by now? Shouldn't she be able to remember, after countless times of looking, which drawers the knives are in?

I'm learning that, with Alzheimer's, there's no hope (or precious little) that the individual will be able to learn new information. Maybe they will; maybe they won't. Who knows? But there's no guarantee that, if we go over the material enough, it will sink in. With my children, I see them learn through repetition. With my mother, it doesn't work that way.

I'm sure it's only a matter of time until, once again, I see her opening every drawer in my kitchen so that she can find a paring knife to cut up some fresh strawberries for our dinner. May I have the patience to treat each time like it's the first, and not let my grief and impatience show, even if it's the 1,000th.

Where's Jacob?

"Where's Jacob?" my mother asked today. We were having a family get-together which included my brother from another state. His wife had to work, and his oldest son - Jacob - had another activity to be at, so my brother only brought his younger two children. My mother knew that, and had known that since earlier this week when emails were exchanged to let us know who would and would not be coming. But still, after several hours of the family being together, while we were watching the children playing outside, my mother asked where Jacob was.

How do I answer her? With a "he hasn't been here all day today, Mom! how could you forget?" No, of course not. Instead, I gently started to explain that he stayed behind to go to a water park with a friend and... Then she remembered, "Oh, yes, that's right! How could I forget? I'm so used to doing a head count of all the children...and seeing all three of your brother's kids together...it's strange not having Jacob here..."

I'm so accustomed to her forgetting things that I completely expect it these days. I wasn't at all surprised, for example, that, after everyone had left and we were talking over the day, Mother said the same comments over and over: "Isn't it great that your sister is thinking about moving closer to home?" and "I can't believe how much your brother's kids have matured!" and "I really missed your brother's wife today." (She used their real names, of course; but for the purposes of this blog, I'm not). A few minutes later, she'd say the same thing - and I'd smile and nod, not letting on that I'd already heard that exact comment from her lips just a short time before.

But her question about Jacob caught me off guard. She knew in advance that he wasn't coming, he hadn't been here all day, and yet in the late afternoon, she suddenly expected him to be around here somewhere playing with the other children...and worried when she couldn't spot him.

I have a feeling that as I get used to one level of forgetfulness, she will reach another one; and I'll have to brace myself for other moments when I want to exclaim, "How could you forget this??"

No Gift Can Equal

"No gift to your mother can ever equal her gift to you - life."

~ anonymous

I need to remember this when I feel like I'm sacrificing so much for her. Really, it is nothing. Nothing. She has done so much for me; and if I care for her for thirty more long, difficult years, it won't be enough to repay my debt to her. Yet, she doesn't feel like I even have a debt because she did it all for me out of love. May I do likewise for her.

Watching Her

Tonight as Mother said good night and left our house to walk down the slight hill to the gray cottage in which she and Dad live, I found myself doing something that I often do these days: watching her as she walked. I stand at our front door, usually on tiptoe, so that I can see clearly out the windows at the top of the door; and I stay that way until I see her go into her house and turn her lights on. I do this because, even though she is very active and capable, I know that having a fall is always a possibility. These days, darkness falls by the time she heads to her home after supper; and the ground is uneven and could cause her to lose her balance. I would hate for her to fall or otherwise be in distress and for no one to know about it for some time. At least this way, if anything did happen, I could rush out the door and come to her assistance very quickly. Chances are, nothing like this would ever come to pass, but still I watch...and she doesn't even know it.

My thoughts during those watchful moments run in several directions. First, I am acutely aware of the fact that, more than likely, the day will come when she isn't here to make that familiar walk. I need to store up these times of watching her because someday she won't be here on earth for me to see her; and when that happens, I know I will long with all my heart for just another opportunity to stand silently at my door, delaying for a few minutes the tasks that lie before me for the sake of gazing at her retreating back and the reflective strips on her tennis shoes as they go further and further down the hill.

Second, I think of all the times that my mother watched me: immediately after birth, all the times she nursed me and changed my diaper as an infant, first steps, first words, so many other firsts, going to kindergarten, playing in violin and piano recitals, singing in choirs, playing basketball, graduation from high school, graduation from college, wedding, giving birth to my children (she's been present for three out of the four births), and so many more. Even more than the biggies--the once-in-a-lifetime moments--I think of how she watched me during daily life, during ordinary routine days. Whether I called to her excitedly, "Mommy, watch me!" or didn't even know she was observing, she paused in her activities, gave me her attention, and watched me.

The least I can do for her now is to watch her in return...and maybe, by so doing, to somehow be a shield for her.

I Mourn Every Day

The mourning.

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.