The Lustre of Being
“Ah, there you are.”
Joyce balanced two cups of tea as she made her way across the lawn. Her mother stood at the edge of a motley flower bed with her back to Joyce gazing into abundant weeds and blooms.
By dinner the day before Mum had forgotten their earlier blow-up (http://wp.me/895f-aM). Things returned to normal.
“Well, at least there’s an upside to Mum losing her memory,” Joyce thought ruefully, “can’t hold a grudge if you don’t remember what happened.”
Joyce came along her mother. “Mum, I have your tea.”
When she received no response her attention lifted from the steaming mug. A look of profound grief greeted her. Startled at the silent tears streaming down a much-loved face the tea sloshed to the grass.
Her mother’s vulnerable expression tore through Joyce’s heart; the woman rarely cried. Wrestling to hold back her own tears in a tight voice she choked, “Mum, what’s wrong?”
“It’s a mess isn’t it?” was the quiet reply.
With glassy eyes her mother stared ahead into the flower garden. In a small desperate voice as if speaking to herself she asserted “I am losing my mind.”
Before words of reassurance could push past the lump in Joyce’s throat her mother continued, “Pat came to visit. She asked about that plant.”
Her mother pointed to a hardy rose-bush. In spite of the long grasses crowding the blooms its fiery red petals remained undiminished by the advancing weeds.
“I can’t remember its name.”
For years her mother had been a cornucopia of garden knowledge, neighbours, friends, and relatives came to her for advice which she dispensed with the passion and generosity of a true educator. Pat was the next door neighbour who often visited to chat.
“I didn’t answer her question because I couldn’t remember.”
Pulling her gaze from the garden she looked up at her eldest daughter. The glistening tears did not hide the underlying anguish in her eyes, but further rooted and more heart wrenching was the pool of unspoken fear in their depths. Joyce wanted to drop to her knees and howl. Instead, she lowered the tea mugs to the grass. With arms freed she wrapped them around her mother.
In a gentle embrace she drew her in and reassured, “It doesn’t matter you don’t remember.”
And then lowering her voice to a whisper “it doesn’t make the flowers any less beautiful, they don’t need to know their names to be what they are.”
Joyce felt the tension release in her mother’s back and her head sag to rest against Joyce’s shoulder. Continuing to cradle her mother a quiet peace settled between them, after a while the tears slowed and stopped. Mother and daughter rested companionable until the older woman stirred. Drawing away she smiled and in a voice returning to normal offered, “Tomorrow I want to schedule with Dr. Madison an appointment. Will you remind me, dear?”
Joyce smiled in return. “Yes Mum, of course I will remind you.”
But she mostly hoped her mother remembered.
“Well Mum, how about we get a fresh cup of tea?”
The next blog post will start a new discussion theme called: Uncommon Chaos.
In difficult circumstances where have you achieved a successful balance of pull to push? What techniques have added lustre to your communication efforts?
I try to remember how I would feel if I was the person with the dementia. Knowing what is happening but being unable to do anything about it and being stuck in an institution for the rest of my life.
Alzheimer’s and dementia do not discriminate. It serves remembering we are not immune. How would we wish to be treated?