PRESENCE: A MOTHER'S GIFT

In 1997, at the age of 73, my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. The diagnosis came after a good seven years of forgetfulness, disorientation, repetitive questions and decreased executive function.  

Although we all wanted to believe her symptoms were age-related, my mother had known intuitively for some time that something just wasn't right.  Her diagnosis, therefore, did not surprise her.

As we struggled to understand what this would mean for her and for us, my mother spoke of a silver lining. "I could have been taken suddenly in a freak accident and would never have had an opportunity to say goodbye, to tell you how much you mean to me."  

That perspective would inform how she would live her life and help me discover firsthand the exquisite tenderness of a connection that today transcends language and identity.  I also have learned precious lessons about love, patience, perspective and joy.

Here's one of  my favorites. 
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A month before my father’s death, we moved my mother into a skilled nursing facility in Naples, Florida, just a few minutes from her home.  The facility itself seemed good -- as facilities go, but I worried about her transition in the face of the ever-shifting internal landscape she navigated each day. 
 
For the next year and a half, I visited my mother every other weekend – something I did as much for myself as for her.  Despite the increasing repetition of thought and speech, I loved being with her.  I felt privileged to care for her, to protect her, to be able to reciprocate, after all that she had given me. 

When she was lucid, she would share her experience of losing her bearings -- able to witness herself with the same honesty and self-awareness she had modeled for my sister and me. When she was confused and struggling to remember whether her father, or mine, was still alive, she managed these moments with remarkable grace.

Our time together consisted of walks, mani-pedis, shopping, and meals out.  Her “Cadillac” (the nickname she gave her walker) came everywhere with us, until it was replaced by a wheelchair.  But that didn’t slow us down.  My mother loved nature and being outdoors and when I visited we continued to stroll the grounds, visit the beach and window-shop at the outdoor malls. 
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​Then the day came when I realized my mother had no recollection of my visits.  One Sunday evening,  I called from the airport to say goodbye and she asked me what I was doing there.  I shared this with one of my mother’s caregivers who suggested gently that I give myself permission to build the life my mother wanted for me.  I knew she was right but deciding to reduce the frequency of my visits was difficult.  I couldn't bear the thought that Mom might feel abandoned or alone.

Several months later, I returned to the nursing home. I had no idea what to expect. I stopped first at the Activities Room and found my mom sitting with several other residents.  When she saw me, her face lit up, and she raised her eyebrows as if to ask “Is that you?”

I wasn’t sure whether she simply recognized me as someone she knew, or whether she knew me as the daughter she’d raised.  The activity leader too noticed her expression and asked her, “Do you know who that is?”
 
“Of course, I do,” my mother replied, proudly. “That’s my baby.”

​That afternoon I took her for a mani/pedi and then to an early dinner.  We laughed so hard (at what, I can’t now recall) that we stopped traffic in the restaurant’s parking lot and triggered a chain reaction of smiles and giggles among those who passed us on foot.
 
The next morning, I returned to the nursing home. Mom was thrilled to see me, but had no recollection of our time together the previous day.  I asked her if she’d like to go for a walk and she said she would.  So we got her visor and sunglasses and headed out.

The grounds at my mother’s senior community are well manicured, with walking paths, gazebos, and a lake with turtles and ducks.  That day was stunning -- a light breeze and not a cloud in the sky.  I pushed my mom's chair for a good 35 minutes while the two of us sang loudly -- her memory of I’ve Been Working on The Railroad and As Time Goes By strangely intact.  We then strolled silently, taking in the beautiful surroundings.
 
As I pushed her past hibiscus and newly planted palms, I wondered how she experienced her life. What it felt like to lose your reference points, to feel them slip away. To have no recollection of those who love you, or visit, or send cards and gifts. To no longer remember where you were born or grew up.  Or that you got your Masters in Guidance and Counseling at the age of 61, or founded a nursery school that still thrives today. And what about all the trips  -- to Africa and China and other places too numerous to name? Or all that she once did?  My mother taught origami, and could sew, knit, crochet, quilt, cook, bake, garden, paint, sculpt and play piano -- all with an impressive degree of passion and competence.
 
Of course, she wouldn't have believed me if I'd said so.  

And, she likely would have screwed up her face in disbelief if I'd told her she'd run a dog kennel for 20 years, and had bred and shown Norfolk terriers.

So many interests, and activities, and experiences, and family and friends that were no longer part of her world.  
 
I was lost in thought when I heard my mother's voice.
 
“You know . . . ,"  she began slowly, pointing up to the sky.   "That sun is so delicious.  I close my eyes and it feels like a gift . . . ."  

Her voice trailed off for a moment, and then returned with: 

". . . that I could fall in love with.”

The timing and poetry of her words stopped me in my tracks.

That sun is so delicious. I close my eyes, and it feels like a gift I could fall in love with.

I wanted to remember her exact words, so I repeated them to myself several times.  Then, I walked around the wheelchair to face my mother. She smiled up at me. That beautiful, radiant smile. 
 
I leaned down and gently kissed her cheek.
 
Gratitude and love washed over me.
 
Here it was.  The answer to my musings.  In the absence of a past, Mom experiences her present – and, in this moment, it is pure joy.

Back in my mother's room, I wrote down her words. For the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of profound release.

Several days after returning to New York, I found, inside an old diary, a softly worn piece of paper with the following words of author Geneen Roth scribbled on it:   

We spend our youth waiting for our lives to begin, we get old waiting for our lives to begin and we die waiting for our lives to begin.  As if there were such a thing as finally getting it right.  As if perfection really exists.

A certain kind of perfection does exist, even though the tigers will never go away. Perfection is choosing to enjoy the lusciousness life offers in whatever form it presents itself, even when you are not as thin as you want to be, you owe money to the IRS and someone you love is dying.

As I read these words, my eyes filled with tears.  I had just witnessed my mother's experience of life's lusciousness, and the same was available to me.  Because, as Roth writes, 

The sun will keep coming up, your child will say something that will crack your heart open, a new friend will appear, and you will once again be struck by the unbearable wonder and tenderness of life.

On this Mother's Day 2016, my heart is full with the unbearable wonder and tenderness of life.  I thank you for that, Mom.