Dementia is ugly. There are few things in this world I will say that I hate, but I hate dementia. It’s a thief. It robs you of your dignity. It robs you of your memory. It robs you of your time with your loved ones.
My mom had been dealing with it for years, with it progressively worsening. Even though my becoming a teacher was something that made her very happy, she had a hard time remembering it because it was so recent. “What is it that you do now?” “I’m a teacher, Momma.” “That’s RIGHT! What do you teach again?” “4th Grade.” “Don’t you have to teach every subject for that?” “Yes, Momma.” “Ugh. I couldn’t do that.” “I know, Momma. You tried it one year when I was little. You hated it because you had to teach math. ” We’d laugh. Like many an English teacher, she hated anything to do with numbers. So much so, that if I wanted to pass a note in class to a friend, I made up a coded message that looked like math problems so she’d never be able to figure it out. Sneaky, I know. But I was a teacher’s kid. We can be sneaky like that.
When Mom was diagnosed with leukemia a couple years ago, the dementia made it more brutal. My poor dad had to reexplain it to her periodically. “Where are we going?” “To your doctor’s appointment.” “Which doctor?” “The oncologist.” “Why are we going to an oncologist?” “You have leukemia.” Can you imagine? It’s hard enough finding out once, but again and again. And my dad having to tell her again and again. I just never brought it up as she never remembered she was sick. It was too recent a memory. Anything recent is the first to be lost.
But occasionally something more distant would fall through the sieve. Once I was talking to her on the phone and she couldn’t remember my name. She became so upset. “I KNOW YOUR NAME! I KNOW YOUR NAME!” “I know, Momma. It’s ok. Every parent forgets their kids’ names once in a while. I mix up my students’ names all the time. It’s ok.” “But I KNOW your name!” “I know, Momma.”
When the doctor told us she didn’t have long and we all needed to get up there, we made our way there as fast as we could. I was last to arrive. She was in a hospital bed they had set up in the downstairs family room, with a view to the backyard. My dad planted flowers just where she could see them. She loved watching the birds flying in and out of the trees.
I sat next to her bed and traced the “H” in veins on the back of her left hand. When I was a wee little girl I started tracing it, asking her when I’d get my “H” (since our last name started with “H” I assumed it was something our entire family would get). And this time, this one last time, I traced her “H” and her whole face lit up. “My ‘H’!” I started to cry. The gift of a memory. “Why are you crying?” She didn’t understand why we were all there. For the first time in 27 years we were all together at the same time. She didn’t understand that she was dying. “Have you seen any birds today?” I asked. It was enough. She moved on to talking about the birds.
Living thousands of miles from your family makes you very aware that you never know if the last time you see them may be the last time. I had, long ago, made sure I had said everything I needed to say to my parents. To let them know my favorite memories with them. To let them know all else was forgiven. To let them know I loved them.
The hospice chaplain came on the last day, the day she was no longer responsive, the day her heart was racing up to 200 beats per minute for hours on end. He reminded us of some of her favorite things and offered ways we could say goodbye. We each took a turn alone with her. I played, “My Jesus, I love thee” on my phone and watched her eyebrows raise up briefly. I told her it was ok for her to go and be with Jesus. It was ok to stop fighting, to be at peace. We would be ok. And we would all be with her soon. It would seem to her like only a minute had passed before we would all join her. It was ok.
After we were each done, we turned on Youtube and played all her favorite show tunes, the old school ones, her favorites. We all stayed near, a hand on her. Dying isn’t like the movies or tv. Hours more passed. My sister, a nurse, kept a close eye on her vitals. She warned us it was close. And then she was gone. It wasn’t dramatic. I was expecting dramatic. There was no final gasp. No dramatic final exhale. She just stopped. And she was gone.
And I realized that for me, the hardest part of the dementia was that she never got to say goodbye to us. We didn’t get meaningful final words from her that we could carry forever. She never understood that she was dying. She didn’t understand goodbye was coming. She fought so hard to stay. Her heart racing for so long. She didn’t want to go. She wanted to stay with us.
And maybe that…that was her way of saying goodbye to us. To let us know she didn’t want to leave us.
It’s been over 6 months now, and I still catch myself wanting to call her and ask her about how she handled stuff in her classroom. How she dealt with this or that as a teacher. I miss her voice and her smile. And I know I’ll always miss her. Every day that my heart continues to beat, I’ll remember my momma.
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