Mothering My Mother

Dealing with dementia

You were the nurse, The nurturer, the over-protective one, The one who stood against me head-to-head, Telling me you didn’t want to be my friend, Because I only had one mother and you had a job to do.

I was the rebellious one, The one who could look you straight in the eye and lie smoothly, You suspected the truth was missing or twisted, But I was quite the master, keeping careful track of my words. “Maybe I don’t know if you’re lying, but God does.”

We screamed at each other through those years, Maybe me more than you, You held those reigns tightly, Reminding me who was boss, But at dad’s urging eventually gave me freedom and rope.

Your parenting styles differed, But there was one thing upon which you agreed, You were in it together, And in front of us, you were united, always, Because you both believed that was more critical than anything.

Dad is gone now, his wisdom and strength missing, And you have not felt much joy since, First depression, and now your mind telling you tales, Jumbled up truth and lies, putting us in the role of parenting you, A task we do willingly, but while feeling somewhat rudderless,

You change daily, regressing into this world that we can’t see, Forgetting our past, and sometimes our people, The truth is both missing and twisted, but not by your will. I was a better liar, but you are more convinced in your truth. Maybe I don’t know what’s happening, but God does.

I pray for wisdom and patience, And I hope you see the kindness in our faces. My siblings and I stand together, Reaching consensus step by step as we make each tough decision, As you and dad have taught us.

I talk with doctors and nurses when you are not there, Letting them know what’s really going on, sometimes asking for favors. We stand strong, trying to be your guide back or at least your comfort. We want to be your friend, But we only have one mother and we have a job to do.

It breaks our heart.

Why did I think dementia wasn’t even a possibility for my mother? It’s been escalating lately and it is terrifying. Having four involved siblings that live nearby helps share the weight of the load, but still it doesn’t seem enough. We are all doing our part, and are all exhausted, mentally and physically.

Last week we disabled her car. This week we are taking her for more doctor’s visits and tests trying to figure out what is going on. We took her car away from her home when she was at lunch with a friend, telling her it is being fixed. How long will she accept that lie?

It’s such a difficult thing to understand. My dad died 3 1/2 years ago, and she was around for it all. She thinks he just died, she was visiting family in Wales, and it was last week. None of that it true. We repeat the true story over and over, and it sounds as though she believes us. Last night I told it twice in one phone conversation, because she forgot again.

This week she has been asking everyone if her parents are still alive. Not for many, many years. She is shocked.

We hope there is a reason for changes happening so dramatically and rapidly, but answers are slow in coming.

I suspect this is how it will be for the rest of her life. We will be holding her hand through it all, repeating the true stories over and over, and sometimes telling her lies if they are kinder.

It’s the hardest thing we have done. That’s OK. She invested her life in us. Our debt will never be exhausted, even though it was long forgiven.

Kim McKinney believes all of life is a beautiful patchwork of stories, intermingling the happy and sad, the struggles and the triumphs. All are important. All are significant. All need to be told.